Going Home (Rewrite) (standard:mystery, 2994 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Dec 10 2003	Views/Reads: 4190/2515	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After landing at Heathrow a passenger discovers a strange new world.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

He frowned, and it must have crossed his mind to drive to the nearest
mental institution. “What sort of question is that?” 

“Please, I'm serious. What colour is the sky?” 

“Well, unless they've changed it, the sky is purple.” 

I held my head in my hands and pondered over just what was going on. 

“What number do you want, guv?” 

“Seventeen.” I stared out of the window, and although the location was
definitely correct, there was something wrong. The blue sea of grass 
swayed with the rhythm of the breeze, a blue as colourful as the 
deepest ocean. Again, I rubbed my eyes and made a promise to visit the 
doctors the first thing in the morning. A good night's rest would 
hopefully help. 

I paid my fare and inwardly hoped that I had been the subject of a
practical joke, although the mention of the purple sky by the cabbie 
had me bemused. I waited with my cases by my side, staring at the 
house. The house that held so many fond memories over the years. 
Something was different. The house and all of the surrounding 
structures were tinged yellow, and not red as the last time I viewed 
them. The last time I had experienced such a spectrum of strange 
colours was when I had dabbled with LSD. Could someone have tampered 
with my drink on the plane perhaps? 

Eyeing my garden through the gloom, I could make out the smattering of
turquoise leaves, which were mingling with the blue grass at the base 
of the sycamore tree. I picked up my suitcases and approached the front 
door, before locating my key. There must be some plausible reason why 
Sally and the children never turned up to meet me at the airport. 
Perhaps she had her dates mixed up. 

I was perplexed, when I realised that the lock had been changed, and so
I rung the doorbell. Jenny answered, clutching her beloved doll like 
any ten-year old girl would. I stretched out my arms to welcome her, 
but her puzzled expression told me that something was not right. 

“Jenny, it's Daddy. Give me a hug will you?” 

The door was slammed in my face and the click of the lock was audible. A
minute later, Sally peered around the door, ensuring that the chain was 
secured. “Who are you and what do you want?” 

I was taken aback by her comments at first, and then smiled and said,
“Yeah right.” Sally's wicked sense of humour came back to me. “If you 
don't go away, I'll call the police.” 

“Sally, enough. I've had a long flight and I'm really tired. Come on,
give us a hug?” 

The door was slammed in my face and I rang the doorbell rapidly, half
expecting a crowd of friends laden with booze to appear in party hats. 
I waited five minutes before a police car pulled up, and a 
grey-uniformed constable approached slowly, like only a policeman can. 
The appearance of his grey uniform and the comical red police car did 
not surprise me this evening. 

“Can you tell me what you're doing, Sir?” 

“I live here. My wife for some reason will not let me in the house.” 

“Is that so? Well how come she called the station, saying that a strange
man was trying to get into her house?” 

“Look officer, I think you've been the victim of a practical joke, as I
have. I really do live here.” 

“Well, there's only one way to find out isn't there?” 

He rang the doorbell, his eyes inspecting me, as if I was some sort of a
pervert. "Good evening, I believe you called the station earlier?” 

Sally, with her usual long red hair surprisingly cut short, somehow
looked different beneath the porch light “Yes, this man turned up on my 
doorstep, claiming to know me.” 

“Sally, what...?” 

“So you do not know this man?” interrupted the policeman. 

“I've never laid eyes on him in my life.” 

“You'd better come with me, Sir.” 

“Why are you doing this, Sally? Here, I'll prove I'm her husband. I have
my passport.” 

The burly constable accepted the passport and flicked through it.
“What's this?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What is this?” 

“It's my passport, what the bloody hell do you think it is?” 

“A maroon passport? Are you taking the piss?” 

“Have a look at the name, man! I'm her husband.” 

The policeman studied the details. “Mark Robinson, eh?” He turned to
Sally. “Can you tell me your name please, Miss?” 

She folded her arms and sneered at me. “My name is Tina Crossley.” 

“She's lying! Ask the children, James and Jenny?” 

“My children's names are Philip and Rachel. I repeat, I've never set
eyes on you in my life.” 

“Sally, what's going on?” I pleaded. 

The constable cuffed me and hauled me into the car, along with my
luggage. I knew this was a bad dream and would wake up at any given 
minute. I looked back with tearful eyes when the door closed. 

I woke up, and the events of the evening before came back to me. I sat
on the hard mattress and held my head in my hands, before perusing the 
bleak surroundings of my cell. I rinsed my face and heard the jingle of 
keys, before turning to face a grey-attired policeman, who ushered me 
to an interview room. 

I was invited to sit down, and a stocky man with a bushy moustache
offered me a cigarette, which I declined. A stern-faced woman joined 
him, and they sat opposite me. 

“This is DS Harding and DC Keller interviewing Mark Robinson at
nine-thirty, Friday, 18th June,” he said for the tape recorder. “Now Mr 
Robinson, can you tell me why you tried to gain entry to number 
seventeen Howard Street last night?” 

“Because I live there.” 

He turned off the tape recorder. “Listen; let's stop pissing about. I
know, and you know that you don't live there, so why don't we get this 
cleared up as soon as possible? I've other things to do besides 
interviewing weirdoes like you?” 

“No really, I do live there.” 

“Since when?” 

“Since I bought the house, some four years ago.” 

“Right, so you live there, and the lady you claim to be your wife,
swears that she's never seen you before in her life... Why would she do 
that?” 

“I've no idea. You're the detective.” 

The woman detective joined in. “Mr Robinson, why are you carrying a fake
passport?” 

“Fake? Impossible! I was issued with it about three years ago, and
besides; if it was fake, how come I just flew from the other side of 
the world with it?” 

“Highly unlikely. It doesn't even resemble a British passport. You could
have at least got the colour right.” 

“The colour?” 

“Blue. A British passport is blue and yours is maroon.” 

“Look, I don't know what's going on here, but I'm a bit pissed off. I'm
jet lagged, and I'm certain that you have no right holding me here.” 

“But we have a right, Mr Robinson,” continued the woman detective. “You
tried to gain entry to a house where a lady and three children lived, 
and now it transpires that you have a fake passport.” 

DS Harding lit a cigarette and deliberately blew smoke into my face.
“You say you've just flown from the other side of the world? Where did 
you fly from and where to?” 

“I flew from North Queensland, Australia to Heathrow. I'll give you the
bloody flight number if you want?” 

“That would be a help.” 

I searched my pockets, but could not find the ticket. I then recalled
that I had discarded it at Heathrow. “Listen, I don't appear to have 
the ticket. Check with the airline, Quantas. I landed last night at 
six-fifteen.” 

DS Harding nodded to DC Keller and she left the room. It was then when I
noticed the wall clock. The second hand was again going anti-clockwise. 


“Is something funny?” asked the burly detective. 

“That clock. Why is it moving in reverse?” 

He shifted his tired looking eyes towards the object of my infatuation.
“The clock is moving in reverse?” 

“Yes, why? That's the second such clock I've seen since I landed.” 

“Christ, you are cuckoo,” he moaned. 

“Look at it man; tell me that it isn't moving anti-clockwise?” 

“The clock is moving forward, Mr Robinson.” 

“And suppose you're going to tell me the sky is not purple, or the grass
is not blue?” 

“And what colour are they supposed to be?” 

“You're fucking with me aren't you? Please tell me you're fucking with
me?” 

“Why were you in Australia?” 

“I'm an oceanologist. Yes, check with my company at the Institute of
oceanography at Soho Square. Here, I'll write down the telephone 
number.” 

The detective left the room, and my head ached badly as I tried to make
some sense out of this nightmare. Ten minutes later, they returned and 
took their seats. 

Harding loosened his tie before lighting another cigarette. “Mr
Robinson, we checked all flights from Australia to Heathrow Airport 
yesterday, and your name was definitely not on any of the passenger 
lists. There was a flight from North Queensland, but it landed at 
nine-fifteen last night. So as you can see, it was impossible for you 
to have been on that flight, as you were elsewhere at the time. 
Besides, your name was also not on that passenger list.” 

“No! This is not right. I'm not mad... The taxi driver, Ron that's his
name. He picked me up from the airport. He was driving a black; no it 
was a green cab.” 

“So?” 

“Well, he could prove that I came from Heathrow.” 

“Which proves nothing. Now stop messing with us, Robinson or whatever
your name is. We checked with your so-called company and they've never 
heard of you... Who are you?” 

“Mark Robinson, I am Mark Robinson.” 

“I'm afraid that's not good enough... Where do you live?” 

“I've told you where I live. My photograph! I have a photograph of Sally
and the children.” I fumbled through my jacket pocket and passed the 
photograph to the detective. 

“So you have a photograph of the people you're stalking. Now if you had
a photograph of you and them together,” he smirked. 

“What about my credit cards? Check them.” 

“We already have. Fake credit cards, fake driving license, fake passport
and fake name. What are we going to do with you, Mr Robinson?” 

For three years, my home was a mental institute, before I was classed as
a C category patient and was moved to an open clinic in Brighton. Three 
long years to mull over the events and to put some credence into what 
had happened to me, but however hard I tried, I could not. 

I discovered that sunstroke or jet lag was not the reason for the
strange colours of the environment. Often we were accompanied to the 
beach, and that is where I witnessed the most magnificent sight. The 
most artistic master could not have dreamed up the scenery that I 
looked upon. The motion of the tangerine tide lapped the yellow seaweed 
covered rocks, and merged with the pristine, white sand. 

I sometimes doubted my sanity, and dreamt often of the way things used
to be. My memories were real, I just know they were. How I longed for 
some recognition from Sally and my children. How it was burning me up 
inside, thinking of them living their lives, oblivious of me. I had 
toyed with the idea of DNA to prove my validity as the father of the 
children, but the authorities had disowned me, and were tired of my 
far-fetched claims. 

I was sitting gazing at the purple sky; Charlie my only companion by my
side. He asked me for the umpteenth time. “Tell me again, Mark, you 
know, about the blue sky and the green grass. Tell me about the red 
brick buildings and the white snow.” 

“Charlie, goodbye.” I hugged him and walked towards the tall, wrought
iron gates. Charlie clambered after me, panicking and frantic with 
worry, his bib and braces making him look like a lost child, rather 
than a forty-year-old man. 

“Don't go, Mark; it's naughty. You're not allowed to go through the
gates.” 

“Goodbye, Charlie.” I heard him cry loudly, as I entered the strange new
world. 

I sat on the park bench, watching the children playing, their mothers
deep in conversation with other parents. My tears moistened my beard, 
as I watched James playing football with the other children, and Jenny, 
taking her turn with the skipping rope. Some of the parents offered a 
curious glance in my direction, wondering who the scruffy, bearded man 
was. 

My tearful eyes focused on Sally, who was sat holding hands with a
handsome looking man, probably her husband. He reminded me a little of 
myself in my younger days. I smiled to see them happy, and my thoughts 
of introducing myself had been vanquished to the dark chasms of my 
troubled mind. 

The football was kicked towards me and the ball came to rest at my feet.
James approached and I could see that he had grown into the image of 
his father. He must have been twelve years of age now, and he had grown 
so much since the last time I had seen him. He held out his hands and I 
looked into his eyes, looking for an inkling of recognition, but there 
was none. What strange world had I ventured into, where a father could 
be so cruelly isolated from his family? 

“Why are you crying, mister?” 

“Because, I once knew someone like you and then lost him. Tell me, have
you ever been in a canoe?” 

He thought hard and long before answering. “Yes, I mean no. I think so.
I can remember being in the back of a canoe a long time ago.” 

“Where was that?” 

“I cannot recall. It was a long river, surrounded by tall trees.” 

I looked towards Sally, who had risen to her feet, having noticed her
son's absence. 

“Do you recall the colour of the trees?” I quizzed. 

He smiled. “Funny, they were green.” 

“Philip, what have I told you about talking to strangers?” Sally looked
at me as if I was something on the bottom of her shoe. Her face changed 
visibly, when she looked deep into my eyes. “Come on Philip, we have to 
go now.” 

“Remember the trees, Philip,” I shouted after him, the emotion in my
voice noticed by his mother. She held my gaze as she retreated, and I 
swear to this day that she recognised me. 

My future is uncertain, for I have nobody and nothing. Suicide is an
option, but as I look up to the beautiful purple sky with the yellow 
clouds and hear the singing of the birds, I ask myself; isn't this a 
wonderful world? 


Tweet