By LuckyJimm

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I spent Saturday holed up in my host’s flat until evening when I returned to the Cosmopol. I dressed formally in shirt, jumper, jacket, smart black trousers and shoes. The casino was busy, a Saturday night destination for many. I had a beer and went to the poker room.

The first guy I spoke to was sitting at the side playing a game on his phone. Since he wasn’t a regular and didn't know Blom, he was happy to chat.

A poster on Flashback claimed to have seen Blom in the Cosmopol restaurant, though the pro I'd met the previous day had said it was impossible, since Blom is too young to get past the front desk. This was the guy he was supposedly seen with:

Perhaps the post was entirely erroneous. But it made me wonder if Blom had fallen in with a rich set since coming into money and moving to Gothenburg.

I sat sipping my drink and looked around the room. At one of the tables I saw a foppish boy with lush blonde hair and a white Pringle jumper. I’d seen my first brat. I hated and envied him for being young, slim and - I decided - posh. I pointed him out to the card room manager and asked if he was one of Viktor’s friends. He said he didn’t know who the guy was. Of course the manager was more concerned with running a club on a busy Saturday night, and didn’t care to particularly help or hinder me.

I sat back at the tables to the side of the room and flicked through poker magazines. Two men my age were there too. Did they know Viktor? One of them said no, not personally, but pointed me to a man in his late 40s sitting at table 7 seat 9 who he said was a professional gambler and Cosmopol regular. He would certainly know Viktor.

I waited till I saw this man stand up from the table and walk across the room. I caught up with him and said his name. This was our exchange:

"Peter?"
"Yes"
"Do you speak English?"
"Yes"
"Are you free?"
"Yes. What do you want?"
"I'm a writer from London trying to find Viktor. I know he is shy..."
"Viktor who?"
"Blom"
"Yes, I know Viktor. No, I won't help you. I won't do it"

With that, he walked straight off. I'd finally found someone who knew Viktor, on whom I'd hoped to work a little charm and maybe get an introduction, and he'd swatted me away in a second. Perhaps he really need the bathroom; or maybe there was something admirable in his loyalty. He was soon back at table 7, seat 9, having dismissed this unwelcome visitor from London. You can see his photo if you scroll down here. You might see a familiar name in the description of the hand he played. So that’s how he knows Viktor.

I talked again to the guy who'd sent me his way and asked what he thought should I do next. He said "You should probably give it up."

I felt the hot flush of indignation that I thought I’d seen in Blom’s face in the video when he realizes he’s been knocked out of the WSOPE. I just wanted to stomp out without speaking to anybody, as he had done. I wanted to get far away from the casino which suddenly felt a very unwelcoming place.

Instead I ordered another beer from a bar elsewhere in the casino. I had to wait a while because ahead of me were half a dozen young guys in suits ordering cocktails. I was about to ask them the inevitable question, but looking at them a little closer I concluded they were more likely office workers gambling a little of their end-of-month pay cheque.

I spent a while watching an Asian man in a suit play roulette for £500 a spin and as usual wondered where other people’s money comes from. Then I walked past the club singer performing Dancing Queen. The day before I had felt a little sorry for her – was this what her younger self wanted to do with her talent? But now, watching her motion towards passing gamblers, who responded by smiling awkwardly or looking down and quickening their step, I thought she’d probably found her level.

Back in the card room I approached one last young man who was sitting alone. He had just started telling me he knew Viktor to be friends with a regular called Sebastian, who plays online as Nabbes, when one of his pals came over and told him in Swedish that he mustn’t tell me about that guy, of whom I’d never heard and wasn’t much interested. So we didn’t talk about it any more.

But I got another beer, and instead of learning about Viktor Blom I learnt about commercial Swedish rap. He told me he’s in a group called 2 Världar Broshan. They’d become known for a series of songs about the trouble he’d had as a Christian dating a Muslim girl, who was now his wife. It had struck a chord in racially-conflicted modern Sweden. We stood to the side of the casino floor and he handed me his phone so I could listen to a few of his songs:


We talked for perhaps an hour, until his friend was at his side wanting him to leave. The instant bond I’d felt with him made me feel happy after being cut cold by the gambler. It made me forgot I was in a foreign casino pursuing someone who didn’t want to be found.

At midnight, by now quite drunk, I walked in the drizzle to buy a kebab then caught the tram back to my host’s apartment.

I had one day left.