yourself patched up. Wikström, do you need to go too?’
Stefan waved his hands dismissively as he got heavily to his feet.
‘Just lost my breath, nice hit, Normén.’ He nodded towards her.
Rebecca blushed, feeling simultaneously guilty and pleased. Maybe Dejan’s nose was a bit unfortunate, but on the other hand he had been asking for it with his stupid macho posturing.
She’d done her job, managed to get free on her own. She hadn’t been some helpless victim.
Not like then.
Absolutely not like then!
She was different now, stronger, better, braver. A completely different person.
When she eventually dared to glance up at Vahtola, she saw a faint smile on the other woman’s face.
Birkagatan 32, be there at 18:00.
It wasn’t exactly a difficult instruction, but this time he had at least prepared himself better. In spite of the heat he had dug out an old army jacket that someone, he couldn’t remember who, had left in his flat after a party ages ago. The jacket had loads of pockets which he stuffed with various useful things, and it had straps on the front which would be perfect for holding the phone.
The clip of number twenty-seven had finally made him realize where the camera ought to be to get the best pictures. No more rubbish bouncing at waist-height like on the train or at NK, from now on nothing but head-shots.
The viewers, or fans as he was calling them more and more often, had been impressed with the NK stunt.
Even if he didn’t know who they were, he felt increasingly sure that they were his kind of people, solid guys that he’d be happy to share a chilled beer with if the opportunity arose.
He’d actually tried to find a way to get into the community. He’d tried to find an entrance portal where you could sign up as a member and then play, watch and maybe even chat to the fans. Find out a bit more about who they were and why they liked him in particular.
But he’d failed. The search terms he had used didn’t come up with any links that worked, so membership seemed to be by invitation only. Which was a bit crap, because seeing other players’ clips would have been fucking cool, not to mention the direct contact with the fans, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.
The Game was more impartial this way, he reluctantly accepted that.
After his second task he had strolled intentionally slowly along the quayside of Skeppsbron, walking backwards at least half the way so he could enjoy his handiwork as long as possible. By the time he got home to Maria Trappgränd the Game had already put up a professional montage. First his own shaky footage from the inside interspersed with external shots of the clock. Then a split screen with the countdown in the middle. His hand and the buttons on one side, the rotating clock on the other. Three, two, one, click, and time stopped above the centre of Stockholm.
Five hundred lovely points, a personal message of congratulation from the Game Master and a load of new comments, as well as clambering a few notches up the high score list.
To say it was cool didn’t even come close! He’d been forced to wank not once but twice before he could get to sleep.
Up out of the underground at St Eriksplan, into Tomtebogatan and then right at the corner. As he approached the address he could feel his pulse rate go up. He decided to cross over Birkagatan to be able to observe his target in peace and quiet from a doorway almost opposite, and to have a well-deserved fag.
There wasn’t anything odd about the address.
A perfectly ordinary residential building built sometime in the early twentieth century or so, at a guess. Four rows of windows plus the skylights on the roof gave five floors in total. From the look of it, the ground floor seemed to be mostly shops and offices, and presumably the top floor was some sort of luxurious loft apartment.
So what now?
He pulled the phone from the strap on the left shoulder where, after much deliberation, he had decided
Stefan waved his hands dismissively as he got heavily to his feet.
‘Just lost my breath, nice hit, Normén.’ He nodded towards her.
Rebecca blushed, feeling simultaneously guilty and pleased. Maybe Dejan’s nose was a bit unfortunate, but on the other hand he had been asking for it with his stupid macho posturing.
She’d done her job, managed to get free on her own. She hadn’t been some helpless victim.
Not like then.
Absolutely not like then!
She was different now, stronger, better, braver. A completely different person.
When she eventually dared to glance up at Vahtola, she saw a faint smile on the other woman’s face.
Birkagatan 32, be there at 18:00.
It wasn’t exactly a difficult instruction, but this time he had at least prepared himself better. In spite of the heat he had dug out an old army jacket that someone, he couldn’t remember who, had left in his flat after a party ages ago. The jacket had loads of pockets which he stuffed with various useful things, and it had straps on the front which would be perfect for holding the phone.
The clip of number twenty-seven had finally made him realize where the camera ought to be to get the best pictures. No more rubbish bouncing at waist-height like on the train or at NK, from now on nothing but head-shots.
The viewers, or fans as he was calling them more and more often, had been impressed with the NK stunt.
Even if he didn’t know who they were, he felt increasingly sure that they were his kind of people, solid guys that he’d be happy to share a chilled beer with if the opportunity arose.
He’d actually tried to find a way to get into the community. He’d tried to find an entrance portal where you could sign up as a member and then play, watch and maybe even chat to the fans. Find out a bit more about who they were and why they liked him in particular.
But he’d failed. The search terms he had used didn’t come up with any links that worked, so membership seemed to be by invitation only. Which was a bit crap, because seeing other players’ clips would have been fucking cool, not to mention the direct contact with the fans, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.
The Game was more impartial this way, he reluctantly accepted that.
After his second task he had strolled intentionally slowly along the quayside of Skeppsbron, walking backwards at least half the way so he could enjoy his handiwork as long as possible. By the time he got home to Maria Trappgränd the Game had already put up a professional montage. First his own shaky footage from the inside interspersed with external shots of the clock. Then a split screen with the countdown in the middle. His hand and the buttons on one side, the rotating clock on the other. Three, two, one, click, and time stopped above the centre of Stockholm.
Five hundred lovely points, a personal message of congratulation from the Game Master and a load of new comments, as well as clambering a few notches up the high score list.
To say it was cool didn’t even come close! He’d been forced to wank not once but twice before he could get to sleep.
Up out of the underground at St Eriksplan, into Tomtebogatan and then right at the corner. As he approached the address he could feel his pulse rate go up. He decided to cross over Birkagatan to be able to observe his target in peace and quiet from a doorway almost opposite, and to have a well-deserved fag.
There wasn’t anything odd about the address.
A perfectly ordinary residential building built sometime in the early twentieth century or so, at a guess. Four rows of windows plus the skylights on the roof gave five floors in total. From the look of it, the ground floor seemed to be mostly shops and offices, and presumably the top floor was some sort of luxurious loft apartment.
So what now?
He pulled the phone from the strap on the left shoulder where, after much deliberation, he had decided
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