The Influence
VII. Stockholm Sin-drome
Chapter 42
The clearing is lit up by a big fire in its centre, with several large pits around it, all lined with glowing embers and stones. A few of these are still empty, others are already filled with smouldering parcels. It looks like a primitive butcher’s shop: men squatting in the dirt, carving up carcasses – fresh enough to bleed – and hanging up the cut pieces on the low branches of trees that grow around the edge of the clearing. The metallic smell of blood infuses the air, nauseating and heavy enough to taste, but no one seems to notice.
Naked, snotty children run around the clearing, screeching and laughing and chasing each other. A group of women, likewise naked and chattering, with flat, empty tits hanging down to their fat bellies, are busy cutting large leaves into rectangular pieces. Other women prepare the parcels, rolling the leaves tightly around cut pieces of meat before lowering them into the pits.
All adults are covered in layers of dried mud, mainly in ochre shades, but also with distinct yellow and red stripes across their faces and bodies. It is a festive occasion and there is an expectant buzz in the air.
Behind the trees and barely visible in the darkness, there are huts on short stilts, only their fronts occasionally showing in the flickering light from the flames. Crude looking and small, except for one hut. This one is easily twice the size of the others, lit up by a fire in front of it and adorned with feathers and bones hanging from twigs protruding from the wall. A row of human skulls, some with scraps of tissue and jawbones still attached, line a flat piece of wood fixed above the hut opening.
The man that comes out from the hut looks like the others, covered in multi-coloured mud, yet the red and yellow streaks are more pronounced and better applied. His hair is likewise mud-caked, numerous feathers sticking out of it. His nose, large and flat, is pierced by an extravagantly curved boar tusk. As he steps down from the hut, he spits noisily, his teeth and gums bright red from the betel nut he is chewing. He approaches the clearing, shouting and raising a club above his head. The club is light in colour and slightly curved, a pronounced bulge at one end, suspiciously similar to a human femur.
The women drop whatever they are holding and lower their faces in submission while shushing the boisterous children. The men likewise stop carving the carcasses, but to them it’s just yet another boring speech by the chief, formally inaugurating the party. They’ve heard it all before and have to endure it in silence before they can get on with the feast.
A child continues to run enthusiastically around the clearing, shouting and waving its arms. As it approaches the chief, he hits out with his club and the girl collapses in the mud, the back of her head crushed. No one objects, not even the child’s mother.
The chief, dismissing this irrelevant interruption, strides purposefully towards one of the trees at the edge of the clearing, its branches towering over the man tied firmly to its fat trunk. The man stares straight ahead defiantly, or maybe in resignation. Like the chief, he is naked but for a penis sheath held in place by a twine around his hips. The mud streaks on his body, however, both colours and patterns, are different. The chief doesn’t waste any words as he approaches, he just raises his club and brings it down with an audible crunch, shattering the man’s temple.
Immediately, several women rush forward with sticks taken from the fire, their ends glowing red-hot. They crouch around the man’s legs and start rubbing the ends against his thighs methodically. It doesn’t take long for the skin to start bubbling, lifting off from the flesh beneath. The women drop the sticks and use flat, sharp pieces of bamboo to scrape off the seared skin from the thighs until it looks like the man had been wearing stockings now bunched up and hanging from his knees.
Mercifully, the man is dead – surely he must be? – as the women start cutting chunks of flesh from the thighs, stopping every now and then to lick the blood of their hands.
A tremor passes through the man’s body, he lifts his head slightly, the eyelids flutter. The women look up questioningly at the chief, who is enraged by the man’s refusal to die. He roars and grabs a bamboo knife from one of the women, starts slicing through the man’s neck, blood spurting everywhere. With only the spine remaining intact, the chief grabs the head in both hands and twists it violently, side to side and up and down, until the vertebrae start crackling, then cracking. With a final push of the knife tip between two vertebrae, the head comes off.
The chief holds it high by the mud caked hair, displays it to the tribe, then takes the club and proceeds to tap the head around the edges, turning it with each tap, as if cracking open a soft boiled egg. Satisfied with the result, he uses the knife to cut the scalp. The top of the skull discarded, he grunts happily and pushes his fingers inside to scoop up the quivering brain mass. Slurping and chewing noisily, the chief doesn’t stop until the brain is gone. To make sure that he hasn’t missed anything, he uses his nails to scrape the inside and sucks his fingers greedily.
Finished, he returns to his hut carrying the severed head with him, then comes out again with a heavy pouch in his other hand. He shouts to get everyone’s attention and once he has it he lifts up the pouch, ceremoniously depositing it in the empty brain cavity. The adults grunt in fear and awe, the children cover their eyes in terror. The chief places the head in a woven basket which he hangs from a stick protruding above the opening and the skulls.
He sits down and relaxes, a sign that everybody has been waiting for. One of the women approaches with a large parcel and unwraps the smouldering leaf, depositing it in front of the chief. Inside is half of a ribcage, the flesh hanging off it, slightly underdone and still smoking. The chief looks at it in appreciation and breaks off one of the ribs, saying something to the woman. She scuttles away and returns with one of the children, and as the chief happily gnaws on the rib, the boy kneels in front of him and begins to vigorously suck the man’s penis.
The feast having officially started, the tribe now ignores the chief. Already cooked parcels are quickly removed from the pits and distributed according to protocol. The men get the juiciest, meatiest parts, the women and children gnaw on severed hands and feet.
One of the men sitting at the edge of the clearing suddenly jumps up, listens, starts to jabber excitedly and points towards the jungle. A bullet tears through his throat and he drops down, one hand on the entry hole from which blood gushes. In an instant everyone is up in panic, looking for their weapons. None at hand, other than their crude bamboo knives, they are helpless. Dozens of shots are fired, coming from all directions and most of them hit targets. The chief grabs his club and stands up, pushing the boy away, hollering. As he looks around him, uncertain where the attackers are coming from, he is shot in the head, the bullet hits him in the eye and exits spectacularly through the back of his head, spraying the boy with bone fragments and brain matter.
The attack is over as abruptly as it had begun. A group of men enter the clearing, guns ready, but there is no resistance. Most of the tribe are either dead or wounded, a few are unharmed but lying in the dirt, curled up, cowering in terror. The men go through the bodies methodically and, loath to waste ammunition, club the survivors to death. No one is spared – women and children meet the same fate as the men.
Disposing of the last child as it whimpers and holds up its arms in futile defence, the attackers now stand in silence, looking around them in revulsion. Utterly different from the stone age appearance of the tribe, these men seem civilised, even cultured, despite the display of brutality just seconds ago. They are wearing baggy pants and embroidered coats, with curved, lethal looking swords hanging from their belts, their heads turbaned, the faces clean shaven but for the chins sprouting sparse beards.
Their leader steps into the clearing. He is similarly dressed but the embroidery on his coat is more elaborate; the gold threads glimmer in the flame of the fire, the caftan he wears loosely over the jacket shines like silk. Standing with legs apart and fists on hips, the man exudes authority as he scans his surroundings. Identifying the chief’s hut, he strides towards it. The latest addition to the chief’s collection of heads cannot be missed, still dripping blood. The man carefully removes the basket with the head, looks inside the brain cavity and pokes at the pouch lodged there with his left index finger – initially showing the same disgust as his men, yet, once he feels the thing within the pouch, this turns into a satisfied wolf’s grin. Holding it at arm’s length to show his men that they’ve got the prize they came for, he returns to the clearing. He nods once, and they all melt away into the jungle as one, without a single word spoken.
The night creatures of the jungle continue unperturbed, serenading each other loudly despite the violence that has taken place here, a particularly insistent gecko repeating over and over again ‘fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–’
‘Darling, are you okay? Have you finished the dream? What was it about? Wake up, will you!’
I opened my eyes, dazed and confused. Kris was straddling me, her hands on my shoulders, her face close to mine, watching me intensely.
‘Tell me, was that another dream? I could see it, at first your eyes were moving all over and you were moaning, then you relaxed. Tell me all about it.’
‘I, er… yes, I had a dream…’ I was still trying to wake up, then I remembered the gecko and grabbed Kris’ arse with both hands. ‘And I was told in this prophetic dream that I had to fuck you. Immediately.’
‘You men, you’re all the same. All about instant gratification, isn’t it?’ Kris sat up and squeezed my flaccid cock. ‘In this case, all talk and no action. Anyway, first things first, I’m hungry.’
‘Aw, come on, give me a chance to prove myself. You wake me up brutally, then expect me to stand at attention straight away. Not fair, is it?’
‘No go, darling. See you in the kitchen.’
Kris bounced up from the bed and left me to contemplate the horrors that I’d unwittingly experienced.
Naked, snotty children run around the clearing, screeching and laughing and chasing each other. A group of women, likewise naked and chattering, with flat, empty tits hanging down to their fat bellies, are busy cutting large leaves into rectangular pieces. Other women prepare the parcels, rolling the leaves tightly around cut pieces of meat before lowering them into the pits.
All adults are covered in layers of dried mud, mainly in ochre shades, but also with distinct yellow and red stripes across their faces and bodies. It is a festive occasion and there is an expectant buzz in the air.
Behind the trees and barely visible in the darkness, there are huts on short stilts, only their fronts occasionally showing in the flickering light from the flames. Crude looking and small, except for one hut. This one is easily twice the size of the others, lit up by a fire in front of it and adorned with feathers and bones hanging from twigs protruding from the wall. A row of human skulls, some with scraps of tissue and jawbones still attached, line a flat piece of wood fixed above the hut opening.
The man that comes out from the hut looks like the others, covered in multi-coloured mud, yet the red and yellow streaks are more pronounced and better applied. His hair is likewise mud-caked, numerous feathers sticking out of it. His nose, large and flat, is pierced by an extravagantly curved boar tusk. As he steps down from the hut, he spits noisily, his teeth and gums bright red from the betel nut he is chewing. He approaches the clearing, shouting and raising a club above his head. The club is light in colour and slightly curved, a pronounced bulge at one end, suspiciously similar to a human femur.
The women drop whatever they are holding and lower their faces in submission while shushing the boisterous children. The men likewise stop carving the carcasses, but to them it’s just yet another boring speech by the chief, formally inaugurating the party. They’ve heard it all before and have to endure it in silence before they can get on with the feast.
A child continues to run enthusiastically around the clearing, shouting and waving its arms. As it approaches the chief, he hits out with his club and the girl collapses in the mud, the back of her head crushed. No one objects, not even the child’s mother.
The chief, dismissing this irrelevant interruption, strides purposefully towards one of the trees at the edge of the clearing, its branches towering over the man tied firmly to its fat trunk. The man stares straight ahead defiantly, or maybe in resignation. Like the chief, he is naked but for a penis sheath held in place by a twine around his hips. The mud streaks on his body, however, both colours and patterns, are different. The chief doesn’t waste any words as he approaches, he just raises his club and brings it down with an audible crunch, shattering the man’s temple.
Immediately, several women rush forward with sticks taken from the fire, their ends glowing red-hot. They crouch around the man’s legs and start rubbing the ends against his thighs methodically. It doesn’t take long for the skin to start bubbling, lifting off from the flesh beneath. The women drop the sticks and use flat, sharp pieces of bamboo to scrape off the seared skin from the thighs until it looks like the man had been wearing stockings now bunched up and hanging from his knees.
Mercifully, the man is dead – surely he must be? – as the women start cutting chunks of flesh from the thighs, stopping every now and then to lick the blood of their hands.
A tremor passes through the man’s body, he lifts his head slightly, the eyelids flutter. The women look up questioningly at the chief, who is enraged by the man’s refusal to die. He roars and grabs a bamboo knife from one of the women, starts slicing through the man’s neck, blood spurting everywhere. With only the spine remaining intact, the chief grabs the head in both hands and twists it violently, side to side and up and down, until the vertebrae start crackling, then cracking. With a final push of the knife tip between two vertebrae, the head comes off.
The chief holds it high by the mud caked hair, displays it to the tribe, then takes the club and proceeds to tap the head around the edges, turning it with each tap, as if cracking open a soft boiled egg. Satisfied with the result, he uses the knife to cut the scalp. The top of the skull discarded, he grunts happily and pushes his fingers inside to scoop up the quivering brain mass. Slurping and chewing noisily, the chief doesn’t stop until the brain is gone. To make sure that he hasn’t missed anything, he uses his nails to scrape the inside and sucks his fingers greedily.
Finished, he returns to his hut carrying the severed head with him, then comes out again with a heavy pouch in his other hand. He shouts to get everyone’s attention and once he has it he lifts up the pouch, ceremoniously depositing it in the empty brain cavity. The adults grunt in fear and awe, the children cover their eyes in terror. The chief places the head in a woven basket which he hangs from a stick protruding above the opening and the skulls.
He sits down and relaxes, a sign that everybody has been waiting for. One of the women approaches with a large parcel and unwraps the smouldering leaf, depositing it in front of the chief. Inside is half of a ribcage, the flesh hanging off it, slightly underdone and still smoking. The chief looks at it in appreciation and breaks off one of the ribs, saying something to the woman. She scuttles away and returns with one of the children, and as the chief happily gnaws on the rib, the boy kneels in front of him and begins to vigorously suck the man’s penis.
The feast having officially started, the tribe now ignores the chief. Already cooked parcels are quickly removed from the pits and distributed according to protocol. The men get the juiciest, meatiest parts, the women and children gnaw on severed hands and feet.
One of the men sitting at the edge of the clearing suddenly jumps up, listens, starts to jabber excitedly and points towards the jungle. A bullet tears through his throat and he drops down, one hand on the entry hole from which blood gushes. In an instant everyone is up in panic, looking for their weapons. None at hand, other than their crude bamboo knives, they are helpless. Dozens of shots are fired, coming from all directions and most of them hit targets. The chief grabs his club and stands up, pushing the boy away, hollering. As he looks around him, uncertain where the attackers are coming from, he is shot in the head, the bullet hits him in the eye and exits spectacularly through the back of his head, spraying the boy with bone fragments and brain matter.
The attack is over as abruptly as it had begun. A group of men enter the clearing, guns ready, but there is no resistance. Most of the tribe are either dead or wounded, a few are unharmed but lying in the dirt, curled up, cowering in terror. The men go through the bodies methodically and, loath to waste ammunition, club the survivors to death. No one is spared – women and children meet the same fate as the men.
Disposing of the last child as it whimpers and holds up its arms in futile defence, the attackers now stand in silence, looking around them in revulsion. Utterly different from the stone age appearance of the tribe, these men seem civilised, even cultured, despite the display of brutality just seconds ago. They are wearing baggy pants and embroidered coats, with curved, lethal looking swords hanging from their belts, their heads turbaned, the faces clean shaven but for the chins sprouting sparse beards.
Their leader steps into the clearing. He is similarly dressed but the embroidery on his coat is more elaborate; the gold threads glimmer in the flame of the fire, the caftan he wears loosely over the jacket shines like silk. Standing with legs apart and fists on hips, the man exudes authority as he scans his surroundings. Identifying the chief’s hut, he strides towards it. The latest addition to the chief’s collection of heads cannot be missed, still dripping blood. The man carefully removes the basket with the head, looks inside the brain cavity and pokes at the pouch lodged there with his left index finger – initially showing the same disgust as his men, yet, once he feels the thing within the pouch, this turns into a satisfied wolf’s grin. Holding it at arm’s length to show his men that they’ve got the prize they came for, he returns to the clearing. He nods once, and they all melt away into the jungle as one, without a single word spoken.
The night creatures of the jungle continue unperturbed, serenading each other loudly despite the violence that has taken place here, a particularly insistent gecko repeating over and over again ‘fuck you, fuck you, fuck you–’
‘Darling, are you okay? Have you finished the dream? What was it about? Wake up, will you!’
I opened my eyes, dazed and confused. Kris was straddling me, her hands on my shoulders, her face close to mine, watching me intensely.
‘Tell me, was that another dream? I could see it, at first your eyes were moving all over and you were moaning, then you relaxed. Tell me all about it.’
‘I, er… yes, I had a dream…’ I was still trying to wake up, then I remembered the gecko and grabbed Kris’ arse with both hands. ‘And I was told in this prophetic dream that I had to fuck you. Immediately.’
‘You men, you’re all the same. All about instant gratification, isn’t it?’ Kris sat up and squeezed my flaccid cock. ‘In this case, all talk and no action. Anyway, first things first, I’m hungry.’
‘Aw, come on, give me a chance to prove myself. You wake me up brutally, then expect me to stand at attention straight away. Not fair, is it?’
‘No go, darling. See you in the kitchen.’
Kris bounced up from the bed and left me to contemplate the horrors that I’d unwittingly experienced.
●
‘I’m not sure I can eat,’ I shuddered, the stink of blood and cooked flesh still lingering in my nostrils, as if I’d actually been there, in the clearing.
‘Tell me,’ Kris bit down noisily on her toast loaded with orange marmalade, savouring it.
I did tell her, down to the grisly details, and expected her to feel as queasy as I was. Not Kris, though, no chance. She finished the toast and started piling marmalade on another piece.
‘That’s great, it confirms the Swede’s account of what happened. Including the artefact being taken by the Sulu trader, which you witnessed.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would confirm it, at first glance,’ I said doubtfully. ‘But what if the dream was just a construct of my brain, nothing else? You told me about the massacre. Then the idiot imam told us about the trader and my subconscious put the two together. Created this son et lumière show for my private viewing pleasure. Or disgust, as it were.’
‘I think not,’ Kris was resolute. ‘Have you thought about it, how your dreams have progressed? After the first one, with Tigran being killed by monkeys, you’ve been going back in time, following the whereabouts of the artefact and its journey. There must be a reason for it.’
‘Alternatively, I’ve got a brain tumour and all of this is a fantasy,’ I shrugged. ‘There’s no reason that I can see.’
‘Darling, you don’t seriously believe it, do you? Every single dream you’ve had so far has been proven to be true, based on facts. Why do you still insist on dismissing it?’
‘Because…’ I thought for a moment, ‘and assuming that all of this is real, which I’m still not convinced about, why would I need to know – or want to know – where the fucking object’s been before? And why do I have to see all these people dying because of it? And, most importantly, why me? I’m just a whitey non-believer in this Asian mumbo-jumbo, and if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve dismissed it all as bad dreams. Or, in worst case, something seriously wrong with my brain.’
Kris considered what I’d said, looked at me keenly, ‘Your house, how much do you know about it and have you ever checked it out fully? Remember, in your dream Tigran was killed by monkeys in what was almost certainly Bukit Tunku. That’s where his Bentley was. Maybe the artefact is somewhere here, in this house, and it wants to be found.’
‘Ignoring science for a moment and accepting that an inanimate object can exert any kind of influence over people,’ I was offended by the mere suggestion, ‘there’s no chance, forget that, by now I know every square millimetre of the house. Including the garage and the remains of the servants’ quarters. Definitely no trunk anywhere, unless the monkeys had suddenly developed the requisite skills to dig a hole and bury it somewhere in the grounds. Which wouldn’t be helpful, with half a football field to go through, most of it covered in jungle. Anyway, you’ve never felt anything here, have you?’
‘Okay, I believe you. I was just thinking that this artefact, if it’s as powerful as everyone seems to think,’ Kris said defensively, raising her hands, ‘and just to remind you, I do approach this from an Asian perspective – it seems to call out to people in its vicinity.’
‘Fuck that, I don’t respond well to a piece of junk telling me what to do and how to behave.’
‘Crude, but I get your point,’ Kris replied. ‘As for your other questions, maybe you were telling the truth without even knowing it, when you told the imam about the need to trace its origins to destroy it. Maybe there’s another force at work here as well, a good one, showing you the way.’
‘Ah, yes, the saviour of mankind, that’s me. Where’s my cape, then, and why haven’t I learned how to fly yet?’ Kris looked serious enough so I attempted a laugh but got no response. ‘Sure, fine, let’s hypothesise that I’m somehow in tune with this thing. Even that something guides me to confirm its provenance. What do you suggest we do now? Go to Papua New Guinea, on the off chance of me walking around and getting strange vibes?’
‘I think we should, definitely. But I would also want to read the Swedish count’s diaries. I’m sure he didn’t let on everything he knew in that one letter to the Germans. I know I wouldn’t.’
‘Devious as always. That’s why I love you and why you exasperate me,’ I looked at Kris. ‘And how do you propose we get hold of the diaries? If they still exist.’
‘They do, and I’m working on it. Wouldn’t you want to see Stockholm again, darling?’ Kris asked, continued without waiting for my answer. ‘But not yet, we should have a bit of rest after our Sulu trip.’
This reminded me of something that I’d wanted to ask her ever since Simunul.
‘I’m glad you brought that up,’ I said cautiously. ‘Now that we’re back in KL, how about telling me what the guy said to you? The one that pissed you off. Who was he working for?’
Kris’ mood darkened considerably, as I expected it would, and she hesitated before answering. ‘He didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Really? Because it sure seemed to me like he did.’
‘He just swore at me,’ she said, looking down at the plate in front of her.
‘Which made you go mental?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Sorry, I’ve a hard time believing that. I know you well enough.’
‘He was a very rude Hakka peasant,’ Kris spat out the reply, still refusing to look at me, ‘and what he said to me was an unforgivable insult. If he’d said it to you, you would’ve ripped him to pieces.’
‘I’d have had to learn the Hakka dialect first. Anyway,’ I was still unconvinced, ‘where I come from we usually respond in kind before we attempt homicide.’
‘Just drop it, please, darling,’ Kris looked at me pleadingly and reached for my hands. ‘I know I lost it for a moment on the boat, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.’
‘Tell me,’ Kris bit down noisily on her toast loaded with orange marmalade, savouring it.
I did tell her, down to the grisly details, and expected her to feel as queasy as I was. Not Kris, though, no chance. She finished the toast and started piling marmalade on another piece.
‘That’s great, it confirms the Swede’s account of what happened. Including the artefact being taken by the Sulu trader, which you witnessed.’
‘Yes, I suppose it would confirm it, at first glance,’ I said doubtfully. ‘But what if the dream was just a construct of my brain, nothing else? You told me about the massacre. Then the idiot imam told us about the trader and my subconscious put the two together. Created this son et lumière show for my private viewing pleasure. Or disgust, as it were.’
‘I think not,’ Kris was resolute. ‘Have you thought about it, how your dreams have progressed? After the first one, with Tigran being killed by monkeys, you’ve been going back in time, following the whereabouts of the artefact and its journey. There must be a reason for it.’
‘Alternatively, I’ve got a brain tumour and all of this is a fantasy,’ I shrugged. ‘There’s no reason that I can see.’
‘Darling, you don’t seriously believe it, do you? Every single dream you’ve had so far has been proven to be true, based on facts. Why do you still insist on dismissing it?’
‘Because…’ I thought for a moment, ‘and assuming that all of this is real, which I’m still not convinced about, why would I need to know – or want to know – where the fucking object’s been before? And why do I have to see all these people dying because of it? And, most importantly, why me? I’m just a whitey non-believer in this Asian mumbo-jumbo, and if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve dismissed it all as bad dreams. Or, in worst case, something seriously wrong with my brain.’
Kris considered what I’d said, looked at me keenly, ‘Your house, how much do you know about it and have you ever checked it out fully? Remember, in your dream Tigran was killed by monkeys in what was almost certainly Bukit Tunku. That’s where his Bentley was. Maybe the artefact is somewhere here, in this house, and it wants to be found.’
‘Ignoring science for a moment and accepting that an inanimate object can exert any kind of influence over people,’ I was offended by the mere suggestion, ‘there’s no chance, forget that, by now I know every square millimetre of the house. Including the garage and the remains of the servants’ quarters. Definitely no trunk anywhere, unless the monkeys had suddenly developed the requisite skills to dig a hole and bury it somewhere in the grounds. Which wouldn’t be helpful, with half a football field to go through, most of it covered in jungle. Anyway, you’ve never felt anything here, have you?’
‘Okay, I believe you. I was just thinking that this artefact, if it’s as powerful as everyone seems to think,’ Kris said defensively, raising her hands, ‘and just to remind you, I do approach this from an Asian perspective – it seems to call out to people in its vicinity.’
‘Fuck that, I don’t respond well to a piece of junk telling me what to do and how to behave.’
‘Crude, but I get your point,’ Kris replied. ‘As for your other questions, maybe you were telling the truth without even knowing it, when you told the imam about the need to trace its origins to destroy it. Maybe there’s another force at work here as well, a good one, showing you the way.’
‘Ah, yes, the saviour of mankind, that’s me. Where’s my cape, then, and why haven’t I learned how to fly yet?’ Kris looked serious enough so I attempted a laugh but got no response. ‘Sure, fine, let’s hypothesise that I’m somehow in tune with this thing. Even that something guides me to confirm its provenance. What do you suggest we do now? Go to Papua New Guinea, on the off chance of me walking around and getting strange vibes?’
‘I think we should, definitely. But I would also want to read the Swedish count’s diaries. I’m sure he didn’t let on everything he knew in that one letter to the Germans. I know I wouldn’t.’
‘Devious as always. That’s why I love you and why you exasperate me,’ I looked at Kris. ‘And how do you propose we get hold of the diaries? If they still exist.’
‘They do, and I’m working on it. Wouldn’t you want to see Stockholm again, darling?’ Kris asked, continued without waiting for my answer. ‘But not yet, we should have a bit of rest after our Sulu trip.’
This reminded me of something that I’d wanted to ask her ever since Simunul.
‘I’m glad you brought that up,’ I said cautiously. ‘Now that we’re back in KL, how about telling me what the guy said to you? The one that pissed you off. Who was he working for?’
Kris’ mood darkened considerably, as I expected it would, and she hesitated before answering. ‘He didn’t tell me anything.’
‘Really? Because it sure seemed to me like he did.’
‘He just swore at me,’ she said, looking down at the plate in front of her.
‘Which made you go mental?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Sorry, I’ve a hard time believing that. I know you well enough.’
‘He was a very rude Hakka peasant,’ Kris spat out the reply, still refusing to look at me, ‘and what he said to me was an unforgivable insult. If he’d said it to you, you would’ve ripped him to pieces.’
‘I’d have had to learn the Hakka dialect first. Anyway,’ I was still unconvinced, ‘where I come from we usually respond in kind before we attempt homicide.’
‘Just drop it, please, darling,’ Kris looked at me pleadingly and reached for my hands. ‘I know I lost it for a moment on the boat, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.’
Chapter 43
Ah, the simple, untroubled life in KL. Barely two weeks after our return from the Philippines, my life was back to its unexciting, normal self. I’d done my best to forget the mayhem at Simunul. Instead, I remembered fondly the carefree days spent cruising along the Sulu islands: eat, sleep, fuck, dive, drink, swim, repeat. Pure paradise, and I wished more than once, usually after talking to one of the contractors, that I could devote the rest of my life to such hedonistic pleasures, without any responsibility or second thoughts. But then I’d realise how boring life would be if devoid of any challenges. The human brain needs to be exercised regularly, doesn’t it? Unfortunately.
After days in Sulu under the tropical sun, and without any clothes whenever I could get away with it, my skin was now close to a light chocolate hue all over but for the most persistent of my shoulder and hand scars. Even these were getting faint enough now, I was sure of it, from having been regularly immersed in the sea, the best tonic ever. And with my black hair –admittedly with some grey around the temples – I could easily pass for an Asian at a glance. I’d even been approached by a local in the lounge at the Manila airport on our return trip, talking to me in Tagalog as he assumed I was a Pinoy, an overseas Filipino.
BB had made sure that my house and Kris’ flat had remained untouched while we’d been away. He’d also stayed true to his word and kept his raucous bunch in check, with only the beer and the cooking wines and spirits gone from my kitchen. All of the bottles of good booze and wines were intact – I did check them out, every single one, making sure that the tape markings hadn’t been moved – and I was impressed with his restraint and control of the boys.
The pool pit was still half filled with rain water and I didn’t think it necessary to check whether BB’s boys had been pissing in it or not. I was waiting for the pump to arrive any day now, to drain the water and sludge before the arrival of the pool company workers to finish their job. Yes, the same company whose staff did their best to rearrange my driveway. They were going to transform the brown, smelly pit into a sexy, crystal clear pool adorned with a small rock waterfall. Its primary task was to assist water circulation and purification with hidden pumps and filters, but also to create a Zen-inducing atmosphere while subliminally suggesting to the gullible European feng shui followers to spend as much money as possible on the premises and, it goes without saying, recommend the hotel to their idiot friends.
The rocks had already been delivered and artfully piled at one end of the pit. All but one, which was sticking out of the water where it had ended up after the crew got distracted by what they thought was a python in the branches above them. Silly people, believing in hearsay. Not a bad thing to have happened, though. I was considering leaving the rock in the pool, making a unique pool feature out of it.
Best of all, Minnie had gotten over the previous violence and excitement and was once again my daily companion. BB’s boys had been following their orders, leaving her alone and not scaring her, just feeding her regularly, and after I returned she was around each day, as long as I was on my own. There to comment, squeaking and chattering loudly, while I plastered and painted the walls in the bedrooms. Each evening, she followed me to the kitchen, enjoying her bowl of cava while I prepared the dinner. In the mornings, she’d wait for me in the kitchen and greet me noisily. She’d even started following me outdoors, showing particular interest in the back of the house as I was inspecting the pool pit.
I thoroughly enjoyed my predictable and uneventful life when I got a call from Kris one afternoon.
‘Hi lover, are you ready to revisit Stockholm?’
‘Of course not, I’m very happy where I am right now, thank you very much. Why do you ask?’ I queried suspiciously.
‘Because I’m in London now, that’s why. After which I’m going to Frankfurt for a couple of days, to meet a new client. And after that, Stockholm, I’ve already booked the flights.’
‘I hope you’ll enjoy Stockholm. As I recollect, this is the only pleasant time of the year to be there, with temperatures nearly acceptable, sometimes even reaching the upper twenties. In daytime, that is, the nights are still bloody cold, dropping down to–’
‘Stop prevaricating, darling, I didn’t call you to listen to the weather report,’ Kris sighed. ‘How would you like to come to Stockholm and join me there?’
‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this. It messes up my renovation agenda, not to mention my finances,’ I said, then continued in my best autistic voice, ‘And why do I need to go to Stockholm, please do remind me again?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, do we have to go through this again,’ I could hear Kris was exasperated, huffing and puffing. ‘You agreed to come to Stockholm with me.’
‘If I remember correctly, I never agreed to anything.’
Kris changed tactics, switching to her silky, seductive voice. ‘Can you agree now, please? For my sake. I’d hate to be on my own there, clubbing alone with all those Scandinavian hunks around me.’
‘Seriously? All I can say is I feel sorry for anyone trying it on with you. I remember the time you slapped that poor guy just for asking you to dance with him. After you danced with and groped his girlfriend.’
‘He was offensive. And Italian. Now can we get back to the subject of Stockholm?’
‘Okay, I’ll come.’ I caved in grudgingly. ‘But only for a few days. And only if it doesn’t involve any breaking and entering to read the diaries. I suppose they are stored in a forgotten crate in an obscure museum somewhere?’
‘Not at all. They’re still in the count’s mansion, with his whole collection.’
‘Well then, can’t we just ask them nicely for photocopies and have them sent to us? Without us going there?’
‘It’s not that simple, darling, I’m afraid.’
Nothing is ever simple with Kris.
The collection was indeed in the count’s mansion, but not available to the public. The current landowner and resident, Henrik Löwenhaupt – he’d dropped the von but was still a count (and in socialist Sweden, of all places) – was the old geezer’s great-grandson, and a very obstinate man. Despite pleas from museums to at least grant access to the objects and the diaries, to catalogue everything, he stubbornly refused time and again.
‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what he’s trying to hide,’ Kris mused. ‘Some of the objects, maybe, or what’s written in the diaries. Something unsavoury and appalling enough to rub off on the guy.’
‘Maybe it’s because the old geezer was a confirmed Nazi and praised Hitler. You wouldn’t want the family name to be tainted with that, would you?’ I suggested.
‘No, most of them did that and it’s old hat. Dealt with and forgotten, you know that. No one gives a shit about it anymore in Sweden, not even when the royals are implicated.’
‘Then how about he developed a craving for human flesh during his travels and had fair maidens slaughtered in a dungeon below the mansion, in preparation for decadent, depraved feasts with likeminded degenerates?’ I asked. ‘Not unlike, if I may mention it, your notorious ancestor that–’
‘How dare you?’ Kris exploded. ‘I told you about that once, when I was drunk, and I didn’t expect you to use it against me! I will never, ever, tell you anything again!’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,’ I did my best to placate her. ‘All I meant was that any old family has a lot of skeletons that it prefers remain buried. But honestly, to me there’s a big difference between being notorious and legendary. It’s like having Dracula as an ancestor – it doesn’t get any hotter than that, does it? Vampires and sex and willing babes.’
‘There’s nothing sexy about having had a monster in the family, regardless of how long ago it was,’ Kris calmed down slightly. ‘And I wish I’d never told you about mine.’
‘ I won’t mention it again, I promise,’ I was honestly apologetic. ‘Tell me about Stockholm, and I’ll keep quiet.’
The current count, Kris said, was very much a man of privacy and a bachelor, dividing his time between the mansion in summertime and a yacht in Nice where he spent the rest of the year. Making enough money from leasing out the lands adjoining the mansion to ecological farming to keep him in style, he was one of the very few remaining members of that dying breed, the Swedish aristocracy, that didn’t need to work for a living.
What he did instead was to regularly arrange parties on his yacht and in the Stockholm mansion. Exclusive parties with a twist, and much more luxurious than your everyday club night. These parties would – reputedly – put any European fetish club to shame, with some of the activities taking place there being too dissolute and violent even for the private events held at the Torture Garden in London. The invitees were invariably similarly inbred and horse-faced remnants of European titled families, with the filler consisting of attractive, simple minded young women and men impressed with the opulent lifestyle and ready for anything. And also a carefully selected few likeminded politicians and confirmed money-makers, which is how Kris had secured our invitation.
‘Susie got us in, she’s a fund manager and a regular at the parties,’ Kris said.
‘Sounds smashing to me,’ I replied, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to a party with two hot babes trailing me.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, lover, she’s coming with her girlfriend.’
‘Three hot babes trailing me, then? I can deal with that.’
‘You wish.’
‘Damn. Then what?’
The plan, according to Kris, was… Actually, she only had the outline of one. Once in the mansion, she suggested, we would check out the displays and discreetly remove the diary or diaries that we were after, take snapshots, then replace them. Easy-peasy. Unless, as I suggested, the cabinets were locked.
‘No, Susie confirmed they’re not. She’s seen Henrik take out the odd shrunken head on occasion and wave it about,’ Kris said with distaste, ‘anything to impress the gullible.’
I was insistent, playing devil’s advocate. ‘But what if they are locked?’
‘Then I may have to convince him to unlock them, pretending that I want to see one of the truly gruesome objects. While he shows it to me, the sexy little woman full of awe and admiration, you pinch the diary. Piece of cake.’ Then she added, her voice tinged with mischief, ‘Alternatively, Susie said he swings both ways and depending on his mood we just switch roles.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. I thought I was the comedian in our relationship.’
After days in Sulu under the tropical sun, and without any clothes whenever I could get away with it, my skin was now close to a light chocolate hue all over but for the most persistent of my shoulder and hand scars. Even these were getting faint enough now, I was sure of it, from having been regularly immersed in the sea, the best tonic ever. And with my black hair –admittedly with some grey around the temples – I could easily pass for an Asian at a glance. I’d even been approached by a local in the lounge at the Manila airport on our return trip, talking to me in Tagalog as he assumed I was a Pinoy, an overseas Filipino.
BB had made sure that my house and Kris’ flat had remained untouched while we’d been away. He’d also stayed true to his word and kept his raucous bunch in check, with only the beer and the cooking wines and spirits gone from my kitchen. All of the bottles of good booze and wines were intact – I did check them out, every single one, making sure that the tape markings hadn’t been moved – and I was impressed with his restraint and control of the boys.
The pool pit was still half filled with rain water and I didn’t think it necessary to check whether BB’s boys had been pissing in it or not. I was waiting for the pump to arrive any day now, to drain the water and sludge before the arrival of the pool company workers to finish their job. Yes, the same company whose staff did their best to rearrange my driveway. They were going to transform the brown, smelly pit into a sexy, crystal clear pool adorned with a small rock waterfall. Its primary task was to assist water circulation and purification with hidden pumps and filters, but also to create a Zen-inducing atmosphere while subliminally suggesting to the gullible European feng shui followers to spend as much money as possible on the premises and, it goes without saying, recommend the hotel to their idiot friends.
The rocks had already been delivered and artfully piled at one end of the pit. All but one, which was sticking out of the water where it had ended up after the crew got distracted by what they thought was a python in the branches above them. Silly people, believing in hearsay. Not a bad thing to have happened, though. I was considering leaving the rock in the pool, making a unique pool feature out of it.
Best of all, Minnie had gotten over the previous violence and excitement and was once again my daily companion. BB’s boys had been following their orders, leaving her alone and not scaring her, just feeding her regularly, and after I returned she was around each day, as long as I was on my own. There to comment, squeaking and chattering loudly, while I plastered and painted the walls in the bedrooms. Each evening, she followed me to the kitchen, enjoying her bowl of cava while I prepared the dinner. In the mornings, she’d wait for me in the kitchen and greet me noisily. She’d even started following me outdoors, showing particular interest in the back of the house as I was inspecting the pool pit.
I thoroughly enjoyed my predictable and uneventful life when I got a call from Kris one afternoon.
‘Hi lover, are you ready to revisit Stockholm?’
‘Of course not, I’m very happy where I am right now, thank you very much. Why do you ask?’ I queried suspiciously.
‘Because I’m in London now, that’s why. After which I’m going to Frankfurt for a couple of days, to meet a new client. And after that, Stockholm, I’ve already booked the flights.’
‘I hope you’ll enjoy Stockholm. As I recollect, this is the only pleasant time of the year to be there, with temperatures nearly acceptable, sometimes even reaching the upper twenties. In daytime, that is, the nights are still bloody cold, dropping down to–’
‘Stop prevaricating, darling, I didn’t call you to listen to the weather report,’ Kris sighed. ‘How would you like to come to Stockholm and join me there?’
‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this. It messes up my renovation agenda, not to mention my finances,’ I said, then continued in my best autistic voice, ‘And why do I need to go to Stockholm, please do remind me again?’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, do we have to go through this again,’ I could hear Kris was exasperated, huffing and puffing. ‘You agreed to come to Stockholm with me.’
‘If I remember correctly, I never agreed to anything.’
Kris changed tactics, switching to her silky, seductive voice. ‘Can you agree now, please? For my sake. I’d hate to be on my own there, clubbing alone with all those Scandinavian hunks around me.’
‘Seriously? All I can say is I feel sorry for anyone trying it on with you. I remember the time you slapped that poor guy just for asking you to dance with him. After you danced with and groped his girlfriend.’
‘He was offensive. And Italian. Now can we get back to the subject of Stockholm?’
‘Okay, I’ll come.’ I caved in grudgingly. ‘But only for a few days. And only if it doesn’t involve any breaking and entering to read the diaries. I suppose they are stored in a forgotten crate in an obscure museum somewhere?’
‘Not at all. They’re still in the count’s mansion, with his whole collection.’
‘Well then, can’t we just ask them nicely for photocopies and have them sent to us? Without us going there?’
‘It’s not that simple, darling, I’m afraid.’
Nothing is ever simple with Kris.
The collection was indeed in the count’s mansion, but not available to the public. The current landowner and resident, Henrik Löwenhaupt – he’d dropped the von but was still a count (and in socialist Sweden, of all places) – was the old geezer’s great-grandson, and a very obstinate man. Despite pleas from museums to at least grant access to the objects and the diaries, to catalogue everything, he stubbornly refused time and again.
‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what he’s trying to hide,’ Kris mused. ‘Some of the objects, maybe, or what’s written in the diaries. Something unsavoury and appalling enough to rub off on the guy.’
‘Maybe it’s because the old geezer was a confirmed Nazi and praised Hitler. You wouldn’t want the family name to be tainted with that, would you?’ I suggested.
‘No, most of them did that and it’s old hat. Dealt with and forgotten, you know that. No one gives a shit about it anymore in Sweden, not even when the royals are implicated.’
‘Then how about he developed a craving for human flesh during his travels and had fair maidens slaughtered in a dungeon below the mansion, in preparation for decadent, depraved feasts with likeminded degenerates?’ I asked. ‘Not unlike, if I may mention it, your notorious ancestor that–’
‘How dare you?’ Kris exploded. ‘I told you about that once, when I was drunk, and I didn’t expect you to use it against me! I will never, ever, tell you anything again!’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,’ I did my best to placate her. ‘All I meant was that any old family has a lot of skeletons that it prefers remain buried. But honestly, to me there’s a big difference between being notorious and legendary. It’s like having Dracula as an ancestor – it doesn’t get any hotter than that, does it? Vampires and sex and willing babes.’
‘There’s nothing sexy about having had a monster in the family, regardless of how long ago it was,’ Kris calmed down slightly. ‘And I wish I’d never told you about mine.’
‘ I won’t mention it again, I promise,’ I was honestly apologetic. ‘Tell me about Stockholm, and I’ll keep quiet.’
The current count, Kris said, was very much a man of privacy and a bachelor, dividing his time between the mansion in summertime and a yacht in Nice where he spent the rest of the year. Making enough money from leasing out the lands adjoining the mansion to ecological farming to keep him in style, he was one of the very few remaining members of that dying breed, the Swedish aristocracy, that didn’t need to work for a living.
What he did instead was to regularly arrange parties on his yacht and in the Stockholm mansion. Exclusive parties with a twist, and much more luxurious than your everyday club night. These parties would – reputedly – put any European fetish club to shame, with some of the activities taking place there being too dissolute and violent even for the private events held at the Torture Garden in London. The invitees were invariably similarly inbred and horse-faced remnants of European titled families, with the filler consisting of attractive, simple minded young women and men impressed with the opulent lifestyle and ready for anything. And also a carefully selected few likeminded politicians and confirmed money-makers, which is how Kris had secured our invitation.
‘Susie got us in, she’s a fund manager and a regular at the parties,’ Kris said.
‘Sounds smashing to me,’ I replied, ‘I’ve always wanted to go to a party with two hot babes trailing me.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, lover, she’s coming with her girlfriend.’
‘Three hot babes trailing me, then? I can deal with that.’
‘You wish.’
‘Damn. Then what?’
The plan, according to Kris, was… Actually, she only had the outline of one. Once in the mansion, she suggested, we would check out the displays and discreetly remove the diary or diaries that we were after, take snapshots, then replace them. Easy-peasy. Unless, as I suggested, the cabinets were locked.
‘No, Susie confirmed they’re not. She’s seen Henrik take out the odd shrunken head on occasion and wave it about,’ Kris said with distaste, ‘anything to impress the gullible.’
I was insistent, playing devil’s advocate. ‘But what if they are locked?’
‘Then I may have to convince him to unlock them, pretending that I want to see one of the truly gruesome objects. While he shows it to me, the sexy little woman full of awe and admiration, you pinch the diary. Piece of cake.’ Then she added, her voice tinged with mischief, ‘Alternatively, Susie said he swings both ways and depending on his mood we just switch roles.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. I thought I was the comedian in our relationship.’
Chapter 44
The pump was bigger than I expected and had to be lowered from the truck bed using a crane. Fortunately, it was equipped with wheels and the three of us – me, the truck driver and Billy – managed to push it close to the pool pit.
We attached the two thick hoses to the pump, the outlet hose trailing down the slight slope to the neighbouring plot. I wasn’t worried about anyone complaining – it was the empty, overgrown one. I was surprised, though, that the inlet hose didn’t have a filter on it, concerned that the leaves and twigs floating in the muddy water would jam the pump mechanism.
‘No worry, boss,’ the driver said, ‘if small piece – is okay for pump. If big piece, pump stop.’ He showed me the safety breaker and the reverse switch. ‘If jam, pump go back and everything come out.’
We started it and I let the driver leave, but only when I was satisfied that it worked as it was supposed to. After a few initial gurgles and the hoses shuddering before they got filled with water, the pump settled down to self-satisfied humming. Not very loud, I doubted that I would hear it during the night. As I’d calculated, with the estimated volume of water and pump capacity, the pit should be drained sometime before the next morning. Thus a whole day for the pit to dry out enough before the arrival of the pool construction crew. I was pushing it, with only six days left before my flight to Stockholm, but it was manageable.
With no more manual work planned for the day unless I wanted to watch paint dry, I figured I’d spend a few hours sketching the layout and design of the common areas. The reception, the lounge and bar, and particularly my latest idea – a miniature English village pub recreated in one of the back rooms. Not just the interior, but also converting the wall where the entry door was to look like the outside wall of the pub. Tudor style, with whitewash and black wooden beams. The door and a window on each side (have to check if this is a supporting wall, I reminded myself) following the theme, with a lantern and a hand painted sign above the door.
I was particularly proud of myself for having come up with the pub name. Cheeky, yet no local authority would be able to call it indecent. Imagine a painting depicting English countryside, with a tabby curled up and happily snoozing in the foreground. On its back, a cockerel perching, just about to crow. The name? Cock and Pussy, of course. Pure genius, or what?
Billy was fidgeting as we walked back to the house, and I asked him if he wanted a whisky. He wasn’t as keen as I would’ve expected and admitted to having a girlfriend. Well, not exactly a girlfriend, just a hot babe that he’d met recently. She’d texted him earlier to say that her husband was away and could he come soon, she was feeling lonely and horny.
Who was I to stand in the way of infidelity and horny wives? I told Billy to go and not to worry about me. Nothing exciting would happen here, unless I found a dead body at the bottom of the pit, ha, ha. Then I had to spend time convincing him I’d been joking.
We attached the two thick hoses to the pump, the outlet hose trailing down the slight slope to the neighbouring plot. I wasn’t worried about anyone complaining – it was the empty, overgrown one. I was surprised, though, that the inlet hose didn’t have a filter on it, concerned that the leaves and twigs floating in the muddy water would jam the pump mechanism.
‘No worry, boss,’ the driver said, ‘if small piece – is okay for pump. If big piece, pump stop.’ He showed me the safety breaker and the reverse switch. ‘If jam, pump go back and everything come out.’
We started it and I let the driver leave, but only when I was satisfied that it worked as it was supposed to. After a few initial gurgles and the hoses shuddering before they got filled with water, the pump settled down to self-satisfied humming. Not very loud, I doubted that I would hear it during the night. As I’d calculated, with the estimated volume of water and pump capacity, the pit should be drained sometime before the next morning. Thus a whole day for the pit to dry out enough before the arrival of the pool construction crew. I was pushing it, with only six days left before my flight to Stockholm, but it was manageable.
With no more manual work planned for the day unless I wanted to watch paint dry, I figured I’d spend a few hours sketching the layout and design of the common areas. The reception, the lounge and bar, and particularly my latest idea – a miniature English village pub recreated in one of the back rooms. Not just the interior, but also converting the wall where the entry door was to look like the outside wall of the pub. Tudor style, with whitewash and black wooden beams. The door and a window on each side (have to check if this is a supporting wall, I reminded myself) following the theme, with a lantern and a hand painted sign above the door.
I was particularly proud of myself for having come up with the pub name. Cheeky, yet no local authority would be able to call it indecent. Imagine a painting depicting English countryside, with a tabby curled up and happily snoozing in the foreground. On its back, a cockerel perching, just about to crow. The name? Cock and Pussy, of course. Pure genius, or what?
Billy was fidgeting as we walked back to the house, and I asked him if he wanted a whisky. He wasn’t as keen as I would’ve expected and admitted to having a girlfriend. Well, not exactly a girlfriend, just a hot babe that he’d met recently. She’d texted him earlier to say that her husband was away and could he come soon, she was feeling lonely and horny.
Who was I to stand in the way of infidelity and horny wives? I told Billy to go and not to worry about me. Nothing exciting would happen here, unless I found a dead body at the bottom of the pit, ha, ha. Then I had to spend time convincing him I’d been joking.
●
Three hours later and I was satisfied with my efforts, ready to make dinner. I hadn’t done much design work, instead I’d spent most of the time drawing and redrawing the pub sign. Minnie visited me briefly towards the end but she didn’t seem impressed with my drawing skills when I’d shown her the sketches. Or maybe she was just hungry. I told her to be patient and went outside to check the pump, with her trailing behind me.
The pump was silent and the water level had only decreased by a couple of decimetres. The safety switch had tripped, so I followed the procedure I was told: main switch off, safety switch pushed in, main switch on. It tripped again. I repeated the process, this time holding the safety switch pushed in, which only resulted in a nasty buzz coming from the motor. Damn. Something had jammed the pump. I decoupled the inlet pipe from the pump and peered inside, the torch beam lighting up an unidentifiable dark mass wedged tightly inside. The rat tail was a dead giveaway, though.
‘Minnie,’ I said, ‘I hope this wasn’t a relative. Please look away, it will not be pretty.’
I pulled on the tail, expecting the mangled rat to come out. Instead, the tail came off. I quickly threw the tail back into the water, not wanting to cause Minnie unnecessary anguish.
No more pussyfooting, it was time to see how effective it would be to run the pump backwards. I pushed in the safety switch, then turned the main pump on, in reverse. It huffed and puffed, buzzed a bit, then the switch tripped. I tried it again and the rat arse – whatever remained of it – seemed to have shifted ever so slightly. On the third try, I kept the safety switch pushed in. And was stupid enough to bend down and look into the opening. As the pump started, the pieces of rat came flying out. I straightened up in abject disgust, mouth and eyes firmly closed as I clawed at my face to remove the wet, smelly bits. Then I lost my balance, tottered backwards a couple of steps, slipped on the muddy edge of the pit and fell in.
I can’t have been under for more than a couple of seconds, but I can assure you that it felt like an eternity. My mouth and eyes were still closed but I could feel the slimy water entering my nose and choking me. As I flapped around, trying to orient myself, my feet struck the bottom and one of my arms hit the semi-submerged rock. I pulled myself up, coughing and snorting vigorously, trying to expel as much of the dirty water as possible, shaking my head to get it out of my ears. My mind was being anything but helpful, going through a long list of exotic diseases, each of them fatal or debilitating, or possibly even a new one that would be named after me. Posthumously, of course.
I opened my eyes and saw Minnie running crazily back and forth along the pit edge, whether from excitement or fright I couldn’t tell.
‘It’s fine, girl, nothing to worry about,’ I called out to reassure her and started to push my way through the water, towards the nearest edge.
My bare feet were deep in slime and dislodging air or – much more likely – some putrid, noxious gas from the bottom. I could feel the bubbles slithering upwards, along my body, as if in repulsive caresses, and stopped breathing momentarily as the first of the bubbles broke the surface with a sickly pop. The next one followed, then the third and soon I was surrounded by bubbles that were getting progressively bigger, the water immediately around me boiling. It was certainly puzzling, and unexpected, but there was no cause for alarm. Not until I saw bubbles starting to appear all over the surface. I watched in disbelief as the bubbles grew in both size and intensity, as if a constant stream of gas was being pumped into the water from below.
I’d read about sinkholes occasionally appearing in KL and had a sudden, disturbing thought of a giant gas-filled cavity somewhere below my feet; its ceiling, weakened by the weight of the water and the rock, brought to collapse by my added weight. It was enough to get me into panic mode. In an instant, I visualised the bottom disappearing under my feet, the water rushing down, carrying me along until I got jammed in a crevice deep in the bowels of earth. At best drowning in the process, at worst being buried alive.
As if the bubbles weren’t enough, the water had started swirling and churning as I frantically pushed my way towards the edge barely two metres away, my feet sinking deeper with each laborious step, the waves now big enough to wash over my head. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn that the water was actively pushing me back. A lifetime later, I felt the sloping edge and clawed at it, sliding back into the mud on the first attempt. Set on getting out at any cost I dug my fingers in the soil, breaking nails, scrabbling for any support while breathing hard, ignoring the filthy water entering my mouth and nose. As I got my upper body over the edge, retching and spluttering, I could feel my legs being pulled back and made one last effort to drag myself free of the pit, then lay down on the ground still shaking from a surplus of adrenaline.
Once I calmed down I sat up and noted, almost indifferently, that the water was once again still. Not even a ripple on the surface. Bloody jungle. Bloody KL and bloody fucking Malaysia. Maybe there was a cavity underneath the house as well, which was why I’d gotten the property at such a bargain price. A disaster waiting to happen and everybody nodding their heads wisely afterwards, laughing at the silly foreigner. Then I thought about it rationally and remembered that sinkholes only appear in the flat parts of the city. KL being built on marshland, it’s almost to be expected, but this was up in the hills so for a sinkhole to appear here was not just unlikely – it was impossible.
The only remaining explanation was gas released from the decaying matter on the bottom. After all, it’d had a few weeks to develop. And once I’d disturbed it, I must’ve created some kind of reaction, releasing all of it. I was sure by now that I’d exaggerated the ferocity of the waves and eddies as I’d panicked. These had been nothing but the product of the bubbles.
Satisfied with the answer, I got up and started looking for the torch, to reattach the hose and restart the pump. And afterwards, a long shower to get the dirt off me. Followed by a visit to the doctor first thing tomorrow to get preventive medication for any potential diseases I might have gotten exposed to. At least I didn’t have any open wounds to get infected.
I couldn’t find the torch in the dark, so I made my way towards the house to get another one. As I rounded the corner I saw a car coming up the driveway, headlights on main beam, blinding me. In no mood to entertain visitors, I waited by the main door, shielding my eyes from the lights, going through useful phrases with which to convey my current and utter lack of hospitality. None of them polite.
The car stopped in front of the entrance, lights still on, and I could just about discern a black Beemer. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again and I’d let Billy take the afternoon off. I reached inside the door, turning on all the exterior lights, including the wall mounted spotlights, to see better while disadvantaging whoever was in the car. Unfortunately I didn’t have a baseball bat handy behind the door. Not that it would make much difference, I thought ruefully, but at least it would’ve been an initial deterrent, showing my frame of mind.
The front doors opened and two men stepped outside. Chinese, young, in dark suits, only sunglasses missing. In other words – no big surprise, been there etc. They came to a stop between the car and the entrance, legs slightly apart and hands crossed over the groin. Classic menacing pose, copied from countless B-movies. Then the rear door opened and Danny Chen emerged.
As he walked towards me I called out, not bothering to hide my irritation, ‘If you’d wanted to see me, you should’ve called first. I’m quite busy now.’
‘You are dirty,’ Danny said as he approached, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
‘Ah, you mean this,’ I answered, pointing at myself, aware that I looked a mess. Alas, an all too common occurrence since I’d moved to Malaysia and met Kris. ‘It’s a full body mud mask. Very healthy, you should try it sometimes.’
‘No bullshit from you anymore,’ Danny hissed. ‘You lied to me.’
That threw me. ‘Lied? What the fuck do you mean?’
‘What were you doing in the Philippines? And why did you sink a boat there?’
I was about to reply that we’d been on a pleasure cruise and he should mind his own fucking business before I realised the implication.
‘What the fuck have you been doing, spying on us? If that’s how you behave with everyone you know, I’m not surprised that you’re a lonely sad git.’
‘You were looking for the treasure, I know it. And you attacked that boat to get it,’ he pointed at me accusingly.
‘If you continue pointing that finger at me,’ I said as quietly and menacingly as I could, ‘I will break it off before your gorillas even react. So let’s try and be civil now, even if you are anything but and I don’t feel like being civil with you.’
Danny dropped the finger, like an unruly kid who’d just been told off by his teacher.
‘That’s better. Now tell me why you were spying on us.’
‘I didn’t trust you,’ he responded petulantly. ‘And I was right.’
‘No, you weren’t. We had a holiday on a friend’s yacht, that’s all,’ I felt that, in the context of this conversation, the word yacht sounded much better.
‘But you sank a boat,’ he whined like a spoiled brat.
‘No, we didn’t do it, the crew on our yacht did,’ I made an effort to remain calm. ‘Our host is a big shot over there and has enemies and competitors. That’s why he makes sure to have the biggest guns around.’ I suddenly thought of something. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, in that Cessna?’
‘No,’ Danny replied horrified, as if being caught flying in a Cessna was below his standards. ‘Those were my associates.’
‘Well then, you tell your associates that they were bloody lucky, because we had to stop the crew from firing off another rocket.’
Danny’s eyes nearly popped out. ‘But… but… you can’t just shoot down a plane.’
‘Maybe I can’t, but our friend can,’ I said calmly. ‘Do you now understand who you’re messing with? We may not be in your league financially but we sure have enough friends that no one would want for enemies.’
As if on cue, I heard Billy’s Sportster approaching. He almost ran over the two goons before coming to a stop next to me.
‘You need help, boss?’ he asked as he got off the bike, a length of chain dangling casually from his left hand as he sized up Danny.
‘No need, Billy, these gentlemen were just leaving,’ I replied, then turned to Danny. ‘Go talk to Ho, as I’ve suggested. That treasure was last seen in KL over half a century ago. And it’s probably long gone by now.’
The pump was silent and the water level had only decreased by a couple of decimetres. The safety switch had tripped, so I followed the procedure I was told: main switch off, safety switch pushed in, main switch on. It tripped again. I repeated the process, this time holding the safety switch pushed in, which only resulted in a nasty buzz coming from the motor. Damn. Something had jammed the pump. I decoupled the inlet pipe from the pump and peered inside, the torch beam lighting up an unidentifiable dark mass wedged tightly inside. The rat tail was a dead giveaway, though.
‘Minnie,’ I said, ‘I hope this wasn’t a relative. Please look away, it will not be pretty.’
I pulled on the tail, expecting the mangled rat to come out. Instead, the tail came off. I quickly threw the tail back into the water, not wanting to cause Minnie unnecessary anguish.
No more pussyfooting, it was time to see how effective it would be to run the pump backwards. I pushed in the safety switch, then turned the main pump on, in reverse. It huffed and puffed, buzzed a bit, then the switch tripped. I tried it again and the rat arse – whatever remained of it – seemed to have shifted ever so slightly. On the third try, I kept the safety switch pushed in. And was stupid enough to bend down and look into the opening. As the pump started, the pieces of rat came flying out. I straightened up in abject disgust, mouth and eyes firmly closed as I clawed at my face to remove the wet, smelly bits. Then I lost my balance, tottered backwards a couple of steps, slipped on the muddy edge of the pit and fell in.
I can’t have been under for more than a couple of seconds, but I can assure you that it felt like an eternity. My mouth and eyes were still closed but I could feel the slimy water entering my nose and choking me. As I flapped around, trying to orient myself, my feet struck the bottom and one of my arms hit the semi-submerged rock. I pulled myself up, coughing and snorting vigorously, trying to expel as much of the dirty water as possible, shaking my head to get it out of my ears. My mind was being anything but helpful, going through a long list of exotic diseases, each of them fatal or debilitating, or possibly even a new one that would be named after me. Posthumously, of course.
I opened my eyes and saw Minnie running crazily back and forth along the pit edge, whether from excitement or fright I couldn’t tell.
‘It’s fine, girl, nothing to worry about,’ I called out to reassure her and started to push my way through the water, towards the nearest edge.
My bare feet were deep in slime and dislodging air or – much more likely – some putrid, noxious gas from the bottom. I could feel the bubbles slithering upwards, along my body, as if in repulsive caresses, and stopped breathing momentarily as the first of the bubbles broke the surface with a sickly pop. The next one followed, then the third and soon I was surrounded by bubbles that were getting progressively bigger, the water immediately around me boiling. It was certainly puzzling, and unexpected, but there was no cause for alarm. Not until I saw bubbles starting to appear all over the surface. I watched in disbelief as the bubbles grew in both size and intensity, as if a constant stream of gas was being pumped into the water from below.
I’d read about sinkholes occasionally appearing in KL and had a sudden, disturbing thought of a giant gas-filled cavity somewhere below my feet; its ceiling, weakened by the weight of the water and the rock, brought to collapse by my added weight. It was enough to get me into panic mode. In an instant, I visualised the bottom disappearing under my feet, the water rushing down, carrying me along until I got jammed in a crevice deep in the bowels of earth. At best drowning in the process, at worst being buried alive.
As if the bubbles weren’t enough, the water had started swirling and churning as I frantically pushed my way towards the edge barely two metres away, my feet sinking deeper with each laborious step, the waves now big enough to wash over my head. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn that the water was actively pushing me back. A lifetime later, I felt the sloping edge and clawed at it, sliding back into the mud on the first attempt. Set on getting out at any cost I dug my fingers in the soil, breaking nails, scrabbling for any support while breathing hard, ignoring the filthy water entering my mouth and nose. As I got my upper body over the edge, retching and spluttering, I could feel my legs being pulled back and made one last effort to drag myself free of the pit, then lay down on the ground still shaking from a surplus of adrenaline.
Once I calmed down I sat up and noted, almost indifferently, that the water was once again still. Not even a ripple on the surface. Bloody jungle. Bloody KL and bloody fucking Malaysia. Maybe there was a cavity underneath the house as well, which was why I’d gotten the property at such a bargain price. A disaster waiting to happen and everybody nodding their heads wisely afterwards, laughing at the silly foreigner. Then I thought about it rationally and remembered that sinkholes only appear in the flat parts of the city. KL being built on marshland, it’s almost to be expected, but this was up in the hills so for a sinkhole to appear here was not just unlikely – it was impossible.
The only remaining explanation was gas released from the decaying matter on the bottom. After all, it’d had a few weeks to develop. And once I’d disturbed it, I must’ve created some kind of reaction, releasing all of it. I was sure by now that I’d exaggerated the ferocity of the waves and eddies as I’d panicked. These had been nothing but the product of the bubbles.
Satisfied with the answer, I got up and started looking for the torch, to reattach the hose and restart the pump. And afterwards, a long shower to get the dirt off me. Followed by a visit to the doctor first thing tomorrow to get preventive medication for any potential diseases I might have gotten exposed to. At least I didn’t have any open wounds to get infected.
I couldn’t find the torch in the dark, so I made my way towards the house to get another one. As I rounded the corner I saw a car coming up the driveway, headlights on main beam, blinding me. In no mood to entertain visitors, I waited by the main door, shielding my eyes from the lights, going through useful phrases with which to convey my current and utter lack of hospitality. None of them polite.
The car stopped in front of the entrance, lights still on, and I could just about discern a black Beemer. Oh shit, I thought, here we go again and I’d let Billy take the afternoon off. I reached inside the door, turning on all the exterior lights, including the wall mounted spotlights, to see better while disadvantaging whoever was in the car. Unfortunately I didn’t have a baseball bat handy behind the door. Not that it would make much difference, I thought ruefully, but at least it would’ve been an initial deterrent, showing my frame of mind.
The front doors opened and two men stepped outside. Chinese, young, in dark suits, only sunglasses missing. In other words – no big surprise, been there etc. They came to a stop between the car and the entrance, legs slightly apart and hands crossed over the groin. Classic menacing pose, copied from countless B-movies. Then the rear door opened and Danny Chen emerged.
As he walked towards me I called out, not bothering to hide my irritation, ‘If you’d wanted to see me, you should’ve called first. I’m quite busy now.’
‘You are dirty,’ Danny said as he approached, wrinkling his nose in distaste.
‘Ah, you mean this,’ I answered, pointing at myself, aware that I looked a mess. Alas, an all too common occurrence since I’d moved to Malaysia and met Kris. ‘It’s a full body mud mask. Very healthy, you should try it sometimes.’
‘No bullshit from you anymore,’ Danny hissed. ‘You lied to me.’
That threw me. ‘Lied? What the fuck do you mean?’
‘What were you doing in the Philippines? And why did you sink a boat there?’
I was about to reply that we’d been on a pleasure cruise and he should mind his own fucking business before I realised the implication.
‘What the fuck have you been doing, spying on us? If that’s how you behave with everyone you know, I’m not surprised that you’re a lonely sad git.’
‘You were looking for the treasure, I know it. And you attacked that boat to get it,’ he pointed at me accusingly.
‘If you continue pointing that finger at me,’ I said as quietly and menacingly as I could, ‘I will break it off before your gorillas even react. So let’s try and be civil now, even if you are anything but and I don’t feel like being civil with you.’
Danny dropped the finger, like an unruly kid who’d just been told off by his teacher.
‘That’s better. Now tell me why you were spying on us.’
‘I didn’t trust you,’ he responded petulantly. ‘And I was right.’
‘No, you weren’t. We had a holiday on a friend’s yacht, that’s all,’ I felt that, in the context of this conversation, the word yacht sounded much better.
‘But you sank a boat,’ he whined like a spoiled brat.
‘No, we didn’t do it, the crew on our yacht did,’ I made an effort to remain calm. ‘Our host is a big shot over there and has enemies and competitors. That’s why he makes sure to have the biggest guns around.’ I suddenly thought of something. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, in that Cessna?’
‘No,’ Danny replied horrified, as if being caught flying in a Cessna was below his standards. ‘Those were my associates.’
‘Well then, you tell your associates that they were bloody lucky, because we had to stop the crew from firing off another rocket.’
Danny’s eyes nearly popped out. ‘But… but… you can’t just shoot down a plane.’
‘Maybe I can’t, but our friend can,’ I said calmly. ‘Do you now understand who you’re messing with? We may not be in your league financially but we sure have enough friends that no one would want for enemies.’
As if on cue, I heard Billy’s Sportster approaching. He almost ran over the two goons before coming to a stop next to me.
‘You need help, boss?’ he asked as he got off the bike, a length of chain dangling casually from his left hand as he sized up Danny.
‘No need, Billy, these gentlemen were just leaving,’ I replied, then turned to Danny. ‘Go talk to Ho, as I’ve suggested. That treasure was last seen in KL over half a century ago. And it’s probably long gone by now.’
Chapter 45
As I entered the Grand Hotel, the bellboy trailing me with the suitcase, I stopped in imperious fashion, hands on hips, and lazily surveyed the interior as any world famous (or infamous) rock star would do. The backpack may have marred that image but hey, no one is perfect. I’m sure even some rock stars carry backpacks nowadays.
‘Darling, there you are,’ Kris exclaimed and got up from one of the oversized sofas with outstretched arms, strutting towards me in stupendously high heels.
As we hugged and kissed and I fondled her bum, I was aware of someone calling out.
‘Sir! Sir, please, you can check in now,’ the receptionist was saying. A spotty-faced boy pretending to be a grown up, in a stodgy suit and tie.
If there’s one thing I like about Sweden is that everyone has a decent grasp of English. Sure, they will often sound like the Swedish Chef in the Muppets, but they do speak the lingo and are not afraid to use it. If anything, they love to practice it.
‘No need, just have the bag taken up to…’ I turned to Kris, ‘Which room, darling?’
‘He’s staying with me, Hans,’ Kris confirmed, ‘the top-floor suite.’
‘I’m sorry Madam, Sir, I still have to check you in,’ spot-face replied bashfully.
Kris rolled her eyes, ‘Sweden, eh? Not much different from the old ausweis, is it? Times may change, Nazis remain.’
She didn’t know how prophetic her statement would turn out to be. Or maybe she did but just chose to ignore enlightening me.
‘Darling, there you are,’ Kris exclaimed and got up from one of the oversized sofas with outstretched arms, strutting towards me in stupendously high heels.
As we hugged and kissed and I fondled her bum, I was aware of someone calling out.
‘Sir! Sir, please, you can check in now,’ the receptionist was saying. A spotty-faced boy pretending to be a grown up, in a stodgy suit and tie.
If there’s one thing I like about Sweden is that everyone has a decent grasp of English. Sure, they will often sound like the Swedish Chef in the Muppets, but they do speak the lingo and are not afraid to use it. If anything, they love to practice it.
‘No need, just have the bag taken up to…’ I turned to Kris, ‘Which room, darling?’
‘He’s staying with me, Hans,’ Kris confirmed, ‘the top-floor suite.’
‘I’m sorry Madam, Sir, I still have to check you in,’ spot-face replied bashfully.
Kris rolled her eyes, ‘Sweden, eh? Not much different from the old ausweis, is it? Times may change, Nazis remain.’
She didn’t know how prophetic her statement would turn out to be. Or maybe she did but just chose to ignore enlightening me.
●
‘How did you find this hotel?’ I asked Kris while I groped her on the bed. ‘I’m the one that’s supposed to know everything about Stockholm.’
‘You do, darling, but this is the hotel to stay in while in Stockholm, isn’t it?’ Kris replied as she hurriedly removed her bra and pushed a nipple in my mouth. ‘Ah, I’ve missed that. Statesmen, scientists, spies, rock bands, everyone who’s anyone stays here. So much history.’
‘I’m not complaining, you know,’ I tried to enunciate properly while sucking on an erect nipple, ‘just curious. And wondering if you know more about Stockholm than you’ve let on.’
The doorbell rang. And rang again. My suitcase had arrived.
‘Ett ögonblick,’ I shouted.
‘I love it when you speak Swedish,’ Kris purred. ‘It makes me all wet and horny.’
I got up and walked down the hall to open the door, shirt gone and trousers unbuttoned.
‘Your suitcase, Sir,’ the bellboy announced, eyeing my state of undress and attempting to look over my shoulder.
‘Thank you.’ I took the suitcase and pushed a bill into his hand. ‘We won’t need any turn-down service tonight.’
As I closed the door, Kris called out, ‘ Fancy some bubbly? There’s champagne in the fridge, and two glasses in the freezer.’
I got my trousers off as fast as I could, as well as the socks. (Who goes to bed with socks, anyway, other than in German porn?) Took out the bottle and the glasses and was greeted by the sight of Kris naked on the floor next to the bed, practicing yoga. I wouldn’t be able to tell you the correct name of that particular asana – the position, but it was reasonably similar to the lotus position, only upside down. Her lovely arse in the air, the rosy pussy lips open and inviting. I kneeled next to her to make sure that she had engaged her mula bandha, aka the pelvic floor, and was breathing correctly.
A couple of hours later and back on the bed Kris sighed contentedly, ‘That was nice.’
‘That’s all you can say – it was nice?’ I was incredulous, having assisted her with several screaming orgasms, most of them very, very wet. And me coming three times, I was sure that I’d broken a record somewhere for my age group. ‘We’ll have to ask housekeeping to come and change the sheets. Probably the mattress too.’
‘If it was up to me, I’d just leave it,’ Kris murmured happily. ‘If all mattresses in the world were soaked in pheromones, we wouldn’t have any international crises or wars. Or rape. Just a lot of happy bunnies, fucking away like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘I may potentially agree with you,’ I replied drowsily, ‘Worn out as I am right now, loving the world and wanting to hug everyone.’
‘See what I mean? Good sex is the answer to everything.’
‘Let’s stay here and have dinner brought up, shall we?’
‘We’ve not even had lunch yet,’ Kris laughed. ‘I know you’re still on KL time, but we’ve got to get the gear ready for the weekend. There’s a shop not too far from here that does bespoke fetish stuff, I’ve checked them out. We have to see them today.’
‘On Södermalm, I assume?’ I queried. ‘As I remember, that’s where most of these places are in Stockholm. Let’s do that, but how about, on our way there, we have ice cream first?’
‘Darling, you’re the ultimate guide to Stockholm. I’ll just follow your cue.’
‘You do, darling, but this is the hotel to stay in while in Stockholm, isn’t it?’ Kris replied as she hurriedly removed her bra and pushed a nipple in my mouth. ‘Ah, I’ve missed that. Statesmen, scientists, spies, rock bands, everyone who’s anyone stays here. So much history.’
‘I’m not complaining, you know,’ I tried to enunciate properly while sucking on an erect nipple, ‘just curious. And wondering if you know more about Stockholm than you’ve let on.’
The doorbell rang. And rang again. My suitcase had arrived.
‘Ett ögonblick,’ I shouted.
‘I love it when you speak Swedish,’ Kris purred. ‘It makes me all wet and horny.’
I got up and walked down the hall to open the door, shirt gone and trousers unbuttoned.
‘Your suitcase, Sir,’ the bellboy announced, eyeing my state of undress and attempting to look over my shoulder.
‘Thank you.’ I took the suitcase and pushed a bill into his hand. ‘We won’t need any turn-down service tonight.’
As I closed the door, Kris called out, ‘ Fancy some bubbly? There’s champagne in the fridge, and two glasses in the freezer.’
I got my trousers off as fast as I could, as well as the socks. (Who goes to bed with socks, anyway, other than in German porn?) Took out the bottle and the glasses and was greeted by the sight of Kris naked on the floor next to the bed, practicing yoga. I wouldn’t be able to tell you the correct name of that particular asana – the position, but it was reasonably similar to the lotus position, only upside down. Her lovely arse in the air, the rosy pussy lips open and inviting. I kneeled next to her to make sure that she had engaged her mula bandha, aka the pelvic floor, and was breathing correctly.
A couple of hours later and back on the bed Kris sighed contentedly, ‘That was nice.’
‘That’s all you can say – it was nice?’ I was incredulous, having assisted her with several screaming orgasms, most of them very, very wet. And me coming three times, I was sure that I’d broken a record somewhere for my age group. ‘We’ll have to ask housekeeping to come and change the sheets. Probably the mattress too.’
‘If it was up to me, I’d just leave it,’ Kris murmured happily. ‘If all mattresses in the world were soaked in pheromones, we wouldn’t have any international crises or wars. Or rape. Just a lot of happy bunnies, fucking away like there’s no tomorrow.’
‘I may potentially agree with you,’ I replied drowsily, ‘Worn out as I am right now, loving the world and wanting to hug everyone.’
‘See what I mean? Good sex is the answer to everything.’
‘Let’s stay here and have dinner brought up, shall we?’
‘We’ve not even had lunch yet,’ Kris laughed. ‘I know you’re still on KL time, but we’ve got to get the gear ready for the weekend. There’s a shop not too far from here that does bespoke fetish stuff, I’ve checked them out. We have to see them today.’
‘On Södermalm, I assume?’ I queried. ‘As I remember, that’s where most of these places are in Stockholm. Let’s do that, but how about, on our way there, we have ice cream first?’
‘Darling, you’re the ultimate guide to Stockholm. I’ll just follow your cue.’
●
The ice cream was delicious, as always. If you ever get to Stockholm in summertime, do go to Kungsträdgården, a park next to the Grand Hotel, and you’ll find the best soft ice cream place in the city. Loads of vanilla and close to the texture of whipped cream, served in wide, crunchy waffles, it’s the highlight of any Stockholm visit. Well, nearly, there are a couple of other hotspots as well, which I may tell you about later.
It was early afternoon and the sun was still high in the cloudless sky, a gentle breeze making sure we wouldn’t get too hot. We were sitting on one of the many benches in the park, savouring the ice cream, sharing the space with an old couple who frequently smiled and nodded at us. Kids were running around, shouting and laughing, on the bench next to us a couple of girls were sunning themselves, nearly topless and getting the most out of the sun, oblivious to a group of young Middle Easterners passing by and making rude comments. Just another early summer’s day in Stockholm.
‘On a day like this, I must confess, I do miss living here,’ I contemplated. ‘But then I remember autumns and winters: the rain and the snow and the wind; walking through slush just to get to the underground, not to mention the daily interruptions and delays in the public transport system. Ah, Sweden is no longer what it used to be.’
‘No country in the world is what it used to be. I believe it’s called progress,’ Kris was philosophical, ‘for better or worse. You just have to find the good spots, be there at the right time and squeeze out the juice. Ever read the Great Gatsby?’
‘I may have, ages ago. Why?’
‘There’s a wonderful description in it about the day after a party. With cartloads of dry, discarded orange halves waiting to be collected and thrown away. That’s what life’s about. Get the sweetest juice whenever and however you can, and screw tomorrow.’
‘And make sure you don’t end up being one of the halves?’
‘Damn right, it is our moral duty as upstanding citizens to squeeze, not to be squeezed.’
‘But that’s what I’m already doing, isn’t it? Living where I want to live and doing what I want to do, without any care in the world. Until I met you.’
‘I do believe we have to get going now if we’re to get to the shop before they close,’ Kris pointed out, effectively shutting down that particular line of conversation.
We got up and walked to Sergels Torg, the ugly central roundabout with its glass phallus, then followed Drottninggatan all the way to the parliament, where we crossed Gamla Stan, the old town, to get to the south parts and the shop that Kris had found.
‘Your garments will be ready in two weeks,’ the guy said cheerfully.
After an hour of trying on different outfits, we’d settled on a jeans and jacket combo and a sleeveless t-shirt for me, a miniscule corset for Kris, paired with a skirt barely covering her arse. All in virgin lamb skin, as the guy assured us, as soft and pliable as any silk or linen. Or latex. Complemented by a short leather whip, handcuffs, and a choker with long, pointy studs for Kris.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said, ‘we need to have this four days from now.’
‘But you want everything custom made, don’t you?’ The guy was perplexed.
‘No, we don’t, we just want your standard outfits made to measure,’ Kris replied. ‘With a few changes, that’s all.’
‘But that is custom made, and it takes us two weeks to do it,’ the guy was adamant. ‘We have a lot of customers and there’s a waiting list.’
Kris was calm. ‘I understand. That’s why we’ll pay any additional fee to get it done in four days.’
‘But… but, you are offering me a bribe!’ the guy exclaimed in self-righteous indignation, full of himself. ‘This is Sweden, and we do not do that here. I have regular customers and they would not accept it.’
‘Listen, dude,’ I leaned across the counter, ‘you’re the owner and manager here, aren’t you?’
‘So what?’
‘So you’re the one calling the shots. We’re prepared to offer you…’ I looked at Kris.
‘Double.’
‘You heard the lady, we’ll pay double for these already overpriced garments. Right now, in cash, no receipt needed.’
Kris took out a stack of bills and started counting them.
‘This is highly irregular,’ the guy mumbled, casting furtive glances towards the entrance, ‘but I will accommodate you this time.’
‘Don’t worry, dude. The taxman won’t find out,’ I smiled at him, ‘this time. And we’ll want the accessories thrown it at no extra cost.’
‘You’ve mastered the art of haggling since moving to Asia.’ Kris beamed at me as we left the shop.
I shrugged. ‘Hardly haggling, was it, with you paying twice the price.’
‘But we’ll get the gear on time, that’s all that matters.’ Kris waved the pick-up slip happily. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. Have an early night and get room service to bring us dinner. You’re half asleep already.’
It was early afternoon and the sun was still high in the cloudless sky, a gentle breeze making sure we wouldn’t get too hot. We were sitting on one of the many benches in the park, savouring the ice cream, sharing the space with an old couple who frequently smiled and nodded at us. Kids were running around, shouting and laughing, on the bench next to us a couple of girls were sunning themselves, nearly topless and getting the most out of the sun, oblivious to a group of young Middle Easterners passing by and making rude comments. Just another early summer’s day in Stockholm.
‘On a day like this, I must confess, I do miss living here,’ I contemplated. ‘But then I remember autumns and winters: the rain and the snow and the wind; walking through slush just to get to the underground, not to mention the daily interruptions and delays in the public transport system. Ah, Sweden is no longer what it used to be.’
‘No country in the world is what it used to be. I believe it’s called progress,’ Kris was philosophical, ‘for better or worse. You just have to find the good spots, be there at the right time and squeeze out the juice. Ever read the Great Gatsby?’
‘I may have, ages ago. Why?’
‘There’s a wonderful description in it about the day after a party. With cartloads of dry, discarded orange halves waiting to be collected and thrown away. That’s what life’s about. Get the sweetest juice whenever and however you can, and screw tomorrow.’
‘And make sure you don’t end up being one of the halves?’
‘Damn right, it is our moral duty as upstanding citizens to squeeze, not to be squeezed.’
‘But that’s what I’m already doing, isn’t it? Living where I want to live and doing what I want to do, without any care in the world. Until I met you.’
‘I do believe we have to get going now if we’re to get to the shop before they close,’ Kris pointed out, effectively shutting down that particular line of conversation.
We got up and walked to Sergels Torg, the ugly central roundabout with its glass phallus, then followed Drottninggatan all the way to the parliament, where we crossed Gamla Stan, the old town, to get to the south parts and the shop that Kris had found.
‘Your garments will be ready in two weeks,’ the guy said cheerfully.
After an hour of trying on different outfits, we’d settled on a jeans and jacket combo and a sleeveless t-shirt for me, a miniscule corset for Kris, paired with a skirt barely covering her arse. All in virgin lamb skin, as the guy assured us, as soft and pliable as any silk or linen. Or latex. Complemented by a short leather whip, handcuffs, and a choker with long, pointy studs for Kris.
‘No, you don’t understand,’ she said, ‘we need to have this four days from now.’
‘But you want everything custom made, don’t you?’ The guy was perplexed.
‘No, we don’t, we just want your standard outfits made to measure,’ Kris replied. ‘With a few changes, that’s all.’
‘But that is custom made, and it takes us two weeks to do it,’ the guy was adamant. ‘We have a lot of customers and there’s a waiting list.’
Kris was calm. ‘I understand. That’s why we’ll pay any additional fee to get it done in four days.’
‘But… but, you are offering me a bribe!’ the guy exclaimed in self-righteous indignation, full of himself. ‘This is Sweden, and we do not do that here. I have regular customers and they would not accept it.’
‘Listen, dude,’ I leaned across the counter, ‘you’re the owner and manager here, aren’t you?’
‘So what?’
‘So you’re the one calling the shots. We’re prepared to offer you…’ I looked at Kris.
‘Double.’
‘You heard the lady, we’ll pay double for these already overpriced garments. Right now, in cash, no receipt needed.’
Kris took out a stack of bills and started counting them.
‘This is highly irregular,’ the guy mumbled, casting furtive glances towards the entrance, ‘but I will accommodate you this time.’
‘Don’t worry, dude. The taxman won’t find out,’ I smiled at him, ‘this time. And we’ll want the accessories thrown it at no extra cost.’
‘You’ve mastered the art of haggling since moving to Asia.’ Kris beamed at me as we left the shop.
I shrugged. ‘Hardly haggling, was it, with you paying twice the price.’
‘But we’ll get the gear on time, that’s all that matters.’ Kris waved the pick-up slip happily. ‘Let’s go back to the hotel. Have an early night and get room service to bring us dinner. You’re half asleep already.’
Chapter 46
Next evening, as promised, I showed Kris my favourite hangouts which reminded me of why I simultaneously loved and loathed Stockholm nightlife. Anywhere else in the world, clubbing seems to be restricted to twenty-somethings. Stockholm, however, has places where us mature folks can let our hair down for the night without feeling guilty about violating the unwritten age code, and even spots where generations mix, coming together just to listen to good music, party, and get pissed.
There is a downside, though. Every nightclub in the city that aspires to grandeur and exclusivity has bouncers – lobotomised apes, really – who preside over the queue to the establishment. Even when the club is obviously half-empty. While I lived there most of the apes were Swedes and you could still successfully present your case as to why you personally had to bypass the queue and enter without delay. A definite advantage if it happened to be February, with the temperature low enough to have your dick and balls shrivel miserably and retract into your groin. Nowadays all the apes are foreigners, ranging from grumpy Poles to unsavoury Balkan types to menacing Turks and worse. You can always recognise them by their crew cuts, their vacant expressions and the handful of standard Swedish phrases that they’ve memorised.
I hadn’t counted on Kris and her ability to talk her way in anywhere, anytime. We started with Café Opera, a nightclub housed in the same building as the Stockholm Opera, yet at the opposite end of the civilisation spectrum. Kris insisted on us checking it out as she’d been there once before. This was where she’d met Susie, the fund manager, for the first time. I was less than enthusiastic, remembering it as a hellhole with overpriced drinks, overloud techno music and a clientele mainly consisting of underage brats either spending daddy’s money or being plied with alcohol by the odd middle-aged paedophile pretending to be a celebrity.
‘Are you on de list?’, the ape asked us once he sussed out that we spoke English. A better class of ape, this one.
‘I am on every list on five continents, young man. Permanently,’ Kris replied resolutely. A full head shorter than the ape, she still made it look like she was staring him down. ‘Now be a good boy and remove this rope. Alternatively, you can call Jonas and ask him, but,’ looking at her watch, ‘right now he’s probably in the office fucking Marushka and he’ll get very upset with you. Your choice.’
I didn’t even question who the hell Jonas and Marushka were, just went with it and nodded. Ten seconds later we were inside, Kris already moving her hips to the incessant techno beat. ‘A margarita for me, darling. See you on the dance floor.’
Battling with jerking brats and having to listen to non-music is bad enough, but try doing it while sipping a margarita and holding another as the love of your life sways in front of you, totally oblivious to everything.
‘Darling,’ I bellowed into Kris’ ear, ‘may I suggest we finish our drinks and go elsewhere.’
‘What? I can’t hear you!’ Kris shouted at me, gesticulating wildly.
‘Exactly my sentiments,’ I shouted back. ‘Let’s finish our drinks and go elsewhere. Somewhere civilised, where we can talk.’ Muttered to myself, ‘And where everyone is well past their puberty.’
The beat changed slightly to another idiotic thump and I took the opportunity to grab Kris – holding both glasses in one hand without spilling too much of the watered down drinks – and drag her behind a pillar to shield us from the noise.
‘Now that you’ve revisited this place, can we go elsewhere? Please?’ I asked.
‘Spoilsport,’ Kris replied. ‘Although, admittedly, it was better when I was here last time.’
I refrained from reminding her that she was nearly a decade younger then. Instead I touched my glass to hers.
‘Cheers, lover. Here’s to memory lane – everything used to be better before,’ I looked her in the eyes, ‘except you. You just get more delightful as you continue to grow up.’
‘Cheeky bastard, you are,’ Kris smiled happily and sipped her margarita. ‘But I still love you. And this drink is horrible. Let’s go.’
As we left the club, Kris smiled and waved to the ape, ‘Au revoir, pauvre con.’
‘That’s not fair, he probably thinks you gave him a compliment,’ I said, seeing the ape’s happy smile.
There is a downside, though. Every nightclub in the city that aspires to grandeur and exclusivity has bouncers – lobotomised apes, really – who preside over the queue to the establishment. Even when the club is obviously half-empty. While I lived there most of the apes were Swedes and you could still successfully present your case as to why you personally had to bypass the queue and enter without delay. A definite advantage if it happened to be February, with the temperature low enough to have your dick and balls shrivel miserably and retract into your groin. Nowadays all the apes are foreigners, ranging from grumpy Poles to unsavoury Balkan types to menacing Turks and worse. You can always recognise them by their crew cuts, their vacant expressions and the handful of standard Swedish phrases that they’ve memorised.
I hadn’t counted on Kris and her ability to talk her way in anywhere, anytime. We started with Café Opera, a nightclub housed in the same building as the Stockholm Opera, yet at the opposite end of the civilisation spectrum. Kris insisted on us checking it out as she’d been there once before. This was where she’d met Susie, the fund manager, for the first time. I was less than enthusiastic, remembering it as a hellhole with overpriced drinks, overloud techno music and a clientele mainly consisting of underage brats either spending daddy’s money or being plied with alcohol by the odd middle-aged paedophile pretending to be a celebrity.
‘Are you on de list?’, the ape asked us once he sussed out that we spoke English. A better class of ape, this one.
‘I am on every list on five continents, young man. Permanently,’ Kris replied resolutely. A full head shorter than the ape, she still made it look like she was staring him down. ‘Now be a good boy and remove this rope. Alternatively, you can call Jonas and ask him, but,’ looking at her watch, ‘right now he’s probably in the office fucking Marushka and he’ll get very upset with you. Your choice.’
I didn’t even question who the hell Jonas and Marushka were, just went with it and nodded. Ten seconds later we were inside, Kris already moving her hips to the incessant techno beat. ‘A margarita for me, darling. See you on the dance floor.’
Battling with jerking brats and having to listen to non-music is bad enough, but try doing it while sipping a margarita and holding another as the love of your life sways in front of you, totally oblivious to everything.
‘Darling,’ I bellowed into Kris’ ear, ‘may I suggest we finish our drinks and go elsewhere.’
‘What? I can’t hear you!’ Kris shouted at me, gesticulating wildly.
‘Exactly my sentiments,’ I shouted back. ‘Let’s finish our drinks and go elsewhere. Somewhere civilised, where we can talk.’ Muttered to myself, ‘And where everyone is well past their puberty.’
The beat changed slightly to another idiotic thump and I took the opportunity to grab Kris – holding both glasses in one hand without spilling too much of the watered down drinks – and drag her behind a pillar to shield us from the noise.
‘Now that you’ve revisited this place, can we go elsewhere? Please?’ I asked.
‘Spoilsport,’ Kris replied. ‘Although, admittedly, it was better when I was here last time.’
I refrained from reminding her that she was nearly a decade younger then. Instead I touched my glass to hers.
‘Cheers, lover. Here’s to memory lane – everything used to be better before,’ I looked her in the eyes, ‘except you. You just get more delightful as you continue to grow up.’
‘Cheeky bastard, you are,’ Kris smiled happily and sipped her margarita. ‘But I still love you. And this drink is horrible. Let’s go.’
As we left the club, Kris smiled and waved to the ape, ‘Au revoir, pauvre con.’
‘That’s not fair, he probably thinks you gave him a compliment,’ I said, seeing the ape’s happy smile.
●
I’d decided against checking out the bar scene on Södermalm. Too proletarian and uncouth for me nowadays. Funny how one’s tastes change with age and money, isn’t it? When I moved to Stockholm years ago, that was where I first set up base, appreciating the informal atmosphere, cheap beers and easy women. I barely even ventured into Gamla Stan, the small island separating the proles in the south from the posh capitalist pigs on Östermalm. Then I matured and joined the pigs up north.
We walked leisurely to Stureplan instead, the focal point of the Stockholm in-crowd. The beautiful, the rich, the famous and not-yet-famous mingling with suburban wannabes and small groups of wide-eyed tourists, everyone expectant and more or less under the influence. The homeless people had already taken possession of doorways, soliciting passers-by for money or a fag. Just another Friday night in downtown Stockholm.
I got us into Sture Hof past two apes, for another round of margaritas in the overcrowded outdoor area.
‘The women are yummy here. I don’t understand why you ever wanted to leave Stockholm,’ Kris shouted in my ear, checking out the tanned legs and tits on display while getting lascivious looks in return from several of the babes. Seeing my expression she quickly added with an apologetic smile, ‘and some of the men are hunks too. Like you.’
Two drinks later, Kris was in deep conversation with a girl in her early twenties.
‘I go to Thailand every winter,’ the girl was saying, swaying and having difficulties focusing her eyes, waving a lit cigarette all over the place, ‘but now I realise I must come to Malaysia instead. You are… soo beautiful… soo sexy.’
I really don’t know how she does it, my lovely Kris. Over the years I’ve had my decent share of women approaching me with an obvious interest going beyond a witty conversation. Kris, though, is in a different league altogether, as I’ve had the opportunity to observe on many occasions. Yes, men will look at her and drool but would rarely dare come up to her, whereas women get all starry-eyed, begin with a chat and end up begging to be laid.
‘Darling,’ I shouted to Kris, certain that the girl was too far gone to understand, or even hear me, ‘how about we depart for the next place? Otherwise she’ll soon ask you to fuck her right here.’
‘How crude of you to suggest that,’ Kris replied playfully, ‘she’s just drunk. And maybe a touch horny – not a crime, is it?’
‘Not unless you engage in explicit sex in a public place. Which I’m sure is a misdemeanour even in Sweden.’
‘I have to pee,’ the girl announced, then looked hopefully at Kris. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
Kris declined politely and kissed her instead, oblivious to the jealous stares this provoked around us.
‘I’m sure she’ll come to her senses eventually,’ I said as we stepped over the low fence enclosing the bar and walked down the street. Having kept the best for the grand finale, we arrived at my favourite Stockholm haunt, Riche, where the hip media crowd comes to be seen having deep, meaningful conversations about nothing. Another place with ridiculously expensive booze, but at least they do know how to mix drinks.
The ape at the door must’ve been stunned by Kris because he moved almost humbly to one side to let us in. It was just as I remembered it, crowded and impossible to find any bar space. I managed anyway, squeezing myself in next to two suburban hopefuls of a certain age, all tarted up and ready for action.
‘Sorry ladies, you won’t mind, would you, me getting a drink?’ And, reading the looks they gave me, quickly added, pointing at Kris, ‘For me and my girlfriend.’
That’s how it used to be when I lived in Stockholm. I’d come to Riche for a quiet drink or three and sometimes end up with a strange woman in my bed. Without ever meaning to, honestly, yet having a quiet chat the next day with several representatives from my subconscious. Initially about the gentlest way to get the woman, not even remembering her name, out of the flat and into a cab. Followed by self-recrimination: How could I use a woman for my own gratification? Why do I even get any satisfaction from fucking a woman that I’ll probably never see again? Am I a total bastard and should be ashamed of myself? Then, later in the day, I’d remember telling the woman that I’m celibate following the end of an intense relationship and not yet ready for intimacy. The perfect put-off, right? Yet having told it time and again, it only seemed to make women more eager to prove me wrong. Female logic at its finest.
‘How do you like Stockholm?’ tart one asked. ‘And how long are you staying here?’
‘We can show you around,’ tart two elaborated, ‘make sure you two have a good time.’
‘I’m sure you girls could,’ I gave them my best ambiguous smile as I signed the card slip. ‘Let me ask my girlfriend.’
‘Friends of yours, are they?’ Kris asked pointedly as she took her margarita from my hand.
‘Nope, just friendly. And offering to show us a good time. Anyway, it’s hardly fair that you get to kiss a girl while I get the evil eye for being polite.’
Instead of responding, Kris pouted then gave me a lopsided smile. I smiled back, ‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ she said, and we both started laughing. ‘Having a great time with you as my personal Stockholm tour guide. But I’m getting tired. Maybe we should finish the drinks and call it a night?’
‘I’m not surprised that you’re tired, considering we’ve had four double margaritas tonight. Each.’
‘Doubles? You devious man, what’re you trying to do, get me drunk? Have your way with me, do depraved and unspeakable things? Expecting me to reciprocate enthusiastically, no doubt.’
‘Yes, I admit, that was my diabolical plan.’
‘What are you waiting for, then?’
We walked leisurely to Stureplan instead, the focal point of the Stockholm in-crowd. The beautiful, the rich, the famous and not-yet-famous mingling with suburban wannabes and small groups of wide-eyed tourists, everyone expectant and more or less under the influence. The homeless people had already taken possession of doorways, soliciting passers-by for money or a fag. Just another Friday night in downtown Stockholm.
I got us into Sture Hof past two apes, for another round of margaritas in the overcrowded outdoor area.
‘The women are yummy here. I don’t understand why you ever wanted to leave Stockholm,’ Kris shouted in my ear, checking out the tanned legs and tits on display while getting lascivious looks in return from several of the babes. Seeing my expression she quickly added with an apologetic smile, ‘and some of the men are hunks too. Like you.’
Two drinks later, Kris was in deep conversation with a girl in her early twenties.
‘I go to Thailand every winter,’ the girl was saying, swaying and having difficulties focusing her eyes, waving a lit cigarette all over the place, ‘but now I realise I must come to Malaysia instead. You are… soo beautiful… soo sexy.’
I really don’t know how she does it, my lovely Kris. Over the years I’ve had my decent share of women approaching me with an obvious interest going beyond a witty conversation. Kris, though, is in a different league altogether, as I’ve had the opportunity to observe on many occasions. Yes, men will look at her and drool but would rarely dare come up to her, whereas women get all starry-eyed, begin with a chat and end up begging to be laid.
‘Darling,’ I shouted to Kris, certain that the girl was too far gone to understand, or even hear me, ‘how about we depart for the next place? Otherwise she’ll soon ask you to fuck her right here.’
‘How crude of you to suggest that,’ Kris replied playfully, ‘she’s just drunk. And maybe a touch horny – not a crime, is it?’
‘Not unless you engage in explicit sex in a public place. Which I’m sure is a misdemeanour even in Sweden.’
‘I have to pee,’ the girl announced, then looked hopefully at Kris. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
Kris declined politely and kissed her instead, oblivious to the jealous stares this provoked around us.
‘I’m sure she’ll come to her senses eventually,’ I said as we stepped over the low fence enclosing the bar and walked down the street. Having kept the best for the grand finale, we arrived at my favourite Stockholm haunt, Riche, where the hip media crowd comes to be seen having deep, meaningful conversations about nothing. Another place with ridiculously expensive booze, but at least they do know how to mix drinks.
The ape at the door must’ve been stunned by Kris because he moved almost humbly to one side to let us in. It was just as I remembered it, crowded and impossible to find any bar space. I managed anyway, squeezing myself in next to two suburban hopefuls of a certain age, all tarted up and ready for action.
‘Sorry ladies, you won’t mind, would you, me getting a drink?’ And, reading the looks they gave me, quickly added, pointing at Kris, ‘For me and my girlfriend.’
That’s how it used to be when I lived in Stockholm. I’d come to Riche for a quiet drink or three and sometimes end up with a strange woman in my bed. Without ever meaning to, honestly, yet having a quiet chat the next day with several representatives from my subconscious. Initially about the gentlest way to get the woman, not even remembering her name, out of the flat and into a cab. Followed by self-recrimination: How could I use a woman for my own gratification? Why do I even get any satisfaction from fucking a woman that I’ll probably never see again? Am I a total bastard and should be ashamed of myself? Then, later in the day, I’d remember telling the woman that I’m celibate following the end of an intense relationship and not yet ready for intimacy. The perfect put-off, right? Yet having told it time and again, it only seemed to make women more eager to prove me wrong. Female logic at its finest.
‘How do you like Stockholm?’ tart one asked. ‘And how long are you staying here?’
‘We can show you around,’ tart two elaborated, ‘make sure you two have a good time.’
‘I’m sure you girls could,’ I gave them my best ambiguous smile as I signed the card slip. ‘Let me ask my girlfriend.’
‘Friends of yours, are they?’ Kris asked pointedly as she took her margarita from my hand.
‘Nope, just friendly. And offering to show us a good time. Anyway, it’s hardly fair that you get to kiss a girl while I get the evil eye for being polite.’
Instead of responding, Kris pouted then gave me a lopsided smile. I smiled back, ‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am,’ she said, and we both started laughing. ‘Having a great time with you as my personal Stockholm tour guide. But I’m getting tired. Maybe we should finish the drinks and call it a night?’
‘I’m not surprised that you’re tired, considering we’ve had four double margaritas tonight. Each.’
‘Doubles? You devious man, what’re you trying to do, get me drunk? Have your way with me, do depraved and unspeakable things? Expecting me to reciprocate enthusiastically, no doubt.’
‘Yes, I admit, that was my diabolical plan.’
‘What are you waiting for, then?’
Chapter 47
‘Darling, let’s not forget that tonight is a working night. We’re on a mission,’ Kris announced. ‘I’m sure the party will be fun, but our main purpose is to get to read the relevant bits in the diary, or possibly diaries.’
‘Absolutely, pumpkin. I get it, tonight’s all about work. That’s why you’re wearing a hot shot boardroom high flyer outfit,’ I said not at all sarcastically as the lift door opened.
Kris stepped out without bothering to reply, and as she walked assertively across the hotel lobby with me all conversation halted, with everyone looking at us in stunned awe. No, let me correct that, everyone looking at Kris. At the reception, a tired looking, middle aged couple stopped bickering until the woman forcibly turned the man’s face away from Kris and told him off loudly.
I wasn’t surprised at all, considering Kris’ appearance: stiletto heeled boots ending just above her knees; thereafter a generous amount of creamy and faultlessly shaped thighs meeting in a most delightful way the bottom part of her sexy, tight arse; followed by a very high-cut leather skirt that looked like it’d been sewed in place; above that, a leather and lace corset was struggling to contain Kris’ tits, having already lost half the battle against her nipples. A leather choker with lethal looking spikes emphasised her slender neck. Hanging from the oversized and likewise studded belt, the handcuffs and the whip were nicely in rhythm, doing a clang-swish with each step. Me, I was the invisible man in comparison, wearing plain leather jeans and a jacket – common enough attire in swanky Stockholm.
‘Susie said she’d pick us up. Let’s see if there’s a car waiting outside.’
‘Would that be the stretched limo hogging most of the driveway?’ I asked as the rear door opened and a young woman waved at us. Dressed in black underwear and stockings.
‘Oh yes, that’s Susie,’ Kris exclaimed and proceeded to embrace and kiss the woman. ‘Darling, this is Susie, my dearest friend in Sweden. Susie, this is Alex, my Malaysian boyfriend.’
‘Hi Alex,’ Susie chirped happily as she hugged me, then looked at me closely, ‘you don’t look very Malaysian to me.’
‘Ah, Madam, we come in all shapes and colours over there,’ I said solemnly in my best Indian lilt and did a near perfect head wiggle, then bowed slightly and kissed her hand.
‘Pish posh,’ Kris interjected. ‘He’s as European as you are. He just happens to live there and loves to pretend he’s a local.’
My response was interrupted by another pair of stocking-clad legs appearing from inside the car, followed by the rest of the girl. Just as blond and lovely as Susie, and also only covered in flimsy underwear, however hers was white.
‘Kris, Alex, meet Emma, my girlfriend,’ Susie said.
‘Most charmed to meet you, Emma,’ I said with another gentlemanly bow. ‘Having lived several years in Stockholm I regret I never had the opportunity to meet either of you. Or at least if I’d been a gecko–’
‘Don’t mind Alex, girls, he gets weird sometimes,’ Kris interrupted me with a warning look. ‘Let’s get going, we don’t want to be late for the party, do we?’
‘Absolutely, pumpkin. I get it, tonight’s all about work. That’s why you’re wearing a hot shot boardroom high flyer outfit,’ I said not at all sarcastically as the lift door opened.
Kris stepped out without bothering to reply, and as she walked assertively across the hotel lobby with me all conversation halted, with everyone looking at us in stunned awe. No, let me correct that, everyone looking at Kris. At the reception, a tired looking, middle aged couple stopped bickering until the woman forcibly turned the man’s face away from Kris and told him off loudly.
I wasn’t surprised at all, considering Kris’ appearance: stiletto heeled boots ending just above her knees; thereafter a generous amount of creamy and faultlessly shaped thighs meeting in a most delightful way the bottom part of her sexy, tight arse; followed by a very high-cut leather skirt that looked like it’d been sewed in place; above that, a leather and lace corset was struggling to contain Kris’ tits, having already lost half the battle against her nipples. A leather choker with lethal looking spikes emphasised her slender neck. Hanging from the oversized and likewise studded belt, the handcuffs and the whip were nicely in rhythm, doing a clang-swish with each step. Me, I was the invisible man in comparison, wearing plain leather jeans and a jacket – common enough attire in swanky Stockholm.
‘Susie said she’d pick us up. Let’s see if there’s a car waiting outside.’
‘Would that be the stretched limo hogging most of the driveway?’ I asked as the rear door opened and a young woman waved at us. Dressed in black underwear and stockings.
‘Oh yes, that’s Susie,’ Kris exclaimed and proceeded to embrace and kiss the woman. ‘Darling, this is Susie, my dearest friend in Sweden. Susie, this is Alex, my Malaysian boyfriend.’
‘Hi Alex,’ Susie chirped happily as she hugged me, then looked at me closely, ‘you don’t look very Malaysian to me.’
‘Ah, Madam, we come in all shapes and colours over there,’ I said solemnly in my best Indian lilt and did a near perfect head wiggle, then bowed slightly and kissed her hand.
‘Pish posh,’ Kris interjected. ‘He’s as European as you are. He just happens to live there and loves to pretend he’s a local.’
My response was interrupted by another pair of stocking-clad legs appearing from inside the car, followed by the rest of the girl. Just as blond and lovely as Susie, and also only covered in flimsy underwear, however hers was white.
‘Kris, Alex, meet Emma, my girlfriend,’ Susie said.
‘Most charmed to meet you, Emma,’ I said with another gentlemanly bow. ‘Having lived several years in Stockholm I regret I never had the opportunity to meet either of you. Or at least if I’d been a gecko–’
‘Don’t mind Alex, girls, he gets weird sometimes,’ Kris interrupted me with a warning look. ‘Let’s get going, we don’t want to be late for the party, do we?’
●
Sometimes life deals you a hand that’s intolerably frustrating. I was in a limo with three partially naked and totally fuckable babes sprawling on the rear seat, with me hunched on one of the seats opposite. We’d shared a bottle of bubbly before Susie brought out a vial which I declined politely. It’s not that I don’t do coke on occasion but I’d promised Kris to stay focused.
As much as Susie seemed to be into Emma, it was obvious she still had the hots for Kris. She’d kiss Emma, then turn to Kris and nuzzle her ear. In less than five minutes after the coke (‘very good, very pure stuff,’ Susie had asserted), they were all groping and kissing each other, oblivious to my presence. I knew better than to try and join them; this was definitely one of those no-men-allowed situations.
Instead, I attempted to identify the route we were taking, peering through the tinted windows. I knew approximately the party location, having googled it, but wanted to find out which way the driver was taking us, trying to remember my driving and boating forays into the archipelago. The mansion was on the northern tip of Värmdön, an island east of Stockholm and quite far out. More or less in the middle of nowhere, which didn’t surprise me considering our host’s – and I’m sure his ancestors’, as well – desire for privacy. My main concern was how to get away from the place safely once we’d found what we were looking for.
Almost an hour and multiple coke lines later, the limo pulled up in front of the staircase of a grand, slightly dilapidated building. The girls piled out, giggling and unsteady on the gravel in their high heels. The discrete lighting illuminated a courtyard with a couple of faux-roman statues and a handful of Italian exotica parked carelessly off one side. There were several grim looking men about, all of them in dark suits. Some of them were striding purposefully across the courtyard, holding a hand to the earpiece and pretending to have a serious conversation about security, others stood in the standard, look-at-me-I’m-so-mean position on the stairs, legs apart and hands crossed over the crotch.
One of them came halfway down the stairs, placed himself firmly in our way and asked in a robotic voice, ‘Är ni på listan?’
‘No, we’re not on the list,’ I responded cheerfully. ‘We just decided to dress up like this, rent a limo and drive aimlessly through Stockholm suburbs until we found a suitable party to crash.’
It took the guard a while to consider what I’d said and give me the expected reply, ‘So, you must leave, this is a private party and–’
‘You’re not hired for your sense of humour, are you? Nor your IQ?’ I sighed. ‘Now be a good pet and tell your owner that four of his guests have arrived.’
The guard looked at me uncertainly, trying to process more information than his brain could ever hope to cope with simultaneously. He started coming down the last two stairs menacingly, looked at the giggling girls and stopped, retreated to the door and instructed us to wait while he mumbled frenetically into the headset. Almost immediately, the doors opened and a silhouette appeared, slapping the guard to one side then widening its arms in an expansive welcome gesture.
‘Ah, my most esteemed guest is here! You are truly welcome to my home.’
Susie and Emma ran screaming up the stairs, Kris and I followed in a more dignified manner.
Having greeted the underwear duo with appropriate hugs and air kisses, our host turned towards Kris, beaming, ‘I am most privileged to welcome a lady from the house of Bathory to my home.’
Hearing the name I looked at Kris wide eyed. She gave me a shrug and continued up the stairs. As a gentleman I let Kris walk ahead of me, which also gave me the opportunity to observe our host as he stepped out towards us. The tight latex pants and top couldn’t quite conceal the flab around his midriff nor his beginning tits. The thinning yellow hair, slicked back, only emphasised the receding hairline. Pasty jowls and a veined nose completed the unsavoury picture. For a man in his mid-fifties, life had not been kind to Herr Löwenhaupt. I’ve always believed that, sooner or later, you become what you are, if you know what I mean. By all accounts, he was a dissolute – and not a very nice one at that.
From somewhere inside the house there was a palpable thump of techno music. In between the thumps, and barely audible, I could discern Sinatra crooning elsewhere. A few of the guests were loitering aimlessly in the hall: stumbling along or supporting themselves on the dark wood panelling; dressed in main street chic and already sloshed, well before midnight. I wasn’t surprised, having seen it all before – welcome to Sweden.
‘We are honoured to be invited to one of your legendary events,’ Kris was laying it on thick as the count slobbered over her hand, ‘but I am just a distant leaf on the Ecsed branch of the family. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention my family name tonight. It has been used and abused over the centuries.’
‘I understand completely, ma chère, and I promise you that the name shall not pass my lips again. But how do I introduce you? The mysterious Comtesse?’
‘Just Kristina will be fine,’ Kris replied, her hand still enveloped by the count’s meaty paw. ‘And it’s Marquise, actually. But I never use the title, it’s so… outdated, don’t you think?’
‘Hi, Henrik,’ I said cheerfully, getting my cue from Kris. ‘I’m Alex. Just Alex – I’ve never bothered using my full name or title either. Kris and I prefer it that way.’
‘Er… welcome, Alex,’ the count responded, eyeing me up and down, then looked inquiringly at Kris.
She was quick on the uptake: ‘Ah yes, Henrik, this is Alex, my partner. Please don’t take him too seriously. He pretends to be an egalitarian and,’ leaning towards the count, continuing in a stage whisper, ‘a communiste nouveau. It seems to be all the rage in his circles,’ she finished with an exaggerated wink.
‘How interesting,’ the count nodded, unconvinced. ‘Well, you are both very welcome, but first of all – and I hope you will not mind – my staff must make sure that you do not have phones with you.’ He ushered us inside the entrance hall, where another guard was standing with a device in his hand. ‘I have to protect the privacy of all my guests, you understand.’
So much for taking snapshots of the diary, I thought. I hadn’t taken my phone with me, but was sure Kris had hers. Hoping to give her time to hide it in a plant pot or something, I stepped forward and raised my arms.
‘Go on, give me a good checkout, you fascist lackey,’ I said with a wink at Henrik. ‘And may I suggest you do a proper manual search of my groin? I’m sure you’d appreciate it.’
The guard was either brain dead or on horse tranquilizer. He didn’t react to my goading, just scanned me diligently and declared me clean with a nod at the count.
Instead of surreptitiously hiding her phone during the charade, Kris had been watching me with an amused look. Once it was her turn, she held out her arms and did a sexy turn in front of the count. Looking at her tight outfit, I couldn’t see any possible hiding place for a phone.
‘Do a thorough search, by all means, you two,’ she said loudly, ‘but only if I’m allowed to check both of you afterwards, here and now.’
The count, having had an eyeful of Kris from all angles, considered this for a moment then dismissed the guard with a barely perceptible shake of the head.
‘Toutes mes excuses, chère mademoiselle. I must apologise profusely for needlessly insisting on this,’ the count stuttered. ‘It’s just that, some years ago, we had a so-called journalist,’ he spat the word out, ‘pretending to be a guest here, hoping to get a scoop. Most of my guests are public figures.’
‘I understand all too well, Henrik,’ Kris nodded knowingly then pointed in surprise. ‘But what do you have there? Are those human skulls?’
She was looking at two huge wood and glass cabinets opposite the entrance doors. Arranged on the shelves were numerous objects – several miserable looking skulls, missing most of the teeth but with bits of dried tissue still hanging on for effect; crude clubs and daggers made out of bone; a couple of clay masks decorated with shells, feathers and tusks. But no diaries, dammit.
‘One of my ancestors collected this, a century ago,’ the count answered with a mix of pride and distaste. ‘He spent years in the Pacific with dirty savages, documenting their superstitious beliefs and customs. A great scientist but unfortunately ignored like many other great men.’
‘Wow, that is amazing,’ Kris fluttered her eyelashes at the count in adoration, ‘he must have been so brave! A real life Indiana Jones – I bet he was the inspiration for the films. You must be so proud of him and his fantastic collection.’
‘Oh, it’s just a small part of it, the most interesting stuff. The rest is stored,’ the count said dismissively, vaguely pointing down. ‘But it’s quite boring, to be truthful.’
A waiter came in through an unmarked door, carrying a tray with filled glasses and aiming for the stairs. The count stopped him brusquely and took two glasses which he presented to us.
‘Before you go and enjoy yourselves, let me explain the layout. The main party areas are here, on ground level, with a food buffet and two bars in the reception – straight ahead, with some rooms upstairs for those that want more privacy,’ he actually leered as he said it. ‘For the ultimate experience, the pleasure room is in the basement, the entrance is here, next to the cabinets. It has its own bar, but not a bartender. And – I do apologise if I’m stating the obvious… it is a free zone. Anything is allowed there, in absolute privacy. One last thing – I don’t believe in locked doors. However, if a door is closed, or there is a sign saying “private”, please respect it.’
‘The pleasure room sounds very interesting,’ Kris winked suggestively. ‘We’ll have to check it out.’
‘It would give me great satisfaction,’ the count could barely hold himself, ‘to show a Bathory the full range of equipment and fittings available.’
‘We’re taking you up on that promise, Henrik,’ Kris said decisively. ‘For now, though, we’ll do a tour of your amazing mansion. And start with the buffet. I’d expect you to have all the local specialties? Gravlax and North Sea prawns? Yummy.’
Without waiting for an answer, Kris grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the noise coming through a wide door between the two cabinets.
The reception room was enormous and crowded with guests, a bar at each end with the buffet tables laid out in the middle. Beyond that, over a dozen tables with chairs lined the panorama windows. Outside the windows a Mediterranean-inspired terrace, with a few arguing couples to complete the Bergman setting, ended in a gentle slope towards the dark water edge.
‘We might as well enjoy ourselves while we can,’ Kris said as she made her way to the buffet.’
I followed her to the nearest table, watching in amazement as she piled cured salmon, pink shrimps and pickled herring on a plate. At least there’s no stinking surströmming on offer, I thought appreciatively before I remembered that it’s only traditionally eaten in late August. Trust the Swedes (only a minority, to be truthful, enjoy eating rotted fish) to be autistic enough and patiently wait twelve months to sample it, even as it’s freely available in cans throughout the year.
I stood behind Kris, still with an empty plate and considering my options. She’d reached for the fork on the plate of yet another of the differently flavoured herrings as an apparition in red picked up the utensil before realising that someone else was after it. Kris appraised her and gave her a wide predatory smile, saying, ‘Go on, dear, please. And if you’re still hungry and itching afterwards I may help you with that as well.’
‘I’m so sorry, mistress,’ the girl replied submissively. Wearing high heels, stockings, and a tiny vinyl dress, everything – including her makeup and hair – was in hues of crimson. Damn, I should’ve been a dom lesbian, I thought, there’s so much pussy freely available. Well, at least I was privileged enough to be given an insight into how Kris does it.
Dismissing the girl, Kris turned towards me. As I picked my way through sundry plates she whispered, ‘The stuff is in the basement, he more or less said so. And most probably accessible through the kitchen. Let’s finish the food and do a basic mingle, then check out the kitchen. Give them your sweet-talk and impress them with your culinary knowledge.’
As much as Susie seemed to be into Emma, it was obvious she still had the hots for Kris. She’d kiss Emma, then turn to Kris and nuzzle her ear. In less than five minutes after the coke (‘very good, very pure stuff,’ Susie had asserted), they were all groping and kissing each other, oblivious to my presence. I knew better than to try and join them; this was definitely one of those no-men-allowed situations.
Instead, I attempted to identify the route we were taking, peering through the tinted windows. I knew approximately the party location, having googled it, but wanted to find out which way the driver was taking us, trying to remember my driving and boating forays into the archipelago. The mansion was on the northern tip of Värmdön, an island east of Stockholm and quite far out. More or less in the middle of nowhere, which didn’t surprise me considering our host’s – and I’m sure his ancestors’, as well – desire for privacy. My main concern was how to get away from the place safely once we’d found what we were looking for.
Almost an hour and multiple coke lines later, the limo pulled up in front of the staircase of a grand, slightly dilapidated building. The girls piled out, giggling and unsteady on the gravel in their high heels. The discrete lighting illuminated a courtyard with a couple of faux-roman statues and a handful of Italian exotica parked carelessly off one side. There were several grim looking men about, all of them in dark suits. Some of them were striding purposefully across the courtyard, holding a hand to the earpiece and pretending to have a serious conversation about security, others stood in the standard, look-at-me-I’m-so-mean position on the stairs, legs apart and hands crossed over the crotch.
One of them came halfway down the stairs, placed himself firmly in our way and asked in a robotic voice, ‘Är ni på listan?’
‘No, we’re not on the list,’ I responded cheerfully. ‘We just decided to dress up like this, rent a limo and drive aimlessly through Stockholm suburbs until we found a suitable party to crash.’
It took the guard a while to consider what I’d said and give me the expected reply, ‘So, you must leave, this is a private party and–’
‘You’re not hired for your sense of humour, are you? Nor your IQ?’ I sighed. ‘Now be a good pet and tell your owner that four of his guests have arrived.’
The guard looked at me uncertainly, trying to process more information than his brain could ever hope to cope with simultaneously. He started coming down the last two stairs menacingly, looked at the giggling girls and stopped, retreated to the door and instructed us to wait while he mumbled frenetically into the headset. Almost immediately, the doors opened and a silhouette appeared, slapping the guard to one side then widening its arms in an expansive welcome gesture.
‘Ah, my most esteemed guest is here! You are truly welcome to my home.’
Susie and Emma ran screaming up the stairs, Kris and I followed in a more dignified manner.
Having greeted the underwear duo with appropriate hugs and air kisses, our host turned towards Kris, beaming, ‘I am most privileged to welcome a lady from the house of Bathory to my home.’
Hearing the name I looked at Kris wide eyed. She gave me a shrug and continued up the stairs. As a gentleman I let Kris walk ahead of me, which also gave me the opportunity to observe our host as he stepped out towards us. The tight latex pants and top couldn’t quite conceal the flab around his midriff nor his beginning tits. The thinning yellow hair, slicked back, only emphasised the receding hairline. Pasty jowls and a veined nose completed the unsavoury picture. For a man in his mid-fifties, life had not been kind to Herr Löwenhaupt. I’ve always believed that, sooner or later, you become what you are, if you know what I mean. By all accounts, he was a dissolute – and not a very nice one at that.
From somewhere inside the house there was a palpable thump of techno music. In between the thumps, and barely audible, I could discern Sinatra crooning elsewhere. A few of the guests were loitering aimlessly in the hall: stumbling along or supporting themselves on the dark wood panelling; dressed in main street chic and already sloshed, well before midnight. I wasn’t surprised, having seen it all before – welcome to Sweden.
‘We are honoured to be invited to one of your legendary events,’ Kris was laying it on thick as the count slobbered over her hand, ‘but I am just a distant leaf on the Ecsed branch of the family. And I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention my family name tonight. It has been used and abused over the centuries.’
‘I understand completely, ma chère, and I promise you that the name shall not pass my lips again. But how do I introduce you? The mysterious Comtesse?’
‘Just Kristina will be fine,’ Kris replied, her hand still enveloped by the count’s meaty paw. ‘And it’s Marquise, actually. But I never use the title, it’s so… outdated, don’t you think?’
‘Hi, Henrik,’ I said cheerfully, getting my cue from Kris. ‘I’m Alex. Just Alex – I’ve never bothered using my full name or title either. Kris and I prefer it that way.’
‘Er… welcome, Alex,’ the count responded, eyeing me up and down, then looked inquiringly at Kris.
She was quick on the uptake: ‘Ah yes, Henrik, this is Alex, my partner. Please don’t take him too seriously. He pretends to be an egalitarian and,’ leaning towards the count, continuing in a stage whisper, ‘a communiste nouveau. It seems to be all the rage in his circles,’ she finished with an exaggerated wink.
‘How interesting,’ the count nodded, unconvinced. ‘Well, you are both very welcome, but first of all – and I hope you will not mind – my staff must make sure that you do not have phones with you.’ He ushered us inside the entrance hall, where another guard was standing with a device in his hand. ‘I have to protect the privacy of all my guests, you understand.’
So much for taking snapshots of the diary, I thought. I hadn’t taken my phone with me, but was sure Kris had hers. Hoping to give her time to hide it in a plant pot or something, I stepped forward and raised my arms.
‘Go on, give me a good checkout, you fascist lackey,’ I said with a wink at Henrik. ‘And may I suggest you do a proper manual search of my groin? I’m sure you’d appreciate it.’
The guard was either brain dead or on horse tranquilizer. He didn’t react to my goading, just scanned me diligently and declared me clean with a nod at the count.
Instead of surreptitiously hiding her phone during the charade, Kris had been watching me with an amused look. Once it was her turn, she held out her arms and did a sexy turn in front of the count. Looking at her tight outfit, I couldn’t see any possible hiding place for a phone.
‘Do a thorough search, by all means, you two,’ she said loudly, ‘but only if I’m allowed to check both of you afterwards, here and now.’
The count, having had an eyeful of Kris from all angles, considered this for a moment then dismissed the guard with a barely perceptible shake of the head.
‘Toutes mes excuses, chère mademoiselle. I must apologise profusely for needlessly insisting on this,’ the count stuttered. ‘It’s just that, some years ago, we had a so-called journalist,’ he spat the word out, ‘pretending to be a guest here, hoping to get a scoop. Most of my guests are public figures.’
‘I understand all too well, Henrik,’ Kris nodded knowingly then pointed in surprise. ‘But what do you have there? Are those human skulls?’
She was looking at two huge wood and glass cabinets opposite the entrance doors. Arranged on the shelves were numerous objects – several miserable looking skulls, missing most of the teeth but with bits of dried tissue still hanging on for effect; crude clubs and daggers made out of bone; a couple of clay masks decorated with shells, feathers and tusks. But no diaries, dammit.
‘One of my ancestors collected this, a century ago,’ the count answered with a mix of pride and distaste. ‘He spent years in the Pacific with dirty savages, documenting their superstitious beliefs and customs. A great scientist but unfortunately ignored like many other great men.’
‘Wow, that is amazing,’ Kris fluttered her eyelashes at the count in adoration, ‘he must have been so brave! A real life Indiana Jones – I bet he was the inspiration for the films. You must be so proud of him and his fantastic collection.’
‘Oh, it’s just a small part of it, the most interesting stuff. The rest is stored,’ the count said dismissively, vaguely pointing down. ‘But it’s quite boring, to be truthful.’
A waiter came in through an unmarked door, carrying a tray with filled glasses and aiming for the stairs. The count stopped him brusquely and took two glasses which he presented to us.
‘Before you go and enjoy yourselves, let me explain the layout. The main party areas are here, on ground level, with a food buffet and two bars in the reception – straight ahead, with some rooms upstairs for those that want more privacy,’ he actually leered as he said it. ‘For the ultimate experience, the pleasure room is in the basement, the entrance is here, next to the cabinets. It has its own bar, but not a bartender. And – I do apologise if I’m stating the obvious… it is a free zone. Anything is allowed there, in absolute privacy. One last thing – I don’t believe in locked doors. However, if a door is closed, or there is a sign saying “private”, please respect it.’
‘The pleasure room sounds very interesting,’ Kris winked suggestively. ‘We’ll have to check it out.’
‘It would give me great satisfaction,’ the count could barely hold himself, ‘to show a Bathory the full range of equipment and fittings available.’
‘We’re taking you up on that promise, Henrik,’ Kris said decisively. ‘For now, though, we’ll do a tour of your amazing mansion. And start with the buffet. I’d expect you to have all the local specialties? Gravlax and North Sea prawns? Yummy.’
Without waiting for an answer, Kris grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the noise coming through a wide door between the two cabinets.
The reception room was enormous and crowded with guests, a bar at each end with the buffet tables laid out in the middle. Beyond that, over a dozen tables with chairs lined the panorama windows. Outside the windows a Mediterranean-inspired terrace, with a few arguing couples to complete the Bergman setting, ended in a gentle slope towards the dark water edge.
‘We might as well enjoy ourselves while we can,’ Kris said as she made her way to the buffet.’
I followed her to the nearest table, watching in amazement as she piled cured salmon, pink shrimps and pickled herring on a plate. At least there’s no stinking surströmming on offer, I thought appreciatively before I remembered that it’s only traditionally eaten in late August. Trust the Swedes (only a minority, to be truthful, enjoy eating rotted fish) to be autistic enough and patiently wait twelve months to sample it, even as it’s freely available in cans throughout the year.
I stood behind Kris, still with an empty plate and considering my options. She’d reached for the fork on the plate of yet another of the differently flavoured herrings as an apparition in red picked up the utensil before realising that someone else was after it. Kris appraised her and gave her a wide predatory smile, saying, ‘Go on, dear, please. And if you’re still hungry and itching afterwards I may help you with that as well.’
‘I’m so sorry, mistress,’ the girl replied submissively. Wearing high heels, stockings, and a tiny vinyl dress, everything – including her makeup and hair – was in hues of crimson. Damn, I should’ve been a dom lesbian, I thought, there’s so much pussy freely available. Well, at least I was privileged enough to be given an insight into how Kris does it.
Dismissing the girl, Kris turned towards me. As I picked my way through sundry plates she whispered, ‘The stuff is in the basement, he more or less said so. And most probably accessible through the kitchen. Let’s finish the food and do a basic mingle, then check out the kitchen. Give them your sweet-talk and impress them with your culinary knowledge.’
●
‘Hi, ladies,’ I said cheerfully as I entered the kitchen, Kris close behind me. ‘Is there any chance of you sharing your secret recipes with me? If they’re as tasty as they look I may share some of mine with you.’
There were two solid looking women cooks in there, sweating and grunting as they arranged the food on the next batch of trays, and a guy waiting for them to be ready. I ignored him.
‘Ah, Janssons frestelse,’ I exclaimed as I leaned over a baking dish and inhaled deeply. ‘My favourite Swedish dish. Tell me, do you use cream only, as I do, instead of mixing it with milk? For maximum fullness.’
‘You must not be here,’ the guy said sternly. ‘Zis is kitchen.’
‘I know it’s the kitchen,’ I replied casually, ‘that’s why I’m here. To see how all this lovely food is prepared,’ I bowed to the women, ‘by a couple of Michelin star chefs, no doubt.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kris discretely checking out the kitchen layout and any possible entrance to the basement, shaking her head in disappointment.
‘Ja, we use much cream,’ one of the two women smiled shyly at me. ‘It gives better taste.’
‘So sorry for interrupting you,’ I smiled back. ‘I just had to see for myself how angels make food. This looks divine. And I can hardly wait for the desserts, I’m sure they will be to die for.’
I left the kitchen, nodding and smiling to the women and pushing Kris in front of me. ‘No basement entrance?’ I asked her.
‘Nothing obvious. Not even a wine cellar. It must be elsewhere.’
‘Maybe it’s only accessible from the outside. You know, like a servants’ entrance at the back of the house.’
Kris considered it. ‘Yes, you may be right. Let’s go outside.’
‘Let’s not. At least, not yet. We already have security taking an interest in us.’
The guard at the entrance had eyed us suspiciously as we came out of the kitchen and was now hissing intently into his mike. I waved at him and signalled several indecent activities using my hands, all behind Kris’ back, nodding at her. Being a bloke and thinking what a lucky bastard I was, he nodded back at me and smiled. And, crucially, cut the conversation.
‘Darling, let’s check out the dungeon,’ I suggested, loudly enough for the guard to hear me. ‘See if there are any ropes there, if Swedes are familiar with Kinbaku.’
Kris caught on, as I’d expected her to, and stopped in her tracks. As I bumped into her from behind, she grabbed my hips and started grinding her crotch against my arse.
‘Oh yes, baby, let’s go down. I want you to eat me. Right now.’
‘Was that just for show? Or are you genuinely horny?’ I asked as we started down the stairs.
‘Wouldn’t you want to know.’
‘Yes, actually, I would.’
‘Let’s wait until we get down. I may tell you then, if I feel like it.’
‘By all means, milady Bathory,’ I couldn’t help teasing her.
Kris sighed, ‘That was a necessity, to make sure the count would be curious enough to invite us. I just dropped a few hints to Susie. But it doesn’t mean that you can joke about it.’
‘Sorry, your worshipfulness.’
‘Shut up.’
The basement was all moody, sexy red lighting, with heavy velvet curtains covering the walls and Sinatra trying to convince someone to fly with him. At the bottom of the stairs, a couple was slow dancing – either deeply in love or totally sloshed – and this being Sweden, I knew what I would have bet on. On our left, a seating area with comfy looking sofas and a few wooden, high backed chairs. Very uncomfortable and very much bondage. Beyond that, there were enough toys to keep de Sade happy, including a Saint Andrew’s cross and a nasty looking contraption hanging from the ceiling, with numerous hooks attached to it.
I immediately went looking for the bar and found it at the far end of the room, hidden from immediate view and to the right of the torture corner. As the count had said, there was no bartender on duty. The bar selection was less then comprehensive, so I poured Kris a generous measure of Bombay gin, added some tonic and a slice of tired looking lemon. For myself, a good three fingers of Glenfiddich. The count was a cheapskate, that was obvious. Only one single malt to choose from, and a measly 12 year old at that.
‘Cheers, baby, if nothing else we’ll have a smashing party tonight. Can’t be a winner every time.’
‘I didn’t think I’d ever hear a management consultant say that. Not even an ex-consultant,’ Kris sounded annoyed and frustrated, sitting on the edge of a sofa. ‘There must be something that we’ve missed. And me going to such trouble to get the phone in.’
‘You didn’t! Where? How?’
Kris moved even further onto the edge of the sofa, reached under her skirt, grunted once and pulled out a tiny package.
‘With lots of lubricant,’ she declared triumphantly and proceeded to peel a condom off the phone. ‘It’s a Jelly Pro, and very aptly named. Perfect for the travelling businesswoman who needs a spare phone with extra buzz. And two SIM slots.’
‘You never stop to amaze me, woman.’
‘Now all we need is to find the room.’
The malt, as cheap as it may have been, was happily making its way through my bloodstream, suggesting to me that I be friends with the whole world.
‘Why not just give it up for once? Have a drink, dance – you know, just enjoy ourselves. Maybe Susie and her girlfriend will pop in later and we’ll have a smashing orgy. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘You want to fuck my old girlfriend, is that it? Not feeling man enough until you’ve done it? Here we have a chance to find out more about your – your! – fucking dreams and what they mean, and all you’re doing is thinking with your cock. When we have this… this thing giving us clues and pushing us and–’ Kris stopped her rant wide eyed, and pointed at the wall in front of us. ‘It’s there, it must be!’
‘What is?’
‘The rest of the basement. Think about it. We’re in an area that should be as large, or nearly so, as the ground floor.’
‘And?’
‘Yet this room is at an angle. There must be something behind it.’
‘How about impenetrable rock? I know enough about Sweden to state with confidence that there’s a lot of granite around. So they probably dug out as much as they could down here.’
‘What if you’re wrong and there’s a hidden room, right in front of us, just–’
The loving, sloshed couple had stopped dancing and were arguing with someone who’d come down the stairs. ‘Jag vill inte,’ and ‘fy fan, du är en gammal slusk,’ was coming across. I knew enough Swedish to understand that whoever was saying it wasn’t appreciative of the offers and decided to intervene.
‘The lady is with us,’ I got up and nodded in Kris’ direction. ‘You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’ I asked in a sinister voice.
The couple departed in a rush and I took my time to look at and appreciate the woman that I’d just liberated. Yup, the crimson girl. Trust me to serve Kris with a lamb ready for slaughter and looking forward to it.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked as she approached the sofa where Kris was sitting. ‘Gin and tonic? Piña colada? Flaming Lamborghini? Coffee with moonshine?’
‘Get lost, Alex,’ Kris said, hitching up her skirt as the girl knelt in front of her. ‘Go enjoy yourself. Maybe,’ she pointed vaguely ahead, ‘you can find a way out. Or in. Whatever. Just go.’
This is the point where one, as Kris just suggested, fucks off in dejection. Or, if you’re like me, you read her sign language and go discreetly looking for a secret room. Not that I expected to find one, but you never know.
There were two solid looking women cooks in there, sweating and grunting as they arranged the food on the next batch of trays, and a guy waiting for them to be ready. I ignored him.
‘Ah, Janssons frestelse,’ I exclaimed as I leaned over a baking dish and inhaled deeply. ‘My favourite Swedish dish. Tell me, do you use cream only, as I do, instead of mixing it with milk? For maximum fullness.’
‘You must not be here,’ the guy said sternly. ‘Zis is kitchen.’
‘I know it’s the kitchen,’ I replied casually, ‘that’s why I’m here. To see how all this lovely food is prepared,’ I bowed to the women, ‘by a couple of Michelin star chefs, no doubt.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Kris discretely checking out the kitchen layout and any possible entrance to the basement, shaking her head in disappointment.
‘Ja, we use much cream,’ one of the two women smiled shyly at me. ‘It gives better taste.’
‘So sorry for interrupting you,’ I smiled back. ‘I just had to see for myself how angels make food. This looks divine. And I can hardly wait for the desserts, I’m sure they will be to die for.’
I left the kitchen, nodding and smiling to the women and pushing Kris in front of me. ‘No basement entrance?’ I asked her.
‘Nothing obvious. Not even a wine cellar. It must be elsewhere.’
‘Maybe it’s only accessible from the outside. You know, like a servants’ entrance at the back of the house.’
Kris considered it. ‘Yes, you may be right. Let’s go outside.’
‘Let’s not. At least, not yet. We already have security taking an interest in us.’
The guard at the entrance had eyed us suspiciously as we came out of the kitchen and was now hissing intently into his mike. I waved at him and signalled several indecent activities using my hands, all behind Kris’ back, nodding at her. Being a bloke and thinking what a lucky bastard I was, he nodded back at me and smiled. And, crucially, cut the conversation.
‘Darling, let’s check out the dungeon,’ I suggested, loudly enough for the guard to hear me. ‘See if there are any ropes there, if Swedes are familiar with Kinbaku.’
Kris caught on, as I’d expected her to, and stopped in her tracks. As I bumped into her from behind, she grabbed my hips and started grinding her crotch against my arse.
‘Oh yes, baby, let’s go down. I want you to eat me. Right now.’
‘Was that just for show? Or are you genuinely horny?’ I asked as we started down the stairs.
‘Wouldn’t you want to know.’
‘Yes, actually, I would.’
‘Let’s wait until we get down. I may tell you then, if I feel like it.’
‘By all means, milady Bathory,’ I couldn’t help teasing her.
Kris sighed, ‘That was a necessity, to make sure the count would be curious enough to invite us. I just dropped a few hints to Susie. But it doesn’t mean that you can joke about it.’
‘Sorry, your worshipfulness.’
‘Shut up.’
The basement was all moody, sexy red lighting, with heavy velvet curtains covering the walls and Sinatra trying to convince someone to fly with him. At the bottom of the stairs, a couple was slow dancing – either deeply in love or totally sloshed – and this being Sweden, I knew what I would have bet on. On our left, a seating area with comfy looking sofas and a few wooden, high backed chairs. Very uncomfortable and very much bondage. Beyond that, there were enough toys to keep de Sade happy, including a Saint Andrew’s cross and a nasty looking contraption hanging from the ceiling, with numerous hooks attached to it.
I immediately went looking for the bar and found it at the far end of the room, hidden from immediate view and to the right of the torture corner. As the count had said, there was no bartender on duty. The bar selection was less then comprehensive, so I poured Kris a generous measure of Bombay gin, added some tonic and a slice of tired looking lemon. For myself, a good three fingers of Glenfiddich. The count was a cheapskate, that was obvious. Only one single malt to choose from, and a measly 12 year old at that.
‘Cheers, baby, if nothing else we’ll have a smashing party tonight. Can’t be a winner every time.’
‘I didn’t think I’d ever hear a management consultant say that. Not even an ex-consultant,’ Kris sounded annoyed and frustrated, sitting on the edge of a sofa. ‘There must be something that we’ve missed. And me going to such trouble to get the phone in.’
‘You didn’t! Where? How?’
Kris moved even further onto the edge of the sofa, reached under her skirt, grunted once and pulled out a tiny package.
‘With lots of lubricant,’ she declared triumphantly and proceeded to peel a condom off the phone. ‘It’s a Jelly Pro, and very aptly named. Perfect for the travelling businesswoman who needs a spare phone with extra buzz. And two SIM slots.’
‘You never stop to amaze me, woman.’
‘Now all we need is to find the room.’
The malt, as cheap as it may have been, was happily making its way through my bloodstream, suggesting to me that I be friends with the whole world.
‘Why not just give it up for once? Have a drink, dance – you know, just enjoy ourselves. Maybe Susie and her girlfriend will pop in later and we’ll have a smashing orgy. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘You want to fuck my old girlfriend, is that it? Not feeling man enough until you’ve done it? Here we have a chance to find out more about your – your! – fucking dreams and what they mean, and all you’re doing is thinking with your cock. When we have this… this thing giving us clues and pushing us and–’ Kris stopped her rant wide eyed, and pointed at the wall in front of us. ‘It’s there, it must be!’
‘What is?’
‘The rest of the basement. Think about it. We’re in an area that should be as large, or nearly so, as the ground floor.’
‘And?’
‘Yet this room is at an angle. There must be something behind it.’
‘How about impenetrable rock? I know enough about Sweden to state with confidence that there’s a lot of granite around. So they probably dug out as much as they could down here.’
‘What if you’re wrong and there’s a hidden room, right in front of us, just–’
The loving, sloshed couple had stopped dancing and were arguing with someone who’d come down the stairs. ‘Jag vill inte,’ and ‘fy fan, du är en gammal slusk,’ was coming across. I knew enough Swedish to understand that whoever was saying it wasn’t appreciative of the offers and decided to intervene.
‘The lady is with us,’ I got up and nodded in Kris’ direction. ‘You don’t have a problem with that, do you?’ I asked in a sinister voice.
The couple departed in a rush and I took my time to look at and appreciate the woman that I’d just liberated. Yup, the crimson girl. Trust me to serve Kris with a lamb ready for slaughter and looking forward to it.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked as she approached the sofa where Kris was sitting. ‘Gin and tonic? Piña colada? Flaming Lamborghini? Coffee with moonshine?’
‘Get lost, Alex,’ Kris said, hitching up her skirt as the girl knelt in front of her. ‘Go enjoy yourself. Maybe,’ she pointed vaguely ahead, ‘you can find a way out. Or in. Whatever. Just go.’
This is the point where one, as Kris just suggested, fucks off in dejection. Or, if you’re like me, you read her sign language and go discreetly looking for a secret room. Not that I expected to find one, but you never know.
●
I started by going to the torture area, subtly knocking on the walls through the thick curtains. As expected, solid stone. Then I moved towards the bar, somewhat distracted by the sounds of the girl moaning and Kris telling her what a good slave she is. I followed the wall to where the bar cabinets were placed against it; checked them out thoroughly – too heavy to be moved easily unless the count had installed a secret door with the cabinets swinging inwards to reveal a secret passage. I continued my knocking on the wall to the right of the bar, moving faster, certain there was nothing behind this portion either. And nearly missed it.
A different thud this time, as I returned to the spot to check it again. Yes, definitely a different sound. Whatever was behind the curtains was massive but not stone. I peeked out from the corner of the bar area to make sure we were still alone, saw that Kris was enjoying herself, eyes closed and a tight grip on the girl’s head. I went back, tried to locate a gap in the curtains and, not finding any, lifted them up.
And there it was, a heavy door set in uneven stone. The wood was dark and pitted, the massive handle made of wrought iron. There was a large keyhole in the plate but no key. I tried the handle anyway, on the off chance that it was unlocked. Surprisingly smooth, and the door went in a couple of millimetres before it stopped. I tried again, just to be sure. Being an old lock there was a fair amount of shake, but it was definitely locked. Unless Kris had lock picking skills there was no way we could get inside. Anyway, I told myself, there could be nothing more exciting than a wine cellar behind the door. Interesting enough if we’d been intent on sampling the count’s wine selection, but hardly what Kris had been hoping for.
I let the curtain drop and went back to see how Kris was doing. From the sounds they were making I figured they were close to climaxing. Kris was breathing heavily, pushing the girl’s face into her pussy, the girl was frantically rubbing her own crotch.
‘Having a good time, I see,’ I said as I sat down next to Kris.
Oddly enough, they both ignored me. Kris started arching her back, her thighs clamped the girl’s head, then she let out a sigh and pushed the girl away.
‘Did I please you, mistress?’ the girl asked eagerly, still on her hands and knees, wiping her chin. ‘Please punish me if I’ve been bad.’
Kris thought that over for a moment, glanced at the cross and started leaning forward when I whispered, ‘I’ve found it.’
She sat up straight, the perfect image of a strict mistress. ‘Maybe later. You’ve been a very bad girl and made me come only once. Now go away.’
‘Show me.’ Kris got up as the disappointed girl disappeared up the stairs.
‘I’m afraid it’s locked.’ I lifted up the curtain and let her have a look.
‘It shouldn’t be too difficult, it’s an old lock. See if you can find me a couple of cocktail spoons. Preferably with flat ends.’
I went looking for spoons while she used the phone torch to shine into the keyhole.
‘A piece of cake. One spoon will be enough.’ Kris held out her hand like a surgeon.
She inserted the spoon handle into the hole and pushed it up, simultaneously pulling down on the handle. The door swung open in silence, on well-oiled hinges.
‘As I thought. No lock mechanism in there. Just a latch on the inside. Clever boy.’ She tucked the phone inside her corset.
I cast one last glance at the room before I followed Kris inside and closed the door behind us, enveloping us in total darkness.
‘Thank you, Alex. Now I can see clearly.’
‘Hold on, I’m looking for a switch. There must be one.’
I ran my hand along the wall next to the door and found a thick cable going up, followed it and felt a chunky box with a switch. A cold, bright light came on from two rows of fluorescent tubes on the ceiling.
I blinked in disbelief as I looked beyond Kris. At the far end of the room – more of a cavern, really, with roughly hewn stone walls which no one had ever bothered to whitewash – an enormous swastika flag nearly covered the rear wall. In front of it, on a table as wide as the flag, were stacks of books and documents, knives, pistols, framed photographs, a couple of stands with SS standards and miscellaneous other objects. The centre was occupied by a bust of Adolf flanked by two candelabras. In other words, your bog standard Nazi shrine.
‘Have you seen–’
‘There they are. The diaries,’ Kris exclaimed, pointing to my side.
I turned my head and indeed, there they were. Tall, deep cabinets crammed with more of the same stuff that was on display in the hall above us. Nearly hidden by crude figures and carved skulls, a row of identical looking books took up the whole width of one shelf. Booklets rather than books, quite small – maybe one centimetre thick and hand-sized – there were dozens of them. Everything covered in a thick layer of dust.
‘Ah, that’s good, that we’ve found them. Now brace yourself and look behind you.’
Kris turned, saw… and started laughing. ‘Poor Henrik, he’s more of an idiot that I gave him credit for. Boys and their toys. But that’s irrelevant – we’re here for the diaries.’
I shrugged, ‘Sure, but we’ll disturb the dust and he’s bound to discover that.’
‘If he ever does, we’ll be far away by then. Now hurry.’
She started removing the things in front of the diaries, putting them on the floor.
‘That’s helpful, they all have something written on the spine. In Swedish, of course. But not too legible. Do help me here.’
I started checking the spines, rubbing each to remove the dust. The old fart was meticulous. Each diary had a neatly written location and year, all of them in chronological order. This didn’t help me, not knowing which year to look for. The first diary I picked up, “Fiji 1909”, was in between “Nya Hebriderna 1908” and “Tyska Samoa 1911”. I checked a few other titles randomly and didn’t get anywhere.
‘This may take a while,’ I said.
‘Just hurry, will you,’ Kris hissed.
I was about to start from the far left and check every diary when a thought occurred to me. Based on the first three titles that I’d picked up, the old geezer seemed to have progressed his journeys in an eastward direction. Concentrating on the diaries on the left of the New Hebrides one, I found what I was looking for almost immediately, “Nya Guinea 1905”. Only one, thankfully. Flicking through it quickly I saw neat, tiny handwriting, fading in places, with most of the diary filled out. Realising that it would take us too long to take a photo of every spread I acted instinctively and jammed it inside the back of my pants. Then I put back the items that Kris had removed, just in case. As a final touch, I blew hard on the shelf to redistribute some of the dust.
‘Got it, let’s go!’
‘Darling, come here,’ Kris called out to me from the other end of the room, urgency in her voice. She picked up a notepad. ‘This is a recipe for explosive. And this,’ showing me a map, ‘is Stockholm.’
I scanned the page, the words and numbers meaning nothing to me, then looked at the map. Three areas in the centre were circled, with a time written next to each, all within five minutes. On the outskirts, in one of the least desirable suburbs, there was a fourth circle. I looked at the map closely.
‘Shit. I don’t know how you can be sure about the explosive, but these places are the parliament, the main train station, and Sergels Torg. And out there,’ I pointed to the fourth marking, ‘is a mosque.’
‘Trust me, I know. And I don’t like one bit what I see. We need to tell the police, but first we need to get the hell out of here.’
We went for the door when Kris stopped. ‘That’s an alarm box. And it’s activated. Fuck, I should’ve thought about that.’
Above the light switch, a red LED in a box with a keypad was blinking furiously.
I opened the door cautiously and ducked under the curtain.
‘All clear, we’re still alone.’ Kris followed, switching off the light and closing the door behind her. ‘Can you take the phone? I didn’t bring a condom with me.’
I shoved it down the front of my trousers. With a bit of luck I’d just appear to be well endowed. Unless someone wanted to cop a feel, in which case I’d have to pretend to have a short and flat but very firm erection.
I checked my watch. ‘We’ve been in there less than three minutes, surely not enough time for anyone to react. Let’s go upstairs and mingle. And hope for the best.’
We didn’t get further than the bottom of the stairs.
A different thud this time, as I returned to the spot to check it again. Yes, definitely a different sound. Whatever was behind the curtains was massive but not stone. I peeked out from the corner of the bar area to make sure we were still alone, saw that Kris was enjoying herself, eyes closed and a tight grip on the girl’s head. I went back, tried to locate a gap in the curtains and, not finding any, lifted them up.
And there it was, a heavy door set in uneven stone. The wood was dark and pitted, the massive handle made of wrought iron. There was a large keyhole in the plate but no key. I tried the handle anyway, on the off chance that it was unlocked. Surprisingly smooth, and the door went in a couple of millimetres before it stopped. I tried again, just to be sure. Being an old lock there was a fair amount of shake, but it was definitely locked. Unless Kris had lock picking skills there was no way we could get inside. Anyway, I told myself, there could be nothing more exciting than a wine cellar behind the door. Interesting enough if we’d been intent on sampling the count’s wine selection, but hardly what Kris had been hoping for.
I let the curtain drop and went back to see how Kris was doing. From the sounds they were making I figured they were close to climaxing. Kris was breathing heavily, pushing the girl’s face into her pussy, the girl was frantically rubbing her own crotch.
‘Having a good time, I see,’ I said as I sat down next to Kris.
Oddly enough, they both ignored me. Kris started arching her back, her thighs clamped the girl’s head, then she let out a sigh and pushed the girl away.
‘Did I please you, mistress?’ the girl asked eagerly, still on her hands and knees, wiping her chin. ‘Please punish me if I’ve been bad.’
Kris thought that over for a moment, glanced at the cross and started leaning forward when I whispered, ‘I’ve found it.’
She sat up straight, the perfect image of a strict mistress. ‘Maybe later. You’ve been a very bad girl and made me come only once. Now go away.’
‘Show me.’ Kris got up as the disappointed girl disappeared up the stairs.
‘I’m afraid it’s locked.’ I lifted up the curtain and let her have a look.
‘It shouldn’t be too difficult, it’s an old lock. See if you can find me a couple of cocktail spoons. Preferably with flat ends.’
I went looking for spoons while she used the phone torch to shine into the keyhole.
‘A piece of cake. One spoon will be enough.’ Kris held out her hand like a surgeon.
She inserted the spoon handle into the hole and pushed it up, simultaneously pulling down on the handle. The door swung open in silence, on well-oiled hinges.
‘As I thought. No lock mechanism in there. Just a latch on the inside. Clever boy.’ She tucked the phone inside her corset.
I cast one last glance at the room before I followed Kris inside and closed the door behind us, enveloping us in total darkness.
‘Thank you, Alex. Now I can see clearly.’
‘Hold on, I’m looking for a switch. There must be one.’
I ran my hand along the wall next to the door and found a thick cable going up, followed it and felt a chunky box with a switch. A cold, bright light came on from two rows of fluorescent tubes on the ceiling.
I blinked in disbelief as I looked beyond Kris. At the far end of the room – more of a cavern, really, with roughly hewn stone walls which no one had ever bothered to whitewash – an enormous swastika flag nearly covered the rear wall. In front of it, on a table as wide as the flag, were stacks of books and documents, knives, pistols, framed photographs, a couple of stands with SS standards and miscellaneous other objects. The centre was occupied by a bust of Adolf flanked by two candelabras. In other words, your bog standard Nazi shrine.
‘Have you seen–’
‘There they are. The diaries,’ Kris exclaimed, pointing to my side.
I turned my head and indeed, there they were. Tall, deep cabinets crammed with more of the same stuff that was on display in the hall above us. Nearly hidden by crude figures and carved skulls, a row of identical looking books took up the whole width of one shelf. Booklets rather than books, quite small – maybe one centimetre thick and hand-sized – there were dozens of them. Everything covered in a thick layer of dust.
‘Ah, that’s good, that we’ve found them. Now brace yourself and look behind you.’
Kris turned, saw… and started laughing. ‘Poor Henrik, he’s more of an idiot that I gave him credit for. Boys and their toys. But that’s irrelevant – we’re here for the diaries.’
I shrugged, ‘Sure, but we’ll disturb the dust and he’s bound to discover that.’
‘If he ever does, we’ll be far away by then. Now hurry.’
She started removing the things in front of the diaries, putting them on the floor.
‘That’s helpful, they all have something written on the spine. In Swedish, of course. But not too legible. Do help me here.’
I started checking the spines, rubbing each to remove the dust. The old fart was meticulous. Each diary had a neatly written location and year, all of them in chronological order. This didn’t help me, not knowing which year to look for. The first diary I picked up, “Fiji 1909”, was in between “Nya Hebriderna 1908” and “Tyska Samoa 1911”. I checked a few other titles randomly and didn’t get anywhere.
‘This may take a while,’ I said.
‘Just hurry, will you,’ Kris hissed.
I was about to start from the far left and check every diary when a thought occurred to me. Based on the first three titles that I’d picked up, the old geezer seemed to have progressed his journeys in an eastward direction. Concentrating on the diaries on the left of the New Hebrides one, I found what I was looking for almost immediately, “Nya Guinea 1905”. Only one, thankfully. Flicking through it quickly I saw neat, tiny handwriting, fading in places, with most of the diary filled out. Realising that it would take us too long to take a photo of every spread I acted instinctively and jammed it inside the back of my pants. Then I put back the items that Kris had removed, just in case. As a final touch, I blew hard on the shelf to redistribute some of the dust.
‘Got it, let’s go!’
‘Darling, come here,’ Kris called out to me from the other end of the room, urgency in her voice. She picked up a notepad. ‘This is a recipe for explosive. And this,’ showing me a map, ‘is Stockholm.’
I scanned the page, the words and numbers meaning nothing to me, then looked at the map. Three areas in the centre were circled, with a time written next to each, all within five minutes. On the outskirts, in one of the least desirable suburbs, there was a fourth circle. I looked at the map closely.
‘Shit. I don’t know how you can be sure about the explosive, but these places are the parliament, the main train station, and Sergels Torg. And out there,’ I pointed to the fourth marking, ‘is a mosque.’
‘Trust me, I know. And I don’t like one bit what I see. We need to tell the police, but first we need to get the hell out of here.’
We went for the door when Kris stopped. ‘That’s an alarm box. And it’s activated. Fuck, I should’ve thought about that.’
Above the light switch, a red LED in a box with a keypad was blinking furiously.
I opened the door cautiously and ducked under the curtain.
‘All clear, we’re still alone.’ Kris followed, switching off the light and closing the door behind her. ‘Can you take the phone? I didn’t bring a condom with me.’
I shoved it down the front of my trousers. With a bit of luck I’d just appear to be well endowed. Unless someone wanted to cop a feel, in which case I’d have to pretend to have a short and flat but very firm erection.
I checked my watch. ‘We’ve been in there less than three minutes, surely not enough time for anyone to react. Let’s go upstairs and mingle. And hope for the best.’
We didn’t get further than the bottom of the stairs.
Chapter 48
‘You have abused my hospitality!’ the count shouted, spittle flying from his fleshy lips.
Seeing him standing with arms behind his back I could easily imagine him in an SS uniform and was sure that’s how he thought of himself. We were still in the basement, one of the guards behind us, two more at the top of the stairs and the count approaching hysteria.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Henrik,’ Kris was calm. ‘We’ve checked out your toys in here and helped ourselves to a couple of drinks, that’s all. Shouldn’t we have done it?’
The count didn’t even bother to reply. Instead, he looked towards the fourth guard who was now back and nodding, having gone to inspect the secret room.
‘Who are you and who sent you? You must tell me.’
I was on the verge of spilling the beans, explaining about the diaries, but then realised that it still wouldn’t save us. We’d seen the map and were in deep shit. There was no way the count would let us leave. Not alive.
‘We are who we say we are,’ Kris stated reasonably, continuing to appear calm, and added with a touch of upper class arrogance, ‘and we are going to leave now, as your skills as a host are sorely lacking in both style and execution.’
The count pretended to think about this. ‘Is that so? In that case, Marquise,’ he spat out the word, ‘I will show you both style and execution as my men escort you from my home.’
We were marched up the stairs to the entrance hall which was now empty. Even the music was subdued. Someone pulled my arms back and I felt a strap being tightened around my wrists. I glanced at Kris and saw that she was in the same predicament.
‘This is to make sure you don’t embarrass me in front of my guests. My men will take you out the back and I expect never to see you again.’
‘You do understand that what you are doing is illegal? I will see you in court,’ Kris tried another approach, ‘and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast.’
The count ignored her and instead turned to one of the guards, keeping his voice down. I strained to hear what he was saying and only managed to catch a couple of words, färja and olycka, and these confirmed my worst fears. The first is Swedish for ferry, the second means accident. I remembered finding out, as I was looking up his place on Google, that the mansion was close to a narrow strait through which most of the ferries pass on their way to Finland and the Baltic countries. The bastard was planning to drown us and make it look as if we’d fallen off a ferry.
‘This is where I leave you, and I expect never to see you again,’ he growled and walked away, looking at his watch.
Seeing him standing with arms behind his back I could easily imagine him in an SS uniform and was sure that’s how he thought of himself. We were still in the basement, one of the guards behind us, two more at the top of the stairs and the count approaching hysteria.
‘I don’t know what you mean, Henrik,’ Kris was calm. ‘We’ve checked out your toys in here and helped ourselves to a couple of drinks, that’s all. Shouldn’t we have done it?’
The count didn’t even bother to reply. Instead, he looked towards the fourth guard who was now back and nodding, having gone to inspect the secret room.
‘Who are you and who sent you? You must tell me.’
I was on the verge of spilling the beans, explaining about the diaries, but then realised that it still wouldn’t save us. We’d seen the map and were in deep shit. There was no way the count would let us leave. Not alive.
‘We are who we say we are,’ Kris stated reasonably, continuing to appear calm, and added with a touch of upper class arrogance, ‘and we are going to leave now, as your skills as a host are sorely lacking in both style and execution.’
The count pretended to think about this. ‘Is that so? In that case, Marquise,’ he spat out the word, ‘I will show you both style and execution as my men escort you from my home.’
We were marched up the stairs to the entrance hall which was now empty. Even the music was subdued. Someone pulled my arms back and I felt a strap being tightened around my wrists. I glanced at Kris and saw that she was in the same predicament.
‘This is to make sure you don’t embarrass me in front of my guests. My men will take you out the back and I expect never to see you again.’
‘You do understand that what you are doing is illegal? I will see you in court,’ Kris tried another approach, ‘and my lawyers will eat you for breakfast.’
The count ignored her and instead turned to one of the guards, keeping his voice down. I strained to hear what he was saying and only managed to catch a couple of words, färja and olycka, and these confirmed my worst fears. The first is Swedish for ferry, the second means accident. I remembered finding out, as I was looking up his place on Google, that the mansion was close to a narrow strait through which most of the ferries pass on their way to Finland and the Baltic countries. The bastard was planning to drown us and make it look as if we’d fallen off a ferry.
‘This is where I leave you, and I expect never to see you again,’ he growled and walked away, looking at his watch.
●
The guards pushed us none too gently through the kitchen – which was as empty as the entrance hall – and out the back door, then across the lawn towards the water. I looked back at the terrace, hoping that some of the guests would notice two people being frogmarched away from the house. No such luck; the terrace was deserted and the reception windows now had curtains pulled across. As far as I could assess we were royally fucked and had to rely on ourselves to get out of this mess.
By the water, an ugly black RIB was pulled up halfway on the sand, a guard already sitting in the stern, a gun in hand. We were shoved on to the boat and forced down on our knees in the bow, several metres away from the guard by the outboard. Too far to try and go for the gun, not least with our hands tied.
As if reading my thoughts, one of the guards leaned towards us, yanked up Kris’ arms as she yelped in pain, and cut her tie strap. Then the bastard cut mine, breathing excitedly in my ear, ‘I vish I vas ze one taking you out, communist pig.’ His pronunciation was definitely slipping.
‘You’d need to have a mouthwash first, dog breath, before I’d allow you to even look at my dick, let alone suck it as you desire,’ I said loud enough for everyone around us to hear it. I know, famous last words, but I was on an adrenaline high and could feel more of it being produced by the second.
Someone snickered (I’d clearly hit a soft spot) before the bastard slapped me hard enough for my head to painfully hit Kris’, then checked his watch. Are they all anal about timekeeping, I thought, or is there a more sinister reason for it?
The boat was pushed out and the guard assigned to take us out on our final journey waited until we were well away from the shallows – and out of earshot of the guests, I assumed – before he started the engine and pointed the boat towards the opposite shore. I scanned the land in front of us, hoping for any visible signs of life, then looked sideways. On our right, darkness only, with barely distinguishable islands scattered across the black expanse of water. On our left, far away, I could see city lights. One building in particular, multiple stories high, was fully lit. Bizarrely, this cheered me up somewhat, and I had a brief philosophical thought about how none of us want to die alone, in darkness. Then I realised I wasn’t watching a block of flats but a bloody big ship coming towards us.
I leaned towards Kris, ‘He’s not going to kill us, the ferry will.’
‘I know, I’m ahead of you. Nothing to incriminate the–’
‘Shut up, you two, or else,’ the guard pointed the gun at us. ‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do? Shoot us?’ Kris shouted back. ‘That’s not the plan, is it?’
‘Last warning, then I shoot!’
‘So shoot us, then,’ Kris shrugged calmly. ‘Have everyone within a ten kilometre radius hear it, and hope that Henrik will provide you with a good lawyer once you’re caught. Ever killed anyone before?’
‘Shut up, I said!’ The guard cut the engine and got up, shaking and holding the gun with both hands, probably as pumped up on adrenaline as I was.
We’ll have to be careful, I thought, not to provoke him into shooting us. I looked at the guard closely for the first time and saw a kid in his late twenties, frightened and excited in equal measures. Being cocky and feeling a part of something much bigger than him, yet totally unsure of himself and with enough inferiority issues to last him a lifetime. I’d seen it all before with most of the new recruits of Hells Angels, Bandidos and other trash.
‘Calm down, both of you. Just take us to the other side and drop us off in the middle of nowhere, as you’re supposed to do. Isn’t that the plan?’
‘Shut up! You,’ he pointed the gun at Kris and cast a glance at the approaching ferry, ‘undress. Now.’
‘Ah, the boy wants to have the first fuck of his life,’ Kris snickered, ‘And the last one, probably.’ She shuffled towards the rear, got down on her hands and knees, arse towards the guard, and turned her head. ‘But you’ll have to undo my corset first, I can’t do it myself. If you’re man enough, that is.’
The guard was so jittery by now he could barely stay upright. He stumbled towards Kris, mouthing invectives while unbuttoning his trousers and leering, ‘I will show you, communist cunt, what a real man feels like.’
He kneeled behind Kris and started tugging at the straps of her corset. She dropped down as if she’d fainted, and as he followed her movement she sat up without warning. The spikes on her choker were indeed as lethal as they looked. The guard screamed in shock. I got to see that one of his eyes was gone, blood gushing out liberally from other punctures, just before he put his hands up to his ruined face.
Kris, calm as ever, shoved him to one side and looked at me, ‘The ferry will be here any minute now. Help me get him overboard.’
I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard, still alive but in excruciating pain. Kris didn’t. Just before we dumped him, she looked into his remaining eye and, caressing his brow, said with a smile, ‘It hurts so much, doesn’t it, you poor baby. I wish I had time to give you a slower death, but I can assure you that not even your mother will be able to identify you after you’ve been through the propellers. Now you will die, still a virgin.’
We pushed the guard over the side and into the black water. He surfaced once, moaning and flailing feebly, beseeching us to help him as the monster ferry got closer. Kris ignored him and scrambled to the engine on all fours to start it and get us away.
By the water, an ugly black RIB was pulled up halfway on the sand, a guard already sitting in the stern, a gun in hand. We were shoved on to the boat and forced down on our knees in the bow, several metres away from the guard by the outboard. Too far to try and go for the gun, not least with our hands tied.
As if reading my thoughts, one of the guards leaned towards us, yanked up Kris’ arms as she yelped in pain, and cut her tie strap. Then the bastard cut mine, breathing excitedly in my ear, ‘I vish I vas ze one taking you out, communist pig.’ His pronunciation was definitely slipping.
‘You’d need to have a mouthwash first, dog breath, before I’d allow you to even look at my dick, let alone suck it as you desire,’ I said loud enough for everyone around us to hear it. I know, famous last words, but I was on an adrenaline high and could feel more of it being produced by the second.
Someone snickered (I’d clearly hit a soft spot) before the bastard slapped me hard enough for my head to painfully hit Kris’, then checked his watch. Are they all anal about timekeeping, I thought, or is there a more sinister reason for it?
The boat was pushed out and the guard assigned to take us out on our final journey waited until we were well away from the shallows – and out of earshot of the guests, I assumed – before he started the engine and pointed the boat towards the opposite shore. I scanned the land in front of us, hoping for any visible signs of life, then looked sideways. On our right, darkness only, with barely distinguishable islands scattered across the black expanse of water. On our left, far away, I could see city lights. One building in particular, multiple stories high, was fully lit. Bizarrely, this cheered me up somewhat, and I had a brief philosophical thought about how none of us want to die alone, in darkness. Then I realised I wasn’t watching a block of flats but a bloody big ship coming towards us.
I leaned towards Kris, ‘He’s not going to kill us, the ferry will.’
‘I know, I’m ahead of you. Nothing to incriminate the–’
‘Shut up, you two, or else,’ the guard pointed the gun at us. ‘Oh yeah, what are you going to do? Shoot us?’ Kris shouted back. ‘That’s not the plan, is it?’
‘Last warning, then I shoot!’
‘So shoot us, then,’ Kris shrugged calmly. ‘Have everyone within a ten kilometre radius hear it, and hope that Henrik will provide you with a good lawyer once you’re caught. Ever killed anyone before?’
‘Shut up, I said!’ The guard cut the engine and got up, shaking and holding the gun with both hands, probably as pumped up on adrenaline as I was.
We’ll have to be careful, I thought, not to provoke him into shooting us. I looked at the guard closely for the first time and saw a kid in his late twenties, frightened and excited in equal measures. Being cocky and feeling a part of something much bigger than him, yet totally unsure of himself and with enough inferiority issues to last him a lifetime. I’d seen it all before with most of the new recruits of Hells Angels, Bandidos and other trash.
‘Calm down, both of you. Just take us to the other side and drop us off in the middle of nowhere, as you’re supposed to do. Isn’t that the plan?’
‘Shut up! You,’ he pointed the gun at Kris and cast a glance at the approaching ferry, ‘undress. Now.’
‘Ah, the boy wants to have the first fuck of his life,’ Kris snickered, ‘And the last one, probably.’ She shuffled towards the rear, got down on her hands and knees, arse towards the guard, and turned her head. ‘But you’ll have to undo my corset first, I can’t do it myself. If you’re man enough, that is.’
The guard was so jittery by now he could barely stay upright. He stumbled towards Kris, mouthing invectives while unbuttoning his trousers and leering, ‘I will show you, communist cunt, what a real man feels like.’
He kneeled behind Kris and started tugging at the straps of her corset. She dropped down as if she’d fainted, and as he followed her movement she sat up without warning. The spikes on her choker were indeed as lethal as they looked. The guard screamed in shock. I got to see that one of his eyes was gone, blood gushing out liberally from other punctures, just before he put his hands up to his ruined face.
Kris, calm as ever, shoved him to one side and looked at me, ‘The ferry will be here any minute now. Help me get him overboard.’
I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard, still alive but in excruciating pain. Kris didn’t. Just before we dumped him, she looked into his remaining eye and, caressing his brow, said with a smile, ‘It hurts so much, doesn’t it, you poor baby. I wish I had time to give you a slower death, but I can assure you that not even your mother will be able to identify you after you’ve been through the propellers. Now you will die, still a virgin.’
We pushed the guard over the side and into the black water. He surfaced once, moaning and flailing feebly, beseeching us to help him as the monster ferry got closer. Kris ignored him and scrambled to the engine on all fours to start it and get us away.
●
‘We’ve got to get the boat back out on the water, preferably close to the mansion,’ Kris looked at me, panting. We were lying on sand, amidst reeds, having run the boat aground on the shore somewhere south of our starting point. ‘Make it look like an accident.’
‘You mean the same way we were supposed to be an accident?’
‘Exactly. Now help me turn the bloody thing around.’
Kris got up and started pushing the boat into deeper water. I joined her, with my boots being sucked down in the mud with each step.
‘That’s enough. Now turn it around.’
She started the engine and jumped off the boat as she put it into gear, both of us watching it as it left the shore.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘Now we wash off enough mud and sand to be presentable, you give me the phone, we find the nearest road and call a taxi. And return to the hotel.’
‘A taxi out here, seriously?’
‘Fine, I meant Uber. Are you happy with that? I’ve just another phone call to make first.’
Without waiting for my reply, Kris dialled the emergency number, said that she was witnessing a gang rape and gave the operator both the location and where exactly on the premises it was taking place. Then she screamed, ‘Help me, they’ve seen me!’ before she cut the call.
Barely half an hour later an Audi pulled up. The guy was grinning at us and nodding, ‘Våt fest, eller hur?’ Asking us if we’d had a wet party, which in Swedish means getting thoroughly pissed.
‘Ja, mycket våt,’ I replied enthusiastically, nodding back and winking.
During our ride back to the hotel we met two police cars and a van, all three with lights flashing, speeding in the opposite direction.
‘Let’s see how the fucker copes with police attention,’ Kris muttered darkly. ‘I just hope he hasn’t yet thought of blaming Susie for bringing us there.’
As the car stopped outside the hotel and we got out, Kris walked to the water edge, looking pensively down. Then, making sure no one was watching, she let the phone drop.
‘I really liked this phone, and because of the fucker I have to get rid of it. I hope he rots in hell.’
‘You can always get another.’
‘That’s true,’ Kris brightened up. ‘The factory has been advertising a new model that’s supposed to come out next year. Just as handy but with more battery power. And waterproof.’
I guided her towards the hotel entrance. ‘The good thing is – which is why we went there in the first place, wasn’t it? – I’ve got the diary with me. And it didn’t get wet. Want to read it?’
‘You mean the same way we were supposed to be an accident?’
‘Exactly. Now help me turn the bloody thing around.’
Kris got up and started pushing the boat into deeper water. I joined her, with my boots being sucked down in the mud with each step.
‘That’s enough. Now turn it around.’
She started the engine and jumped off the boat as she put it into gear, both of us watching it as it left the shore.
‘What now?’ I asked.
‘Now we wash off enough mud and sand to be presentable, you give me the phone, we find the nearest road and call a taxi. And return to the hotel.’
‘A taxi out here, seriously?’
‘Fine, I meant Uber. Are you happy with that? I’ve just another phone call to make first.’
Without waiting for my reply, Kris dialled the emergency number, said that she was witnessing a gang rape and gave the operator both the location and where exactly on the premises it was taking place. Then she screamed, ‘Help me, they’ve seen me!’ before she cut the call.
Barely half an hour later an Audi pulled up. The guy was grinning at us and nodding, ‘Våt fest, eller hur?’ Asking us if we’d had a wet party, which in Swedish means getting thoroughly pissed.
‘Ja, mycket våt,’ I replied enthusiastically, nodding back and winking.
During our ride back to the hotel we met two police cars and a van, all three with lights flashing, speeding in the opposite direction.
‘Let’s see how the fucker copes with police attention,’ Kris muttered darkly. ‘I just hope he hasn’t yet thought of blaming Susie for bringing us there.’
As the car stopped outside the hotel and we got out, Kris walked to the water edge, looking pensively down. Then, making sure no one was watching, she let the phone drop.
‘I really liked this phone, and because of the fucker I have to get rid of it. I hope he rots in hell.’
‘You can always get another.’
‘That’s true,’ Kris brightened up. ‘The factory has been advertising a new model that’s supposed to come out next year. Just as handy but with more battery power. And waterproof.’
I guided her towards the hotel entrance. ‘The good thing is – which is why we went there in the first place, wasn’t it? – I’ve got the diary with me. And it didn’t get wet. Want to read it?’
●
‘Fuck it,’ I exclaimed, ‘I can get by reading basic Swedish in newspapers, preferably in big print, but this guy must’ve been abnormal. Or just enamoured with good old fashioned Swedishness, if there’s such a word. I think there should be.’
We were in bed and Kris insisted that I give it a go and start translating the diary. A nearly hopeless task, what with the miniscule writing and in elaborate script with redundant curlicues all over the place. Not to mention phrases that must have gone out of fashion even as the old goat was writing them. To top it up, every few sentences there was a reference to the utter perfection of the Aryan race as compared to the savages. And the savages – the lunatic hinted non too subtly – were everywhere, populating the rest of the world outside Germany and Scandinavia. Excluding the Finns, they were just as primitive as the rest.
‘Even if I could read this crap, I’m not sure I’d want to,’ I said. ‘Just listen to how it starts: “3 February 1905, 15:10PM, Port Moresby, Fairfax Harbour” – that’s the title, the old geezer begins every entry with the date and location. And insists on using the archaic 12 hour time instead of the 24 hours Sweden introduced at the beginning of the 20th century. Then he goes on to say that “the stinking inner harbour is awash with small canoes, each carrying a multitude of dirty, naked savages with distinct negroid features, if possible even uglier than the African stock. Broad, flattened noses and jutting, apelike jaws, they are as distant from us Aryans as the lazy, domesticated cat is from the noble lion.” With an arsehole like that in the family no wonder the count is a sick fuck.’
‘Speaking of Henrik,’ Kris handed me her phone, ‘this house looks familiar, doesn’t it? Can you translate?’
She’d found one of the Swedish sensationalist news sites.
‘Er, let’s see… oh, yes, this is good. Breaking news. Police have raided a house in the Stockholm archipelago belonging to a prominent member of the Swedish aristocracy.’ I skimmed the text quickly, ‘Ah, it’s all there: neo-Nazi links, torture, terrorism, bla bla, count and staff arrested, decadent party guests being questioned, etc. Say,’ I scrolled down to reveal another photo, ‘isn’t that Susie? And your dessert on the left?’
The fuzzy pic showed a group of people coming down the entrance stairs, flanked by police in riot gear. In the background, more police and vans. I was pleased to see that the cops in Stockholm were, for once, capable enough to get their act together when truly required, instead of harassing normally law abiding citizens during weekends out of pure boredom. Maybe because they’ve watched enough American cop shows.
‘Let me see,’ Kris exclaimed and grabbed the phone. “Yes, it’s Susie. I’m so happy that she’s safe.’
‘How about the lady in red?’
‘Yes, she was very good,’ Kris sighed. ‘She made me squirt; not everyone can do that.’
I considered that unexpected statement. Throughout our time together I was not aware until now that Kris was a squirter. I pride myself on being able to satisfy any woman, any time, and always assumed that Kris was more than happy with my performances. But now she was telling me that someone (and quite possibly others) had made her come in a way that I’d never managed. I turned my head and looked at her questioningly over my reading glasses.
‘Oh darling, don’t get this the wrong way, please.’
‘Exactly in how many ways can I get it wrong?’
‘Please, don’t start on that. I didn’t mean anything special with what I said.’
I ignored Kris’ entreats and pushed on.
‘Squirting, hmm… Yes, I’ve had some of my former,’ I emphasised the last word, ‘lovers do it. And always assumed that it was merely a physical thing, some women not capable of it. But now I do wonder. Is it just physical or is it rather a mental state? Or something totally different? Do you need to gel with someone completely and let all your inhibitions go to achieve it? Or just get horny enough? I’m asking purely out of curiosity, mind you. Nothing to do with our sex life. Because surely we’ve done it all? No restraints, intimate enough, hot enough for you?’
‘Yes, of course, you give me so much pleasure, darling. Surely you know that. But…’
I waited for Kris to continue, wondering how she’d try to wriggle out of this one.
She sighed, ‘But it’s not the same with a woman. When it happens, it’s… it’s a different feeling. Probably you’re right, it’s both mental and physical. Not necessarily better than other orgasms, just… different. But only some women have done that to me.’
‘Ah, it’s good that we’ve sorted that out,’ I said with just a hint of sarcasm. ‘Now I won’t have to worry about you compulsively fucking women just so you can come all over their faces. Because you’re not able to with me.’
‘You are being unnecessarily crude now and you know it. I’m trying to explain my feelings–’
‘How about my feelings? You’ve never considered that I might appreciate being a part of it? Knowing that I can give you ultimate pleasure?’
I was vaguely aware that I was pushing it because of what had happened earlier, with me still overdosing on adrenaline and probably also testosterone. Yet once I got started I couldn’t stop myself. Blame the male ego.
‘Maybe it’s very simple,’ I continued. ‘Maybe you truly prefer women to men and just keep me around for when you don’t have access to the former. And maybe I’m a sucker for going along with that.’
Kris looked at me for what seemed like minutes. I expected her to flare up – her usual response to me pushing her over the edge. Instead, she seemed sad as she said, ‘I think we should get some sleep now. We’ve got an early flight to catch.’
We were in bed and Kris insisted that I give it a go and start translating the diary. A nearly hopeless task, what with the miniscule writing and in elaborate script with redundant curlicues all over the place. Not to mention phrases that must have gone out of fashion even as the old goat was writing them. To top it up, every few sentences there was a reference to the utter perfection of the Aryan race as compared to the savages. And the savages – the lunatic hinted non too subtly – were everywhere, populating the rest of the world outside Germany and Scandinavia. Excluding the Finns, they were just as primitive as the rest.
‘Even if I could read this crap, I’m not sure I’d want to,’ I said. ‘Just listen to how it starts: “3 February 1905, 15:10PM, Port Moresby, Fairfax Harbour” – that’s the title, the old geezer begins every entry with the date and location. And insists on using the archaic 12 hour time instead of the 24 hours Sweden introduced at the beginning of the 20th century. Then he goes on to say that “the stinking inner harbour is awash with small canoes, each carrying a multitude of dirty, naked savages with distinct negroid features, if possible even uglier than the African stock. Broad, flattened noses and jutting, apelike jaws, they are as distant from us Aryans as the lazy, domesticated cat is from the noble lion.” With an arsehole like that in the family no wonder the count is a sick fuck.’
‘Speaking of Henrik,’ Kris handed me her phone, ‘this house looks familiar, doesn’t it? Can you translate?’
She’d found one of the Swedish sensationalist news sites.
‘Er, let’s see… oh, yes, this is good. Breaking news. Police have raided a house in the Stockholm archipelago belonging to a prominent member of the Swedish aristocracy.’ I skimmed the text quickly, ‘Ah, it’s all there: neo-Nazi links, torture, terrorism, bla bla, count and staff arrested, decadent party guests being questioned, etc. Say,’ I scrolled down to reveal another photo, ‘isn’t that Susie? And your dessert on the left?’
The fuzzy pic showed a group of people coming down the entrance stairs, flanked by police in riot gear. In the background, more police and vans. I was pleased to see that the cops in Stockholm were, for once, capable enough to get their act together when truly required, instead of harassing normally law abiding citizens during weekends out of pure boredom. Maybe because they’ve watched enough American cop shows.
‘Let me see,’ Kris exclaimed and grabbed the phone. “Yes, it’s Susie. I’m so happy that she’s safe.’
‘How about the lady in red?’
‘Yes, she was very good,’ Kris sighed. ‘She made me squirt; not everyone can do that.’
I considered that unexpected statement. Throughout our time together I was not aware until now that Kris was a squirter. I pride myself on being able to satisfy any woman, any time, and always assumed that Kris was more than happy with my performances. But now she was telling me that someone (and quite possibly others) had made her come in a way that I’d never managed. I turned my head and looked at her questioningly over my reading glasses.
‘Oh darling, don’t get this the wrong way, please.’
‘Exactly in how many ways can I get it wrong?’
‘Please, don’t start on that. I didn’t mean anything special with what I said.’
I ignored Kris’ entreats and pushed on.
‘Squirting, hmm… Yes, I’ve had some of my former,’ I emphasised the last word, ‘lovers do it. And always assumed that it was merely a physical thing, some women not capable of it. But now I do wonder. Is it just physical or is it rather a mental state? Or something totally different? Do you need to gel with someone completely and let all your inhibitions go to achieve it? Or just get horny enough? I’m asking purely out of curiosity, mind you. Nothing to do with our sex life. Because surely we’ve done it all? No restraints, intimate enough, hot enough for you?’
‘Yes, of course, you give me so much pleasure, darling. Surely you know that. But…’
I waited for Kris to continue, wondering how she’d try to wriggle out of this one.
She sighed, ‘But it’s not the same with a woman. When it happens, it’s… it’s a different feeling. Probably you’re right, it’s both mental and physical. Not necessarily better than other orgasms, just… different. But only some women have done that to me.’
‘Ah, it’s good that we’ve sorted that out,’ I said with just a hint of sarcasm. ‘Now I won’t have to worry about you compulsively fucking women just so you can come all over their faces. Because you’re not able to with me.’
‘You are being unnecessarily crude now and you know it. I’m trying to explain my feelings–’
‘How about my feelings? You’ve never considered that I might appreciate being a part of it? Knowing that I can give you ultimate pleasure?’
I was vaguely aware that I was pushing it because of what had happened earlier, with me still overdosing on adrenaline and probably also testosterone. Yet once I got started I couldn’t stop myself. Blame the male ego.
‘Maybe it’s very simple,’ I continued. ‘Maybe you truly prefer women to men and just keep me around for when you don’t have access to the former. And maybe I’m a sucker for going along with that.’
Kris looked at me for what seemed like minutes. I expected her to flare up – her usual response to me pushing her over the edge. Instead, she seemed sad as she said, ‘I think we should get some sleep now. We’ve got an early flight to catch.’
Chapter 49
Arlanda is somewhere in the middle on my list of airports to hate. It’s certainly preferable to hellholes like Heathrow or Schiphol, where the staff has been laboriously trained to treat every passenger alike – as dirt. And it’s small enough not to lose your way en route to the gate. The lounges, however, are few and far between, and lacking the expected standard of their equivalents in, say, Changi in Singapore.
If your flight is from the F pier, once you’ve passed passport control there’s only one lounge available. And although it allows you to spend the waiting time in a reasonably quiet ambience, well away from the economy class crowd fighting for seats at the gate, the furnishings, the food and the beverages on offer leave a lot to be desired. You’re familiar with IKEA, aren’t you, and their room mock-ups? That’s what the lounge looked like, with hip yet cheap looking chairs and tables, and bright fluorescent lighting; probably installed to compensate for the lack of sunlight, cheer up the Scandinavians and prevent them from killing each other in desperation. Other than a poor selection of beers they offered only “red” and “white” wine, on tap. No liquor whatsoever. For food, the only options were sandwiches – make your own, in true socialist style – and a sorry looking pasta salad.
I may need to clarify my flying preferences here. Or autistic requirements, if you wish. For any flight lasting more than a couple of hours I like to get fed, get drunk and get enough sleep to wake up just before landing, regardless of time of day or night. For shorter hops I skip the first of these. It’s all about arriving at your destination well rested and prepared to be abused by airport minions who thrive on making your life miserable. The advantage of flying first or business, other than the incomparably better food and unlimited booze, is that the crew will never, ever insist on those two atrocious practices – seatback upright position and seatbelt fastened – that coach class passengers have to endure. All because the insurance companies require absolute certainty that the airline has done everything in its power to keep the passengers safe: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. May I remind you, as we are plummeting uncontrollably towards the Indian Ocean and our certain deaths, to fasten your seatbelts and raise your seatbacks. Otherwise my employer will not be able to claim the insurance policy and reimburse your loved ones for this slight inconvenience.’
Anyway, there I was sitting with a glass of “red” in front of me, miserable about the coming flight and idly flicking through the diary. Kris got busy from the moment we entered, making deals on the phone while scanning the emails on her laptop. We’d checked out of the hotel and taken the airport train mostly in silence, in an uneasy truce. Still civil to each other, but there was none of the usual chitchat and bantering that both of us were used to and enjoyed. More like an old, bored couple than true lovers, and it hurt.
I had an inkling that Kris felt the same, yet neither of us was prepared to demolish the invisible wall that we’d put up between us the night before. If anything, it felt like we were still working on its construction.
Having skimmed through more than half of the diary with increasing boredom, I was close to nodding off. Another page – same shit, all about the savages needing a firm hand and/or whipping. I barely reacted as I turned the page and saw “25 May 1905, 18:05PM, Tavui village, Rabaul.”
‘I’ve found the entry,’ I informed Kris. ‘Now I just have locate the interesting bits.’
‘That’s good. Tell me when you’ve done it.’
She didn’t even look up from her laptop as she said it. Maybe she’ll get more friendly once I found what we were looking for, I thought.
I ignored the old goat’s rantings and focused on the facts. By now I’d gotten the hang of his handwriting. It wasn’t easy, though – I had to constantly re-read words and phrases to understand them, every now and then looking up a word in the online dictionary on my phone. On top of that, the ink had faded to the point of some of the words being nearly illegible.
Yet what I was reading began to intrigue me. The count may have been an insufferable racist dickhead, but his writings managed to convey a sense of boyish escapades: the days gone by when much of the world was still unexplored; intrepid adventurers risking their lives at the ends of the earth in a quest for knowledge – or, more likely, new ways to exploit the natives. He was a child of his times, the old count, following in the footsteps of eccentric individuals like James Brooke, the British soldier who went to Borneo and became the White Rajah of Sarawak. That would’ve been something to relish, being an absolute autocrat – a benevolent one, of course – in a land far away and full of potential, with natives viewing you as a god. Or maybe not. Most gods, imaginary or enforced, tend to have an expiry date.
I’d just got to the relevant part, with the count retelling the story of the massacre of a whole tribe – which I was familiar with already, having seen it firsthand – when the speakers in the lounge crackled and a female robotic voice announced that the Qatar Airways flight was ready for boarding.
It annoys me how airports nowadays do their best to bully the passengers into congregating at the gate long before the actual boarding starts. I ignored the announcement, as did Kris, and instead topped up my glass. I never fly sober if I can help it. Considering that no airline will serve liquor until the plane reaches cruising altitude (Who came up with that nonsense, I ask you? They’re more than happy to serve you as much champagne as you can drink before leaving the gate, yet you always have to wait for your whisky.) I was set on getting sufficiently inebriated before boarding the flimsy aluminium tube that would take us to over 11 kilometres above ground. And presume to keep us there at the whim of its engines.
The same annoying robotic voice announced ominously the last call for the flight and threatened all remaining passengers with a fate worse than death if they didn’t appear immediately at the gate.
I looked at Kris, ‘Five minutes?’
‘Make it ten, I’ve got another call to take.’
Fifteen minutes later, we made our leisurely way to the gate where, despite the sign flashing hysterically, everyone was waiting patiently for the boarding to start. I was just about to make a very loud complaint to the pretty, brainless thing behind the counter when she saw me approach. She decided it was safer to pick up the microphone and announce that the flight was now ready for boarding.
We got on the plane, where another equally pretty and brainless girl with a vague East European accent welcomed us onboard and informed us that on this flight, as we were alone in the business class cabin, we could choose any seats we wanted. I almost expected Kris to take a seat as far as possible from me. Instead, she just shrugged and said, ‘Whatever. It’s a shame that Qatar Airways doesn’t have first class from Europe.’
‘I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Madam,’ the girl grovelled, ‘but with an empty cabin, it will be as private as in first class. And I will make sure, personally, as the purser, that your flight will be as enjoyable as possible.’
I could see the rest of the business class crew check us out from the galley. All of them European except for a girl with Indian features. Looking sweet and eager to please, however probably just as devoid of brain as the rest of the crew.
As airplanes go, the Dreamliner isn’t too bad, at least not in business class. We chose the last two centre seats, notably with a divider between us – which the girl lowered as we sat down without even asking us if that was what we wanted. I declined the champagne offered and tried to get a whisky instead (need I say unsuccessfully?), then put on the earphones, selected a channel with classical music and opened up the diary.
An hour and four glasses of single malt later, I was tired enough to hope for sleep. The count was about to divulge the secret of the artefact but the writing was so tedious and drawn out that I decided to leave it for later. Kris was still busy with her laptop, barely pausing when the dinner was served, and we’d not spoken a word since departure.
On the odd occasion in the past when Kris and I have had an argument, I’d always made sure that we’d go to sleep having made up. Even if I hadn’t been the one to start it – to my knowledge, I never had – I hated us going to bed angry with each other. But in this instance, as much as I wanted to make up, my sense of righteousness prevented me. Yes, I was the one to start it the night before, I acknowledged it, but only because I was driven to it by, as I saw it, Kris’ selfishness and her disregard of my feelings for her. On multiple levels – love and sex, of course, but trust and honesty also being in question here.
I thought about this, with a glance at Kris who was still busy ignoring me, sipping her wine and staring hard at her laptop, as I got up and started undressing to get ready for bed. Not bothering with the pyjamas I’d been given, I went to the toilet in my underwear. The crew stayed tactfully behind the galley and there was no one in the cabin to complain about me being indecent.
The purser came out and knelt beside me as soon as I was back and stretched out on the semblance of a bed, as if she’d been waiting for me.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘I can think of a number of things that you could do for me, but most of them would, I’m sure, be illegal in whichever air space we’re crossing at the moment.’
‘Let me get back to you on that, sir,’ she responded unperturbed, with a bland smile. ‘In the meantime, may I show you the built-in massage function?’
‘No, I prefer to be massaged by hands. Attached to a woman who knows what she’s doing.’
She stood up primly, ‘If you change your mind, sir, just press the button here and I will come to assist you. Anytime.’
‘There’s one thing you can do for me. Dim the windows, please.’
She left, and as I settled in, trying to find the least uncomfortable position on the bed, Kris got up and went to the toilet with her blanket under her arm. I was nearly asleep when I realised she’d returned and was standing above me, wrapped in the blanket.
‘We need to sort out this silly issue once and for all,’ she said as she straddled me and leaned down. Undoing the blanket with one hand to show me she was naked underneath, her other hand pulled down my underwear and stroked my cock into active duty. She lowered herself with a sigh, my cock encountering no resistance as it was guided towards the sweet spot by her hand.
‘Just so you know, you horrible, horrible male,’ Kris whispered, ‘I’ve always preferred women for sex, and was content with being a lesbian before I met you.’
I grunted as she grabbed my balls and squeezed them. ‘Why are we an item, then? I’m not a woman, am I? Nor am I feminine, please tell me I’m not. And a pauper compared to you – so it can’t have been my wealth bowling you over.’
‘It’s because of how you are, you bastard,’ she bit my earlobe hard enough to draw blood, ‘you’re the best of both worlds. I hate you for it. You make me enjoy your cock,’ she pushed down forcefully and sighed, ‘without being a dick. And you listen to me, always understanding when I need someone to talk to. No man has ever done that to me before. Fuck you for making me love you. I hate you.’
‘I love you as well, you dyke,’ I reciprocated, panting as she humped me. ‘I’ve always loved you, even before I met you.’
As I said it, squeezing her arse and one of her tits, she arched her back and dug her nails in my chest, eyes rolled back. With her whole body shaking on top of me, I couldn’t hold back any more and let go, growling as I came inside her.
If your flight is from the F pier, once you’ve passed passport control there’s only one lounge available. And although it allows you to spend the waiting time in a reasonably quiet ambience, well away from the economy class crowd fighting for seats at the gate, the furnishings, the food and the beverages on offer leave a lot to be desired. You’re familiar with IKEA, aren’t you, and their room mock-ups? That’s what the lounge looked like, with hip yet cheap looking chairs and tables, and bright fluorescent lighting; probably installed to compensate for the lack of sunlight, cheer up the Scandinavians and prevent them from killing each other in desperation. Other than a poor selection of beers they offered only “red” and “white” wine, on tap. No liquor whatsoever. For food, the only options were sandwiches – make your own, in true socialist style – and a sorry looking pasta salad.
I may need to clarify my flying preferences here. Or autistic requirements, if you wish. For any flight lasting more than a couple of hours I like to get fed, get drunk and get enough sleep to wake up just before landing, regardless of time of day or night. For shorter hops I skip the first of these. It’s all about arriving at your destination well rested and prepared to be abused by airport minions who thrive on making your life miserable. The advantage of flying first or business, other than the incomparably better food and unlimited booze, is that the crew will never, ever insist on those two atrocious practices – seatback upright position and seatbelt fastened – that coach class passengers have to endure. All because the insurance companies require absolute certainty that the airline has done everything in its power to keep the passengers safe: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. May I remind you, as we are plummeting uncontrollably towards the Indian Ocean and our certain deaths, to fasten your seatbelts and raise your seatbacks. Otherwise my employer will not be able to claim the insurance policy and reimburse your loved ones for this slight inconvenience.’
Anyway, there I was sitting with a glass of “red” in front of me, miserable about the coming flight and idly flicking through the diary. Kris got busy from the moment we entered, making deals on the phone while scanning the emails on her laptop. We’d checked out of the hotel and taken the airport train mostly in silence, in an uneasy truce. Still civil to each other, but there was none of the usual chitchat and bantering that both of us were used to and enjoyed. More like an old, bored couple than true lovers, and it hurt.
I had an inkling that Kris felt the same, yet neither of us was prepared to demolish the invisible wall that we’d put up between us the night before. If anything, it felt like we were still working on its construction.
Having skimmed through more than half of the diary with increasing boredom, I was close to nodding off. Another page – same shit, all about the savages needing a firm hand and/or whipping. I barely reacted as I turned the page and saw “25 May 1905, 18:05PM, Tavui village, Rabaul.”
‘I’ve found the entry,’ I informed Kris. ‘Now I just have locate the interesting bits.’
‘That’s good. Tell me when you’ve done it.’
She didn’t even look up from her laptop as she said it. Maybe she’ll get more friendly once I found what we were looking for, I thought.
I ignored the old goat’s rantings and focused on the facts. By now I’d gotten the hang of his handwriting. It wasn’t easy, though – I had to constantly re-read words and phrases to understand them, every now and then looking up a word in the online dictionary on my phone. On top of that, the ink had faded to the point of some of the words being nearly illegible.
Yet what I was reading began to intrigue me. The count may have been an insufferable racist dickhead, but his writings managed to convey a sense of boyish escapades: the days gone by when much of the world was still unexplored; intrepid adventurers risking their lives at the ends of the earth in a quest for knowledge – or, more likely, new ways to exploit the natives. He was a child of his times, the old count, following in the footsteps of eccentric individuals like James Brooke, the British soldier who went to Borneo and became the White Rajah of Sarawak. That would’ve been something to relish, being an absolute autocrat – a benevolent one, of course – in a land far away and full of potential, with natives viewing you as a god. Or maybe not. Most gods, imaginary or enforced, tend to have an expiry date.
I’d just got to the relevant part, with the count retelling the story of the massacre of a whole tribe – which I was familiar with already, having seen it firsthand – when the speakers in the lounge crackled and a female robotic voice announced that the Qatar Airways flight was ready for boarding.
It annoys me how airports nowadays do their best to bully the passengers into congregating at the gate long before the actual boarding starts. I ignored the announcement, as did Kris, and instead topped up my glass. I never fly sober if I can help it. Considering that no airline will serve liquor until the plane reaches cruising altitude (Who came up with that nonsense, I ask you? They’re more than happy to serve you as much champagne as you can drink before leaving the gate, yet you always have to wait for your whisky.) I was set on getting sufficiently inebriated before boarding the flimsy aluminium tube that would take us to over 11 kilometres above ground. And presume to keep us there at the whim of its engines.
The same annoying robotic voice announced ominously the last call for the flight and threatened all remaining passengers with a fate worse than death if they didn’t appear immediately at the gate.
I looked at Kris, ‘Five minutes?’
‘Make it ten, I’ve got another call to take.’
Fifteen minutes later, we made our leisurely way to the gate where, despite the sign flashing hysterically, everyone was waiting patiently for the boarding to start. I was just about to make a very loud complaint to the pretty, brainless thing behind the counter when she saw me approach. She decided it was safer to pick up the microphone and announce that the flight was now ready for boarding.
We got on the plane, where another equally pretty and brainless girl with a vague East European accent welcomed us onboard and informed us that on this flight, as we were alone in the business class cabin, we could choose any seats we wanted. I almost expected Kris to take a seat as far as possible from me. Instead, she just shrugged and said, ‘Whatever. It’s a shame that Qatar Airways doesn’t have first class from Europe.’
‘I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Madam,’ the girl grovelled, ‘but with an empty cabin, it will be as private as in first class. And I will make sure, personally, as the purser, that your flight will be as enjoyable as possible.’
I could see the rest of the business class crew check us out from the galley. All of them European except for a girl with Indian features. Looking sweet and eager to please, however probably just as devoid of brain as the rest of the crew.
As airplanes go, the Dreamliner isn’t too bad, at least not in business class. We chose the last two centre seats, notably with a divider between us – which the girl lowered as we sat down without even asking us if that was what we wanted. I declined the champagne offered and tried to get a whisky instead (need I say unsuccessfully?), then put on the earphones, selected a channel with classical music and opened up the diary.
An hour and four glasses of single malt later, I was tired enough to hope for sleep. The count was about to divulge the secret of the artefact but the writing was so tedious and drawn out that I decided to leave it for later. Kris was still busy with her laptop, barely pausing when the dinner was served, and we’d not spoken a word since departure.
On the odd occasion in the past when Kris and I have had an argument, I’d always made sure that we’d go to sleep having made up. Even if I hadn’t been the one to start it – to my knowledge, I never had – I hated us going to bed angry with each other. But in this instance, as much as I wanted to make up, my sense of righteousness prevented me. Yes, I was the one to start it the night before, I acknowledged it, but only because I was driven to it by, as I saw it, Kris’ selfishness and her disregard of my feelings for her. On multiple levels – love and sex, of course, but trust and honesty also being in question here.
I thought about this, with a glance at Kris who was still busy ignoring me, sipping her wine and staring hard at her laptop, as I got up and started undressing to get ready for bed. Not bothering with the pyjamas I’d been given, I went to the toilet in my underwear. The crew stayed tactfully behind the galley and there was no one in the cabin to complain about me being indecent.
The purser came out and knelt beside me as soon as I was back and stretched out on the semblance of a bed, as if she’d been waiting for me.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir?’
‘I can think of a number of things that you could do for me, but most of them would, I’m sure, be illegal in whichever air space we’re crossing at the moment.’
‘Let me get back to you on that, sir,’ she responded unperturbed, with a bland smile. ‘In the meantime, may I show you the built-in massage function?’
‘No, I prefer to be massaged by hands. Attached to a woman who knows what she’s doing.’
She stood up primly, ‘If you change your mind, sir, just press the button here and I will come to assist you. Anytime.’
‘There’s one thing you can do for me. Dim the windows, please.’
She left, and as I settled in, trying to find the least uncomfortable position on the bed, Kris got up and went to the toilet with her blanket under her arm. I was nearly asleep when I realised she’d returned and was standing above me, wrapped in the blanket.
‘We need to sort out this silly issue once and for all,’ she said as she straddled me and leaned down. Undoing the blanket with one hand to show me she was naked underneath, her other hand pulled down my underwear and stroked my cock into active duty. She lowered herself with a sigh, my cock encountering no resistance as it was guided towards the sweet spot by her hand.
‘Just so you know, you horrible, horrible male,’ Kris whispered, ‘I’ve always preferred women for sex, and was content with being a lesbian before I met you.’
I grunted as she grabbed my balls and squeezed them. ‘Why are we an item, then? I’m not a woman, am I? Nor am I feminine, please tell me I’m not. And a pauper compared to you – so it can’t have been my wealth bowling you over.’
‘It’s because of how you are, you bastard,’ she bit my earlobe hard enough to draw blood, ‘you’re the best of both worlds. I hate you for it. You make me enjoy your cock,’ she pushed down forcefully and sighed, ‘without being a dick. And you listen to me, always understanding when I need someone to talk to. No man has ever done that to me before. Fuck you for making me love you. I hate you.’
‘I love you as well, you dyke,’ I reciprocated, panting as she humped me. ‘I’ve always loved you, even before I met you.’
As I said it, squeezing her arse and one of her tits, she arched her back and dug her nails in my chest, eyes rolled back. With her whole body shaking on top of me, I couldn’t hold back any more and let go, growling as I came inside her.
●
I woke up alone. The cabin was still dark and we were at cruising altitude on our way to Doha. There was no sound other than the monotone drone of the engines, nor any discernible movement, yet I sat up. Yes, I know, call me psychic if you want – Kris insists that I am.
There she was, in her seat, in the same position as when she’d come over to me. Under her, the Indian girl was writhing with Kris’ hand between her legs, moaning quietly. Kris was kissing her with a violence I’d never experienced, as if she was trying to chew her lips and tongue off, the girl reciprocating with equal passion.
As strange as it sounds, the visuals of their coupling were less than arousing. Not even the slightest twitch in my cock despite wanting to be a part of Kris’ making love to a woman, even as a passive participant. I remembered reading, as a teenager, Kingsley Amis’ novel, The Green Man: the main protagonist finally gets his wife and his mistress in the same bed, and the two of them get so into each other that, instead of joining them, he quietly dresses and leaves. No way I would’ve left, I’d thought when I read it. But I was young, perpetually horny and expected life to follow my script. Now, as I watched the Indian girl eagerly fondle Kris’ arse, with Kris pushing back on the girl’s fingers with pleasure, all I felt was weariness and a sense of loss. Think about it carefully, a voice in my head whispered, what it is she really wants from you.
Neither of them realised they had an audience, as involved as they were with each other, and I was not about to make my presence known.
I managed to fall asleep quickly, still drunk, but had unsettling nightmares about butch dykes fucking me with oversized dildos, with Kris stroking my face and telling me that I have to take as much as I give. Finally, the East European bimbo woke me up to ask if I wanted to eat before landing. I may have confused her unintentionally with my reply, still recovering from the nightmares.
‘Not really. And please hold off the dildos, I can’t take them anymore.’
There she was, in her seat, in the same position as when she’d come over to me. Under her, the Indian girl was writhing with Kris’ hand between her legs, moaning quietly. Kris was kissing her with a violence I’d never experienced, as if she was trying to chew her lips and tongue off, the girl reciprocating with equal passion.
As strange as it sounds, the visuals of their coupling were less than arousing. Not even the slightest twitch in my cock despite wanting to be a part of Kris’ making love to a woman, even as a passive participant. I remembered reading, as a teenager, Kingsley Amis’ novel, The Green Man: the main protagonist finally gets his wife and his mistress in the same bed, and the two of them get so into each other that, instead of joining them, he quietly dresses and leaves. No way I would’ve left, I’d thought when I read it. But I was young, perpetually horny and expected life to follow my script. Now, as I watched the Indian girl eagerly fondle Kris’ arse, with Kris pushing back on the girl’s fingers with pleasure, all I felt was weariness and a sense of loss. Think about it carefully, a voice in my head whispered, what it is she really wants from you.
Neither of them realised they had an audience, as involved as they were with each other, and I was not about to make my presence known.
I managed to fall asleep quickly, still drunk, but had unsettling nightmares about butch dykes fucking me with oversized dildos, with Kris stroking my face and telling me that I have to take as much as I give. Finally, the East European bimbo woke me up to ask if I wanted to eat before landing. I may have confused her unintentionally with my reply, still recovering from the nightmares.
‘Not really. And please hold off the dildos, I can’t take them anymore.’