by Andy Ritchie
‘But, this can’t be what it seems,’ I argued, ‘all this spaceship stuff, you coming over and asking for a lift into Manchester instead of going to the White House, I mean, it’s all bullshit.’
‘Is it?’ he responded, the slight hint of a smile on his lips.
Was it?
I tried to think about it logically, but that was difficult because my brain was having a hard time thinking at all, let alone thinking logically.
‘It’s standard practice,’ he enlightened me. ‘If we have to land on an inhabited world, but don’t want our arrival to be noticed, we first look for somewhere remote, close to where we want to get to. Once we’ve found such a place, we look for an inhabitant who is on their own, preferably with a mode of transport available. Then we land next to them and ask them for a lift to where we want to go. It’s simple.’
He was right. It was simple. But surely it was just too simple.
‘But that can’t work...can it...?’ I stammered.
‘Why not?’ he replied, a little indignantly.
‘What about the inhabitant you pick on...me...what about if I tell everyone what I’ve seen, what I’ve done...wait a minute...you’re going to do something with my memory, aren’t you, erase it, wipe it clean, get rid of any record of the spaceship and you and...
‘Sorry, we don’t do any of that,’ he responded happily.
‘But I could go to the police or the government and tell them about what I’ve seen...’
‘Tell them what, exactly? That you were on your own, on the moors, taking photos of sheep when a big shiny spaceship came down from the clouds and this alien, who looks remarkably similar to a human being, got out and asked you for a lift to Manchester. Are you really going to do that?’
His tone was suddenly a little harsh and dismissive. I didn’t like it.
I lapsed into a brooding silence. He did have a point. If I went to the local police station and came out with that story, they’d immediately pop me in a straitjacket and throw me into a padded cell until I eventually came to my senses and admitted I’d been smoking some wacky-backy and imagined the whole thing.
‘I could take pictures,’ I exclaimed triumphantly, offering up my camera as if to emphasise my point.
‘Yes, you could,’ he replied evenly, ‘but you didn’t. And anyway, they would be dismissed as clever fakes.’
‘I could go to the media,’ I blurted out.
‘Yes, you could do that as well. Everyone loves a lunatic who goes on television saying they’ve had encounters with aliens, but you know as well as I do that no-one ever believes them.’
And he was right. We do all love to see some weirdo on the box spouting on about how they’ve spent time talking to strange beings from outer space. We all enjoy remarking on how utterly mad they must really be, and that it won’t be long before they get a permanent guest-room at the funny farm.
Remember David Icke!
But it can’t be that simple...it can’t be. But it was so maddeningly logical. As long as it’s one person on their own, no other witnesses to corroborate their story, no other evidence, only the word of a single individual.
‘But what about all the other people who must have seen your spaceship,’ I protested. ‘I mean, it’s not like you’ve turned up in the wilds of Scotland where the only things likely to see you are deer. This is Lancashire. There are probably people on Winter Hill right now, out for a stroll, walking their dogs...there’s probably a couple in a nearby field having sex...we’re only a couple of hundred yards from a road, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I can assure you that, in all likelihood, no more than five people would even have been aware of the spaceship. It makes no noise, so will not have been heard. Its hull is reflective, so it would be difficult to see. True, a lot of people could have seen it, but very few will actually have seen it. Why? Because their attention will have been elsewhere, chasing their dogs, playing with their children, any number of things.’
‘But other people could have seen it?’ I suggested.
‘If they did, then most of them will believe they have seen something unusual, but will immediately look to rationalise it within the context of what they know and accept. Most will put it down to a trick of the light, a reflection of brief sunlight off one of the transmitters on the hill, a passing car, anything. And for the one or two who may really think they’ve seen a UFO, they, like you, will be too embarrassed to say anything for fear of the ridicule that comes with having claimed to see a ‘flying saucer’.’
Now that I could understand. After all, who wants to be known as the local crackpot, the fruitcake who claims to have met little green men from Mars. You wouldn’t be able to go in a pub or a shop or anywhere without someone firing an imaginary laser gun at you, making supposedly amusing beep-beep noises, or looking furtively at the sky before screaming ‘The aliens are coming! The aliens are coming!’
It would all get very tiresome, very quickly.
‘Is it anywhere in particular in Manchester that you need to get to?’
He frowned.
‘Unfortunately, as yet I’m not entirely sure where in Manchester the meeting will be taking place...or indeed, when. One thing that is fairly certain, however, is that it won’t be taking place this evening, so once I’m there I’ll need to find some lodgings.’
‘I can take you as far as Darwen town centre. You should be able to get a train or a bus or a taxi to Manchester from there.’
He bowed his head graciously.
‘That’s very decent of you, Jeth. Thank you.’
With that, we began walking back along the track to my car.
As we walked, I noticed that Tukaal was studying almost everything around him with a boyish fascination. When we came across a large puddle in the road, he stopped to study the water boatmen skating on the surface tension of water. I glimpsed him sweeping his hand over the top of the long grass beside the path, eyes closed as he did so, as if he wanted to concentrate solely on the sensation of the plant against his skin.
At one point he commented on the beauty of the view out towards the Ribble estuary and asked me if it was that which I was up here to take pictures of.
I answered him, engaging in polite conversation, but I know that I remained a little wary of him and, as a result, the conversation was a little stilted and awkward.
Once back at the car, I put my camera stuff in the boot and asked him if he wanted to put his metal case in there as well. Interestingly, he declined.
I know I just shrugged my shoulder and said something like ‘Up to you’ before we both got in and I started up the engine.
He talked quite a lot during the 15 minute journey back to Darwen via Belmont along the narrow single-track roads. To be honest, I’d half expected him just to sit there, staring crazily out of the window with a vaguely idiotic grin on his face, clearly amazed by all the wondrous things he could see about him, like cars, houses, electricity pylons, sheep, more houses, more cars, shops, traffic lights, people sat outside the Dog Inn...but then I realised that that particular stereotype of an alien visitor, sort of like Jeff Bridges in Starman, all innocent and child-like, that didn’t apply to Tukaal.
The only way to describe the way he acted was like someone who had read all about the African Savannah in a Lonely Planet guide, but who was now actually setting foot onto it for the first time. Tukaal clearly knew our customs (handshakes and stuff), he knew how he should dress and he knew our language. But it was equally clear that he was in a state of considerable excitement and wonder at what he could see outside the car.
And that was just a little bit freaky.
So what did we talk about on the way home? What was the subject of my first real conversation with a visitor from another world? Was it about the nature of the Universe and the role of mankind within it? Was it about the huge global issues facing our planet, like climate change, poverty, nuclear arms proliferation and terrorism? Was it about one of the great theological questions, s
uch as the purpose of life or the existence of God?
Obviously it wasn’t. I’m not exactly what you would call a theologian, after all!
Who the hell has those sorts of conversations anyway, unless you are half-pissed at a mate’s house and have already worked your way through politics, religion, single-mothers, how crap football referees are, etc, etc. No-one has conversations like that, particularly with people they have only just met.
Instead, they engage in the ‘bread and butter’ topics of polite conversation, starting, naturally, with the weather.
‘This is not what you would call a beautiful evening,’ he remarked, almost absently, not long after we had set off. It broke another awkward silence.
‘No, no it isn’t,’ I replied automatically, in accordance with the laws of such things.
‘Has the weather been settled of late?’
‘Not really, Last week, the weather was pretty good, but this week it’s been wet and windy most of the time.’
He nodded thoughtfully, and then added:
‘And this changeable weather is set to continue...?’
That was when I noticed two peculiar things. Firstly, he seemed genuinely interested in what we were talking about, not just politely interested, but genuinely interested, as if the weather, and my opinions of it, mattered...and secondly, I found myself being drawn into the conversation, not unwillingly you understand, just given an invitation that seemed impossible to refuse...
‘Yeah, it looks like it’s going to be unsettled for the next week or so.’
‘Not good prospects for the remaining one-day internationals against Pakistan then.’
...and that was when I told myself to snap out of it!
What do I mean by that? Well, I’m not sure how best to describe it, but he spoke so easily, so naturally, so without effort, that you couldn’t help but find yourself drawn into a conversation with him, becoming immersed in it, engulfed by it, as if you had been given a warm cup of Horlicks, been placed in your most comfortable armchair, and were chatting with a friend you had known for dozens of years...it’s hard to describe really...I’m probably doing a rubbish job, but it was almost as if I’d taken some medication to relax me...
I remember that I blinked furiously, may even have shaken my head a little before I told him that I wasn’t a big cricket fan; that, in fact, I wasn’t really very bothered about sports at all.
‘So it’s photography that interests you, is it, Jeth? Did the ash cloud from that erupting volcano in Iceland earlier in the year have any impact on the pictures you took? Did it result in any of the sunsets becoming more vivid, more vibrant. I’ve heard that when there are particles in the high atmosphere it is possible to see an unbelievable array of colours as they reflect the beams of a setting sun.’
There it was again, the tone of voice, the smoothness, drawing me in like...well, like something that draws something in (I always was crap when it came to metaphors!)...wait a minute...like a moth to a flame...bit of a clichéd metaphor though...
‘I’m sorry,’ I remember saying. ‘It’s a bit difficult to drive and talk at the same time. I’m a man, and men are no good at multi-tasking.’
I laughed nervously at my own pathetic attempt at humour, trying desperately to appear unruffled and natural.
‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘I can see that you need to concentrate. Forgive me.’
And with that, he lapsed into silence...not a sulky silence you understand, more a thoughtful silence...but not a brooding one. He simply sat there, looking out of the window with the air of a man (alien?) very much content with himself and the world around him...which, I think you will agree, is mighty impressive considering he had only just arrived on our planet, and was currently being driven to a place he didn’t know by a man he didn’t know who didn’t seem to be able to drive and talk at the same time.
If it had been me, I’d have been as nervous as hell!
Anyway, we finally arrived (much to my relief) at the southern outskirts of Darwen.
‘So you think I should look at getting a train into Manchester, or a bus...?
‘Or a taxi,’ I added, ‘though that will be pretty expensive.’
Was money an issue to an alien? Somehow, I doubted it.
‘And journey time, do you have an idea how long it will take?’
‘I think it’s about an hour on the train. Not sure about the bus.’
Then a thought occurred to me.
‘Look, Mr Tukaal...’
‘It’s just Tukaal,’ he corrected gently.
‘Okay, Tukaal. I guess I’d be right in thinking that you haven’t got a hotel room booked in Manchester for tonight, have you?’
‘You would indeed be correct,’ he replied as we passed the Cemetery pub.
I had thought as much.
And, for some reason, I found myself ladened with a sudden weight of responsibility.
Was I seriously going to allow myself to become known as the man who, having been chosen by fate to be the first person to meet an alien, then proceeded to simply drop that alien off at the nearest train station before driving home for a well earned cup of tea and some toast?
And yet, why shouldn’t I do just that?
After all, I’d done what I said I would do and given him a lift into town. I could simply have said ‘There you go, pal, southbound platform is just under the bridge. It’s been nice meeting you, have a nice day,’ and I would be a man of my word, able to say ‘Cheerio’ with a clear conscience. I’d have done my bit for interplanetary relations and no-one would be able to say otherwise.
But I couldn’t, could I.
What would happen if Tukaal managed to get himself mugged, or worse, got himself killed. What would happen if the media found out that it was I who had allowed the Earth’s first alien visitor to wander unsuspectingly into the madness that is Manchester on a Friday evening, dressed in a suit and carrying a metal case that would shine like a beacon to countless would-be muggers? What would everyone think of me? What would the aliens think of me?
After all, he was a visitor from another world...Christ, how mad does that sound...let me say it again...
He was a visitor from another world.
Yeah, that does sound mad...and, as I approached the right turn into my street, I said something which I pray to God I never come to regret.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘If you don’t need to get to Manchester tonight, you’d be more than welcome to stay with me.’
There, I’d said it.
Now, before anyone gets the wrong idea, I am not at all in the habit of inviting strange men I’ve only just met, back to my house. Nor am I in the habit of inviting strange aliens who look like men, back to my house.
But, somehow, the idea of simply driving down to the station, pointing him towards the southbound platform and giving him a final cheery wave seemed just wrong.
‘That is a most gracious offer, Jeth, and one I would be delighted to accept.’
I parked the car a few doors down from my own front door. I live on a street of terraced houses and parking spaces are always at a premium. Many of my neighbours regard the ability to park on the little portion of road directly outside their front door as a God-given right that they would defend as resolutely as the right to vote, or the right to free-speech (probably moreso for some of them!). There have been many a heated argument in the twenty years I have lived on this street caused by people committing that most heinous of sins — parking in front of someone else’s house!
I do not allow myself to become embroiled in the petty squabbles of such small-minded people...though I wish to God that the wanker at number 36 would park his bloody great 4x4 in front of his own house instead of in front of mine! He only does it so that that slapper of a wife of his can park her car right outside their house and therefore doesn’t have to walk more than ten feet between car and front door, lest the rain gets her wet or the wind ruffles her hair-do. Tell you what, it’ll be a shock to him if he ev
er finds out that she’s been shagging the guy who lives at number 41 across the road for at least the past two years!!
Anyway...where was I?
Oh yes, we’d parked up and I’d got my photography stuff from the car.
I’d unlocked the front door of my house and had invited him in.
But, just as we were about to enter, I turned on my doorstep to face him. The street was, fortunately, deserted.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Tukaal...’
‘It’s just Tukaal,’ he corrected once more.
‘Yeah, right, Tukaal. Look, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but you are an alien, aren’t you?’
There, I’d said it...and immediately felt the need to justify the question.
‘Only, I just want to be sure that I’m not having some sort of mental breakdown or anything. You did just arrive in a spaceship, didn’t you? I didn’t imagine it, did I? You’re not some weird hallucination brought on by a brain seizure or the inadvertent inhalation of some psychotropic drug, are you?’
He smiled...and it was a genuine smile, not a pitying one or a condescending one. Just a genuine one.
‘I have to admit,’ he said, ‘that I have found it quite curious that, having witnessed what you witnessed, it has taken you so long to ask that question.’
‘And...?’ I asked blankly.
‘Do not worry, Jethro Postlethwaite, you are in full possession of all your senses and faculties. You saw what you saw and I am, as you term it, an alien.’
Now, this was a bizarre moment because, when he said that, I actually breathed a huge sigh of relief and said ‘Thank God for that.’ Then I realised what it was I was saying. I was actually thanking God for the fact that I was about to invite some alien into my house, because that was at least better than knowing that I wasn’t having a nervous breakdown! Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?
Suddenly, I was aware that Tukaal was coughing politely.
‘Can I suggest,’ he whispered, leaning forward a little conspiratorially, ‘that if we are going to continue this conversation, then we should go inside. After all, I’m not sure what your neighbours would think if they overheard what we were saying.’