Литагент HarperCollins - The Complete Game Trilogy - Game, Buzz, Bubble

The fire hissed and spat out a cloud of white smoke, but HP didn’t see that.

He was already back in the kitchen, desperately filling the empty bowl with more water.

Then emptying it, then again, and again, and now he could clearly see the fire getting smaller.

His eyes were stinging, his lungs were burning and his breathing was getting laboured, but he wasn’t about to give up now.

When he was on his fifth bowlful the front door was wrenched open with a crash and a moment later a cloud of foam and white smoke overwhelmed him even before he could put his hands over his face.

Coughing madly, he staggered back towards the kitchen and blinked away the tears enough to get a window open before collapsing on the floor. He was gasping desperately for breath, but his throat had shrunk to the size of a drinking-straw.

Everything was starting to go black.

From down in the street there was the sound of sirens and people shouting orders.

‘Dialling one-one-two is easy to do,’ the child’s voice inside his head chanted just before he lost consciousness.

‘You were lucky, Henrik,’ the doctor said, unaware that she was echoing what her colleague in St Göran had said the night before.

‘You inhaled a bit of smoke, and you have a minor burn on your left hand, but that’s more or less it.’

He nodded mutely from the trolley. It was considerably easier to breathe now, presumably thanks to the oxygen mask.

‘We’re going to rinse your eyes once more, you got covered in a fair bit of foam, but there’s no real danger. Your vision might be a bit fuzzy for a couple of days, but it’ll pass.’

He nodded again.

There was no point trying to talk with the mask on, and besides, what would he say?

‘Well, then,’ the doctor said as she got up. ‘If you haven’t got any questions, I need to get going. Even if you feel fine, keep the mask on until the nurse has rinsed your eyes. You need to breathe pure oxygen to drive out the carbon monoxide you’ve inhaled. Look after yourself, Henrik!’

He nodded a third time, in both confirmation and farewell.

Then he was finally alone.

The tumble-dryer got going again, this time on an advanced setting. But before he had time to concentrate on it there was a knock on the door and two uniformed police officers stepped in. Perfect, just what he needed.

King of the Mounties, Cling and Clang are here to ruin your day. Shit!

They turned out to be called Paulsson and Wöhl, and once he’d asked to see their badges and carefully examined them, even though they were in full uniform, they had a few questions for him.

Did he happen to have any enemies? No, officer, he didn’t.

Could he think of any other reason why someone would want to pour paraffin through his letterbox and set fire to his hall?

Yes, he could certainly think of a reason, but he had no intention of sharing it with a couple of flat-footed cops, or anyone else come to that. He didn’t need any more reminders of the rules, thanks very fucking much!

‘No, officer, I’m afraid not,’ he replied instead with his head tilted to one side and his honest look on his face. Neither of them seemed to buy it, but what the hell!

Apart from what he had told them about the outbreak of the fire, was there anything else he could tell them that could be relevant to their investigation?

Same answer again, for the third time: No, not a thing!

The cops exchanged a knowing glance over their notepads, and after a few final pearls of wisdom they finally gave up.

‘The case will be investigated by the Södermalm Police.’ Great, thanks very much!

He already knew what the result would be. Absolutely zilch.

‘Hi, it’s me … Micke …’ he added, in case she didn’t recognize his voice.

‘Hi,’ she said curtly, then realized that she was actually pleased he had called.

‘How are you?’

He sounded a bit unsure, as if he didn’t really know what to say. It was usually her who phoned.

‘Fine, thanks, just a bit tired. Work’s been a bit busy,’ she found herself saying, surprised at her honesty.

‘Oh, I see … You probably don’t really feel like meeting up, then?’

She was silent for a couple of seconds. Her headache hadn’t given up, her ribs were still sore, and Henke’s final words were still echoing in her head. So no, not really!

‘Sure, I can be round in half an hour,’ she replied, and for the second time in the conversation she surprised herself.

‘I thought maybe we could go out … have a bit of a chat?’ he went on quickly.

Her brain said it was time to pull the hand-brake.

Fucking, yes, talking, no! We don’t have time for that sort of thing, Normén!

‘Sure!’ her mouth replied disobediently, and forty-five minutes later they were sitting in a little Thai place up in Vasastan, and to her surprise she discovered that it was really, really nice just having a bit of a chat for a while.

Okay, so what the hell was he going to do now?

No job, no money, he’d had a row with his sister, his flat was uninhabitable and, maybe worst of all, he’d been chucked out of the Game!

The Goat had let him crash on his sofa for a couple of days, but all the coming and going and all the fucking dopehead dweebs who seemed to hang around in the flat all the time were driving him mad. Didn’t the bastards have jobs to go to?

He needed time to think, to go through his options and plan his next moves. Not that he had many lined up, exactly …

As usual, Manga was the one who stepped up. His old woman wasn’t exactly happy, but evidently their religion meant they had to be hospitable and generous to the poor, so she didn’t have much choice. But that didn’t mean that Betul missed any opportunity to scowl at him, no, she didn’t exactly hold back there. But HP ignored her from his comfortable lying position on their best Ikea sofa.

HP/Islam 1, miserable witch 0.

Something to be pleased about, anyway. That and the fact that he now had plenty of time to think. Betul didn’t like computers, which was pretty absurd when you considered what her husband did for a living. But seeing as she was head of the Al-Hassan family, there was no Playstation, no PC, nor any film channels to disturb his concentration, leaving HP with time to think at last.

A job could wait, he still had a few days left on unemployment benefit and something was bound to turn up. The flat would be fixed in a week or so. New paint, new floor and a new front door, all paid for by the insurance. Bloody lucky that Becca had kept up with the most important bills when he was short of cash.

So how could he make it up to her?

Sadly there was no good answer to that question.

Becca was furious with him, and for good reason. He’d crossed the line the other day, seriously marched over it. But he hadn’t actually had any choice. She mustn’t get caught up in this, at least not any more than she already was.

But it already looked like it was too late. They must have been watching him somehow. And saw her visiting him and thought he was spilling the beans again. Somewhere a mobile phone had flashed and a player, maybe even some fucking rookie, had been given the task of teaching the grass a lesson, the same way he had done with the door over in Birkastan.

A little home delivery, à la Game Master.

According to the cops, his wasn’t the first call to the emergency services. Someone had rung a few minutes earlier, probably around the time that they started the fire, so they presumably didn’t want to kill him. Not this time, anyway.

Which led him back to his original question. What was he going to do now? Did they really expect him just to forget everything, keep his mouth shut and never think about the Game again? Could he do that even if he wanted to?