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Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Blood-Line Incursion Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The train made its last signal before its departure to
Gothenburg. I tried to hug my dad goodbye but he kind of
pushed me away.
“Men don’t hug!” The only time that I can remember when he
had touched me in the past was when he used to punish me by
beating my bare bum with the palm of his right hand. Well, I
deserved it most of the time, being the black sheep of the family.
“Sorry but I have to leave now.” It was a lonely and sad
moment. My mum and my sister, Pernilla 18, and brother, Atle 13,
could not for some reason or another come to the railway station to
say goodbye and wish me good luck on my emigration to
Australia.
It was a freezing cold January evening. I could feel my thin
brown youth moustache turning into ice strips. My breath
produced steam like an old steam train when I spoke.
I had long wavy dark-brown hair extending well below my ears,
a gold ring in my right ear together with two matching gold
necklaces visible through the top of my short V neck jumper. To
make me look uber-cool, I wore obvious pinstripe hipsters with
massive flairs. After all, the year was 1974! To complete the
picture I wore a dark brown suede bomber-jacket, undone of
course and black platform boots with high heels. All of my clothes
were brand new for this special occasion. Yeah! It was bloody cold
being a fashion slave in Sweden during winter!
I grabbed my suitcase and walked in the direction of car 47D. I
turned my head around to wave a last goodbye to Dad, but he had
already started to walk towards the exit. The new fallen snow
made a squishing noise for each of my steps towards an unknown
future. Will I come back alive? Will I come back as a millionaire?
Will I bring the most beautiful Australian girl back home? Will my
parents be proud of me?
My plan was to come back to Sweden after I had completed my
two-year emigration contract with the Australian Government. If
not, I had to pay back the real cost of this subsidised trip – for
which I only paid AUD$50.
The situation was totally outside of my comfort zone, by 47
miles no less, particularly when I entered my shared sleeping
compartment with two total strangers.
There were three bunk beds, only one person could stand on the
floor at a time and I was on the top bunk!
I could smell vodka coming from the bottom bunk where my
travel partners conducted a small party in Finnish. Judging by their
laughter they were having a great time. I did not understand a
word. I was stuck on the top bunk. Not happy! I was dying for a
pee. The toilet was out in the corridor. The Finns used the handbasin
in this third-class car to relieve themselves while I was stuck
on the top bunk. I tried to sleep to forget my desperate urge. I
could not sleep one wink! The travel bug had totally taken over all
of my senses and the noise and movement of the train did not help
one little bit.
I heard glass clinking on bunk number two, and looked very
slowly over the edge. Wow! There were two lonely empty vodka
bottles lying waiting to be re-filled by nature’s golden brew. It was
the best feeling ever! I proudly filled one and a half bottles and
then returned them gently to their place of discovery.
11Wake up! Wake up! This car is going to Oslo in 27 minutes,”
said the conductor in an angry voice.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” I must have fallen into a deep
sleep. I was the only one left on the train. My travel mates were
long gone together with the two bottles of home brew.
“You are at the last station and I believe there are some
Australian emigration people waiting for you in hall 47A in the
main building.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I said as I ran in the direction in which
the conductor pointed his well-polished silver-look hole puncher.
To my surprise, there were 17 people in the hall and they were
all going to the land Down Under. I became part of a group of
seven guys in a similar age bracket, all with the same dream and
Melbourne as the preferred city. How good was that!
The next stop was London where we did a pub and striptease
crawl for an evening before our departure for Perth, Sydney and
Melbourne on a British Airways 747 jumbo jet.
This was the first time we had all been on such a large aircraft.
We were all very lucky to be able to sit in a smoking section,
except for Lars and Goran who were in the designated nonsmoking
zone the row in front of us. We were all addicted to
nicotine. In other words, we were very well-adjusted citizens to the
smoking society of the 70s.
The flight was like heaven on earth – duty-free smokes and free
grog as well as free food and good service from beautiful air
hostesses. We were like kids in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory!
It all proved to be too much for most of us, coming from an
over-regulated country with the most expensive cigarettes and
alcohol in the world.
Goran became so drunk that the pilot had to request police
assistance on our arrival in Perth. As soon as the plane touched
down, we were sprayed with a lethal substance for alien bacteria –
by a heavily-uniformed customs disease control-patrol.
We were told to sit down while an unwanted drunk Swedish
person was removed from our flying pub 747 by the local
constabulary, before stretching our legs and getting ready for the
trip to Melbourne.
Once we arrived in Melbourne, our little group was stationed at
Nunawading Hostel, where we were fortunate enough to get a
three-bedroom apartment with a large front room to share.
There were two emigrants per room and common toilets and
shower facilities outside the apartment in a corridor leading around
to other living areas.
This was all compliments of the Australian Government, as
well as food, until we had gained employment or had been there
for three months. Then we would have to pay a small fee until we
could find a place of our own.
We received an allocation of one gold-coloured porcelain mug,
one spoon, one knife and one fork which we had to protect with
our life.
My room-mate Rolf, was 12 years older than me, quite a large
man, wearing fashionable pilot glasses; a half bald-headed, chainsmoking
unemployed architect, dreaming of being a tennis coach
in Australia. He had left a very bad marriage behind him in
Sweden. The only things he had to his name, were the clothes in
his suitcase and his precious tennis prizes from his successful
playing days. His ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners! He would
lie on his bed all day smoking and day-dreaming.
It felt strange walking in 27-degree dry heat considering just a
few days ago we were experiencing minus-17 degrees in Sweden.
We proudly carried our eating utensils in one hand, our golden
mug in the other, as we walked to the canteen for lunch; we were
still very jetlagged. Our pale dairy-white skin made sure everyone
at the hostel knew we were the new arrivals as they enjoyed
Melbourne’s midsummer.
There was a long queue to the four ladies in pale blue uniforms
serving the food. Each lady had a designated task – potatoes lady,
meat lady, vegetable lady, and the sweet little gravy and bread girl
who become my favourite.
Once we finished our lunch we had to go to a designated wet
area to wash our valuable eating equipment and then transport it
back to our apartment ready for the next meal.
Imagine yourself as one of six Swedish guys, no job, plenty of
saved money, no rent, no food expenses, no commitments
whatsoever, sunshine, cheap smokes and alcohol, no family, new
country, bad English and plenty of girls … right! It was a long
party until we started to look for work and, being good emigrants,
we were surely a good investment by the Australian Government.
During that party period, Goran arrived from Perth and was
allowed to stay in an apartment opposite ours, in the Nunawading
Hostel. When I first met him he was a very well-groomed person,
long straight black hair, with a dark suit, white shirt and a tie.
Unfortunately, he could not handle cheap and easily accessible
alcohol, he constantly became like Willy Wonka in a pub. Goran
only lasted two months and was sent home broke, with a shaved
head, one front tooth missing and thongs, shorts, dirty, unshaven,
and a hopeless alcoholic. He owed the Australian Government the
full cost of his trip, which was a lot of money in those days.
We had started making bets on what colour knickers the gravy
and bread girl had. Her mini dresses were so short that when she
bent over to clean the tables in the canteen, she exposed them in a
discreet, sexy and elegant way.
Of course we laughed out loud and our eyes followed every
move she made during meal times. Obviously she understood what
we were doing because the next day she made a moving upwards
V signal with her a food tongs towards me and was smiling as she
served me wonderful, typical government-canteen food.
“What does it mean when someone makes an upwards V signal
towards you?” I asked the guys at the table.
“I am not 100% sure but according to a guy in the pub
yesterday, it means fuck off!” said Lars hesitatingly as he burst out
laughing.
“Fuck off. What does that mean?”
“Don’t you know that? Fuck is knöla (sex) and off is av (off).
Get it?” said Lars very proudly.
“Sex off, doesn’t make any sense! Maybe it is an Australian
secret code for I want sex with you?” I said with wishful thinking.
I could feel the gravy and bread girl’s eyes burning into my
neck when Lars had his little attack of the giggles. As I turned
around she pretended to be very busy serving another hungry
emigrant from somewhere in southern Europe. This secret mutual
flirting kept going on for many weeks.
I felt helpless and stupid because of my terrible English. For the
first time in my life I was regretting being the clown at school and
wished I had studied this language to perfection. I would have
approached her a long time ago if I had been on my home turf in
Sweden.
The gravy and bread girl become more and more attractive each
day that went by. I could not wait for meal times. I kept thinking
about her while I was out partying with my Swedish emigrant
friends. She was always on my mind! No escape! I could clearly
see her in my mind: black, shoulder-length, teased-up hair with a
left-sided fringe coving half of her left deep-blue eye, long black
eyelashes with pale-blue eye shadow, together with a black
natural-looking eyebrow surrounded by tanned, smooth, healthylooking
skin. Her white smile with a small overlap of the top front
teeth made her face stand out in the Australian meat market. Her
petite, sexy, Coca-Cola bottle-shaped body with small, firm 21-
year-old breasts, matching buttocks and legs made her so much
harder to get out of my mind.
The train made its last signal before its departure to
Gothenburg. I tried to hug my dad goodbye but he kind of
pushed me away.
“Men don’t hug!” The only time that I can remember when he
had touched me in the past was when he used to punish me by
beating my bare bum with the palm of his right hand. Well, I
deserved it most of the time, being the black sheep of the family.
“Sorry but I have to leave now.” It was a lonely and sad
moment. My mum and my sister, Pernilla 18, and brother, Atle 13,
could not for some reason or another come to the railway station to
say goodbye and wish me good luck on my emigration to
Australia.
It was a freezing cold January evening. I could feel my thin
brown youth moustache turning into ice strips. My breath
produced steam like an old steam train when I spoke.
I had long wavy dark-brown hair extending well below my ears,
a gold ring in my right ear together with two matching gold
necklaces visible through the top of my short V neck jumper. To
make me look uber-cool, I wore obvious pinstripe hipsters with
massive flairs. After all, the year was 1974! To complete the
picture I wore a dark brown suede bomber-jacket, undone of
course and black platform boots with high heels. All of my clothes
were brand new for this special occasion. Yeah! It was bloody cold
being a fashion slave in Sweden during winter!
I grabbed my suitcase and walked in the direction of car 47D. I
turned my head around to wave a last goodbye to Dad, but he had
already started to walk towards the exit. The new fallen snow
made a squishing noise for each of my steps towards an unknown
future. Will I come back alive? Will I come back as a millionaire?
Will I bring the most beautiful Australian girl back home? Will my
parents be proud of me?
My plan was to come back to Sweden after I had completed my
two-year emigration contract with the Australian Government. If
not, I had to pay back the real cost of this subsidised trip – for
which I only paid AUD$50.
The situation was totally outside of my comfort zone, by 47
miles no less, particularly when I entered my shared sleeping
compartment with two total strangers.
There were three bunk beds, only one person could stand on the
floor at a time and I was on the top bunk!
I could smell vodka coming from the bottom bunk where my
travel partners conducted a small party in Finnish. Judging by their
laughter they were having a great time. I did not understand a
word. I was stuck on the top bunk. Not happy! I was dying for a
pee. The toilet was out in the corridor. The Finns used the handbasin
in this third-class car to relieve themselves while I was stuck
on the top bunk. I tried to sleep to forget my desperate urge. I
could not sleep one wink! The travel bug had totally taken over all
of my senses and the noise and movement of the train did not help
one little bit.
I heard glass clinking on bunk number two, and looked very
slowly over the edge. Wow! There were two lonely empty vodka
bottles lying waiting to be re-filled by nature’s golden brew. It was
the best feeling ever! I proudly filled one and a half bottles and
then returned them gently to their place of discovery.
11Wake up! Wake up! This car is going to Oslo in 27 minutes,”
said the conductor in an angry voice.
“What’s going on? Where am I?” I must have fallen into a deep
sleep. I was the only one left on the train. My travel mates were
long gone together with the two bottles of home brew.
“You are at the last station and I believe there are some
Australian emigration people waiting for you in hall 47A in the
main building.”
“Thank you, thank you,” I said as I ran in the direction in which
the conductor pointed his well-polished silver-look hole puncher.
To my surprise, there were 17 people in the hall and they were
all going to the land Down Under. I became part of a group of
seven guys in a similar age bracket, all with the same dream and
Melbourne as the preferred city. How good was that!
The next stop was London where we did a pub and striptease
crawl for an evening before our departure for Perth, Sydney and
Melbourne on a British Airways 747 jumbo jet.
This was the first time we had all been on such a large aircraft.
We were all very lucky to be able to sit in a smoking section,
except for Lars and Goran who were in the designated nonsmoking
zone the row in front of us. We were all addicted to
nicotine. In other words, we were very well-adjusted citizens to the
smoking society of the 70s.
The flight was like heaven on earth – duty-free smokes and free
grog as well as free food and good service from beautiful air
hostesses. We were like kids in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory!
It all proved to be too much for most of us, coming from an
over-regulated country with the most expensive cigarettes and
alcohol in the world.
Goran became so drunk that the pilot had to request police
assistance on our arrival in Perth. As soon as the plane touched
down, we were sprayed with a lethal substance for alien bacteria –
by a heavily-uniformed customs disease control-patrol.
We were told to sit down while an unwanted drunk Swedish
person was removed from our flying pub 747 by the local
constabulary, before stretching our legs and getting ready for the
trip to Melbourne.
Once we arrived in Melbourne, our little group was stationed at
Nunawading Hostel, where we were fortunate enough to get a
three-bedroom apartment with a large front room to share.
There were two emigrants per room and common toilets and
shower facilities outside the apartment in a corridor leading around
to other living areas.
This was all compliments of the Australian Government, as
well as food, until we had gained employment or had been there
for three months. Then we would have to pay a small fee until we
could find a place of our own.
We received an allocation of one gold-coloured porcelain mug,
one spoon, one knife and one fork which we had to protect with
our life.
My room-mate Rolf, was 12 years older than me, quite a large
man, wearing fashionable pilot glasses; a half bald-headed, chainsmoking
unemployed architect, dreaming of being a tennis coach
in Australia. He had left a very bad marriage behind him in
Sweden. The only things he had to his name, were the clothes in
his suitcase and his precious tennis prizes from his successful
playing days. His ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners! He would
lie on his bed all day smoking and day-dreaming.
It felt strange walking in 27-degree dry heat considering just a
few days ago we were experiencing minus-17 degrees in Sweden.
We proudly carried our eating utensils in one hand, our golden
mug in the other, as we walked to the canteen for lunch; we were
still very jetlagged. Our pale dairy-white skin made sure everyone
at the hostel knew we were the new arrivals as they enjoyed
Melbourne’s midsummer.
There was a long queue to the four ladies in pale blue uniforms
serving the food. Each lady had a designated task – potatoes lady,
meat lady, vegetable lady, and the sweet little gravy and bread girl
who become my favourite.
Once we finished our lunch we had to go to a designated wet
area to wash our valuable eating equipment and then transport it
back to our apartment ready for the next meal.
Imagine yourself as one of six Swedish guys, no job, plenty of
saved money, no rent, no food expenses, no commitments
whatsoever, sunshine, cheap smokes and alcohol, no family, new
country, bad English and plenty of girls … right! It was a long
party until we started to look for work and, being good emigrants,
we were surely a good investment by the Australian Government.
During that party period, Goran arrived from Perth and was
allowed to stay in an apartment opposite ours, in the Nunawading
Hostel. When I first met him he was a very well-groomed person,
long straight black hair, with a dark suit, white shirt and a tie.
Unfortunately, he could not handle cheap and easily accessible
alcohol, he constantly became like Willy Wonka in a pub. Goran
only lasted two months and was sent home broke, with a shaved
head, one front tooth missing and thongs, shorts, dirty, unshaven,
and a hopeless alcoholic. He owed the Australian Government the
full cost of his trip, which was a lot of money in those days.
We had started making bets on what colour knickers the gravy
and bread girl had. Her mini dresses were so short that when she
bent over to clean the tables in the canteen, she exposed them in a
discreet, sexy and elegant way.
Of course we laughed out loud and our eyes followed every
move she made during meal times. Obviously she understood what
we were doing because the next day she made a moving upwards
V signal with her a food tongs towards me and was smiling as she
served me wonderful, typical government-canteen food.
“What does it mean when someone makes an upwards V signal
towards you?” I asked the guys at the table.
“I am not 100% sure but according to a guy in the pub
yesterday, it means fuck off!” said Lars hesitatingly as he burst out
laughing.
“Fuck off. What does that mean?”
“Don’t you know that? Fuck is knöla (sex) and off is av (off).
Get it?” said Lars very proudly.
“Sex off, doesn’t make any sense! Maybe it is an Australian
secret code for I want sex with you?” I said with wishful thinking.
I could feel the gravy and bread girl’s eyes burning into my
neck when Lars had his little attack of the giggles. As I turned
around she pretended to be very busy serving another hungry
emigrant from somewhere in southern Europe. This secret mutual
flirting kept going on for many weeks.
I felt helpless and stupid because of my terrible English. For the
first time in my life I was regretting being the clown at school and
wished I had studied this language to perfection. I would have
approached her a long time ago if I had been on my home turf in
Sweden.
The gravy and bread girl become more and more attractive each
day that went by. I could not wait for meal times. I kept thinking
about her while I was out partying with my Swedish emigrant
friends. She was always on my mind! No escape! I could clearly
see her in my mind: black, shoulder-length, teased-up hair with a
left-sided fringe coving half of her left deep-blue eye, long black
eyelashes with pale-blue eye shadow, together with a black
natural-looking eyebrow surrounded by tanned, smooth, healthylooking
skin. Her white smile with a small overlap of the top front
teeth made her face stand out in the Australian meat market. Her
petite, sexy, Coca-Cola bottle-shaped body with small, firm 21-
year-old breasts, matching buttocks and legs made her so much
harder to get out of my mind.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Blood-Line Incursion Chapter 1
The tears were running down her cheeks, streaming into the corners of her mouth as she was screaming louder than thunder, as hysterical as if losing a child, as uncontrollable as an Australian bushfire. “YOU CAN HAVE YOUR SON.” She was mocking the word ‘son’ by making quotation marks with the fingers on both her trembling hands. She reached for her glass of aged cabernet sauvignon from the round Australian-red hardwood garden table, trying to compose herself and stop the uncontrollable shaking of her body. Her eyes were as red as blood oranges and her makeup was running down her face making her look like someone out of a horror movie. But this was unfortunately for real. Her face looked like it had frozen in one position with her mouth twisted to the left side and her eyes glazed over like something had snapped inside her head. Catherine had been my life, wife, lover, soul mate and mother of my children for the last 30 years. Now she had turned into some kind of a wild monster, scaring the living daylights out of me!
Catherine took a sip of her wine as she looked at me like I was her worst enemy on this earth and should be terminated. Then she drank the whole glass in a frenetic gulp, without any facial gesture. It made her teeth and lips stained from the red wine. She then threw the empty glass with all her force towards me, making it smash into thousands of pieces scattering all over the African slate crazy-paving with a big BANG!
Of course this set off our two dogs Lucy and Max now yelling like crazed wolves, and waking up the neighbours on this beautiful late summer evening. Catherine was very drunk and high on prescription drugs, as well as being on a mission to make her point loud and clear to me, about her feelings towards this new impossible situation we were in.
I tried to ignore her by not reacting to this unprovoked outbreak by simply sipping my wine as though nothing had happened. However, my inner anger made me light up a cigar in a very arrogant way, blowing the smoke in her face.
This was the strategy I had agreed on with my daughter Megan to implement when this situation occurred, as it had done hundreds of times before this incident. Megan was a highly educated person within the medical profession who had contacts with famous psychologists and therapists, all of which had recommended this approach.
Unfortunately it had not worked!
Perhaps it was the smoke that provoked this breaking point?
“Fuck you! You don’t even care! I know! All you fucking care about is your fucking son!”
“I don’t want to lose my temper! I could kill you! You know how strong and fit I am! NO! You are not worth the punishment! Bitch!”
At this stage I started to feel sick to my stomach. Life felt hopeless, impossible. I had totally lost control of my life! My life was in the toilet, ready to be flushed down.
For the first time in my life I didn’t know what to do. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t! I was the meat in the sandwich! No solutions, not even an exit plan. How bad was that?
I had totally stuffed up.
Catherine poured more wine into the empty water glass with a shaking hand that made the bottle neck dance on the solid edge of the glass, which sounded like a woodpecker, but on glass! She pretended to ignore me by not looking in my direction. You could feel the tension in the air. No words were exchanged for around three very long minutes; you could only hear the night birds and the cicadas screaming incessantly in the background punctuating the air.
‘We can’t do anything about it! So, why can’t you accept the situation? Nothing will change! Don’t you understand that? Bitch!” I blurted in a nervous, loud and angry voice.
It started to feel like I was losing my temper in a big way, uncharacteristic for me these days. Maybe I’d had a bit more wine than normal? Or was it just pure frustration? Or was it the stifling humidity and the heat? Or was it a build up of all the times she had done it lately? Or did she just piss me off totally?
In my younger years it had happened quite often but luckily I never hit anyone in my family. I was and I am a very fit and strong person and could have done great damage.
I kept telling myself, calm down! Take it easy! Control! Stay calm! Count to ten!
“Of course things have changed now that you have found something much better in your home country of Sweden
“No one has been down-graded! I love my Australian family more than life itself!”
“Your own daughter is feeling insecure!”
“Bullshit! She knows I love her and that she means everything to me.”
“I doubt that you love her! You are being so obsessive with this NEW thing!”
“Fuck you, bitch! How dare you question my love for my own daughter! How dare you? You fucking bitch! Bitch! I hate you!” I had totally lost control and did not know what to do. I knew that if I did not remove myself from this situation, location, and Catherine I would have killed her in pure anger… No one has the right to question my love for my first-born and only planned daughter!
I stood up as my head was spinning, my body was shaking and perspiration was running down my face. I could also feel that the back of my polo shirt was sopping wet as the butterflies did their dance in my stomach. I had no plan! But I had to run somewhere! Away from all this SHIT! I started to run towards the back door of our house, but I could not see it. The bright light from the garden spotlights was in my eyes.
Catherine noticed that I was up to something and rushed up in front of me, her body throwing a shadow over my face, providing a vision of where the door was located.
I pushed her to the side, making her lose her balance and I quickly rushed into the house to get my car keys and wallet.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The car was in the garage and Catherine was limping towards me.
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! We have to talk!” She sounded very remorseful and as strange as it might sound, very calm.
When I realised that there was no time to get the car out of the garage without further confrontations, I started to run down the street, pounding the asphalt at a very fast pace. This was nothing unfamiliar to me being a Spartan Runner, or a runner that has run more than 10 marathons (42 km). I could hear Catherine pleading for me to come back. Her voice faded as I got further and further away from my house.
“Pentti! Pentti! We have to talk! Please come back! Please, please, please!”
As I approached the main road, I could hear a car behind me revving the engine as it got closer. It was Catherine chasing me on four wheels in her little red sports car. My only chance to escape her was to run to the other side of road which was divided by a wide nature strip. This forced her to drive further down the road to the next intersection where she had to do a u-turn to continue the chase.
By then I had hidden behind a bus shelter, my heart was beating in my throat, my breathing was heavy and very loud. I felt like a criminal hiding from the police as I watched her drive past very slowly looking for me. Then my mobile phone started to ring. The screen displayed Catherine’s name and I quickly pressed reject. I did not want to see her ever again! I was leaving home, just like a teenager after a fight with their parents. No plan! No place to go! The only thing I had with me was my wallet and my mobile phone. Where should I go? What should I do?
I suddenly remembered that the local pub was only 20 minutes walk from where I was. It would be my short-term destination before leaving for Escape Town
I popped my head out very, very slowly from behind the bus shelter, just like in the movies, checking if the coast was clear! Catherine had done a second lap past my hiding place and she had seen me!
“Shit!”
As quick as a desperate criminal facing life in jail, I ran towards the pub, head-long against the on-coming traffic – making it impossible for her to turn the car and follow. I was running like a mad man chased by a wild bull. My wife! Yes, it made me run very fast! I was constantly looking over my shoulder. No sign of her. She must have been stuck in traffic. Now I could see the illuminated Statue of Liberty outside the pub, luckily I knew what country I was in! Yeah you can gamble at the pub as well, if you didn’t want to speak to anyone.
As I was approaching the venue I could see Catherine doing exactly the same thing, but she hadn’t seen me. Obviously she expected me to be there. I dropped like a sack of potatoes behind an old black Ford Falcon in the car park outside this lucky factory. I started to get tired of being chased like a criminal. I did not move a muscle. I was completely still. She went inside. I still didn’t move. After I had been a statue for around seven minutes, Catherine came back out again, looking left, looking right and fiddling with her mobile phone. All of a sudden my mobile phone was playing my favourite song ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ very loudly and the screen displayed Catherine’s name. I switched it off immediately. She looked in my direction as she heard it play and started to walk towards me when an old lady with a walking frame came up to her and talked to her about something. This made her go back to her car and drive off slowly, still preoccupied by her search.
My plan to stay behind the Ford Falcon for another few minutes before making a dash for the entry door came to an abrupt end when I felt the vibrations on my back of a V8 engine revving up. The driver did not know that I was there. This hoon decided to burn rubber before take off, creating a lot of attention due to the noise, rubber smell and smoke. It almost killed me. I threw myself under a parked pick-up truck next to the highway rocket and rolled out on the other side, using the smoke as cover, and entered the pub unnoticed.
“Could I please have a pint of beer? Victoria Bitter?”
“Of course, but what the heck has happened to you?” asked the barmaid while she poured a perfect beer.
“What do you mean?” I said, somewhat surprised.
“Look in the mirror behind me,” she smiled.
“Shit! Sorry! I did not realise I looked this bad!”
My bright yellow Ralph Lauren polo shirt was covered in oil, gravel and sand and was almost saturated in perspiration. My shorts revealed my tanned, hairy legs covered in dirt from the car park. My face and hair were not much better. Thankfully the security guy didn’t enforce their dress code. My lucky day! Safe from my wife! Peace!
I found a quiet corner for myself. I enjoyed letting the icy cold beer do its trick with my over-heated and exhausted body, as it calmed my elevated stress level. It was the best tasting beer ever! It was so cold that it almost gave me frostbite on my finger tips and a slight brain freeze while my mind was racing with thousands of different thoughts on how to solve this hopeless situation. How to divorce her? Fake my own death? Move back to Sweden Queensland
Then I suddenly started to think, where the bloody hell would I sleep tonight? Hotel? Motel? B&B? Or should I try to pick up a lady with her own place and a shower – which I desperately needed?
“Darling, you look like you need someone to cheer you up,” said mutton dressed as lamb with long bottle blonde hair, large gold earrings, muffin top with deep cleavage, red tight mini skirt, with matching red stilettos, broken by the garish check of her black fish-net stockings. She touched my shoulder like I had ordered a Swedish massage in a shopping centre.
“Yeaaah, sweetie?? What do you mean? Do I look like I need it??”
“You sure do, babe,” she said with a very confident voice while she was sipping her white wine and continuing her free one-handed shoulder massage service.
“OK! You read my mind like we were made for each other.”
Under normal circumstances I would have run a mile. But I was desperate! I needed a place to stay and someone to talk to, about anything that would keep my mind off my misery.
“Why are we standing when we can sit down, handsome?”
Just as we were sitting down and starting to communicate freely, Catherine came storming in like a hurricane on fire.
“Fuck you! Five minutes and you already have a slut on your lap! You pathetic low-life! And I am trying to repair our 30-year marriage!”
By then my accommodation fled the scene equally as quick as she had arrived, but the smell of her fake designer perfume lingered in her wake.
I had no words in response. It felt like I was not there. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. I did not care anymore! Nothing worse could happen in my opinion. This was hell and the devil was doing his best to punctuate bad karma.
Then, without warning I could feel extreme pain in my head, making me see light freckling together with blue and yellow spots dancing in front of my eyes as I fell slowly to the ground.
I could hear voices and a struggle very, very far away; it was like coming out of surgery. I had no understanding of time. What had happened? Where was I? I felt very peaceful and calm, when I suddenly could hear, “Dad! Dad! How do you feel?” asked Megan.
She was sitting next to me on a hospital bed in a very busy emergency department somewhere in the city.
“What I am doing here? Ooh, ooh! My head hurts like hell!”
“Mum hit you over the head with a wine bottle!”
“Shit! My God, she is a sick little bitch! Where is she now?”
“Two security men had to hold her down while a doctor from a mental crisis centre sedated her at the pub. She is now confined to the hospital around the corner from where you live. They are going to conduct some tests tomorrow.”
The tears were running down her face uncontrollably while she was telling me about her mum. Megan loved her mum dearly.
According to Megan, I had been in a coma for more than two days and there were 27 stitches on the back of my head as proof it was not a nightmare. It was for real! I could feel with my right hand that they had shaved off all of my natural dark brown, well-groomed hair. Now there were only traces of artificial threads making me look like I was a die hard, desperate hair transplant recipient.
“The visiting hours finished 27 minutes ago,” said a male nurse as he advised us that I would be moved to ward 47 for the next few days.
We hugged in silence for a long time like there was no tomorrow. We were both trying to hold back our tears and compose ourselves before saying goodbye to each other.
Alone in the ward, my mind started to wander, thanks to all the drugs in my system …
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
On The Edge of Glory!
I can feel it! I can smell it! I can almost touch it! When will Blood-Line Incursion go over the edge?
A lot of Swedish people have not seen this article which was published earlier this year. Sorry to all English speaking people.... Your turn will come soon!
A lot of Swedish people have not seen this article which was published earlier this year. Sorry to all English speaking people.... Your turn will come soon!
Monday, September 26, 2011
Stieg Larsson & Peter Oredsson?
What are the common links between us? We are both Swedish and born three years apart...
Most book sellers around the world recommend that if you like Blood-Line Incursion you more than likely would enjoy Stieg Larsson's book The Girl Who Played With Fire... That's a great honour to me...
Most book sellers around the world recommend that if you like Blood-Line Incursion you more than likely would enjoy Stieg Larsson's book The Girl Who Played With Fire... That's a great honour to me...
27 Countries! 97 Booksellers! Supply Viral Demand of Blood-Line Incursion!
Luckily 3 new countries have joined the long list of supporters of Blood-Line Incursion as the demand is going viral...
- France, Amazon
- Portugal, Bertrand Booksellers
- Korea, Book.daum Booksellers
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Blood-Line Incursion Gone Viral!
In the last few days this blog site has gone made! I have received a record level of hits regarding Blood-Line Incursion from United States, Netherlands and United Kingdom... I hope it all translate into sales! Thank you for your interest!
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