all happening, she hadn’t shed a single tear, but now she could feel them burning behind her eyes and she blinked hard to compose herself. She wasn’t about to start crying now, that much was certain!
They had never properly talked through everything that happened out in Bagarmossen, the pair of them always tiptoeing round the subject, but now, out of nowhere, he had suddenly thrown it back in her face. Reminding her that her debt was in no way forgotten and that thirteen years was nowhere near long enough for things to have settled.
How could she have been stupid enough to think any different?
He was right, of course, it had been her fault but he had taken the consequences. She was in his debt, and always would be.
Because she was a murdering little whore.
Although it was ten o’clock, HP went back to bed and put his head between the pillows. He was tired, run down, utterly exhausted, but he still couldn’t get back to sleep.
Thoughts were rolling round his head like they were in that huge tumble-dryer down in the laundry-room.
Slowly tumbling round and round.
The Game, the assignments, the list, the money, the business at Lindhagensplan, the pretend cops, his sister, then the drum completed its cycle and he was back where he had started.
The Game.
They’d tricked him, made him think he was someone, only to pull the rug from under him. Bolin and the apes were probably just hired actors who had been following a script. Or, even worse: other players who had been given the job of breaking him! And they’d done a bloody good job of that … Christ, what a monumental fucking stitch-up he’d fallen for!
The really sick thing was that even though he understood that he’d been royally fucked up the arse, that he was the Game’s very own little prison bitch, he still couldn’t help toying with the thought …
What if it could all be put right? Say sorry, make amends and reinstate number 128?
Get back in the Game.
Even when he had been in the Twilight Zone corridor and he had almost pissed himself, part of him had still refused to accept that it was finished, that he’d fucked up big-time. Presumably that was why he hadn’t left the mobile there.
Because he still had it, didn’t he?
He had to get up and check.
Yes, the silver-coloured little rectangle was still on the hall table where he had left it. The LED light was dark, which was only to be expected. He was now a non-person.
Fredo Fucking Corleone.
He hunted irritably through various jacket pockets and finally dug out a crumpled packet of Marlboros.
Sitting at the kitchen table he smoked three, one after the other, while the tumble-dryer in his head carried on tumbling.
So what the hell was he going to do now?
He was woken up by a clatter from the letterbox.
What the hell was the time?
The clock-radio on the bedside table said 15:36. He’d been asleep most of the day.
The tumble-dryer had finally slowed down enough for him to go back to bed and get a few more hours of much needed sleep.
A rustling noise was still coming from the letterbox.
Either he was getting a lot of bills or else the new Ikea catalogue wouldn’t quite fit.
He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. The rustling went on for a few more seconds, then everything went silent.
He wondered about getting up, but couldn’t think of a good reason why he should. His head and arm were still aching after their treatment the day before, he had no money, and seeing as the Game was over now, there was no reason at all for crawling out of bed.
What a wonderful life!
It was all pretty tragic really …
Then he noticed the smell. A faint but unmistakable smell of burning. Something’s boiled dry, he thought. Had he left the ring on when he boiled the water for the coffee? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Okay, mothafucker, you wanted a reason to get up, and now you’ve got one!
He rolled reluctantly out of bed, scratched his stubble and a couple of other strategic places before stumbling out to the kitchen. The stove was empty, none of the rings was on.
He frowned.
The smell was getting stronger, so what the hell was burning?
A couple of moments later the synapses in his brain made the right connection and he dashed out into the hall.
Thick, acrid smoke hit him when he spun round the corner.
The shabby plastic mat that he had found himself lying on a few hours earlier was completely alight and the metre-high flames were already licking the walls and the inside of the front door. His eyes were stinging and he instinctively took a few steps back.
Get out! his brain was screaming at him.
The flat’s on fire, for fuck’s sake, get out, dialling one-one-two is easy to do, just get out!
But he was paralysed by the flames that were growing bigger and bigger as they took hold of the parquet flooring.
Even if he realized the danger, there was something beautiful, almost enchanting, about it. The orange flames, the black smoke and the crackling sound of fire catching hold of his possessions felt almost liberating.
As if deep down he desired this destruction …
Suddenly there was the sound of banging on the door.
‘Fire!’ he heard someone shout from out on the landing. ‘Can you hear me, your flat’s on fire, for God’s sake!’
The spell was broken instantly and his brain and body were once again in sync.
‘Get to safety, sound the alarm, put it out,’ a childlike voice echoed through his head.
Okay, getting to safety was already buggered, there was nowhere to go if he didn’t feel like jumping out of a second-floor window onto the street.
Next!
Running through the flames was out of the question, and anyway, the door was locked and he’d be fried before he could get it open.
Next!
Sound the alarm?
Hopeless, seeing as he didn’t have a phone.
Unless …
He ran back into the kitchen, picked up the mobile and touched the screen.
