Читать книгу The Complete Game Trilogy: Game, Buzz, Bubble - Литагент HarperCollins USD, Anders de la Motte - Страница 26

‘Look, it’s like this, my friend. The Game requires a hell of a lot of money to function.’

Erman counted quickly on his fingers.

‘The Ants, the phones, the server-farms, and last but not least the functionaries, the people who are employed to keep the whole thing on the rails. Then there’s all the money that’s constantly being paid out to the Players, and the rewards for anyone who does particularly well. There are quite a few fixed costs each month, but I’ve done some calculations and they pretty much cover those with what they take from the live betting. The really big cash cow, the golden goose that gives the owners their profit – are the people who commission the assignments.’

HP nodded as if he understood, but in truth he was feeling completely lost.

‘Basically, various customers turn to the Game to get things done, if you follow me?

HP was still looking blank.

‘Things that can’t be done any other way,’ Erman went on, almost manic now. ‘Illegal stuff, get it?’

He drummed his index finger impatiently on the tabletop.

Yes, HP thought he was starting to get it …

‘You mean you can call and order something to be done, and the Game fixes it?’ he said cautiously.

‘Something like that,’ Erman nodded eagerly.

‘This part is Top Secret and is only handled by the Game Master’s closest circle. I don’t know all the details but I think it goes something like this: a customer wants something done, but without there being any trail back to him. It could be information, business secrets, or something more medieval, like messing with someone you’ve had an argument with. The Game has the ability to do all that, although obviously it comes with a serious price tag. Maybe there’s an Ant who can dig up what’s needed, or they can send a Player to get the job done if it’s something more risky. The Game can be used for absolutely anything.’

His face had been getting redder and redder, and somewhere at the back of HP’s mind a little alarm-bell started to ring.

‘So, for example, that lawyer you told me about. At a guess, he’s managed to seriously upset someone, but instead of contacting the Law Society, that person contacted the Game. And in a flash the Game Master conjures up a wheel-spanner and a Player desperate for cred who hates Stureplan lawyers. The customer gets his revenge documented on video, and if you fucked up and got caught and were stupid enough to break rule number one, there wouldn’t be much to tell – at least nothing that anyone would believe. It’s just like Verbal says in The Usual Suspects:

‘The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. You’re just an ordinary nobody, with no connection whatsoever with the person who actually commissioned the assignment. Lee Harvey fucking Oswald, man! You have to admit, it’s a stroke of genius, but at the same time it’s pretty fucking creepy!’

Erman flew up and started pacing round the little kitchen impatiently.

‘Erm … sure!’ HP agreed, as he tried to squeeze this latest information into his already overloaded brain. This all sounded pretty weird, which was probably understatement of the year …

‘So you mean …?’ he began, mostly out of politeness.

Erman flashed him an impatient look and sat down again at the table. Evidently he wasn’t completely happy with HP’s hesitant response.

‘Obviously, the problem is that there aren’t any boundaries. Okay, so the Game Master can’t actually force a Player to do something, that’s one of the main points of the Game. The Player must always have a choice, you know that yourself. Red or blue, right or wrong, in the end it’s up to you Players to decide, and that’s the way it has to be. Even if the Game would naturally prefer a particular outcome, there have to be different alternatives, there has to be an opening for the unexpected, for surprises. Otherwise there wouldn’t be anything to bet on, and thus no Game!’

Erman’s voice was cracking into falsetto.

‘But what the Game does is to keep shifting the boundary of how far a Player is prepared to go. Just look at what happened to you! We’re talking arson, sabotage, GBH, even murder! You only need to look at the paper to see what goes on every day!’

HP was getting more and more convinced that Erman was well on the way to losing it completely. You only had to look at the colour of his face to realize that Eyjafjallajökull was about to erupt.

Not to mention all that creepy staring …

‘You can look at any media outlet you like, and you’ll be able to find the Game in an instant. All you have to do is keep an eye out for phrases like inexplicable, unknown reasons and no obvious motive, and you’ve stumbled across the Game …’

Erman got up suddenly and ran over to one of the windows. He peered anxiously at the trees, as if he’d heard someone coming.

When he didn’t manage to see any danger he took two quick strides back to the kitchen table and leaned over HP.

‘They’ll take pretty much any job as long as you can pay!’ he snarled into HP’s face, giving him a close-up of a row of yellowing teeth.

‘There’s always some dumb fuck who’s prepared to do it. Some willing patsy who’s already crossed the line. It goes on all the time, in a whole load of different places all round the world. Check it out for yourself if you don’t believe me!’

Erman’s voice cracked again and HP sighed in disappointment. Fuck it, this had all started out so promisingly … Up to about five minutes ago his weird host had seemed more or less kosher. After all, who wouldn’t be a bit weird, out here in the middle of nowhere. But now he’d crossed the line, big-time.

The evil organization, the global conspiracy behind all the shit that ever happened in the world! The CIA, Opus Dei, ZOG or the Freemasons, it just depended which lunatic you asked. A placard on your chest and a regular spot in the town square.

I’m the only one who’s worked out the truth! Yippikayee mothafucker! Game over, thanks for the coffee, time to go now …

‘Well, thanks very much, Erman, this is all good information, but right now I should probably …’ he muttered, standing up.

‘… a cigarette, no problem, but you’ll have to go outside. I’ll blag one off you.’

Looking confused, as if the comment had interrupted his train of thought and made him lose his thread, Erman shepherded HP out onto the front step before the astonished HP had time to protest.

It was nice to get a bit of fresh air, at least, he thought as he pulled out his cigarettes.

He offered one to Erman, then lit it and his own with his trusty old Zippo. He took a couple of deep drags and tried to stop his head spinning.

Okay, so Erman might have a few screws loose, but on the other hand he clearly possessed loads of useful information about the Game. Even if it had seriously messed with his own ideas, he couldn’t deny that a lot of what Erman had said actually made sense, and even seemed logical, if that word could actually be applied in this context.

But the theory of the Global Conspiracy was a bit hard to digest. Serious pulp fiction stuff, all it needed was a couple of serial killers and a dysfunctional cop to tick all the boxes. But what was the line between hard fact and wild fantasy?

They stood there smoking in silence while HP tried to work out his next move.

Really he felt like leaving. That crazy stare Erman had flashed at him a while back had scared him and he suddenly remembered that they were completely alone out here in the bush, with no way of calling for help.

But Erman seemed to have calmed down again now. The mad look had gone and where his face was visible behind the beard it had resumed a normal colour. Probably it wouldn’t be that risky to hang about a bit longer.

Besides, he had a feeling there was more he needed to find out.

‘So how did you get dragged into all this, Erman?’ HP began tentatively.

Erman took a long, final drag and then flicked the butt into the nettles.

‘I was the one who installed their farm up here.’

He glanced quickly at HP and discovered that he was looking lost again.

‘Server-farm,’ he explained slowly, as if he were talking to a child.

‘The Game has five in total, or at least they did when I got out.’

He counted on his fingers again:

‘North America, South America, Africa, Asia and Europe/Middle East. Seriously massive giant farms that handle all the data in the Game. The servers in there control all the mobile phones, image files, they send out the assignments, gather it all together and store the information, and handle the cash flow. They also control all communication between the Players, the Game Master and the Circle. No farms, no Game, get it?’

HP nodded eagerly, he got it, and more importantly: this was seriously useful information!

‘So you installed the one for Europe?’

‘Europe and the Middle East,’ Erman corrected.

‘That must be a pretty massive farm, then?’

HP was trying to sound impressed. Evidently it worked, because Erman suddenly looked a bit happier.

‘I was pretty much given a free hand. A hefty bank account and a few basic specs, then I was left to get on with it. Almost six months’ work, sixty hours a week. All the latest technology, as well as a few things that still haven’t hit the market, and maybe never will. NASA stuff, yeah? The Game could get hold of anything, and I mean anything! I just had to say what I needed and they sorted it.’

He sighed happily.

‘Sounds pretty sweet!’ HP flattered. ‘But how did they find you? I mean … why you in particular?’

‘Because I was the best, wasn’t I?’ Erman gave him another condescending stare but HP let it pass.

‘Didn’t you get what I told you just now? The Game does its homework, they’ve got informants everywhere and it didn’t take them long to put together a shortlist of people who could do what they wanted to get done.’

He waved two fingers at HP, and HP quickly finished his cigarette, pulled out the packet and lit two new Marlboros for himself and his host.

‘First an anonymous email to see if I was interested, spiced with just enough questions and challenges to get me going. Pretty much like you and your first assignments.

‘It took a while before I realized that they were weren’t just talking theoretically, they really were planning to put together an installation like that up here. When I finally realized it was serious, I couldn’t say no. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the sort of thing most people in my line of work could only dream of. The only problem was the suits made sure that I never got any sort of credit for it.’

He cleared his throat and spat a gob of saliva towards the nettles.

‘I had to sign loads of documents, but they were basically all variations on rule number one: Never talk about the Game! When it was all done the suits came back and checked and once they’d approved everything I had to hand over my keys, passcard and everything. Thanks a lot, we’ll take it from here. I offered to carry on, become the system administrator for the farm. I’d almost have done it for nothing, just to keep working at the farm. And what I’d seen of the Game itself, it all seemed pretty appealing …’

‘But …?’

‘Thanks, but no thanks, we’ve got our own people. And that was that! Paid off, just like that, after all my hard work. The passcard I handed in had probably been cancelled before I even left the building, and then I was out in the cold. I tried to get remote access to the system a couple of times but all the backdoors had been closed. Then I got a little warning message from the Game Master, and just like you, sadly I wasn’t smart enough to believe it …’

He took a couple of deep drags and slowly let the smoke out as he shook his head.

‘I was having serious trouble letting go of it all, it was my magnum opus. The best work I’d ever done, the sort of thing only a very few people in the world could have managed on their own and in such a short space of time. But I didn’t get any recognition at all for it, just thanks for the coffee and goodbye. I was so stupid that I kept on trying to find a way into the system. Maybe I was thinking that if I found some sort of problem, something that had gone wrong that I could fix, making it all work even better, then they’d realize that they needed me and let me back in again. That I was a force to be reckoned with! But there are never any comebacks. Once you’re out in the cold, they never let you back in!’

HP gulped.

That wasn’t the message he’d been hoping to hear.

‘So what happened?’ he asked, even though he’d already guessed the answer.

‘Suddenly I started to get problems. Installations I’d done elsewhere crashed, programs turned out to be riddled with viruses, and my customers went mad.

‘Then my bank account was blocked, and my phone and internet connections were cut off without any warning, as well as a load of other problems. I worked day and night to put everything right, but after a year or so my business was ruined. The same thing went for me, it was about then that I got ill.’

Erman was suddenly sounding tired.

‘So I left it all behind and vanished from the map. You won’t find me in any databases anywhere,’ he added happily. ‘I don’t really exist. No personal ID number, no bank account, loyalty cards or phone, electricity and water accounts. Completely out of sight of Big Brother!’

‘But how do you get it all to work, I mean, you must still need cash?’

‘You can sort anything if you really want to. It takes planning and work, but it’s possible. Don’t forget, it’s not that long since the internet was pure science fiction! I just do everything old-school, cash only and low tech. It works a lot better than you might think!’

HP shook his head doubtfully. He’d rather take a few deep breaths from the moped’s exhaust than live the rest of his life like this. No TV, no internet, not even electricity! All alone in the dark in the middle of nowhere. On top of what the Game had done to him, it wasn’t so strange that the poor geek seemed to be teetering on the edge.

‘This farm,’ he said cautiously. ‘Where exactly is it?’

Erman snorted.

‘Where the fuck do you think? Where do you put a server-farm of that size? Where are the best connections, the most stable transfers, and the best environment for computer traffic? Think! Where are all the big players up here? Northern Europe’s very own Silicon Valley!’

It took a few seconds before HP made the connection.

‘Kista,’ he whispered, almost devoutly.

‘Bingo!’ Erman replied with a smile. ‘You’re not completely thick after all!’

‘Nilla, there’s something I’d like to sort out with you, something important and I’d really appreciate it if you had a couple of minutes to talk.’

Good speech, entirely in line with her pre-prepared script.

Still silence, but at least Nilla hadn’t hung up. She could hear the other woman breathing down the line. Heavy breaths, as if she’d been running to answer the phone in time. Rebecca interpreted the silence as a sort of encouragement.

‘I’d like to explain to you what happened that evening, and why. How everything ended up the way it did. But I’d rather not do it over the phone. Is there any chance we could meet for a chat somewhere?’

She was trying her level best to sound calm and collected. As if what she was asking was no big deal, just a conversation between two adults to sort a few things out.

‘I thought I’d made myself clear in my email, Rebecca.’

Nilla’s voice was ice-cold.

‘Neither I nor anyone else in my family has anything to say to you. Please don’t call me again!’

‘B-but …’ she began, before she realized that the conversation was over.

‘So if you were me, a relatively low-tech bloke who wanted to cause a bit of trouble for the Game and the Game Master. Give them a bit of payback for all the shit they’ve thrown at the two of us. What would you do?’

Erman nodded thoughtfully.

‘Interesting question, hmm …’

He thought in silence for a few seconds.

‘Obviously, the best thing would be to blow the whole thing sky-high, but maybe that’s a bit over the top …’

‘Really, you think so?’ slipped out of HP, but Erman didn’t seem to notice.

‘If I were you, I’d probably focus on the money,’ he went on.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you already know how the rewards work, a foreign bank card linked to an anonymous account. Pretty much like the charge card for a mobile. You just take out the money, and it’s impossible to trace who’s got which card.’

HP nodded impatiently. Get to the point, mofo!

‘All their payments work the same way, in principle. Wages for the functionaries, the Ants and the subcontractors, it’s all done by cards, and those in turn are fed from an anonymous account in a bank somewhere in the Caribbean. The mother account is always loaded with cash to keep the whole thing rolling. If I seriously wanted to fuck with the Game Master, I’d try to get hold of the account number and make a few withdrawals. That would paralyse the whole Game for weeks, maybe months, and you’d end up with enough money to hide yourself away pretty damn well in some distant but agreeable place.’

‘Would that really work?’

‘Yeah, probably.’ Erman shrugged. ‘The point is that because the Game is damn careful to keep everything anonymous, there are no individuals linked to the account. All you need is the numerical combination that’s currently being used. I’d guess that they change the number all the time, so you’d have to be pretty smart, and pretty quick. I never got to see any of the numbers myself, I just organized the set-up itself. The guys they flew in used to type them in whenever it was necessary. But it’s all inside the farm. I’m sure of that.’

‘Is it possible to hack into it?’

‘No, like I said, I tried that, and if I can’t get into it when I was the person who set the whole thing up, then I guarantee you that no-one else would be able to either. We’re talking IT security that’s better than they have at the Pentagon …’

Sure, HP thought sceptically, but either way, hacking didn’t look like an option. ‘So how would you get hold of the account number?’

He had already guessed the answer.

‘You’d have to get inside the farm. There’s a control room, and once you got inside there it would be possible to extract whatever you needed, as long as you knew where to look. If they so much as guess that the account has been blown, they’ll change the code instantly.’

HP nodded as he stubbed out his cigarette on his shoe.

This was all sounding a bit Mission Impossible.

But what the hell, he hadn’t come all the way out here just to go home empty-handed. Too much information was better than too little.

‘Can you tell me what I’d have to do?’ he said, tossing the butt towards the nearest tree.

Erman chuckled.

‘Sure, 007, no problem!’

He turned on his heel and went back inside the house.

HP took the chance to light another cig. This whole thing was starting to sound like a fucking blockbuster film. He wasted a couple of minutes trying to work out which one came closest. Conspiracy Theory maybe, or Enemy of the State? It was like a mixture of all of them, some kind of tribute thing. He took a couple of deep drags. High above he could hear a familiar droning.

Farthundra Airline’s afternoon flight, he grinned to himself.

Erman came back out onto the porch with a folded piece of paper in his hand.

‘This is all you need: the address of the farm and a few old usernames that might still work. I’ve written down the bank’s website as well, in case you make it that far. Now you just have to figure out a way of getting into the building, because I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.’

HP took hold of the piece of paper but Erman didn’t let go.

‘Promise me one thing, HP.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve seen how I live, what the Game did to me.’ His stare was back, the one that got to HP. ‘Promise me that you’ll use this information to give them one hell of a fucking kick in the balls, just promise me that!’ Erman’s face was starting to change colour again.

‘Sure, mate, no problem, take it easy!’ HP urged uncomfortably, snatching the note.

He’d got what he wanted, and it was pretty much time to get away from there.

The address was the only thing he really wanted, the rest was more or less meaningless. No matter what he’d promised this hillbilly, he was hardly going to break into a fucking server-farm, all he needed was a way to get to the Game Master and now he’d got it. A visiting address, no less. All he had to do was head out there and knock on the door, if he still felt like doing that after everything he’d heard.

The buzzing sound above them returned and Erman twitched. He stared anxiously around the treetops trying to catch a glimpse of the plane.

‘Take it easy, Erman, it’s just Farthundra’s very own airline doing its daily flight,’ HP grinned nervously. ‘Nothing worth crapping your pants over.’

‘What-did-you-say?!’ Erman spun towards him and the crazy look had made a full-blown comeback.

‘I said it’s nothing to get steamed about, just a plane towing an advert for some fucking farmers’ market in Fjärdhundra.’

He was speaking slowly and deliberately, the way Erman had done to him not half an hour ago, but he was worried and he sounded it.

‘You’ve seen the plane before?’

Erman’s face had gone completely white.

‘Y-yes, it flew past just before you picked me up in your hicksville limo, just take it easy, okay!’

Erman didn’t seem to hear him. He stood completely still for a few seconds.

‘Go!’ he finally managed to say through gritted teeth.

‘What?’ HP didn’t understand anything.

‘Go, get lost, fuck off, are you thick or what?’

He spun his arms and took a step towards HP.

HP backed away instinctively and held up his hands.

‘Okay, okay, calm down, I’m going, I’m going!’

Christ, the bloke had really lost it this time.

‘It’s only a fucking advertising plane, Erman.’

So much for that brilliant plan.

Nilla still hated her, she’d understood that much. Which wasn’t really so surprising, seeing as it had been her adored big brother who had gone through the balcony railing.

Nilla and Dag had always been close, and she’d never accepted the investigation’s conclusion that his death had been at least in part an accident. The company the housing association contracted to renovate the façade had cut corners when they were fixing the balconies back on, and several bolts had evidently been missing.

‘An unfortunate circumstantial coincidence,’ it had said in the verdict.

For Henke that meant ten months for causing another person’s death instead of manslaughter. If the balcony railing had been correctly fitted with all its bolts in place, Dag would probably have been okay.

But it was difficult to know for sure. The shove had been pretty hard, maybe hard enough for him to have tumbled over the railing? That couldn’t be ruled out, at any rate, or so the court had reasoned.

For her own part, she doubted that conclusion. Dag was big and heavy, almost ninety kilos of muscle, and he had good balance. If the railing hadn’t given way, he wouldn’t have fallen, and their lives would have looked very different. Henke would never have ended up in prison and she would never have been released from hers. His imprisonment and her freedom – each one was dependent on the other.

The problem was just that it shouldn’t have been like that. That’s what she had wanted to tell Nilla. What had really happened that night. And why …

‘Only a plane? Only a plane!’ Small drops of saliva hung in the yellowing beard around Erman’s mouth.

‘You don’t get any of it, do you, you stupid fuck?! They’ve got ears everywhere, absolutely every-fucking-where! Didn’t you understand what I said about the Ants? Who did you talk to on your way here, the bus driver, some nice old lady on the train? Did you happen to mention it on the phone to some friend, or were you stupid enough to write the directions on your computer?’

His voice had hit falsetto again. Fists clenched, he came on a couple of steps.

‘None of that, I promise …’ HP assured him.

HP was slowly backing towards the wheel-tracks that led in the direction of civilization. This was getting really creepy now. He had to get away from this psycho, straight away. God knew what would happen otherwise. In the forest no-one can hear you scream.

Erman jabbed his right index finger at HP. ‘Google!’ he managed to spit. ‘You google-mapped the address, admit it!’

‘No, I didn’t!’ HP replied instinctively, but realized at the same moment that that’s exactly what he’d done.

Erman must have noticed the change in the look on his face, or else he guessed that HP was lying.

Either way, he leapt a couple of strides towards HP.

‘You stupid fuck!’ Erman roared. ‘I gave you one simple instruction. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t use anything electronic. And you go and google-map me! You might as well have been working for the Game Master directly, Christ, I ought to kill you on the spot!’

‘Sorry!’ HP muttered, now too terrified to even try to lie.

For a moment he thought he was going to end up buried like the fucking Bocksten Man. Dug up in two hundred years time to get his perfectly preserved backside put on display in a glass case in Farthundra’s local history museum. The thought almost made him crap his pants.

Erman suddenly came to a halt, like he’d been turned off.

For a couple of seconds he stood there, apparently thinking. Then without a word he turned on his heel and disappeared inside the house.

HP didn’t hang around to find out if he was going to come back out with a shotgun. Instead he turned and fled as fast as he could along the path back towards the road. Above him he could still hear the drone of the aeroplane. It sounded like it was circling.

After a couple of hundred metres he reached the edge of the forest. There was about a kilometre of gravel track through the open fields before he reached the relative safety of the road. He looked anxiously over his shoulder. Shit, obviously he should have nicked the flatbed moped, or at least pulled the spark-plug out or something. Now he’d just be an open target out there.

Oh well, no point worrying about that now.

He couldn’t hear anything like a moped engine, but that was mainly because of the damn plane that was still circling overhead. He noticed that the advertising banner was gone. So what was the idiot doing up there, then?

He left the shade of the forest and set off towards the road. Every ten metres or so he glanced behind him. Still nothing. He was starting to get his fear under control. What a psycho the bloke had turned out to be. Thanks a lot, Manga, that was a brilliant tip-off!

Another glance. No sign of Erman. Great!

It wasn’t until he got about halfway across the field that he noticed a change in the sound of the plane engine. Before, it had been mainly a monotonous buzzing sound, one note higher or lower depending on where in its circuit it happened to be. But suddenly the sound was getting louder, both in volume and pitch, and when he looked over his shoulder yet again to make sure Erman wasn’t coming after him, he discovered that the plane was diving straight at him like he was fucking Cary Grant! He could hardly believe his eyes.

It wasn’t until the plane was more or less filling his field of vision that he had the sense to get really scared. Even then, the roar of the engine and the sound of the wind on the wings was drowning out all his thoughts. He saw the whirring propeller coming straight towards him and, worse, just beneath it the metal beam connecting the undercarriage, but he was paralysed and still couldn’t take in what was going on.

Shit! was the only contribution his brain could come up with, then he tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground.

He felt the rush of wind as the undercarriage missed his head by the smallest of margins before he became aware that his mouth was full of gravel.

The engine noise started to decrease and HP raised his scratched face just enough to see the plane bank in a slow left-hand turn, climbing. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that the pilot was climbing to gain enough height to make a second attempt.

Fuck! he thought in panic, struggling to his knees and spitting gravel, then forcing his paralysed legs into action. He abandoned the track and headed off straight across the field in the direction of the bus stop. Dust and soil swirled up around his feet and the stubble tore viciously at his trouser-legs.

Scratch-bang-scratch-bang-scratch-bang.

HP was running as he had never run before, that much was certain.

At least five hundred metres to salvation. The plane was almost halfway through its circle. His heart was pumping so hard that he thought it would burst in his chest. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his pulse was pounding in his temples.

Then he heard the roar of the engine get louder again as the plane dived towards him Alfred Hitchcock-style, and now the noise was even more ear-splitting, if that was possible. He ran on in panic, trying to zigzag to present a harder target, the way you did in Counterstrike. But this was IRL, and not some fucking computer game! The plane was coming closer and closer and nothing seemed likely to divert it.

Suddenly he caught sight of something in the stubble a few metres ahead of him. It looked like a white plastic stick of some sort, about two metres long.

He didn’t really know where the idea came from, but just before the plane was on top of him he threw himself at the stick, grabbed it with both hands and with one end stuck under his armpit, something like a knight’s lance, he rolled over onto his back.

The plane filled his world, the roar of the engine was deafening. As the rush of air whipped his breath away he felt the stick strike something solid and then it was torn from his hands.

Then the plane was gone. HP rolled over onto his stomach again. The remnants of the shredded stick lay scattered a few metres away.

Must have hit the propeller, he thought as he struggled to his feet again.

The plane had started to climb again. But this time the engine didn’t sound quite so angry. It was rising and falling as if the engine was running unevenly, and HP could clearly hear a whistling sound that must be the damaged propeller.

The pilot was clearly having trouble, but HP didn’t wait to see how he was going to deal with it.

Instead he set off at full speed towards the bus stop which was now visible up ahead. As he got closer he saw a bus just passing the stop and he changed direction in an attempt to intercept it. He might just make it …

Then he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye and realized that the pilot had changed tactic. Instead of diving from a few hundred metres up, the plane was sniffing across the field, and HP could see the undercarriage almost touching the stubble.

This time it wouldn’t do any good to dive, he’d get his skull crushed either by the wheels or the bar between them.

Terrified, he speeded up even more. He raced towards the road, seeing the bus come closer, and exerted every last bit of strength to beating it. The noise of the plane getting louder spurred him on.

He put one foot in the ditch which made him lose his balance, but he was running so hard that he carried on, stumbling up onto the side of the road, just in front of the roaring bus.

Then a shriek of brakes, a squeal of tyres and the aeroplane roaring overhead.

An instant later he was knocked over and everything went black.

‘Hey, man, are you okay?’

The voice was coming from far away and HP sat up with a jerk. For a panic-stricken moment he thought he’d gone blind, that he’d got brain-damage or something like that, and was condemned to a life of eternal darkness. But gradually his senses returned and he managed to open his eyes.

‘You okay, man?’ A young man in a uniform that was too big for him was leaning over him, and beside him he saw the faces of a couple of anxious old ladies.

‘You came out of nowhere, man, I hardly had time to brake but I don’t think you got much more than a knock.’

HP didn’t answer, just trying to get up was an effort.

The driver, an immigrant of about thirty or so, gave him a hand.

He did a quick check of his limbs, with satisfactory results.

‘We ought to call an ambulance,’ one of the old ladies trilled. At a guess, she must have been on the bus.

‘… and the police,’ the other one chimed in. ‘That plane …’

‘No ambulance!’ HP interrupted. ‘I’m fine!’

He was, too. Apart from the scratches to his face and hands, and the fact that the wind had been knocked out of him, he felt fine. The last thing he needed right now was a load of nosey cops.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled to the driver. ‘I misjudged it, my bad!’ he managed to say as his voice started to work again. ‘I’m fine, really!’

‘Great!’ the driver said in relief. ‘Maybe we should get going?’

He called out loudly, for the benefit of people still in the bus, ‘No damage done, ladies and gentlemen.’ Then he added, ‘Everyone on board!’ though there were just the two ladies standing anxiously next to him.

As he brushed the grit from HP’s back he whispered:

‘You’re not going to file a complaint, are you, man? I’ve already got one charge for speeding, and I need this job, you know?’

‘No worries!’ HP replied, starting to get a grip again. ‘Don’t worry, just let me off without paying and it’s all forgotten.’

‘No problem, friend!’ The driver smiled in relief and gestured invitingly towards the door of the bus.

‘You should just make it to the train, but it’ll be tight.’

HP nodded and collapsed in the nearest seat.

‘Did you see that plane, man? God, it was flying low!’