Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 47

Deleted scene (Pax 1, Just Playing)

First thing to be discarded in my ruthless revision.

***

Heart pounding, he lay on his bed and picked up his guitar. His hands trembled, but the feeling of the strings against his fingertips calmed him down. Doodling a complicated melody, he floated out of his body and let his voice dance around it. Humming to the low, vibrating notes from the instrument lying balanced on his crotch, he sang in blissful solitude to the improvised patterns, gave voice to nameless longings…

… until slowly, another feeling began creeping up on him: a presence of some kind, a shadow on his mind, as if… He opened his eyes and craned his neck. Someone was standing in the doorway! He sat up violently, a hot blush exploding in his face.

“Hi,” Jamie said softly. Was there a hint of knowing in his voice? Had he heard something he shouldn’t?

“Hi…” Michael swallowed, the guitar slipping dangerously in his sweaty hands.

“Were you singing just now?”

Michael fidgeted. Unable to read Jamie’s face, he made to put the guitar away, but Jamie held up a hand to stop him. Dropping a plastic bag he’d been holding, he picked up the acoustic. “Go on, don’t stop,” he urged, voice still impossibly soft and eyes innocently blue.

Michael hesitated for just a moment. He didn’t really want to talk anyway. Then, pushing his fear out of the way, he started picking at the strings, tried to find his way back to the ease of his earlier improvisation. The first tentative notes from Jamie found an instant place among his own, and he relaxed a little. This was safe ground.

Soon enough the hairs on his arms rose in quiet euphoria as he felt the light, sensual notes from Jamie’s guitar curl and twist inside the matrix of his deeper, heavier sounds. Not breaking off, Jamie sat down beside him. His mouth was slightly open, and Michael’s eyes snagged on the pink, moist pillow of his nether lip. Remembering that exact same look from the chemistry lesson, he felt his breathing deepen. He could smell Jamie’s aftershave, and the scent of it made him feel funny. As if he was high or something.

Eventually, Jamie’s melody trailed away and ended. Michael felt a vague sort of sorrow as silence took over, like cold air lapping at skin after a warm embrace.

“Why didn’t you sing this time?”

Michael shrugged. “Didn’t want to spoil it. So… what’s in the bag?” he added, eager to change the subject.

Jamie grinned. “Popcorn. Mustn’t waste good food, you know.” He went to retrieve the snack and they crept up into the bed to stuff themselves.

“How come your mother allowed you to leave?” Michael asked through the crunches.

Jamie laughed. “What makes you think she did?” He threw a handful of popcorn at Michael and he accidently caught one between his lips. Jamie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Before Michael had the time to react, he threw another one at him. This time, he missed, but Jamie continued throwing popcorn, laughing at Michael’s futile attempts to defend himself against the onslaught. Exasperated, Michael reached for a whole handful and leaned forward to shove them down Jamie’s shirt.

“Oh, you little–” Jamie lunged and wrestled him onto his back, holding his arms above his head and resorting to the unfair tactic of tickling him. Michael shrieked helplessly and his stomach muscles contorted, bringing his knee up between Jamie’s legs. With a sound like a tire bursting, Jamie doubled over.

“My God, I’m sorry,” Michael panted, and – acting on pure instinct – he reached forward to touch the place he’d hit. Jamie’s breath hitched and then he just stood there on his knees, staring blankly at his friend. Michael stared back, paralyzed, unable to withdraw his hand. Time slowed down and got all sticky, like treacle. He even forgot to breathe. Pulses flowed back and forth between Michael’s hand and Jamie’s crotch, like electrons, like water, like sound waves. He tried to speak, but only a croaking sound came out. And then he could see Jamie melt into his hand, as if his whole body folded in on itself, reduced to a single focal point.

It only lasted for a second. Then Michael yanked his hand back as if burnt. “Sorry. Jesus.” He forced out a chuckle and, flailing for a change of topic, he gestured at the radio – the way out of this, whatever it fucking was. “Want to listen to some music?”

Time stood still for just another moment, and then Jamie relaxed. “Sure.”

Cringeing on my own

So much of this is… not good. I shudder to think that it’s been out there for two years. Okay, some of it is engaging and poetic and all that, but in places, it’s like a viper’s nest, and I don’t even understand what I meant any longer. This revision is sorely needed!

Wait… what?

Oh my God… I’m revising and partly rewriting Just Playing, and so far, it’s been mostly deleting the odd adverb and shortening a few paragraphs, you know, cosmetics. But just now… oh my God, just now I caught a very, very bad mistake. Very bad. End up in the emergency room bad.

There are times you just don’t make your characters clench their teeth. To any readers who got whiplash from that scene, I’m sorry. In a week or so, the new and better version will be up on all sites. And I’ll take a shower to wash away my cold sweat.

Gah.

Does this girl hate everyone?

From what I post, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?[image error] Well, no, it’s just that I’m currently in the wrong place, and I have been for a while, and that makes me frustrated. I’m surrounded by manually gifted feeler people. Wonderful in small doses. In large doses, not so much. Not for me.

So who do I love?

Short answer: fuck-ups.

There’s a reason I wrote Nathan, after all. I love the misfits and the hedgehogs. The thorny ones, the ones who say fuck you, leave me alone. The ones who’ve seen through it all too early. The ones who can’t be bothered to play the game.

I love them. And they need it more than the well-adjusted, so it’s a case of #sorrynotsorry.

Ranty McRant

Okay. I’m taking a break from the trying-very-hard-to-be-PC-me to publish a short rant about my job.

The thing is – and there’s no way around this, I’m sorry – I work with a lot of WOMEN.

And this is what I want to say about that: I cannot begin to express how many minus fucks I give about how often you should wash a dish rag. If I have to listen to another story about child birth or Easter curtains or how ‘housework is a labour of love’ I will blow a fucking fuse.

Where are all the people who don’t give a fuck? My kind of people? Where are the people who like heavy metal, who read Shakespeare, who laugh at sarcasm, who don’t notice when a shirt isn’t ironed?

I’m so sick of pretending to care about BORING THINGS. I clean the house when social services knock on the door. I don’t give a shit if someone’s husband doesn’t pick up his socks – in fact, I’ll probably side with him if things get ugly. I’m not even going to insert a subordinate clause about how those people are more needed than me to make a society work because fucking hell, I’d rather survive for just ONE DAY and then starve to death than have to listen to another sanctimonious monologue about how housework is undervalued.

You know what? If it’s undervalued, maybe that’s because in the end, NO ONE CARES ABOUT DUST BUNNIES.

So what’s a person who makes a rant like this doing in home economics research? YOU MAY WELL ASK. My life is a joke.

On the plus side – yes, there is one – when I got home, I pedalled away on the exercice bike for half an hour on pure frustration.

 

Work idiocy

Okay, imagine this.

You’re at work, and you have a couple of projects you have to plan. You work with a few different people on these different projects, but all the projects are under the same umbrella, so someone decides that everyone’s going to attend this meeting to tweak all the projects in one go. Everyone gets an email that says “We’ll meet at this time and discuss all the plans.”

Okay, good, I put it down in my calendar and then work on other things.

Cue fuckery.

One of the people in one of the projects comes to ask me when I’m planning to call a meeting to discuss how to tweak project X. “But, but…” I go to the person who called the big plan-everything meeting and ask if I’ve misunderstood things. Turns out I have. We won’t have the time to plan all the projects at that big meeting, because we’re going to do other stuff, so I should have called a meeting of my own to discuss the project I’m in charge of. Everybody else has. So basically I’m an idiot.

Until I get back to my computer and double check that email, and yes, I was right, we were told that the big plan-everything meeting was where we would, you know, plan everything.

Now imagine this scenario is par for the course where communication and planning is concerned. Every. Fucking. Time.

OH MY GOD I WANT OUT OF HERE.

The original Pax story, part 2

The fourth book in my series Pax Cymrica: The True History will be released on April 6. But did you know that the story of Jamie and Michael began as a much shorter affair? Back in 2011, I read a short story that would change my life. I contacted the author and she graciously replied, and we started emailing.

Now, this woman lives on the opposite side of the world from me, but she inspired me to dip my toes in m/m waters, and this was my first effort. Quite a lot of it is actually intact in the first book of the series, Just Playing – I just stretched it waaaay out into the slow burn of the century. Let’s just say that these young men got to work a hundred times harder for their HEA than they did to begin with.

For the curious among you, here is the second part of that story, continued from Hearts on Fire, March 29. The remaining part will be published on The Novel Approach (April 1).

 ***

Jamie held his breath. There was a flutter of curtains, and the vague shape of Michael appeared. Jamie’s heart lurched like a seasick puppy in his chest, but then Michael disappeared again. Was he coming down? Or rejecting him? Jamie almost whimpered aloud.

He had left the girl in a chaos of tears and accusations, half undressed. Running from her house, he had ended up here, like so many times before. Seeking out his friend, eager to pour his heart out and be comforted by his common sense and calmness. But this time he couldn’t. This time Jamie’s heart was full of something unmentionable. So why was he even here?

He went round the corner of the house in time to see the door open. Michael stepped out, only wearing a T-shirt and underwear. He closed the door behind him, crossed his arms and glanced at Jamie sulkily. Of course he was in a mood. He had no idea why Jamie hadn’t called. He had no idea what had happened on that sofa. And Jamie couldn’t tell him.

He faltered. What now? He took a step, stopped. Michael watched him, his dark eyes following his every move with an inscrutable look in them. Jamie bit his lip. He went up the steps and stood to face Michael. He felt as if he had to apologize for something, only he couldn’t think what. He put out a tentative hand and left it hanging in the air between them.

“I… missed you,” he swallowed, hating his voice, the tremble in it. Michael blinked. Jamie stepped closer, he must do something, must… He opened his arms, do or die now. A mirroring motion in Michael’s body, automatic, as if he couldn’t help himself. They hugged awkwardly, all elbows and shoulders. Then Jamie swayed slightly and their bodies touched more closely, heat flaring up at the contact. Michael responded by taking a step closer, his chin landing on Jamie’s shoulder, his hair tickling Jamie’s cheek. Jamie tightened his arms around his friend, dared to press closer. Their thighs touched, their chests. Michael circled Jamie’s body with his arms and they were one being.

Jamie closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet sleepy scent from Michael’s hair. He had come straight from his bed, bringing the warmth and intimacy with him out here into the cool summer night. He moved his head slightly, and they were pulled apart the fraction of an inch, making their cheeks touch again. Jamie breathed raggedly. Now or never. If he was ever to feel what it was like, he must do it now.

He drew back and turned to face Michael, his mouth so close, his eyes so deep and glittery…

He felt a tingling surge of lust sweep up through his legs and there was a flicker of weirdness in his groin. Shit, shit, shit. It was happening again.

Michael pulled away, and Jamie felt like he was being born: pushed out from the warm, dark womb into a place of cold and suffering. Michael had a weird expression on his face, and Jamie suddenly knew without a doubt that he had noticed.

“Fuck…” He felt his eyes widen in mortification. He had blown it. His heart was ripped out of its bony cage and flung on the ground between them, lying there, pulsing feebly, for Michael to see. Jamie had revealed everything, and shattered half a lifetime of closeness in one incredibly stupid moment.

He took a step back and turned away, hurried down the path. Michael’s voice was calling to him, but he closed his ears to it. There was the sound of feet on gravel and then Michael’s hand was grabbing Jamie’s collar.

“Let me go.”

“Wait, dammit! Ow…”

Jamie turned to see Michael bend down and grimace as he held his foot. No, I can’t stay and risk getting sucked in again. Jamie turned, and felt Michael’s hand grip his jacket from below. He fought, but Michael quickly stepped in front of him, crippling limp be damned, and blocked his escape. Those eyes…

“Please come upstairs.”

Only after a few seconds did Jamie understand. He froze, and his breath caught in his throat. He searched Michael’s face, so earnest.

“We’ll… have to be quiet, though. I mean…” Flustered, Michael hid his eyes with his hand. There was an eternity of silence, during which Jamie raced through a million thoughts and registered none. Then Michael touched his hand as if he was going to take it in his, but he didn’t. He just motioned towards the door, and Jamie followed, impossible not to.

They went up the stairs, and Jamie stepped through the door to Michael’s room, his arm in front of his body for protection, one hand caressing the other. Michael came in after him, closed the door. He hesitated with his hand on the key, as if he was about to turn it. Then he took his hand away without completing the motion.

“So how was it?”

“What?”

“The date.”

“Oh…” Jamie tried to compose his features, to gather his fraying wits. “Fine, I guess… why?”

“You don’t sound overwhelmed.”

Jamie shrugged. “As I said, it was okay. She tried to kiss me.” For some reason, he didn’t want to let on that he had kissed her back. That he had almost…

“Tried? You mean you didn’t let her?”

Jamie walked to Michael’s unmade bed and sat down, a hot blush searing his face. What kind of a guy was he, to reject the advances of a pretty girl like her? It was unheard of. Fumbling with his shoes in order not to look at his friend, he mumbled, “I don’t know how.”

Michael snorted a short laugh. “So?” At least he was smiling now. Not as distanced as he had been to begin with. Almost… happy? “You won’t know until you try.”

“I know…” Jamie sighed, leaned back against the wall and let his eyes wander around the room. His hands caressed the warm sheets without his even noticing, tracing the slender outline of its former inhabitant. “It’s just… I don’t want to make a fool of myself.” He was making this up as he went along, and it sounded good. He almost believed in it himself. “I wish I could, you know… practice a bit before…”

His voice trailed away and he fell silent. The air trembled with unspoken words. Michael breathed in, but didn’t say anything. Instead he came to sit beside Jamie on the bed, hugging himself in silence. The seconds went by.

“You know, best thing would be if we could practice on each other,” Jamie said with a contrived laugh. “That way we could both gain some proficiency without being laughed at!”

When he dared to look at Michael, his eyes were jet black. “I’d poke your eye out.”

Jamie was taken aback with the harshness of this remark. “S-sorry,” he stammered. “Didn’t mean to gross you out or anything…”

“No, wait, I just meant that… You know, with my nose.”

“Your nose?”

“It’s lethal,” Michael attempted to joke, but Jamie could tell that he was suddenly nervous. Did he guess the reality behind Jamie’s seemingly innocent words? “Because I don’t know how either, and my nose will be in the way, because I wouldn’t know where to… you know… it wouldn’t be pleasant. I’m not made for kissing.” He was babbling now, but didn’t seem able to check himself. “I guess that’s why I haven’t done it, it’s impossible…”

Jamie stopped him with an impatient gesture. “Let me be the judge of that.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Suddenly, it wasn’t a joke any longer. He had said it as if he meant it. He had said it as if he were planning to see it through. A shudder engulfed him where he sat, and he looked away, terrified. The silence was deepening, and he could hear Michael breathing, waiting for something, like the girl had waited, only for something else.

***

To be continued on The Novel Approach, April 1.

I predict an obsession

I have a new musical love! Since this is a rare event, it’s reason enough to crack open the champagne. I’m a grumpy listener, only reluctantly accepting new songs on the tenth listen, but these guys made it into my heart from the first bar.

Kaiser Chiefs!

With the energy of The Clash and melodies that are just catchy enough to make an arena sing and yet don’t suck up to you, they’re the kind of band that makes me literally GRIN because there’s nowhere else for the happy to go.

Who the hell is Jeff?

Nobody, that’s who. An ‘oops’ that I’m working to correct. A mistake that would make Cutting Edge valuable if it were a vinyl. A guy whose real name is Dave, but that conveniently slipped my mind two years down the road. So if you end up with the wrong version of the book, just ignore Jeff. His name is Dave and nothing else.

Remember Atlantis (WIP) – chapter 3

Continued from chapter 2

 

The air is warm and fuzzy like the skin of a peach. There’s a taste of salt and sea, and it’s in the wine they pour for me, too – a taste as if of the island itself. As if I’m swimming in the primeval soup.

But all I can really think of is the mountain.

People are talking about it – I understand it without even knowing their language. They’re throwing looks at it, whispering, huddling in groups, hands balling into fists.

But that only goes on at the periphery, on the street, in the shadows. Everyone close to our group of brave survivors is only trying to make us feel better. We, the Traumatized Ones. The restaurant owners battle over who can offer the most succulent meal on the house, the locals are buying us alcohol to dim our suffering, and rescue parties for luggage are organized before I’ve even swallowed my first bite of crayfish.

After my second glass of complimentary ouzo and red grapefruit juice, I’m having trouble judging time, and it only seems like minutes before boats start coming back with private treasures. I watch others cry and laugh as their computers and lipsticks and teddy bears are safely retrieved, and then airline personnel start to show up. They move among the tables and take down names, offer economic compensation and tell us to see a doctor if we feel any neck pains or experience distorted vision. I have none of these, and answer only in single syllables. They soon leave me alone, but not before eliciting a promise that I contact them within three days to receive my refund and to fill out forms.

“Vermin!” Marco spits. For a moment, I think he’s talking about the poor airline slaves, but then I turn to see a couple of mangy-looking puppies writhing and whining on the restaurant floor. They’re rubbing their ears against the stone as if trying to rid themselves of fleas.

“What are they doing?”

“Normally, they’d be drinking from the fountains,” Marco says with a disgusted grimace. “But tonight… no idea.”

I watch them squirm until they give a howl and run off, whimpering at something invisible. A thrill runs down my spine. “I… feel it too.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Hm?” Marco is still gazing after the dogs. He looks disinterested, absent. I have this one chance to retrace my steps, to take it back, but I don’t.

“They seem to feel something.”

Marco blinks and looks back at me. Then he raises his glass of Mythos and swallows a large mouthful. “Or hear it.”

“Or hear it,” I nod slowly. “And… I think I know… I mean…” I don’t even know what I’m saying. Marco looks suddenly uncomfortable and glances up at the mountain. I almost imagine tremors running through it, reverberating under our feet, as if the ancient volcano is waking up.

But before I can say anything to reveal my childish fear, my rucksack arrives. From one moment to the next, it just sits there in my lap, as if it was never away. Gingerly leafing through my possessions, I make sure nothing is lost. My passport and my money and my pills are all there, and perhaps I should be relieved, but it doesn’t even touch me. It’s not until I have my phone in my hand that a sudden pain lashes through my heart. Hugging it to my chest, I feel retroactive panic pool like tar in the secret crevices of my lungs. I almost lost it: the only thing holding me together. The pills are nothing. It’s the music that tells me I’ll survive – not just the crash, but life itself.

Fumbling, I press the ‘on’ button. I’m rewarded with a reassuring buzz, like a small creature in my hand, responding to my call. It coughs and sputters a few times, but then it works as smoothly as ever. Marco was right to leave it on the plane: if I’d taken it with me during my little swim, the poor thing would be history – and so, consequently, would I.

I have the temporary urge to call someone, to tell them that I’m alright, but then I remember that nobody knows I’m here. They won’t even worry when they see the fallen aircraft on tonight’s news, because they have no idea I was on it.

The thought makes me feel something, I’m not sure what. Anguish? Relief? Amusement? If there had been a real accident and I had died, no one would have known. Perhaps my body would have burned and my teeth sunk to the ocean floor, never to be found. My disappearance would have been a mystery. I can see the rescue party scanning the woods at home, calling my name, German shepherds scouring the ground with their noses – but nothing, no trace. I would have seemed to vanish into thin air.

Could have been a good way to go, actually. A stage exit to eclipse all others.

Suddenly aching for solitude, I excuse myself and rummage around in my bag for the details of my living quarters. It’s a simple hotel five minutes’ walk from the seaside bar. Marco offers to house me – you shouldn’t be alone – but I politely decline and breathe a sigh of relief as I finally walk away from the tourist area. Date palms and bougainvillea hedge my way, and alley kittens caress my ankles as I turn into my street and find the right address.

The landlady speaks animatedly in Greek and offers me Turkish Delight. She’s obviously aware of the emergency landing – because that’s all it was. No fire, no lack of fuel, no engine failure. Just something about the pilots not reaching the tower, or other planes coming in at the same time, or something like that. The grapevine has been worked overtime during the last three hours, and by now the whole island must know every particular of our little adventure.

I switch on the television in my room, hoping for a news report to make my ordeal seem more real to me, but there’s only static. Now and again there are snippets of sound, like voices, but they sound strange, and it’s impossible to decipher any words. One look out of the window confirms that my hotel lies close to the mountain. Perhaps I’m in acoustic shadow.

I could search for news online, I suppose, but I can’t be bothered. Instead I fling myself on the bed and drape an arm over my face in an attempt to shut out the world. It works. Within seconds, my inner demons have moved centre-stage and are performing some kind of elaborate hell-dance for my viewing pleasure. Endless rows of nondescript faces to grade, endless binders full of bureaucratic bullshit, an eternity of teacher conferences dedicated to nothing but the ticking of the clock.

Groaning, I sit up again and rub my leathery face. There’s no mini-bar, but in my bag, there’s a vodka bottle from the plane. Not that I think I can drown my sorrows in five measly centilitres of booze, but the symbolic value calms me. With a half-filled toothbrush glass in my hand, I feel strong enough to explore the balcony.

Darkness is falling fast. The mountain already looks completely black, ominous in the twilight. A trail of blazing torches is moving up the serpentine road. They glimmer and flicker in the dusk, and I feel a vague unease creep up my spine. Someone is up there, hiding. The thought comes from nowhere and fills me with superstitious dread. And they’re looking for him.

I shake my head and pour more vodka down my throat. I’m acting crazy. Maybe plane crashes do that to people. To calm down, I start a playlist on my phone which I designed to be soothing. Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I look up at the sky. The deepening blue is of that uniquely Mediterranean nuance, like the silk garments of long-dead royals. I unfocus my gaze a little and start picking out constellations. It’s what I did as a child to wind down, and sometimes I still do it now, as an adult.

The stars aren’t fully visible yet. It’s that hour when they’re not quite strong enough to outshine the glowing firmament – like a breath held in anticipation, like the turning of the tide – but in minutes, the Northern Cross materializes before my eyes. I sink down on my haunches and lean with my head against the rough stone wall, awed by the sudden beauty of those distant lights. It’s only because I see them from this very angle, from Earth, that they trace a cross at all. Out there in space, they’re light years apart and have nothing to do with each other.

At least I think so. I’m not exactly an astronomer.

I take another sip of vodka and chuckle to myself. I’m a cliché, sitting here by myself, downing hard liquor instead of socializing on the beach.

Just as I think it, there’s a flicker of light on top of the mountain, as if someone is moving a flashlight back and forth up there. A series of small explosions, like dying stars. With a jolt, I remember the Morse code in my head. No, not Morse code, exactly – but a rhythm, a collection of sounds which weren’t random.

Calling.

I shiver in the warm evening air. What a notion. Who would be calling to me? Nobody knows I’m here.

I take another sip and savour the stinging mouthful as it burns its way down my throat. It’s like tears in reverse, but I don’t do tears. I store it all up and get depressed instead.

A wry snort escapes me. My problem is that I’m a romantic, which is bad enough for a Swedish man, and even more embarrassing for a middle-aged one. When I was young, I could get away with being idealistic and emotional. Now, in my thirty-eighth year, it’s almost grounds for incarceration.

I’m distracted by a sound from my phone. It’s not ringing, exactly, just…

I pick it up and squint at it. It’s displaying crazy symbols and making a strange high-pitched noise. Maybe I should just turn it off. It’s probably the heat. The poor little thing is only used to the lukewarm entropy of Scandinavian summers, after all.

But I’m not convincing myself. Something else is wrong, and it’s not just my individual phone. It takes me a while to realize what it is, but when I do, a kind of rigor mortis spreads through my body. The darkness is deepening, and lamps should be switched on everywhere. Streetlamps, storefronts, living rooms… But there’s nothing. Not a single point of light in the whole of the village below me.

My heart stands still for a moment. I must be imagining things. But then I remember that that was exactly what I thought in the plane. And I wasn’t imagining that. We were actually going down.

Pulse pounding, I fumble my way inside my room and flick the light switch by the door. The room remains sunk in darkness. Refusing to believe it, I venture out into the corridor, and it’s completely black. I find the staircase with some difficulty, and emerge on the other side of the house, the one facing the alley. There are people there. I can sense them and hear them, but there’s no light. They’re talking in hushed tones, throwing looks over their shoulders, jumping when I approach.

“What’s happening?” I whisper, but nobody answers me. Perhaps they don’t understand the question, perhaps they just don’t know, or perhaps they‘re afraid that if they offer an explanation it will come true. I wish I could call Marco, just to hear a voice that understands me, but we haven’t exchanged numbers and I’m not sure my phone is up to the task anyway. Uncertain, I just stand there with the others, mute like them, and look up at the stars which shine all the more brightly for having no competition.

It’s silly, really, but I shiver in the warm dusk. Why am I so incapacitated by a simple power cut? I feel naked in the dark, exposed to some higher being that can see through flesh and bone. Is it because I’m in a foreign country, or is it the after-effects of shock? I reason with myself, trying to fit my reaction into a rational matrix, but it’s pointless. I’ve never been rational. I’m governed by my passions, and what has me in its grip right now is a primeval fear of the dark, of the wild animals that come to prey on humankind as soon as the fire dies down.

Up on the mountain, the torches are moving in irregular patterns. People around me are looking at them, holding their breaths. Is there something up there? I want to ask, but I don’t know what language to use. I feel alingual. All my Swedish and my English and French do nothing for me now. I’m a foreigner, an outsider. I might as well come from another planet.

Shuddering, I inch my way back through the dark and inside the house. The thought gathers like a swarm of bees as I mount the stairs: I must go up there. I have to switch on the metaphorical light and look under my bed, to see that there are no monsters. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t care. Tomorrow I have to go up that mountain and face my worst fears, to prove to myself that they are just that – fears, nothing more.

Safe inside my room, I lock the door, wishing I could bolt it too. Why did I come here? Why didn’t I stay at home?

Hands shaking, I set the alarm and stick the phone charger in the socket. Just in case the power comes back.