Spaceman

 THE NIGHT CALLER                                                                 

by Richard Banks 

The knock at the door was polite but insistent and would have caused no uneasiness had it not occurred at a quarter to three in the morning. If asleep, or only half asleep, I might have missed it or taken it into whatever dream was in my head. But I was awake, most definitely awake. Had I not just visited the bathroom and on my return to bed checked the time on my alarm clock. Even so, I was inclined to think that it was nothing, or at least nothing of consequence. The night was windy, something had blown over, or maybe... The knock was followed by a second knock, a little louder this time but no less polite. There was no mistaking it this time. The knocker I sensed was a person of discernment, of sensibility, but nevertheless an unexpected caller at a time of day when the usual sort of callers were yet to venture out.

         A third knock, scarcely more insistent than the first two, had me reaching for my dressing gown. Halfway down the stairs, my mind was in panic mode. This could only be bad news, an emergency, someone we knew had died or been injured in an accident. It was the police, who else could it be? Pausing only to turn on the hall light I flung open the door to reveal something that was definitely not a policeman, or any other type of man.

         The large green face that looked up at me smiled ruefully, revealing several rows of red incisors. A long yellow tongue flickered in and out of its mouth as the creature spoke. What its first words were I do not recall; I only remember that they were expressed in a version of the English language last uttered by BBC newsreaders in the early days of television. I attempted to reply with the same immaculate enunciation only to find that I had totally failed to take in what it had said. The voice that spoke had done so in a middling baritone - 'it' was most definitely a 'he'. His upwards gaze took on a look of bemused anxiety as my mouth opened and closed several times without speaking. The creature tried again, possibly repeating his first words that now became the most famous second words in human history.

         “Sorry to intrude. Rank bad form and all that, but could I possibly bother you for a recharge.” He held up an object of similar size and dimensions to a portable radio. He again smiled but this time in a way that did not reveal his teeth. I wondered what the dinner jacketed newsreaders might have said and, while wondering, heard myself invite him in. Well, it would have been impolite not to, a curt refusal might have blighted interplanetary relations for decades to come, and all he wanted was a recharge.

         I ushered him into the sitting room. It was my best room and had recently been re-carpeted. Regretfully the new sofa I had ordered was yet to arrive.

         “Do you have a three pin adapter?” I asked, pointing at the socket in the wall.

         He assured me that he had a “universal” and that my socket would do very nicely. He plugged in his radio or whatever it was and in the awkward silence that followed I invited him to sit down on the more comfortable of my two armchairs.

         “Would you like a cup of tea while we wait?” Utilising my talent for charades I mimed the raising of a cup from saucer to mouth.

         “Tea?” he repeated. The pause that followed suggested that he was somehow consulting a search engine. “Oh yes, a refreshing plant leaf infusion. Why not indeed. Let’s have some tea.”

         He fidgeted nervously as I explained that I would have to leave him for a few minutes. “The tea,” I explained, “is made in the kitchen.” I pointed towards the serving hatch between the sitting room and kitchen.

         “Through there?” he said, as though expecting me to crawl through it.

         Deciding that any further words of explanation might well have the opposite effect I left the room via the door. On my return I found him communing with my lemon plant in a series of odd, little sighs which the plant was reciprocating with sighs of its own. The creature broke off in mid-conversation and accepted the cup and saucer I offered him with a dexterity that suggested he had been practising. Raising the cup in accordance with my mime he poured the contents into an orifice that I had hitherto supposed to be an ear. The expression on his face suggested that the experience had not been an altogether pleasurable one, but determined to be the model guest he effected what I think was meant to be a sign of approval.

         “Are you not giving Lini one?”

         “Lini,” I replied, wondering if he had brought in an invisible friend.

         “Yes, Lini, your companion plant. She has not drunk for three days. A tea, I think, would be very much to her liking.”

         I disappeared back into the kitchen and on my return emptied the teapot into Lini’s container. He smiled, evidently satisfied that Lini was now a happier plant.

         “By the way, I haven’t introduced myself, I do beg your pardon, my name is Kogiwinnalottadosh, second son of the third family order of Magnus Vaniturnum. Call me Kog, everybody does.”

         I informed him that I was Kev of Fairway Avenue.

         Introductions over he volunteered the further information that he had come from a planet with a very long name that might have started with a Z, and that he had gone travelling with his second best wife, who also had a very long name.

         “Oh, I said.” I hope she’s not waiting outside. She’s most welcome to come in.” By no means convinced that I did want another extra-terrestrial in my sitting room I was relieved when Kog declined my offer with civility that fully acknowledged my kind intentions. His wife, he explained, was busy in their spaceship where she was making much needed repairs to a device called a gurgoblaster. This, he hastened to tell me, was the most important part of the ship and the reason why she was on-board instead of his number one wife. No one could fix a gurgoblaster like she could. Indeed, give her any piece of mechanical equipment she would not only repair it but make it work better than before.

         “How many wives do you have, Kev?”

         I replied that I had one and that she was presently asleep on our bed upstairs.

         “Only one?” he said, evidently puzzled by my reply but holding back on the questions he was surely thinking.

         I replied that most Earth countries had a one wife at a time policy and that very few of the said wives could change a car wheel, never mind repair a gurgoblaster. There is, I added, in a spontaneous moment of interplanetary diplomacy, “much we might learn from you.”        

         “And we from you,” said Kog. Indeed, I wish to know where I can find George Formby?”

         “George Formby?”

         “Yes, George Formby. You know, the cheeky chappy with the ukulele.”

         It transpired that Kog’s planet had been receiving radio and TV signals from Earth that first began their journey through space in the 1920s. Of those relating to light entertainment, none were more popular than the songs and films of George Formby which had acquired a cult following only rivalled by the more recent arrival of ‘The Lone Ranger’.

         “Do you have a ukulele, Kev?”

         His disappointment at my reply was only too evident. I hastened to assure him that although I was not a practising musician I was fully aware and appreciative of Mr Formby’s undoubted musical talents. Indeed, I claimed his song about the Brighton Rock to be a personal favourite. This was, of course, far from the truth although in the circumstances pertaining it seemed impolite to say otherwise. I attempted to maintain this fiction by singing the only two lines of the song I could remember. He instantly joined in and, with both of us feigning the playing of a ukulele, we sang, or rather he sang and I hummed until it was over. Kog clearly elated by our performance attempted to slap me on the back but had to settle for somewhere lower.

         “So Kev, where is he? Not far I hope.”

         I imparted the sad news that the great George had, “passed over.”

         The untroubled expression on Kog’s face indicated that I had not made myself clear.

         “You mean, passed over in a flying machine, no doubt going to America or Europe or one of your other Earth places. No matter, Kev, just give me the coordinates of his present location and I will be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, or maybe even one. By the way, what is a lamb?”

         Ignoring his last question I abandoned genteel euphemisms and in plain language informed him that poor George was dead. The cry of anguish that erupted from Kog was notable not only for the shaking of the ceiling but also the waking of her upstairs who having been thrown from her bed was now standing at the top of the stairs bellowing her displeasure. As Kog’s grief subsided into sobs I moved swiftly into the hall determined to prevent, at all costs, an encounter that was unlikely to go well. Fortunately having advanced no further than the first step down she showed no inclination to venture further.

         “What the hell’s going on down there? Don’t you know I’m trying to sleep?”

         I explained that a bereaved friend had called and was understandably upset.

         “Upset! I’ll give him upset if he makes that noise again. Now get rid of him and don’t let me find the house smelling of weed in the morning.”

         “Weed?” I replied, with as much innocence as I could muster.

         “You know what I mean.”

         I returned to the sitting room to find Kog slumped forward on the armchair, his head buried in two scaly hands, emerald tears flowing down onto the carpet. Fearing that these might add a discordant colouring to the carpet I hastily offered him a box of tissues which in the confusion of his grief he ate.

         “Kev, Kev, how can this be? He was so young, sixty years at most, little more than a child.”

         I consoled him as best I could by saying that human lives were seldom longer than a hundred years and that although George’s life had been somewhat shorter he had achieved considerable fame and riches. His only regret, I ventured to suggest, was that he knew nothing of his many fans on Kog’s planet.

         Kog’s head slowly returned to its normal positioning and nodded its agreement. The expression on the face suggested that my last statement had been less than logical. To Kog’s credit, his next words were only to agree with me that George had many fans, “thirty million at least and that’s only the membership of his fan club. They will cry an ocean.”

         Unsure as to whether this was an actual ocean or a metaphorical one I decided to steer the conversation towards the more certain knowledge that a statue of the ‘great man’ had been erected on the Isle of Man. It is, I assured him, “an awfully good likeness.”

         “But does it sing and dance?”

         “No,” I counselled, “statues seldom do.”

         “Nevertheless I must go there to make sacrifice. Tell me, Kev, what animal should I choose?”

         I replied that on-street sacrifices were generally discouraged on Earth and that the Isle of Man no doubt had by-laws against them. “Why don’t you light a candle or, better still have a flyover. You could dip your wings or loop the loop.”

         Kog considered my proposal behind an expression that suggested that wings and loop looping were concepts he was struggling to grasp. I was about to speak again when he did so himself. “I know what, we will fire our guns and send ten fiery missiles exploding like thunder in the night sky before falling back to Earth like sparkling rain. What could be better! …Don’t look so worried, Kev, we will point the guns up high. There will be no danger, and hidden by our invisibility shield no one will even know we are there. Trust me, my friend, we come in peace. George makes us brothers does he not?”

         I agreed that he did, at least I hoped he did. I was about to make some tentative enquiries about the guns when a shrill ping announced the ending of the charging process. Detaching his devices from the plug he turned to me with a rueful smile that signalled his intention to depart.

         “It has been great meeting you, Kev, an historic meeting, yes? The first between our two peoples. I will mention you in the book I will be writing. Who knows you may become as famous as dear George. Well, almost. But now I must go. There is much work to do on the ship and we must be away before your star brings its light again.”

         We exchanged gifts, I gave him an A-Z gazetteer of Great Britain and he reciprocated with an aerosol that he assured me was very effective in sweetening the mood of those whose sweetness was less than conspicuous. He gave me a knowing look and glanced up at the ceiling.

         I saw him to the front door and watched as he disappeared into the darkness. Too wakeful to sleep I lit up another joint and contemplated the new reality of life in an ever changing universe. What conclusions I came to I am unable to recall. Sadly the new dawn I glimpsed at around 11.30 seemed much the same as any other morning; the spray, labelled ‘Urk’, produced a howl of rage from she who was its target; and the news from Manx was so unremarkable that it is only known to those who live there. For nearly a month the only proof of that extraordinary night was the otherwise inexplicable disappearance of my A-Z, a circumstance already troubling for it being overdue at the library. When proof did arrive, trouble took on a new dimension - an email from Econ informing me that my quarterly bill was for twenty thousand, two hundred and eighty nine pounds and a less significant number of pence.

         Some experiences are priceless, some plain expensive, others are both, and I am broke. Heed well my tale. Beware the night knock on the door, and if you do open up, at least get a selfie.  

 

Copyright Richard Banks