Free Bubble: A Thriller by Anders de La Motte Page A

almost two years ago, when the Game finally caught up with him. The poor guy had definitely wandered the wrong side of the fine line between clear-sighted genius and total wackomadness, but in spite of that he had certainly been very useful. Opening HP’s eyes and getting him to see what the Game was really about. And not just its most superficial and singularly unappealing levels: the Ants keeping watch, digging out information, and recruiting suitable Players to carry out the various tasks. Then the betting, while the tasks were filmed and broadcast live online for Internet gamblers.
    No, what Erman had told him, combined with his own experiences, also had made him understand the considerably darker aspects of the Game, and what it was really capable of. No matter what the guy’s mental state might have been, HP still owed the lunatic backwoodsman quite a bit, and even if he had tried to convince himself that Erman’s death wasn’t really his fault, his excuses all rang pretty hollow. It was more than likely his own guilty conscience and lack of sleep, spiced up with a bit of general-purpose paranoia, that had got him seeing ghosts in broad daylight.
    There was no other explanation.
    Or rather, there simply couldn’t be any other explanation, he corrected himself as he kicked off his sneakers and lay down on the sofa.
    He landed on something hard, and after a few acrobatic maneuvers interspersed with a lot of swearing, he managed to dig out the remote control from behind his back and zapped through a range of dreary daytime television programs.
    On the coffee table he found a half-empty box of Marlboros. He lit one and tried to direct the column of smoke toward the lamp hook in the ceiling.
    That was when he noticed it. High up, on top of his Billy bookcase, it was lying there like a little black box. A solitary, abandoned book.
    From where he was lying, all he could see was a bit of thespine, so presumably you wouldn’t see any of it if you were standing in front of the bookcase, which would explain why the cops had missed it.
    He twisted his head and squinted as he tried to work out what book it was, but the writing was too small. It was definitely a library book, though; he could see the white classification letters at the bottom of the spine. Three letters, probably Hce — Foreign Fiction  . . .
    So the cops had missed an item of stolen property right in front of their noses, and instead filled their boxes with perfectly legitimate porn and dog-eared paperbacks.
    He tried to mimic Hellström’s slightly nasal voice: Henrik Pettersson, you are being held on suspicion of crimes against the state for not returning your library books on time. How do you plead?
    Guilty as charged, fuckface!
    He grinned and blew another column of smoke, this time aimed toward the top of the bookcase.
    Suddenly he realized he was hungry. How long was it since he last ate? Properly, rather than just stuffing his face over the sink with a nuked Gorby pie?
    He couldn’t actually remember . . .
    But the rumbling from his stomach was a good sign, as if the old library book had made his brain jump track and return to more solid ground. A shower and a bit of decent food would probably do wonders for his mood. Chinese, or why not a serious kebab down at the Jerusalem? Mmm!
    He glanced at the clock on the television: 10:25.
    A bit early for lunch, he’d have to hold out at least another half hour. Shower first, then. He stood up, but instead of going straight to the bathroom, he went over to the bookcase, stretched up on tiptoe, and reached for the book.
    His fingertips just managed to catch the edge and he shuffled the book a few centimeters closer.
    The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger. A definite favorite; he must have read it at least ten times. In all likelihood the book was from the library down in Bagarmossen, which meant that the theft had passed the statute of limitation some ten years ago, if not more.
    On the basis of