The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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.

      It came to life at once.

      ‘Emergency calls only’, the display said.

      ‘Ain’t that the truth?’ he snarled through gritted teeth as he made the call.

      ‘Emergency services, what’s the nature of the emergency?’

      ‘My flat’s on fire, Maria Trappgränd 7, one person trapped inside,’ he managed to say before the call was cut off.

      He was about to redial, when the LED light started to flash.

      With a trembling finger he touched the display and the screen came to life again.

      Remember rule number one, HP!

       The Game Master

      He stared at the phone for a few seconds, as if he were having trouble taking in what was happening.

      Then he remembered where he was and tossed the mobile aside, grabbed the washing-up bowl with both hands and, with a couple of long strides, was back in the hall where he emptied it in the direction of the fire.

      ‘Put it out, put it out, put it out,’ the cheerful little voice in his head sang, and with a crash a week’s worth of well-soaked washing-up and a few litres of dirty water landed on the hall-floor.

      The fire hissed and spat out a cloud of white smoke, but HP didn’t see that.

      He was already back in the kitchen, desperately filling the empty bowl with more water.

      Then emptying it, then again, and again, and now he could clearly see the fire getting smaller.

      His eyes were stinging, his lungs were burning and his breathing was getting laboured, but he wasn’t about to give up now.

      When he was on his fifth bowlful the front door was wrenched open with a crash and a moment later a cloud of foam and white smoke overwhelmed him even before he could put his hands over his face.

      Coughing madly, he staggered back towards the kitchen and blinked away the tears enough to get a window open before collapsing on the floor. He was gasping desperately for breath, but his throat had shrunk to the size of a drinking-straw.

      Everything was starting to go black.

      From down in the street there was the sound of sirens and people shouting orders.

      ‘Dialling one-one-two is easy to do,’ the child’s voice inside his head chanted just before he lost consciousness.

      ‘You were lucky, Henrik,’ the doctor said, unaware that she was echoing what her colleague in St Göran had said the night before.

      ‘You inhaled a bit of smoke, and you have a minor burn on your left hand, but that’s more or less it.’

      He nodded mutely from the trolley. It was considerably easier to breathe now, presumably thanks to the oxygen mask.

      ‘We’re going to rinse your eyes once more, you got covered in a fair bit of foam, but there’s no real danger. Your vision might be a bit fuzzy for a couple of days, but it’ll pass.’

      He nodded again.

      There