Far From Home - Part 3

  "Far from Home - Part 3"

  Tony Malone

  Copyright 2009 - Tony Malone

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  Cover Photo - "Up in the Sky"

  Copyright 2009 - Tony Malone

  The white Holden Commodore sailed down the road as the sun beat mercilessly upon Melbourne's south-eastern suburbs. Eucalypts flashed past, bark streaming down their trunks like beads of water on the outside of a cold glass. The sky stretched blue onto the horizon, lighter at first, darkening as it rose away from the land. Not a cloud in the sky. Birds hid in well-sheltered branches; insects lay buried beneath long grass and handy strips of discarded bark; grass snakes (no doubt) slithered silently in search of shelter or food, whichever turned up first. The black tarmac of the road sizzled in the heat, making tough going for the ants trying to cross to the other side.

  Tom sat in his car, swore to himself about the weather and turned the air-conditioning up another notch. The Commodore, struggling in its old age as it was, ignored him. A late spring day in Melbourne.

  *****

  The Prime Minister waited patiently as the phone rang, and finally (after six rings), there was a click and a rather startled, "Yes, hello? Sorry?".

  "I wanted to speak to Professor Marc Burrows? Have I got the wrong numb?".

  "No, no, this is his phone, sorry, damn!"

  From the other end of the phone, the Prime Minister heard a dull thud and the rustling of paper, strewn (presumably) all over the floor. He smiled.

  " Hi, Marc Burrows speaking."

  "Sorry for the intrusion Professor?"

  A pause, followed by laughter at both ends of the line.

  "Aren't you too busy running the country to be calling me up and making my research assistant drop paper all over the floor?"

  "Sadly, this is a work matter rather than a personal call. I've just had a rather interesting meeting with someone, a rather impromptu meeting actually, and I could do with a little expert advice."

  "And what made you think of me?"

  The Prime Minister smiled. "Well, I don't know too many other people who've actually been to Mars?"

  *****

  The Commodore swung into the hospital car park, wheels crunching the gravel as it turned into a free space and came to a halt. Tom got out of the car gingerly, leaving the semi-comfortable tepid air inside his car for the searing heat of a Melbourne afternoon. He found the ticket machine, dropping a handful of gold coins into the slot, careful not to touch the exposed metal with his hand (once blistered, twice shy). Then, already sweating with the effort of breathing, and generally existing, he stomped off towards the entrance of the hospital, leaving displaced gravel (and startled ants) in his wake.

  As he approached the entrance, gratefully stepping into the shade provided by the overhanging doorway, the automatic doors hissed slightly and parted, allowing a jet of cool air to flow out into Tom's path, like a rip-tide pulling the unwary swimmer out to sea. Only a lot more welcome. Tom let himself be sucked in by the chilly air, his clothes suddenly stuck to his body, his legs lighter and able to move more freely. He stepped up to the reception desk and (waiting politely, as only the English can, until the dark-haired woman inside the tiny office had finished filing her nails - under 'N' probably) asked where he could find Paul.

  *****

  "I've just come out of a very interesting meeting with Ma'xota Karr, the Martian Ambassador. I believe you know him?"

  Marc laughed. "A very nice man, but, no, I wouldn't say I know him. I've met him a few times at receptions and functions. Very funny, a raconteur, outgoing". A pause. "Still, I'm sure he wasn't there to talk about the cricket. I assume this has something to do with the attack on Paul Ch'angra yesterday".

  "You're right, as always. It was all very diplomatic, and we both made all the right noises, but?". There was a pause on the line as the Prime Minister tried to grasp the right words. "I can't put my finger on it, but I can't help thinking that there's a reason for his visit - beyond the obvious I mean."

  Marc frowned slightly. "What makes you think that?"

  A sigh. "I'm not really sure. He didn't really act as though this was a special case, just the straw - or rather the grass - that broke the camel's back?"

  Marc laughed again. "That's a common one. Martians don't really have the same sense of colours we do. Or nature - for obvious reasons." He gazed out of the window, trying to roll the elements in his head into a coherent whole, failing to find a connection. "So you think that there is something special about the boy? Some kind of connections?"

  "Perhaps, perhaps not. It's more likely to be something to do with the timing, something internal."

  "In Mars, everything's internal?"

  The Prime Minister's laugh came rumbling down the line from Canberra to Melbourne.

  *****

  Tom walked into the room to see Paul lying on one of the two beds in the room, wailing in what seemed like agony. For a moment, he froze; breath held, mind racing, eyes frantically searching for a wall alarm. Until he noticed the ear phones.

  "Oi, Paul, will you stop making that racket!"

  Paul stopped, surprised, opened his eyes and bellowed his greetings, "Tom! Nice of you to visit me! Welcome to my room! A big white room just for me!". Peals of laughter thundered around the room, echoing in the white sterility of the hospital walls.

  "I would have thought you'd be sharing a room."

  Paul sat up excitedly. "Well, I was but?"

  "But what?"

  "He said I was too noisy for him." A frown briefly crossed Paul's face before disappearing back into the shadows. "But that's OK, he was very boring, he only wants to read books all day." Paul shifted himself under the blankets, trying to make himself comfortable, and pointed to the large wooden chair next to his bed. "Come sit down, make yourself at home!"

  Tom let himself collapse into the chair. Light was forcing its way in through the half-drawn blinds by the window, so he shifted the chair slightly to avoid being hit squarely in the face. Tiny particles of dust floated in the rays of light, like space dust floating in the atmosphere. He wasn't sure whether there should be that much dust in a hospital room: isn't it supposed to be clean here? But he had more important questions to ask than that?

  "So what's the deal Paul? Last night you looked like you were gone, out of here. Today, you're wailing away and frightening the neighbours - were you faking it?"

  Paul smiled, wafting his hand in the air, dismissing Tom's words. "Last night, yes, I was in very bad way. Broken ribs, many cuts, unconciousness. Now, I am getting better, healing. The doctors stopped the bleeding, and I can get better. Tomorrow, I will go home."

  "Just like that? You're all better?"

  "Just like that." Paul closed his eyes and smiled. "We Martians are made of tougher things than you humans. Luckily for me." He opened his eyes and looked at Tom. "Come on, don't be jealous. Are you not happy for me?"

  "Of course, it's great that you're looking better," Tom said, slapping Paul on the shoulder, "it's just? well, have you seen the paper this morning?"

  *****

  Marc paced around his office, phone held to his ear, the cord stretching out and th
reatening to pull the telephone crashing down onto the floor. "So you think there's some kind of political agenda here, some reason for choosing now to kick up a bit of a fuss?"

  Silence.

  "Are you still there?"

  "Sorry. That was me shrugging. I forgot that that doesn't really work on the telephone. Look, just keep an ear to the ground, and let me know if you think of anything. And call my personal mobile. Let's just say this is very unofficial for the moment."

  "No worries. I'll see if I can find anything out, but? look, I wouldn't hold my breath. I might know a bit more about their society than the average bloke, but that doesn't mean that I've got any kind of special leverage. Besides, you're probably just overthinking it, this probably was just the grass that put the proverbial camel in traction".

  A snort from Canberra. "Maybe you're right. Alright, get back to me when you can".

  "See you."

  Marc Burrows, Professor of Intercultural Communication, turned around (disentangling himself from the annoyingly curly cord in the process) and hung up the receiver. He took a few paces, slowly, before coming to a halt in the centre of the room, his gaze seemingly focused on the dirty grey building outside the window, in reality fixed on a bright set of rooms inside a large dark cavern. The room became airless, stifling, claustrophobic. "What could they be up to?", he wondered, replaying the conversation with the Prime Minister in his mind, "Why now?".

  A large bang echoed through the office, disturbing both the professor's thoughts and large piles of dust. The research assistant stood in the doorway, looking down horrified at the mess of journal articles and assignments strewn across the dirty floor.

  "I'm so sorry, Marc, they just slipped out of my hands. I will organise them immediately."

  The professor looked up and met the assistant's eye.

  "Just throw them onto the table for now, Ma'rana. I think we need to have a little brain-storming session."

  *****

  The front page of the Herald Sun left you in no doubt as to what yesterday's main news story had been. STREETS OF SHAME thundered the large-type headline, a picture of a smiling Paul next placed next to a short account of the attack. Paul snatched up the newspaper and read the front page before turning rapidly to the main story inside. He read intently for several minutes. Tom stood up and wandered over to the window to turn the blinds the other way, blocking out the bright, direct sunlight.

  "It's OK, please leave the blind. I need some nice sunshine!"

  Tom turned to face Paul, who was now examining his photo again (the big smile on his face evidence that he was happy with the shot).

  "Well?"

  "Well, well, well! It seems that I am a celebrity!'

  "Are you serious? Didn't you read the article?"

  Paul looked a little sheepishly at Tom. "To be frank, I was mainly looking at the pictures?"

  Tom breathed out in exasperation, breathed in again and spoke, holding his hands lightly in front of him for emphasis, as if for some kind of gestural punctuation.

  "According to that report, you're half dead! There's quotes from some of your people about revenge, blood will spill, racist thugs? this is international news!"

  "But I'm fine. You heard me - I was singing."

  Tom sighed. "I don't think you get it. This is massive, huge! You are a martyr for ethnic minorities everywhere. You're on news programmes all over the world - Asia, Europe, America?"

  Paul brightened up immediately. "Really? Did they show my photograph?"

  On seeing Tom's expression, he decided it was time to stop playing the dumb alien.

  "OK, OK, I'm just playing. I know it's serious. But it's no problem, you know. I will leave this room tomorrow, I will smile for the cameras, I will thank my good Australian friend Tom?"

  "English."

  "?my good English friend Tom, and I will say how happy I am here in Australia. Aussie, Aussie, oi, oh."

  Tom grinned despite himself. "Well, perhaps that will smooth things over". He walked back over to the chair and let himself fall into it, sinking into the cushioned seat. "Hopefully, the police will find them before any of your friends do. Let them do what they're paid for - if there's any retaliation then the shit will really hit the fan."

  Paul turned and looked Tom straight in the eye. "They will not be found."

  "What do you mean? They were probably just a few bogan kids - they're bound to have blabbed to their mates, and they'll probably turn themselves in after a few days."

  "I was not attacked by kids." His voice was softer, more measured. He waited, not sure of whether to continue or not, before deciding to tell his friend what had really happened.

  "It was my own people. I was attacked by Martians".

  A cloud slipped over the sun, blocking out the light brightening up the room. All of a sudden, Tom felt rather cold.

  *****