By: Harrison Abbott

Robin had wanted to come here for a long time.

He’d seen pictures of this little town many times. And so, as the bus passed the town’s Welcome To sign, which was clad in pretty sunlight, he felt in good spirits – felt that this would be a good day.

Aside from the driver he was the only person on the bus. The trees either side of the road were in that early stage of spring, which had always been Robin’s favourite season. Then they headed through the town’s streets. Nice old buildings. Thatched roofs, cobbled roads. Exactly the type of trip Robin had in mind.

He got off in the town centre. Sunshine blared his vision, and dazzled a wide courtyard. An old church and a townhouse; it was as if he’d stepped back 200 years. Robin spotted some benches the far side of the courtyard. He figured he’d sit down and check the map on his phone.

As he walked, he noticed a pair of elderly ladies sitting on one of the other benches. They were speaking quietly. Robin sat down on the bench adjacent to them … and he felt that they were watching him.

They had certainly stopped speaking. Robin took out his phone and went on Google Maps, all the while sensing that the women were looking at him. Were they? He glanced up. Yes, they were. And they both frowned.

One of them whispered something in the other’s ear. To which both women got up from their bench, and trotted away from the scene. Leaving Robin alone.

Strange. He didn’t understand. Had he interrupted a conversation they were having? But he hadn’t meant to. Oh well.

Right: if he walked north from here he could go up to the castle. This would take him through the Old Town. This was the mission. Robin got up and ventured northerly.  

He found a long road shaded by houses that cast him in ultramarine, and across the cobblestones pottered pockets of pigeons. There weren’t many people about, as it was a weekday, and before noon. Though he did see a man manning a kiosk up ahead. A kiosk that, when he neared, sold touristy things. Robin scanned the stalls. There were glitter globes and mugs. Robin preferred fridge magnets as souvenirs, so he inspected those.

There were magnets at the bottom that had an image of the castle, so Robin bent down to look at these. As he crouched, he again had a feeling that he was being watched, and, sure enough, when he looked up, the kiosk keeper was staring at him. From behind his booth. He’d stopped what he was doing and glared fixedly.

With quite a scathing expression. Robin blinked. He wasn’t the type to return an aggressive glare. But perhaps he was being paranoid. So he quit the eye contact, and picked out a magnet that best suited him. Robin chose one with an orange castle under a cloudless sky with the town’s name in silver lettering atop that. And took it over to the kiosk counter.

He thought this would be a way to appease the kiosk guy – by buying one of his items.

But the man wasn’t there. He’d vanished from his booth. Instead, there was a handwritten sign, that said: BACK IN 10 MINS.

Hmm. The man had just been here, a minute ago. Robin hesitated, holding the magnet, with his wallet out. Eventually, he put the magnet back where he’d found it, and walked away from the kiosk.

After ten paces or so, he heard somebody cough behind him. The noise made him turn. And – there was the kiosk man. He was in the shade behind his kiosk, smoking a cigarette. As he sucked on the cigarette his eyes narrowed on Robin.

The best thing to do, Robin thought, is just walk away. This was really odd. Had he done something to offend the kiosk keeper? He couldn’t think what, if so.

Robin continued up the archaic road. He reckoned that this strangeness would pass. And when this street ended the houses were shorter and spacious and this allowed the sunlight in again.

At the far side of the street he saw a tavern. With a sign stylised in Old English; also a thatched roof building, with those black beams supporting white walls. Robin was quite thirsty. He endeavoured to go in and try an ale. Robin didn’t usually go into pubs so often in his older years, but, since this was a holiday.

He went inside. Where he heard manly voices. A group of men sitting at a table in the corner, with soiled pint glasses before them.

Robin spotted a lady behind the bar and went up to her.

“Hello there,” he said to her, and sat at a stool. She didn’t reply. Robin saw that there was a house ale. A fancy looking thing on the tap that he hadn’t tried before. “Can I have one of these ales, please?”

“Sorry,” the lady said.

“One of these ales, please.”

“Sorry. No.”

“Ehh … Is the tap off?”

“Nope. You’re not getting served.”

Robin blushed. He didn’t often blush, either, as a man of 33. Made him feel like a kid again.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“We’re not serving you here,” the lady said. Her voice was abrupt. Almost calm. “You know that already.”

“Umm, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Have you mistaken me for somebody else? Who is barred? I’ve never been here before. To this town, even: I’m a stranger. A tourist.”

“I’m saying no. End of story.”

Robin was about to speak again, when one of the men called over to the lady:

“Rebecca? Is something wrong?”

“Not unless this man leaves,” she replied.

When Robin swivelled around, all four men were glued on him.

“I’ve told him several times,” the lady continued, “and he’s still here for some reason.”

One of the men got up. He was big. And by the swagger of his body, was clearly swollen with beer.

He came over and stood next to Robin.

“You’ve been asked to go,” he seethed.

Robin nodded. He picked his bag up. And got off the stool.

“No problem,” he murmured, “I will. Thanks anyway.”

He swiftly made his way to the exit. And just as he opened the front door, the man yelled:

“And don’t dare come in again!” At which the other men grumbled in support.

When back outside Robin paced away from the tavern, pronto, and the blood drummed through his veins.

What was happening today?

Do they think I’m somebody else? Robin thought. That must be it. I must look identical to somebody that they know and don’t like. There will be a lookalike that the locals hate.

He continued north, up to the castle. After five minutes of walking he had calmed a bit. Robin, he said to himself, it’s all right. I’m not who they think I am. I’ve done nothing wrong; am no criminal. Let’s just not speak to anybody else. We can go and see the castle, take some photos, and then we can get the bus back home. Simple as that. Don’t panic.

The route to the castle got steeper. Which made sense – the castle being at the top of the town’s hill. Robin saw the castle on the horizon. Its sooty spires that would lure anybody closer. Robin had read the story about the crazy King that had lived there, before his violent demise.

The houses around him became taller again. These were where the peasants used to live. The houses being several storeys high; where the common folks lived long ago; entire families packed into those rooms above him.

So, this was the proper gothic town. But, where, Robin wondered, were the other tourists? He thought there would be other folks, carrying cameras and speaking different languages. Perchance it was a one-off; hushed for once.

Robin turned the corner into a new section. The buildings cut off the sight of the castle and bathed him in gloom. And the sound of his boots changed, also; or rather, he became aware suddenly of his boots making echoes. Here, there was nobody about. No other person in the alley. Nor any shops. He continued, a little wary about walking loudly.

The alley lengthened out before him in a purplish tint. Robin imagined he was in some period drama movie. And he was unsure whether he liked being part of its Cast.

Just go on, he told himself.

Something flurried above him. He flinched.

There was somebody overhead. A young woman. Peering down at him from her open window. She spoke to somebody behind her in the room … and a few seconds later was joined by a man, around her age, who must’ve been her partner. They spoke together as they watched Robin, who couldn’t heard what they were saying.

Just being watched made him feel guilty, even though he wasn’t. Robin had never enjoyed being scrutinised, in any sense. He found it tricky to make eye contact with people in general. Had been shy ever since boyhood.  

“What is he doing?”

Robin heard a voice above. Younger, this time: a boy’s voice. Ten feet above there were two boys, in their teens, who ogled him. Their expressions were far more curious, rather than the angry ones that Robin had gotten from the other locals. As if they were expecting Robin to entertain them.

Either or, Robin was getting properly scared now. He pondered about heading back down the hilly road. It might be prudent to ditch the castle idea and go to the nearest bus stop instead.

He slowed down, and looked at his phone. And searched the map for bus stops. Okay, there was a bus stop just south east of where he was now. So, yeah, if he retreated then he could get there soon. Let’s forget the castle and make our way home.

Robin turned back. And was about to withdraw:

When he found 30 heads looking at him from the buildings. Men, women and children, hanging out of their windows, analysing him.

“Shit,” he whispered. Their collective eyeballs stunned him still. Should he speak to them? Ask them why they were ogling? None of them were talking.

Robin ducked his head, and shot off. Not running, but fast. South east, to this bus stop. He must get out of this town because he was in danger. Why, he had no clue, but he had to go.

His burst of movement caused the locals to bustle and gasp. They gave off a spidery flush of words, that altogether sounded like a foreign language.

Robin sped back down the lane. His heartbeat zoomed up all over again. Sweat peeled down his torso.

A woman hollered:

“He’s getting away!”

A girl screeched:

“Follow him!”

And a man announced:

“I’m calling the police.”

Robin ran. He ran all the way out of the alley, and when he got to the open street there were locals present. What they saw was a flustered, furtive man, fleeing.

They backed away as he bound past.  

He checked the map. Where exactly was this bus stop? Robin fiddled about with the screen, trying to gauge his whereabouts. He turned left, thinking the bus stop was that way. But then he was going the wrong way, as his bobble shrank off from the target, so he had to go right instead, puffing and cursing.

All the while, the streets filled with people. Or they appeared from their doorways. What had been a silent atmosphere ten minutes ago was turning carnival.  

Robin found his bus stop. It had the number 90 on the sign of it. Bus 90. That would take him back home. Good. He got into the shelter and sat on the banister. Breathed for a while. There was a timetable inside. Apparently the next bus was in about five minutes. Thank Christ. Not long to wait.

He looked up the timetable on his phone, too, for an online opinion. Indeed, it told him that the 90 bus would be here in 5 Mins. Robin got up from the banister and he took the coins out of his wallet, the exact fare for the bus, so it would be ready when he got on. He crossed to the shelter doorway, and looked out to see down the road.

The whole street was clogged up with people. Countless people; they’d all amassed there within minutes, with the soundless synchrony of birds. The crowds rippled when Robin appeared. He gulped. And muttered to himself, “I am an innocent civilian, waiting for a bus. That’s all I’m doing. I have nothing to hide. The bus will be here very soon. I am not who they think I am. Don’t worry.”

Robin studied the road. Willing for the shape of his bus to appear. That’s all he needed. For a red bus to conjure out of the far corner of the road. Please, just come, to get me away from this place.

A vehicle did appear from the corner, and made Robin, and the whole crowd, start. But it wasn’t a bus.

It was a police car.

Excitement bristled through the crowd.

Robin tried to think about this rationally. He had his passport in his wallet, with his identity on it. His real details. If he simply showed this to the policemen, then this mass mistake would be exposed.  

And so, Robin went into his bag to get his passport, as the police car slinked up the road towards him.

He held the passport in his hands. The police car stopped a few metres away. Two policemen alighted from it. Looking sultry in the sunshine. They came up to Robin.  

“Hello there,” Robin said.

Both men were slightly younger than him. Mid 20s perhaps. One had brown hair; the other was blonde. The blonde one spoke to him:

“Where have you been today?”

“Here, in the town. I’m a tourist.”

“But where, exactly?”

“Well, I’ve just been exploring the Old Town, is all.”

“We had a call earlier on. You match the description.”

“A call about what?”

“From a pair of elderly women. They said you called them offensive names, down in the main courtyard. Did you?”

“I never said anything to those women.”

“So you admit that you saw them?”

“Yes, I saw them. But there was no verbal exchange at all.”

The crowd were listening ferociously, angling their ears so that they wouldn’t miss any of the dialogue. There was no other volume. The policemen stayed mute. Robin took the hush as an opportunity.

“Here. Policemen, sirs. I can show you my passport. It’s right here. I believe the locals think I’m somebody else. But I can show you my identity. I’m from another city completely. Here it is. Look for yourselves! I am a stranger. Nothing more.”

Robin handed his passport over to the blonde policeman. It was thrust off him. Blonde policeman gazed down at it. His face squirmed.

He then handed it to his colleague. Who tutted when he saw the photo. And shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Nah, this isn’t proof.”

“But that’s definitely me!” Robin protested. “It has my full details. I’m telling you that this is all a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t be aggressive with us.”

“I’m not. I’m only panicking that you’ve confused me for a criminal.”

Instead of giving the passport back to Robin, he snapped it shut and put it in his pocket. Then the blonde policeman said:

“You’ll have to come with us down to the station.”  

“Why?”

“We have to ask you some questions.”

“No.”

“There is no no. We’re telling you to. Come along now.”

The blonde man reached over and grabbed Robin by the kidney. Roughly. And Robin wasn’t expecting the touch, so he jerked. And he flapped his arm back in a reflex.

The reflexed arm struck the blonde man’s arm. Who in turn spasmed at the contact.

He took out a pair of handcuffs.

“No! No, sir,” Robin shrieked. He was claustrophobic. “No need for handcuffs at all. I’ll come to the station. Please, no cuffs.”

The blonde man wrestled Robin’s arms behind his back. Robin struggled with him. The brunette policeman joined in.

They tackled Robin down into the street. Mashed him into the concrete.

And the local citizens cheered.  

Robin wailed and his head and neck went hot and they clamped the cuffs tight around his wrists.

“I am a stranger!” he bellowed, over and over.

The policemen lugged him over to their car. The blonde one opened the back door. And they were trying to drag Robin into it. But he clung on to the doorframe.

The blonde one struck at his hands with his baton.

The cheering from the crowd intensified. They clapped their hands. Fist-pumped.

Robin’s head was smacked with the baton. The blow weakened him, and made it easier for the men to thrust him in the back of the car, and lock the doors. He lay, awkwardly splayed, in the back. The policemen got in the front seats. The blonde man was in the driving seat and he started the engine. And then the car began to pull away.

The sound of the crowd was diminished now that he was inside the car.

But when Robin sat up he could see out of the windows. At the faces of the crowd. The civilian locals.

They were laughing.

Their mouths all agape and their teeth bared and their eyes teary. Skulls shuddering with mirth. Before, they’d celebrated as if watching a rollicking soccer victory. Now they simply found the scene hilarious.

And it made Robin hope that this was a spectacular practical joke. That the entire thing was on live television. That the policemen would stop, any moment now; halt the car, and let Robin know that he was only the butt of a prank.

But then a syrupy sensation crawled down his forehead and it oozed into his eyebrow and went down his cheek. A syrup-like substance, that, when it went into his mouth, he realised was his own blood. From when they’d hit him on the head. It tasted like beetroot, Robin thought. A vegetable he’d never liked. He spat it out.

And he couldn’t put pressure on his head wound because his hands were bound.

This was not a joke. Or television. Nor was there any chance that this was a nightmare that Robin might wake up from at any second.

He began screaming. Couldn’t help it.

The blonde haired policeman turned around to him, and said:

“Shut up, Robin.”

His brunette colleague seconded him, without turning around, by saying:

“Yes, please do. Shut up.”

###

BIOGRAPHY: Harrison Abbott is a published author from Edinburgh, Scotland. And here are some of his books: Amazon.co.uk: Harrison Abbott: books, biography, latest update