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

‘You’re not so fucking cocky now, are you, you little fucker?!’ he roared, his face bright red, as he tightened his grip.

And suddenly she realized that Henke was going to die. That Dag was going to murder her little brother, right there, out on their balcony.

‘ Stop! ’ she screamed as loudly as she possibly could. Her voice sounded terrible, as if it came from deep within her chest rather than her throat.

Maybe it was the unusual tone of voice that jolted Dag out of it and made him realize he was going too far? Because just as she launched herself at him with all the force she could muster, he let go of Henke. Let him fall to the ground like a rag doll, and took an unsteady step backwards. Towards the balcony railing.

She hit Dag full in the chest. Even if she did weigh almost seventy kilos the collision wouldn’t usually have moved him at all, at best it would have made him sway a bit.

But this time he must have been off balance, or else the force in her tackle was far greater than she had realized. Either way, he stumbled backwards across the balcony with his arms reaching for something to grab hold of, something to help him keep his heavy body upright and stop him from falling.

Then his back hit the metal railing …

She would never forget that sound. A shrieking, grinding sound of metal mixed with a sigh from the concrete as it reluctantly released its grip on the far too few steel bolts.

And suddenly the railing was gone.

She was lying on the floor of the balcony, Dag just a metre away, balancing right on the edge. In his eyes that accusing look, as if he had already realized how it was going to end. That she wouldn’t lift a finger to save him. Wouldn’t even try. Because deep down she had already begun to celebrate, begun to rejoice that her love for him, just like he himself, would soon be dead.

That she would finally be free!

‘It’s your fault!’ the look in those eyes said in farewell before they, and he, disappeared over the edge.

And she knew that they were right.

It’s winter, dark, and in this dream Henke is waiting beside a brightly lit shop window. He doesn’t know who or what for. He just knows that he has to wait. For someone to come. Someone important.

The street is lined with bare, jagged trees as cars drive past almost soundlessly on the white roadway. Older models, he realizes, as if he’s gone back in time.

He stamps his feet on the snow-covered ground to keep warm.

Then he hears a church-clock chime further down the street and he realizes where he is. Sveavägen, diagonally across from the Adolf Fredrik Church.

At the junction of Tunnelgatan.

And suddenly he sees them coming towards him. A couple walking arm in arm. The man in a winter coat and fur hat, the woman in a coat and some sort of shawl. He recognizes them immediately. The Prime Minister and his wife. He runs his hand over his jacket and feels the object in his pocket, then turns towards the shop window and lets them pass.

Then he spins round and takes a couple of strides to catch up with them.

He knows what he has to do.

Ten minutes or so had passed since Dag fell from the balcony, but she remembered nothing of what had happened during that time. She is sitting in the kitchen with a female police officer in her forties. She looks kind, Rebecca finds herself thinking.

From down below there are blue lights flashing, lighting up the whole of the courtyard. She isn’t crying, she hasn’t done any of that, and she won’t either, she knows that already.

‘Can you bear to tell me what happened?’ the police officer says, and just as she opens her mouth to talk, she hears Henke’s voice from the living room.

‘It was me who did it!’ he says, loudly and clearly. ‘We were fighting and I pushed him, then the whole thing collapsed and he went through the railing. It was my fault.’

He’s got the gun in his hand, a large, silver-coloured revolver with a laser sight on top. The red dot is right in the middle of the man’s back.

Just squeeze, and …

But they seem to have noticed him, because they stop.

Then the man turns round. His body has changed, become much bigger, much more intimidating. When their eyes meet he sees that the man is smirking.

‘So, you criminal little bastard, you’re going to kill me face-to-face this time, are you?’, says the Prime Minister, with Dag’s voice.

Suddenly all the resolve that was so strong a moment ago starts to dissolve.

She wants to yell at him to shut up, yell at the police officers in there not to believe him, and tell the woman opposite her that her little brother is lying. That she was the one who shoved him, not Henke. That she’s the murderer who should be punished.

But none of that happens.

Her head is completely empty, her body incapable of all movement, even a millimetre, and so her mouth stays silent too.

‘Was that it?’ the police officer opposite her says. ‘Was he the one who pushed your partner off the balcony?’

But she can’t answer.

And she still isn’t crying.

‘Go on then!’ the man in front of him jeers.

His breath is like a pillar of smoke from his scornful, smiling mouth.

‘Pull the trigger, if you dare!’

The red mark from the laser sight trembles on the man’s broad chest. All he has to do is squeeze the trigger, and the bullet will do the rest.

But he hesitates. In the background the church bells are ringing louder and louder. Somehow he seems to have shrunk, become shorter, smaller, almost as if he were changing into a child. The pistol is getting heavier and heavier and soon he won’t be able to hold it anymore.

‘Henrik,’ the woman at the man’s side says quietly, and she has to lean over to get eye contact with him.

‘You don’t have to do this. I’ll be okay anyway.’

Her voice is calm and friendly, so familiar and comforting. Then she smiles at him, that gentle smile he’s loved for as long as he can remember, and there’s a lump in his throat. It’s forcing its way to his larynx and into his mouth. Tears burn through his eyelids and he hears the man chuckle.

‘I knew you wouldn’t dare!’ he mocks. ‘A worthless little shit like you isn’t capable of anything. Not even taking care of your family.’

He puts his arms round the woman’s shoulders and pulls her to him. She does nothing to stop him and just lets herself be embraced. She stands there quite still, stuck to his side.

In his grasp.

‘I’ll be okay anyway,’ her voice whispers inside his head, but he knows she’s wrong.

And the look in her eyes agrees with him.

Then the man is someone else. Changes again, right in front of his eyes. Into someone older, even more dangerous. And suddenly he feels his little boy’s willy shrivel up and almost disappear inside his pants.

But just as he catches sight of the belt in the man’s free hand, at the very moment he sees how it all fits together and his index finger squeezes the trigger to blow him away, send the bastard back to hell once and for all – the gun turns into something else entirely.

The bells have turned to thunder inside his head.

Drowning out all sound and swallowing the whole world.

It’s as if every church in Stockholm has suddenly joined in the ringing and is making the ground shake beneath his feet. It is the 28th of February 1986, the Prime Minister of Sweden has just been murdered. And the world will never be the same …

‘Fire, fire!’ he hears someone cry as he races up the steep steps towards Malmskillnadsgatan a few seconds later.

In his jacket pocket he can feel an old spanner bouncing about.

HP woke up gently. He opened his eyes slowly and knew straight away from the smell that he wasn’t at home. There was a smell of food. Warm, cooked food, not from some takeaway or kiosk, but proper home-cooked food. Sweet!