The Game Trilogy

by Anders de la Motte

  The taxi let her out on the other side of the road, but just as she was about to cross three police cars raced past, all blue lights and sirens. She quickly retreated to the pavement again and waited until they had gone before braving the slush on the street again.

  There was a restaurant in the ground floor of the building, and judging by the number of smartly dressed people both inside and outside, it looked like some sort of private party was going on in there. She quickly cruised between the hardy little groups of smokers huddled under the gas heaters, reached the door and pressed the button for the loft apartment. After a couple of seconds the lock on the door whirred.

  ‘We saw most of it, but you’ve got to tell us exactly what happened,’ Rilke panted excitedly in his ear.

  ‘Okay …’

  He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He didn’t really know why he’d got so furious with Beens. Okay, so the guy had been a bit gobby, but even so …

  ‘He needed to be taught how to behave …’ he began.

  ‘Go on.’

  Rilke’s eyes sparkled. She was comfortably drunk, that much was clear, but that didn’t explain the change in her.

  The way she was looking at him. Almost … admiringly?

  Suddenly he noticed that even Sophie the She-woman seemed to be looking at him differently as well.

  ‘Well … Beens needed to learn to keep his mouth shut about company business …’ he went on, more confidently, leaning back against the bar.

  ‘… to stick to rule number one!’

  27

  Three can play that game

  She really shouldn’t be here.

  There were probably a hundred good reasons why –such as, for instance, the fact that she had a boyfriend, or that her life was quite complicated enough without any need to start dating strangers …

  But there was something about him she couldn’t resist.

  Ever since he opened the door and gave her an assured kiss on the cheek, he had been in complete control. No uncertain eyes, no anxious questions about what she thought, wanted or liked. No decisions to take – everything was already decided.

  All she had to do was lie back and enjoy it. The wonderful food must have come from the restaurant downstairs, but she assumed that the wine was from his own cellar. First a properly dry Martini, a drink she’d actually never tasted before, and which only added to the whole James Bond vibe that he radiated.

  Sean Connery, definitely not Roger Moore, she giggled to herself.

  A light white wine with the starter, followed by a considerably more robust red with the main course. Then port with the cheese, and finally a smooth cognac to go with the pitch-black little espresso. Neither she nor Micke were that big on wine, most of the bottles they bought or had been given were standing unopened in various cupboards.

  She hadn’t drunk this much since … when, exactly?

  She couldn’t actually remember. The room swayed slightly when she got up to go to the bathroom, but for once she really didn’t care.

  The bathroom was just as restrained as the rest of the loft apartment. Limestone floor, tiny inset spotlights and Japanese rice-paper paintings on the walls. Subtle little details everywhere. Three different types of soap arranged in a pyramid next to the washbasin, none of them looked as if they’d ever been used. A stack of perfectly folded little flannels instead of towels to dry your hands on, and beside them a discreet little basket to leave them in, obviously covered by a lid so you didn’t have to see the disorderly mess of flannels.

  It actually all reminded her of the gym they both went to. It couldn’t have been an accident that he chose that one in particular.

  And he was handsome too, she found herself thinking. She’d noticed his body the first time she saw him. Fit, in that slim, sinewy way, not like gym-pumped hundred kilo heavyweights like Dag or Ludvig, who almost couldn’t move for all their bulging muscles.

  He was about the same height as her, and probably no more than ten kilos heavier. He was probably something like the same number of years older than her too, not that that mattered.

  His chiselled cheekbones were accentuated by his extremely narrow glasses, and then there was that look in his eyes that had made her almost lose her breath the first time she noticed him.

  She had seen it before, plenty of times … Well, she hadn’t, actually, the wine was making her mind wander. But okay, maybe this man did remind her a tiny bit of Dag.

  The way he’d managed to make her feel safe and cared for in just a few seconds was undeniably familiar. But John was a completely different person, considerably more intelligent and worldly.

  He didn’t exude any of the uncertainty that sometimes used to slip out of Dag, which had probably been the fundamental reason why he … well …

  Oh, this was ridiculous, she had to stop this wine-fuelled pseudo-psychology! John was a gentleman and his only offence so far was that he had had to leave her a few times to answer his shiny little mobile phone.

  But obviously she was prepared to overlook that tiny breach of the rules, especially as he apologized and took the opportunity to refill her glass each time.

  She got up from the wall-mounted toilet, pulled up her underwear and trousers before flushing, then took the chance to adjust her hair in front of the mirror. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes glossy with alcohol, and she couldn’t help smiling at her own reflection. She hadn’t felt as lively as this in a very long time.

  There was something between them, that much was abundantly obvious. The only question was what was going to happen now?

  Three little pills. Yellow in colour and with a little smiley face stamped in the middle of them. He didn’t actually know who had conjured them up, but suddenly Rilke had popped two of them in her mouth. Then she pulled him to her, opened her mouth, and as their tongues met she pushed one of the pills across into his mouth.

  It was all quite unnecessary, he’d been popping acid since Dacke died, and he didn’t need any instruction. But he had to maintain his cover and carry on playing the role of the devout Muslim who didn’t drink or take drugs – at least not without a bit of feminine persuasion. But by this point he could probably get away with pretty much anything. The atmosphere in the bar was peculiar. Fucking peculiar, in fact.

  By now everyone knew what had happened in the city centre, and maybe it was the funeral, combined with the sudden realization that life was fragile, that had led to them all suddenly deciding to party like it was their last day on earth. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the DJ kept playing REM’s End of the world as we know it.

  If he was honest, he hated quasi-intellectual environmental muppets like REM and their soppy message of love and peace. So fucking what if some idiot blew himself to pieces on Drottninggatan?

  What the fuck did that have to do with him?

  He felt the tingle as the acid kick spread through his body. He closed his eyes to enjoy the moment when his eyelids transformed into cascades of colour.

  Suddenly he realized that he had the wrong attitude. Totally fucking wrong, in fact! He was a lover, not a hater. Now he came to think about it, he loved almost the whole world. Environmental muppets, suicide bombers, REM, even fucking lard-arse Beens.

  If the guy was – against all expectation – still there on Monday, he’d buy a family-size pizza for the cuddly little Barbapappa, to make up for it.

  He leaned over the bar.

  ‘A double Stoli, please … actually, better make that a triple!’

  Just as he turned round Rilke was repeating her pill trick with Sophie. For a moment he just stood there grinning as the two women kissed.

  The kiss was practically inevitable. The tension she felt when his lips first touched her cheek when he opened the door had carried on building throughout the meal. She could hardly remember what they had talked about.

  It certainly hadn’t been work, or at any rate not hers, she was sure of that.

  Travel, that was it …

  Diff
erent places around the world that ought to be visited.

  Turkey was his favourite. With the Arabian peninsula in second place. She’d come up with Australia, even though she’d never even been. Apart from places she’d had to go to for work, she hadn’t really been anywhere. But that didn’t matter, she was happy to let him do the talking. His soft, low voice only increased the tension between them.

  Then he had almost imperceptibly managed to manoeuvre her onto the sofa, and in that position they both knew what was going to happen.

  His thin lips were surprisingly soft, she could smell his aftershave and taste the cognac on his tongue. He pulled her to him, holding her tight as if he already knew what she liked, and she let out a gasp of both surprise and pleasure.

  This really was crazy! But for once she was thinking of letting herself go.

  Falling free …

  His mouth moved down to her neck and she squirmed with pleasure and began to fiddle with the buttons of his shirt.

  He wasn’t really sure how they’d ended up here, or where they were going, but suddenly they were wrapped around each other in the lift. Him, Rilke and Sophie. He had one hand round Rilke’s waist, and the other on Sophie’s impressive posterior.

  One of the women – he didn’t actually know which – was doing a considerably more pleasant version of his Beens grip on his crotch, his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down to his navel, and Rilke was busy licking off the tequila she’d just splashed on his chest, while Sophie chewed rather too hard on one of his earlobes.

  The third floor sailed past, then the fourth. He made a silent prayer that the building had ten floors.

  She felt his mobile vibrate against her hip and felt him tense.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said curtly as he sat up. ‘This is the last time, I promise … Things aren’t quite the same as usual this evening …’

  She just nodded and leaned back against the cushions on the sofa. Above her head the ceiling gently span anticlockwise, and she couldn’t help smiling.

  No, things certainly weren’t the same as usual this evening …

  He stood up from the sofa and took a couple of steps away from her as he pulled his mobile from its holster on his belt. The conversation was short, no more than a couple of sentences.

  ‘… so you’re on your way. Good!’ she managed to catch before he hung up.

  Then he switched the phone off and put it on the coffee-table.

  ‘How about moving into the bedroom?’ he said, in a way that left no room for protest.

  Not that she felt like protesting …

  Fifth floor, lift door, wandering hands. The rattle of keys, the click of a lock.

  And then they were inside a flat.

  The bed he threw her down on was enormous. Big enough for four or five people, she thought, and once again she couldn’t help giggling. She was definitely drunk, no doubt about it.

  He practically tore off her clothes. Her blouse was already off, her trousers well on the way. She had lost all control of the situation, but she really didn’t care in the slightest.

  Somewhere she thought she heard a door slamming shut.

  Most of their clothes came off in the hall, then the rest as they pulled him further inside the darkened flat.

  The girls took care of the whole show, they seemed to work together so well that he actually began to suspect that they’d done this before.

  He’d had a vague idea that Rilke played on both sides of the pitch that time when she was chatting to the estate agent, and he should probably have been jealous about the fact that his almost-girlfriend was letting herself be seduced by Sophie.

  But right now he really didn’t care! His cock was hard enough to drill through concrete, and tonight all of stiff one-eye’s dreams were finally going to come true!

  He felt the back of his knee hit something, and a moment later he tumbled backwards onto what had to be a large double-bed.

  She caught sight of something from the corner of her eye and couldn’t help glancing in that direction. A large flatscreen on one wall had suddenly come to life, and she had a bird’s eye view of a dimly lit room where several people were rolling around on a large bed.

  For a couple of confused moments she thought she was watching herself, that John had a camera hidden somewhere in the ceiling.

  The she realized that there were three people on the screen, and that even if the taller of the women actually looked a bit like her, what she was busy doing wasn’t really her thing …

  ‘Do you like the performance?’ John whispered in her ear.

  She honestly didn’t know how to reply.

  He was back in the saddle! That whole experience with Anna Argos had in some weird way almost made him doubt his abilities. But now everything was back to normal!

  Although …

  Obviously, there was nothing normal about what they were doing. Normal stuff was for average Swedes! His body was shiny with sweat, probably due as much to the acid as the fact that he was taking Sophie from behind like there was no tomorrow. Rilke was lying on the bed a short distance in front of him, with Sophie’s head between her legs, and to judge from the noises she was making, She-woman knew what she was doing.

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds to enjoy the lightshow of the pill he had popped just a minute or so ago, but quickly opened them again. To be honest, he didn’t want to miss a second of the scenario unfolding in front of him. His overloaded brain was on the point of exploding from all the information it was absorbing.

  Not to mention his cock …

  There was undeniably something titillating about watching other people have sex at the same time as her, even if the trio on the screen were still some way ahead of them. She suddenly got the feeling that the man on screen was vaguely familiar. There was something about the way he held his head, the way he moved …

  John’s mouth was on its way from her breasts down over her stomach and she shut her eyes for a couple of seconds. When she opened them again the gang on the screen seemed to have changed angles, and she found herself mainly looking at the man’s back.

  He had short hair, was fairly slim, and didn’t look like a regular gym-goer. Not really the ideal porn star. But, on the other hand, this film didn’t seem to be a terribly professional production.

  He was pretty suntanned, though, even below his waist.

  When the man moved into the light a jagged pattern of long white scars suddenly came into view at the base of his spine.

  Suddenly she froze!

  She sat up and pushed John’s head away.

  She snaked backwards across the bed to get a bit closer to the screen. He grabbed hold of her legs and pulled her back.

  ‘Stop it,’ she muttered, kicking free.

  The similarity became more and more striking the closer she looked.

  He pulled her back again, harder this time, and tried to spread her legs.

  ‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake,’ she snapped, and shook herself free again.

  She rolled over onto her stomach and made another attempt to crawl closer to the screen. Could that really be …?

  No, it was impossible!

  Suddenly he was on top of her, landing so hard that she almost lost her breath.

  He put one hand round her neck and pulled her head up.

  ‘I give the orders round here,’ he hissed in her ear, and suddenly his voice didn’t sound anywhere near as gentle as before. She opened her mouth to protest, but he just squeezed her neck tighter and she couldn’t get a sound out.

  Her eyes began to flicker. She could feel his weight on top of her, pressing her down onto the bed. Could feel him fumbling with his free hand.

  What the hell was going on?

  This couldn’t be happening! Brewer’s droop – now – of all fucking occasions! In the middle of a fucking porn film fantasy, and the tool of the trade was letting him down!!!!

  How the hell could he be stupid enough to mix drink with acid like some fucking r
ookie?! He looked down at his deflating pride and joy, and suddenly felt close to tears …

  Fucking bastard bloody …

  The girls hardly seemed to notice him.

  Sophie was lying on top of Rilke, and they were exchanging increasingly animated oral services, but neither the sight nor the noises they were making did anything to ease his predicament. All he could do was watch.

  Completely fucking …

  … paralysed.

  Unable to move – hardly able to breathe – while the man on top of her did his best to penetrate her from behind.

  The hand round her neck, the body pressing her down. His panting grunts in her ear. All so familiar, so … so …

  Reassuring …?

  And wasn’t this, in spite of everything, what she had really wanted? What she had been looking for the whole time?

  What she deserved …

  She caught sight of the television screen out of the corner of her eye. All of a sudden he was just sitting there watching as the two women carried on without him. His shoulders slumped, his head hanging.

  He looked so small and helpless. Almost sad.

  She could see her own reflection in the screen. Her own helpless face superimposed on his. And for a second she could have sworn he was looking at her. That he turned his face towards the camera and looked her right in the eye …

  ‘You’re my little whore now, aren’t you,’ John hissed in her ear.

  Or was it actually Dag?

  ‘No,’ she replied drily.

  And a moment later she broke his nose …

  ‘Here.’

  Rilke seemed to have noticed his condition. She rolled away from Sophie and managed to grab hold of her handbag.

  A little blue pill, and another white one.

  It took him a couple of seconds to realize.

  Then he downed them both, swallowing them with the last dribble in the bottle of tequila.

  The effect was almost instantaneous.

  He was back!

  Back in the fucking Game!

  Her swivelling elbow caught him right across the nose. There was a crunching sound of bone and gristle breaking, then she was free. She kicked out with her knees and rolled off the bed. Then both feet firmly on the floor, fists clenched ready to fight.