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

It was all pretty straightforward. Even though the touchscreen was fairly large, there were only five icons. Phone, calendar, email, internet, and the one he was after – ‘The Game’.

He clicked Yes and a new text appeared instantly.

Welcome to a new dimension of gaming, a world where reality is a game and the Game reality.

Welcome to the most intense gaming experience in the world!

Welcome to the Game!

He couldn’t help smiling at the bombastic tone, then ran his finger across the screen to scroll down to the next piece of text.

Definitions

Participants in the Gameare known as Playersand are hand-picked after a careful selection process.

Every Playeris given various Assignmentsby the Game Masterwho is the person who directs the Game.

The Assignments, if carried out correctly, result in a number of Points, as well as a matching quantity of American dollars which will be paid into an account to which the Playerhas free access.

All Assignmentsare documented by the Playersthemselves with the help of the handheld unit, and in specific instances also by Functionariesor other Players. All visual material is the exclusive property of the Gameand will be presented at regular intervals in edited form together with the league table on the High Score Page.

At the end of each round of the Gamea Winnerwill be declared, and they will receive a Reward.

HP frowned. If this was a joke, then it was a bloody convincing one.

So had he been selected to take part in whatever it was called … a live game or something? It was all a bit too close to those ridiculous historical re-enactments, really, people on Gotland dancing about in homemade chainmail costumes. Or kids dressing up as vampires with plastic fangs and capes. How the hell had he got involved in something like this?

The page had two links. He clicked the first, marked Rules of the Game:

Rules of the Game

To guarantee a satisfactory experience for all parties, there must be a set of Rules, as in all games.

These Rules are absolute and must not

under any circumstances be broken.

Rule 1: Never talk to anyone outside

the Game Communityabout the Game.

Rule 2: The Game Masterdirects the Game,

allocates assignments, rewards, and – if necessary – punishments.

The Game Master’s authority is absolute, all

decisions must be obeyed and there is no right of appeal.

Consequences

Breaching or disobeying the Rules of The Gamewill result in immediate Disqualification and Expulsion.

HP sighed and pulled out another Marlboro, lit it and took a deep drag. So far he was no wiser than he had been when he started. He was clearly being invited to take part in some sort of weird game that seemed to take place out in the real world. But why him?

Not that he didn’t like gaming, he had Counterstrike and World of Warcraft on his computer, and obviously Guitar Hero on his Playstation. But they didn’t make you run around town like a fucking Duracell bunny. But on the other hand, there was that bit about money and rewards …

Getting paid to play games, he could definitely live with that. Professional gaming was actually something he’d looked at before. But how the hell could they know that?

He clicked the second link. Just like the heading said, it contained something that looked like a high score table. In the left-hand margin was a series of numbers, which at a guess represented different players. At the top was someone called ‘58’, who had evidently managed to scrape together more than five thousand points by completing seven tasks.

If every point was the equivalent of one American dollar, as the earlier page suggested, then number fifty-eight had earned something like forty thousand Swedish kronor, presumably tax-free, just by playing a game. Not bad, not bad at all in fact! His interest was definitely piqued.

So what did he have to do to get his share of the dosh? He scrolled down through the list of high scores, right to the bottom, where, surrounded by a number of other players on one hundred points, he found number one-two-eight. The same number as on the back of his phone. He clicked the little icon of a reel of film alongside the number. A new window opened up, showing a shaky film sequence, and he heard his own voice crackle through the phone’s little speaker:

‘Tell Manga … still a carpet-lick … bastard!’

The picture bounced up and down. Train doors, tarmac, then a shaky sequence of some steps and a bit of Rörstrandsgatan. Then the whole sequence over again, but this time filmed from the side with considerably better focus and less shaking, and once again he saw himself steal the umbrella and jump out of the carriage. From the angle of the shot, it had been recorded either by the attractive young woman in training gear, or one of the thirty-somethings. Christ, the look of surprise on the man’s face when he took the umbrella was priceless! He clicked to repeat the film and watched it again.

First his own recording, then the one taken anonymously. It was almost like reliving it, but with all the details more defined. The look of surprise on the young girls’ faces, the drunk jumping when HP started shouting, the shocked reaction of the man in the coat, which seemed to suggest that he had no idea what was going on. This was massive, totally massive!

HP had nicked stuff before, it wasn’t that … It was actually bloody cool to be able to watch it again, even if he didn’t look quite as slick as he’d imagined. It was like getting a repeat of the adrenalin rush, just with more time to enjoy the finer nuances.

After a while he tried a button marked ‘mix’ and to his delight discovered he could watch the two sequences of clips alongside each other, his own on the left and the other one to the right, perfectly synchronized, the entire event seen from two different angles.

When he had watched the film for the fifth time he found that his heart was thudding with excitement.

She needed new clothes. Even though the blood would probably come out if they were dry-cleaned, she had thrown her jacket and trousers in the nearest bin as soon as she got them back from Forensics.

Runeberg had understood.

‘Make sure you get a receipt and we’ll sort it out, Normén,’ he had said, so she had just spent the past hour or so in the outfitters in Östermalm that supplied their uniforms. Getting measured and trying things on, marks in white chalk and pins. It felt like a luxury to be able to try on clothes like this, and in work-time as well.

The sales assistant knew what she was doing. One size larger than normal gave enough space for the bulletproof vest and the equipment carried on their belts. Just shorten the arms a bit and take in the shoulders.

The uniform had to sit well without getting in the way. It wasn’t supposed to look like a hand-me-down.

Runeberg may have told her to take the rest of the day off, but according to the rota she was supposed to be working that afternoon. She didn’t have any other plans so it made sense to get the uniform sorted straight away.

Runeberg was okay. If you could just look past his blokey attitude he was a decent boss, possibly even one of the best she’d had. And decent bosses didn’t exactly grow on trees in the force. Length of service and connections were often more important than competence.