Game: A Thriller

by Anders de la Motte

  She didn’t mention her visit to see Mange or the video clips she had seen in the shop. It was fairly likely that the clips had something to do with the events out at the cottage, but before she’d had a chance to talk to Henke she didn’t really want to show them to her colleagues. She hadn’t missed the pointed silence that had fallen when Henke’s criminal record was mentioned.

  Then the obligatory questions: Did her brother have any enemies? Did she know how he made a living? Did she know anything about the arson attack on his flat a week before?

  She answered no to each of the questions, which was actually true. Well, almost, anyway.

  She locked her cycle away in the basement and took the stairs up as usual.

  Maybe it was because she was tired, or because she was deep in thought, but she didn’t notice that someone was waiting for her.

  “Becca!”

  She spun around and automatically raised her hands in front of her.

  “Calm down, it’s only me, Henke!”

  Of course it was only him.

  She should have known. Where else was he going to go?

  She muttered something, turned around, and unlocked the door of her flat before shepherding him in before her. She stopped inside the door for a couple of seconds, then locked all four locks.

  But only once, and even though part of her was protesting wildly, that would have to do. She had no intention of giving him a demonstration of her compulsive behavior.

  In the hall the answering machine was flashing to indicate another missed call. Number withheld, same as usual.

  Henke had already made himself at home on the sofa in the living room.

  “Got any coffee?”

  She resisted, with some effort, a sudden urge to grab the nearest heavy object and smash his skull in. Fucking bloody idiot, creeping up on her like that! She didn’t even know he knew where she lived. When she’d been out searching half the city for him, and here he was all of a sudden, sitting on her sofa.

  And what on earth did he look like?

  Even more strung out than last time, with great bags under his eyes and nicotine yellow skin. Fingernails chewed almost to the quick, his hair all over the place, and utterly filthy too.

  A smell of ingrained smoke and unwashed guy wafted up from her sofa, making her wrinkle her nose.

  He was looking at her quizzically and she realized she hadn’t answered his question.

  “Sure,” she snapped and went out into the kitchen.

  “You can clean yourself up in the meantime, the bathroom’s off the hall,” she called from the kitchen as she took care of the machine.

  But when she came back a few minutes later with a tray of coffee, he was asleep.

  She sighed, poured herself a cup, and decided, after a bit of thought, to let him sleep. He looked like he could do with it.

  A surprising feeling of tenderness came over her and she couldn’t help giving his cheek a quick stroke. He was still her little brother, after all, her little Henke. Okay, so he was an immature idiot and a first-rate trouble magnet, but that hadn’t always been the case. Once it had been the two of them against the world. And through all the shit, they had always had each other.

  But that was a long time ago. Things changed, whether you liked it or not.

  She drank the last of the cup, leaned her head back against the sofa, and closed her eyes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  She had understood from the noise he was making in the hall when he got in. The way he slammed the front door, the way he jangled his keys as he kicked off his shoes. She tried to warn Henke, but he had his back to her, sitting on one of the folding chairs out on the balcony, smoking. Henke and Dag sometimes used to share a cig out there, even though Dag claimed he’d given up. Smoking didn’t fit in with his exercise regime and all that crap. Yet he still hung about out there all the time, leaning over the railing, and not just when Henke was visiting. From the balcony he could keep an eye on the backyard, as well as the carpark where the BMW was.

  On good days they got on pretty well, Dag and Henke. They could stand out there chatting, almost like they were friends. She liked days like that; they made her feel as if she had a proper family.

  But this definitely wasn’t going to be one of those days, she’d known that the moment the front door slammed shut.

  “Hello!”

  His voice was ice-cold, almost emotionless, but she had no difficulty picking up the anger bubbling beneath it.

  “Is everything okay?” she said as quietly and calmly as she could.

  He just snorted in reply.

  “Is there any food?”

  “Fish gratin, it’s in the oven. Henke and I have already eaten.”

  Another snort. This didn’t bode well, she knew from experience. At a guess, something had gone wrong at work, a troublesome customer, an order that had got lost, or his boss stirring things up. It didn’t usually take very much.

  “So how long is your useless brother going to exploit my hospitality this time?” he muttered through gritted teeth a bit later, nodding toward Henke, who was still out on the balcony.

  “Just a couple of days,” she said as neutrally as she could. “Things are a bit tricky at home with Mom and everything. He needed to get away for a bit.”

  A third snort, this time more scornful.

  “A bit tricky . . .” he muttered as he shoveled a spoonful of the gratin into his mouth. “Your mother’s just a pathetic alcoholic,” he declared between chews. “Get her into a home so you can have a bit of peace and quiet, then we won’t have that little crook hanging about around here all the time.”

  She was on her way to getting angry and he saw it. A happy grin spread over his face.

  “Oh, so you’re cross I said something nasty about poor, innocent little Henke?” he added in that patronizing childish voice she hated. He’d gone straight for her weak point and she had to make an effort not to rise to the bait.

  “Henke’s just been a bit unlucky,” she said with forced calm. “He hasn’t always had it so easy, and besides, he’s my little brother.”

  “Easy?!” Dag had suddenly gone red in the face, and he flew up from his chair.

  This was the row he had been looking for ever since he opened the door, and now he was getting what he wanted.

  “You talk about easy, but what fucking problems has your worthless brother ever had, eh? My dad wasn’t exactly a saint either. He used to beat the crap out of me every other day until I learned to hit back. The bastard walked out when I was fifteen, but look at me!” He gestured toward his chest with his thumb. “I didn’t end up a fucking criminal! I’ve worked since I was sixteen, hauled my way up the ladder, paid my taxes, and looked after myself, and for what? So I can support someone like him?”

  His mouth was spraying little bits of saliva and food, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “What’s up?”

  Henke was peering in from the balcony. She tried to signal to him to take it easy, not provoke Dag, just let him burn himself out, then everything would calm down. But he didn’t seem to get it. Anyway, Dag wasn’t about to let him get away lightly this time.

  “Well, your sister and I were just discussing if it wouldn’t make sense to put your alcoholic mother in a home so we didn’t have to put up with you coming ’round here every five minutes.”

  His tone of voice was so arrogant and provocative that she already had an idea of what was going on. She made another attempt to catch Henke’s eye and make him understand. Stop him from rising to the challenge that had been thrown in his face. But he didn’t seem to get it, or else he was simply ignoring her.

  “Really, Dagge?” he said nonchalantly instead, emphasizing the nickname that he knew Dag hated. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to bury her in the same patch of forest as your ‘missing’ dad? That way we could keep all the violence in the family. I mean, you’re pretty good at that!”

  Dag threw himself across the table and Henke didn’t h
ave time to take more than a couple of steps back before Dag was on him. He tried to resist, but his opponent was considerably larger and much more aggressive. After just a few seconds Henke was on the floor, curled up with his hands over his face to protect himself. But Dag was on top of him, wrapping his arm around Henke’s neck and dragging him upward. Rebecca could see Henke’s face turning white.

  “Stop it, Dag!” she cried. “Stop, for God’s sake, you’re strangling him!”

  She tried to loosen the arm around Henke’s neck.

  The blow came out of nowhere; he must have let go with the other hand without her noticing, because she was suddenly flying backward across the little kitchen table.

  “You little bitch!” she heard him roar as her back hit the floor. Cutlery, plates, and food everywhere. Her cheek was burning, her face felt numb, and she was seeing stars.

  Somewhere far away she heard Henke whimper and she tried to get to her feet.

  For some reason the door had opened, unless Henke had never closed it, because all of a sudden the fight had moved out onto the balcony. Dag had got a fresh grip of Henke’s head and she could see that her little brother was almost finished. His legs suddenly went limp and he stopped struggling, but Dag didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “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 knew 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 energy she could muster, he let go of Henke. Let him fall to the ground like a rag doll, and took an unsteady step backward. Toward the balcony railing.

  She hit Dag full in the chest. Even if she weighed 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 was aware of. Either way, he stumbled backward 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 unexpectedly the railing was gone.

  She was lying on the floor of the balcony, Dag just a meter 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. And wouldn’t actually 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 shopwindow. 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 farther down the street and he recognizes where he is. Sveavägen, diagonally across from the Adolf Fredrik Church.

  At the junction of Tunnel Street.

  And suddenly he sees them coming toward 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 toward the shopwindow and lets them pass.

  Then he spins around 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-colored revolver with a laser sight on top. The red dot is right in the middle of the man’s broad back.

  Just squeeze, and . . .

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

  Then the man turns around. His body has changed, becoming much bigger, much more intimidating. When their eyes meet HP 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.

  And suddenly he feels all the resolve that was so strong a moment ago starting 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 millimeter, 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. And abruptly 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 suddenly he feels a lump in his throat. It’s forcing its way to his larynx and into his mouth, and when the tears burn through his eyelids 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.”

  The prime minister puts his arms around 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 hi
s 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, right in front of his eyes. Into someone older, more dangerous. And suddenly he feels his little boy’s weenie shrivel up and almost disappear down inside his pants.

  But just as he catches sight of the belt in the man’s free hand, at the very moment he knows 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 suddenly 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.

  “Fire, fire!” he hears someone cry as he races up the steep steps toward Malmskillnadsgatan a few seconds later.

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

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  HP woke up gently. He opened his eyes slowly and knew straightaway 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!

  “Oh, so you’re awake!” She stuck her head into the living room and seemed almost pleased to see him.

  “Food will be ready in a couple of minutes, if you want to freshen up first.”

  He nodded and wandered off toward the bathroom.

  When he returned she was ladling out a helping of sausage and mashed potatoes for him.

  Proper mash, made from real potatoes, not powder. He hadn’t had that for . . . well, he couldn’t actually remember how long it had been.

  It was pretty damn good as well, and he ate ravenously. She waited until he had finished his first portion and was no longer completely starving.

  “I was over at the cottage,” she said neutrally.

  “I know!” he said between chews. “I saw you from a distance but didn’t really feel like introducing myself to your colleagues,” he explained when he saw the quizzical look on her face. “Was it a real bomb?”