Without responding to the outburst, he left the bike resting on its side-stand in the drive with the luggage still attached. He almost staggered through the front door to escape the sight of twitching net-curtains, all initiated by his wife’s outburst and not by a strengthening breeze as many so-called neighbourhood-watchers would have others believe. He was tired to the point where bed seemed like a good place to escape to, but only after a long hot bath and a very large scotch. His daughters peered around the edge of a door, showing only one eye each. They could have been two little Cyclops, but only for a moment, because they both ran to him for a hug. They had missed him as he had them.
“We were worried about you, daddy,” cried the youngest.
“Yes, and mummy hates you!” added the other, hoping she wouldn’t get into trouble for telling him.
Scott couldn’t believe it. What the heck had he done wrong this time? He was always in trouble with her, sometimes for good reason, but usually for having done nothing wrong except maybe for breathing and being alive. The PMT, menopause and bouts of anger were becoming too much of a drain for him, he had to do something to escape it. It was running him down.
“I’ve only been gone for a day and a bit and I’m in trouble already?”
With clenched teeth and hair looking as if was standing on end she slapped him hard across the face. His little girls had let out a chuckle upon hearing the one day excuse, but cowered as their mother had thrown the slap. They both headed for the elder girl’s bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar as they were worried and concerned. Scott couldn’t understand what was happening and was about to ask when his wife let loose with a tirade of verbal hatred. When she had finished, or perhaps her batteries had finally run down or her tongue was worn out, Scott sat down with a heavier than normal sigh.
“But I’ve only been away for a single day. What’s the bloody problem?”
She still seemed to be struggling to get her act together again. There were either problems getting the batteries recharged or the tongue sharpened enough to match her mother’s, when one of the little girls said, “You have been away for a week and a half, daddy. We were awfully worried about you.”
“Huh?”
“You heard her, you bastard” shouted his wife, cutting the air between them with her freshly razor-sharpened tongue. “Who have you been with? What’s the filthy bitch’s name? Tell me and I might just let you live another bloody day before I string-up the pair of you!”
He remembered the blonde assistant in the Skye pharmacy, picturing how beautiful she had appeared with an almost seductive smile. How could he forget that picture of loveliness?
“I knew it, you dirty, filthy pig. It’s written right across your guilty face. You fucking bastard!”
When the verbal dust had finally settled, with confusion still reigning his thoughts, he undressed to take that wished-for bath, deciding never to mention losing a pair of underpants. That might add fuel to his wife's already fiercely burning fire and paranoia, which was firing on all cylinders, he recognised. His back had several lengthy scratches, as if made by fingernails, spotting them in the bathroom mirror as he turned while drying himself. There were a few nibble-sized bruises on his neck too. It all added to his confusion, making him afraid to undress anywhere that was visible to his wife for the next few days. Everything didn’t make any kind of sense to him. The missing days and now the marks on his skin, especially what felt like concentrated sunburn on his hands when he immersed himself into a hot bath. What the heck had happened to him while he was on Skye? His memory of the cobwebs and the almost flat battery, with the ash from the fire scattered everywhere. It made him suspect he had collapsed from a fever, which he felt he might still be suffering from; or had he somehow been knocked-out? Whatever the reason, he was utterly baffled. He decided to play the whole thing down, maintaining a low profile while paying extra attention to her and his children.
The bike was eventually pushed into the garage and left for a couple of weeks without any particular attention shown to it. The grime would have to wait before it could be removed. The splattered mud would set like cement, he was aware, but he couldn’t afford to show any inclination towards cleaning it. What might he be accused of next time, he wondered, should he go again. During several arguments he had already been shouted at for supposedly loving his bike more than her, never having the courage or stupidity to tell she was right. He had always wanted to reply his motorcycle didn’t hate him like she did, and was a much better ride too; but chose to bite his tongue instead, preferring always to keep the peace.
The missing days bothered him enormously from that moment on, with dreams and little flash-backs trying to tell him some secrets. He thought the blonde in the pharmacy was on his mind as her image seemed to haunt him; or was it someone else who looked like her? He just didn’t know anymore.
Returning to work had been good for him, a medicine of sorts. The aircraft work and military discipline was intense and enough to keep him busy and his mind occupied.
The Skye trip was soon forgotten as his daily routine was taking on a different direction. His RAF career was almost over as the twenty-two year engagement was practically completed. He had learned a great deal while working with fast jet aircraft over the many years, seeing many of his aging mechanical friends being sent to museums or junkyards. It saddened him when these flying works of art took off for their last and final time, their destination to a private airfield or museum for public and permanent display. Or to the great graveyard in the sky, in some cases. RAF Catterick, in Yorkshire, was where the military Fire Service would burn them for practice and fun. He secretly despised the string-vested firemen for the destruction of these fantastic pieces of history. If he had the cash and the space he would have bought them all to save them for posterity and his personal pleasure, taking extra pleasure in knowing the firemen had missed out on some perverse fun.
His demob came and went, being presented with a whisky-filled decanter and glasses by his RAF chums. He left feeling he had done his bit for Queen and country, knowing the life he was heading into would be entirely different. He would now work for an employer who was concerned with making a profit, distanced somewhat from the military where profit was never an issue, although cutting costs to save money was. He stepped into civilian life with a confident stride, never looking back.
The memory of his past extraterrestrial exploits were still quite unknown to him, although he always had a niggling sensation there was much more to his past than he actually knew. The book he had been writing had also taken on a new meaning as it gave him hope. Perhaps he could make it as an author, he sometimes wondered.
It was while working as a civilian he was badly injured, seriously damaging some vertebrae in his neck. He simply walked out of that job without giving notice. He didn't think they deserved any! Following goodbyes and farewell handshakes from trusted colleagues, he accepted their best wishes and thanks. He thankfully left an occupation that one day might have cost him his life. He was more than ready for a change.
When Scott walked out of that job he also left his wife, heading off towards an uncertain future. There were lots of reasons why he decided to leave her, more than he would ever admit to. It saddened him to be leaving, knowing his daughters would be affected, while also feeling deep pity for his wife. He knew his daughters would suffer from his leaving, but hoped they would become reacquainted later on in life, probably when they were old enough to understand how badly he'd been treated and also how he felt. He was going to miss his girls, he knew. His heart was broken as he left for a new life... somewhere. Anywhere!
He had bought a caravan, loading it with his most precious possessions and clothing, hitching it onto his sporty car. He departed for warmer climes without a word of his destination to anyone. He felt awful doing it, hating himself for the way he was cutting and running, but it was essential for his survival, he believed. He was a fighter but felt punch drunk after the damage from his last pl
ace of work and the miserable way he was treated by his wife. He still couldn’t get over a recent and heated argument about which way round the toilet roll should be on its holder, where her boiling-over anger lasted for about seven days. It was as if she was on drugs, he sometimes considered, but knowing full well it was hormones going haywire. The menopause had hit her badly, but she didn't recognise its effects or affects. He believed it was the best thing to do in the circumstances, to clear out and make a fresh start. His biggest regret was leaving his little girls, hoping the fury and the hatred that would surely spout from his wife’s mouth would not taint the love that he and his daughters shared. He wept at the thought of losing them, but go he did. His once-upon-a-time local friends deserted him too when the news of his departure spread among them like jungle drums. His wife had got the verbal knife in first and he’d been judged by them all. His life had been in turmoil and he was trying to find a new one to replace it, somewhere different and out of the way. How many people would love to have the opportunity to do the same, he asked himself? The United Kingdom’s government was already taxing anything and everything under the sun, and the police were making life impossible for the country’s drivers. As for the criminals, they just seemed to get away with anything and everything, but go over the speed limit by a single mile-per-hour and you were in the deepest and stickiest pooh. Scott was both pleased and relieved to be getting the heck out of a country that looked more and more like a sinking ship with each and every passing day. He laughed at the thought of him being one of the lucky rats, imagining himself crossing the English Channel on a roll-on/roll-off ferry, while looking over a shoulder to observe the White Cliffs of Dover disappearing beneath the waves of bureaucracy gone utterly mad.
He drove south through England, France and Spain, then eventually ferried across the Gibraltar Straits to Morocco, North Africa. He didn’t know why he chose that country, he had no reason to go there, as far as he was aware. He had never been there before and it was a seriously long way away from where his journey had begun. But deep inside his mind was a strong desire to visit it, and as his job and marriage had turned sour, why shouldn’t he? What the hell, he thought, and beamed a smile of relief.
Chapter thirty-two
The journey had proved harrowing, where his wife would constantly phone him with words of hatred and curses. No change there then, he registered. Scott thought he deserved the anger from her as he was the one doing the running away, so believed he was in the wrong. She would never understand he wanted to do something with his life other than be shouted and screamed at.
The drive had been long and arduous, where parking in purpose-built stopover areas to rest or sleep had become the norm. He reflected on his escape and the pain he was leaving behind, trying to console himself with the knowledge he was going somewhere better. It was during his travels that he discovered there was an immense difference between the UK and the continent. UK motorway parking areas wanted to charge a lot of money for overnight stops, threatening to slap a hefty fine on anyone who didn’t comply. He found the rest of Europe provided excellent serviced areas, specifically for stopping over; including clean toilets and showers in most places, and all for free. It just reinforced Scott’s belief in the sinking-ship syndrome. He was glad to be free of it, looking forward to another future, in another country, but still sad at leaving behind his beautiful and loving little girls behind. Will they ever truly understand why? he often worried.
After several thousands of miles he eventually arrived at his chosen destination. It was the garrisoned town of Ouarzazate. A desert town where the sun shone brightly and untethered donkeys and goats lazily walked the streets. A magnificent movie studio was seen to stand on the town’s outskirts as Scott arrived, welcoming tourists and locals alike, and quite famous for making classic movies like, Lawrence of Arabia, Sahara and Gladiator, to name but a few. It provided welcome employment and finances to the local community.
Scott parked his caravan in a municipal campsite where there were plenty of continental Europeans, all enjoying holidays with glorious weather that could be relied on. They tended to travel in convoy between destinations, resembling a segmented snake of vans when viewed from an elevated distance or overtaken. He was pleased he chose to visit there, a country that proved warm and friendly and a town with interesting geology surrounding it. He wasn’t entirely certain why he chose that specific area, but felt more than happy with his choice. There were plenty of fossils on sale by the side of the roads with locals holding them high and demanding you stop to view and hopefully buy one. Colourful boutiques were plentiful, and they too sold fossils as well as touristy trinkets. He was excited by the sight of so many fantastic geological specimens, hoping to locate the fossil beds from where they originated. But something within him kept pounding away behind the scenes, a nagging sensation of really wanting to drive into the mountains. Having stayed on the site for a little over three weeks, finding his bearings while getting to know the region a bit better and learning some of the language, his feet started to get itchy for adventure.
It was while staying at the campsite he chanced to meet two lovely ladies with a spacious Fiat campervan. They were, Ann and Marion, who incidentally turned out to be British. Ann was from Liverpool, with quite a broad accent and a quaint turn of phrase and brilliant sense of humour, especially after a few vodka tipples. Marion was Welsh, being very polite and slightly more restrained, although just as likeable in each and every way. It turned out they were retired school teachers who simply wanted to live a more comfortable life in the warmth of North-Africa instead of what they might have had in an over-taxed and freezing Britain. The lovely ladies were a tonic for Scott, where they would produce delicious meals while serving excellent wine. This would be followed by evening drinks that positively ensured a healthy amount of sleep. Scott was extremely thankful for their generosity and kindness. It helped him get through the times where he badly missed his children. He wished he had met them sooner.
He managed to purchase a map that showed the local area in detail, and this was when he methodically planned his first venture into a desert. He wasn’t bothered about driving into a great unknown, entering a furnace when compared to what he had left behind in cold old Britain. He instead looked forward to the heated challenge. The Atlas Mountains seemed to beckon him as he packed the geology equipment and essential bottles of water into the car. It would certainly make a difference from the Isle of Skye, what with the clear blue sky and fantastic heat, which incidentally helped the pain from his industrial injury to feel better. It was like having constant deep heat treatment on a permanently high setting.
As the mountain range grew closer, and when he thought he was almost at its roots, another valley would open before him. It was the little single track road that seemed to catch his eye, a road he never intended to take as he turned onto it. It wasn’t even shown on his map, and then again, he considered, there had been several other roads missed-out too. This one, however, seemed particularly special to him.
The frequency and sight of broken glass attracted his attention, the shallow glistening mounds that lay almost haphazardly by the road’s course verges. He promised himself to pull-off the road should another vehicle approach him, allowing it to safely pass thus reducing the risk of a shattered windscreen or anything else. The lesson had been learned from a small convoy of 4x4 off-road vehicles that had earlier sped past at a frightening speed, where rocks of all sizes were thrust into the air with a defiant gesture against any who would dare to share their road. The Mad-Max drivers wore light-blue coloured headdresses with fried-egg wide eyes staring hard at any who might get in their way.
He hadn’t actually driven very far when he decided to stop, parking his pride and joy as far away from the road as was safe to do. The towering mountain seemed to shimmer in the day’s furnace-like haze, giving Scott the impression he was nothing more than a termite. Looking around him he felt as if he had seen this before, practically recognisi
ng a rugged-looking plateau, which was far above him on the way to its summit. There was nothing especially interesting about the place in itself, but a particularly small and hardly visible bordering bund looked unusually artificial. Nothing really caught his eye in a geological sense, and in normal circumstances wouldn’t have given it a second glance; but something about it made him… curious.
His car sat in the same place for four full days before a young gendarme in a patrol car drew of the road to make a closer inspection. Cars would sometimes stay-put for a few days, particularly those with European registrations. The owners and passengers were well known to leave it parked while they hiked into the mountains for a spot of wild-camping. But Scott’s car was different from the others. It was a flashy sports car with personalised number plates that bore his surname, or as close as he could get to it. The gendarme was highly impressed by the mean and fast looking machine, wishing he could own something like it. He would certainly attract the Mademoiselles with a nice auto like the one whose windows he was peering through, wiping away the settled dust for a better look. He saw it a couple more times afterwards, with the thought of the owner having perhaps suffered from an accident in the mountains and falling victim to injuries and dehydration. He officially reported its presence.
Scott was never seen again, his body was missing and believed to have been devoured by wild animals after sustaining fatal injuries while climbing in the dangerous mountains. Local townspeople whispered the long since heard rumours concerning the devils that were reputed to live in the mountains, and how they had taken another poor soul. No one doubted the disappearance was connected with the ancient legends of demons and devils, all inhabiting the forbidden crags and passes, waiting to snatch any unsuspecting traveller or badly kitted-out tourist.
An Alien Rescue Page 54