As I sing the lyrics, I randomly remember a documentary I saw on Earth. It was discussing how scientists were unable to prove why cigarettes caused cancer. The exact explanation remained an acute medical mystery. But the undeniable statistical data had made the idea a known fact. Nicotine will kill you. But no one ever demanded categorical proof. This seems unusual to me, especially now that I’m living on another planet that shares that same belief in regard to the dangers of smoking. But I realise that I never believed in God because I never saw any evidence of it. No damn evidence at all. So I’ve remained an atheist based on my own statistical data.
I wake up early in the morning. The clock next to the bed tells me it’s two hours past midnight. I’m sweating profusely and I kick the blanket off. I hear something. There is a scratching sound somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Like soft, fast footsteps. Scurrying. I stop breathing for a second, my head against the pillow. Muscles locked. Listening. The sound is gone. Minutes pass as I lie in this hollow darkness. I must have woken from a nightmare. My mind grasps at elusive images, but they slip through my fingers. I fall asleep again.
I sit at the white, immaculate grand piano which stands in a corner of the main entrance way. Dressed in a pair of cotton shorts I run my fingers over the keys. I’ve never had professional piano lessons, but my ear for music generally allows me to sit down and work out songs. Right now I’m tinkering, trying to recall ‘Counting On You’ by Chris de Burgh. I just worked out ‘Heaven and Earth’ by Blitzen Trapper, which I think could work well as a Big Bang Theory song. Then I muck about with ‘In Other Words’ by Ben Kweller and another Chris de Burgh song, ‘Borderline’.
Over near Godiva’s front doors I notice that I’ve left muddied shoe marks on the marble. I didn’t realise my boots had been so dirty when I arrived.
After a few hours of playing I feel a little sleepy, so I rack a line of cane off the smooth surface of the grand piano. My nose goes numb and the familiar taste begins to slide down the back of my throat. I then walk down to the wine cellar, browsing the many aisles of bottles. This place is as big as a rural town’s public library. It’s carved into the earth, floored with radiant, polished wood. Lights are set in the floor, beaming upward. After pulling about twelve bottles from the racks to inspect their labels, I choose a red wine. The regions mean very little to me, so the design of the label becomes a deciding factor.
I head back to the pool and stay mostly in the shallow end, smoking cigarettes, swigging on the red wine bottle and leaning on the edge. I smoke a lot of cigarettes as I stand there, staring off into the gardens. I wonder whether I should eat anything, but I don’t have an appetite. My stomach, despite my tranquil locale, is permanently knotted. I wonder whether I’ve ever been completely relaxed while sober since I landed here. Whether I’ve had a calm, lucid moment. Drugs help you forget, but they also keep your guard down. The subconscious mind rears its ugly head and bubbles upward. The canary goes to sleep on its perch and things creep up on you. But I mostly drink and self-medicate because if I truly acknowledged the weight of my guilt, it would crush me.
I think about the missing girls. Those bright naïve faces arranged like a yearbook in each newspaper and in the online galleries. Their frantic parents are sick with worry. As every new face is added to the growing list, the walls around me inch a little closer. Do I really believe that no one will ever find out? It doesn’t matter. I’ll just keep playing the part while I still can. I’ll continue to be the almighty hedonist.
I’m not sure what to make of Brannagh’s little DNA science experiment. The thought that I’m not human makes me feel even more alone. Of course, I know I am human, but not on this planet. Not here. I’m different. I’m also acutely aware that Brannagh is becoming a tanned, leathery thorn in my side.
Before going to bed for the night, having done little work on my music today, I head to the observatory. The spire is Godiva’s highest point, shooting high from one end of the building. Looking out through one of the windows across the black shapes of the surrounding forest, I feel a little like Rapunzel. A cool wind hits my face.
I take a seat in front of the giant telescope that sits in the centre of the observatory and look through the eyepiece. If I had to guess, I’d say this is a catadioptric telescope, which uses a combination of both mirrors and lenses. Thanks a lot, Galileo Galilei. You’re part of the reason why I’m in this mess. Was the world such a dim place without modern science? Humans still fed heartily and fucked with sufficient regularity. Doomsday was only penciled in the calendar after humans acquired a hunger for knowledge. We’re insignificant and incapable of controlling our universe. We’ll all die before we understand it. Every larger capacity hard drive and smarter phone is bringing us one step closer to oblivion.
Part of me regrets not paying more attention in biology. There are so many interesting samples on this planet. So much life. I’m just an astronaut. I have experience testing aircraft. Great at mathematics and physics. Twenty-twenty vision. An acceptable blood pressure when sitting down. But none of that really matters.
Through the eyepiece, I scan the heavens. The bottomless abyss that we float in. There’s not much to see. Constellations all take shape if you try hard enough. A few tiny streaks of colour. Billions of stars blink at me, even though I’m seeing light that was generated a millennia ago. I’m drunk and burned out.
I wake up, groggy with sleep. I glance at the bedside clock and it says three hours past midnight. I’ve woken from a nightmare where I’ve been running from unseen danger, fleeing through streets and in and out of suburban homes. I feel fatigued. My body relaxes as reality spreads through me. But then I hear a voice. Godiva, ringing clearly throughout her walls. “Two guests.”
As her voice echoes, hanging in the pitch darkness, I assume I’m hearing things. I remain very still, waiting to see if Godiva will speak again. She says nothing. I sit up slightly, looking around the room. Nothing’s visible. No moonlight creeps through the curtains. I step out of bed and walk towards the monitor next to the door. When I touch the screen with my index finger, the display turns on. In the bottom right corner it says ‘two guests’.
I rub my eyes and attempt to wake up. Two guests. Me and someone else. Behind me I hear rapid taps on the bedroom windows. Rain. It falls harder. The monitor still says two guests. I open the closed circuit camera menu, picking full screen mode. A camera’s view fills the panel. It’s in night vision and is looking at the foyer. I can’t see anything. Just furniture and the grand piano. Everything is as it was before I went to bed. I can see the white marble floor. The footprints I assumed I had made, which I noticed while sitting at the piano, are still visible. But there are more of them.
I start hitting the ‘next’ button, cycling through the cameras. Different rooms appear. Everything is deathly still. I can’t see this supposed guest anywhere. I scan through what feels like a hundred cameras and nothing reveals itself to me. Maybe it’s a glitch in the system. Maybe a piece of furniture fell over and triggered one of the weight panels.
I tell myself to go back to bed. I’ve been doing large amounts of narcotics. But to ease my mind I decide to flip through the cameras one last time. To be certain. I begin the camera cycle again. All I see are empty rooms, tinged with green. Whites appear in bright lime. The night vision picks up nothing of interest. I’m flicking faster now, the images almost a blur. But a jolt hits me as I see something. I’m tapping so fast on the panel that I’ve gone straight past it. I slowly move backwards in the camera order. A living area. Empty. The games parlour. Empty. The kitchen. There’s someone in the kitchen.
I recoil from the screen. My heart nearly bursts through my ribs. A figure stands deathly still, hands by its side, looking up at the camera. It’s wearing what looks like a pale, protective suit. I can’t see its face because it’s beneath a helmet. An astronaut helmet. It’s someone in an astronaut’s suit.
I’m unable to move. I must be dreaming. This is the deep sleep. The rapid
eye movement phase. But with my own eyes, I’m staring at a security panel and there is someone wearing a NASA space suit staring back at me. The person lifts one of their hands and slowly waves. How does it know I’m even looking at it?
My body shakes with fear. My guest waves for a few more seconds and then returns their hand to their side.
Then I hear Godiva’s voice. “Three guests.”
Staring at the screen, I can see a shape moving behind the astronaut. Someone else is standing just out of the camera’s focus. A white shape looming in the background. A third guest.
“Jesus,” I spit out. As I take another step back, my foot hits something on the floor. I spin around and in the glow of the security panel I can see the electric guitar lying on the thin carpet. I wield it by the neck and point it at the door. My eyes are fixed on the monitor. The astronaut stares back from behind the reflective visor of his space helmet. I can still make out the silhouette of a second figure in the background, but it never steps into focus.
I move around the bed and sit in the corner of the room, looking over at the screen, my knees tucked against my chest. I continue to hold the guitar out in front of me. The sound of rain is heavy in the bedroom. The first astronaut turns and walks off screen and from what I can tell, the second astronaut follows. They’ve moved to the right, which means they’re heading in the direction of the stairs. Up the stairs toward me.
“W-who are they?” I stammer.
Godiva hears me. “They’re your guests,” she replies.
I remain tucked between the wall and the nightstand, curled up, strangling the guitar’s neck with white knuckles. I snatch my phone from the nightstand and call Brannagh. It rings out. No reply. I should call the police. I should definitely make an emergency phone call of some kind. But what do I tell them? I put the phone down on the carpet and listen intently, waiting to hear footsteps in the hallway. The sound of torrential rain outside throws a blanket of noise over everything.
I wait and seconds tick in slow torture. I’ve always considered myself a brave man and I’ve certainly done brave things. I’m an expert martial artist, even though I’m a little out of shape these days. I’m a fucking jetfighter pilot. But here I am, cowering in a corner, waiting for phantom spacemen. I close my eyes, rest my head on my knees and listen. Waiting to hear anything at all. Then Godiva speaks.
“One guest.”
I lift my head and look across the room at the security panel. One guest. I push the guitar away and stand up, crossing the floor. In the bottom right corner of the screen it says one guest.
“How many guests, Godiva?” I ask.
“One guest, Jack.”
I make the executive decision to invite people over. Actual guests. I can’t be alone here anymore. On the lounge opposite the bed is my luggage. In the glow of the security panel I rummage through one of the pockets and find a small, familiar shape. Norman.
I switch Norman on and he begins to load up. But just as the menu screen appears, he gives me a battery warning and shuts down. Fumbling in the darkness, I find Norman’s power pack and plug it into a socket next to the nightstand. Once Norman is finally switched on, I can see that there’s 218 unread messages. Girls are persistent, there’s no doubting that.
Without opening any texts, I open a new message template and begin composing an open invitation to anyone that’s interested. Party at Godiva. Right now. I include the basic co-ordinates, as most watches and phones include a global positioning system. I then compile a recipient list, adding girls’ names. Faceless fans. I cycle through the long database that Big Bang Theory have amassed. Willing recipients of our social outpourings.
I stop. I can’t do this. I can’t randomly message these girls because it means confronting my denial. Not all of these young women are unknown to me. While their names mean very little, deep down I know that there’s phone contacts in Norman that correspond with those of the missing girls. I need to face this fact. That collection of smiling faces in the newspaper. I do know their faces because I’m certain I’ve slept with all of them. I’ve been telling myself I’m mistaken. Wishing and hoping that I could be wrong. After all, a lot of girls come backstage at our concerts.
I keep scrolling down the list, my mind ticking over. Norman is my contactable resume of conquests. The band’s portfolio of carnality. The ladies that each member of Big Bang Theory takes to bed use this number to reach us. To thank us for a wonderful evening. Even though this very precious phone never leaves my side, the other members of my band use it when they’re with me. Every girl gets the same number. If someone wanted to kidnap girls that I’ve slept with, they need only search the contents of Norman.
I scan through the list of unread messages, opening a few. They’re so honest and sweet, sincerely trying to engage the band and thank us for hanging out with them. For bringing joy into their lives with our music and company. For making them feel privileged and special. Part or an exclusive group. A select few.
When we don’t reply, and we very rarely do, the messages become agitated and distressed. I keep flicking through the lengthy list of texts, each from random names whose faces I can’t place.
“Hey, I know I must seem crazy for messaging so often, but I really want to see you again.”
“Jack, I really need to see you again. It’s important.”
“Hi gorgeous. Just heard your new song on radio. So so good. Can’t stop thinking about you.”
I find one from Laurie. Then I find two more from Laurie. One of them has been opened and read, but not by me.
It says, “Getting naked with you was a dream come true.”
I immediately call Laurie’s mobile, but she doesn’t answer.
Chapter Seven
I lift the wooden plank from its mooring and the door creaks ajar, sunlight slicing through. I stand and listen. The demonic scurry of last night’s creature has left. Instead there are sounds that chirp and buzz.
Peering out, I can see that the graveyard is not as foreboding during the day. Like most cemeteries, I suppose. The temperature has risen, so I strip out of my pressure suit and fold it up. I keep my boots on and roll up the sleeves of my one-piece, which is made of a protective material but it breathes.
Underneath the bench in the middle of the room, beneath the bones and sheet, I find two doors which hide a small storage space. I hide my suit and the outboard motor inside and pull the sheet back down.
With my pack strapped firmly over my shoulders, I step into the sunlight, looking around to the edges of the clearing. Just trees and green-flecked gravestones. Climber vines. Metal fencing. Two bright suns. I push the shed door closed and notice broad, savage scratch-marks in its surface. Marks that most certainly would have been in my hide had I not found sanctuary.
I walk through the rows of gravestones, heading toward the church-like building. Squinting, I marvel up at the two suns burning over me. The air remains scented with wild, floral smells and the calls of birds and insects never make way for the animal howls that bore down on me the previous evening.
The steeped building is only fifty metres away. I continue towards it, scanning the tree line for signs of movement. Then something in my periphery makes me stop. Flapping to my right, hovering on the light breeze, is a butterfly. It’s quite large. Perhaps a hand span in diameter. Its wings are mottled orange and yellow with black, messy cross-hatching. I freeze and watch it move about, determining if it poses a threat. But then it flutters away, as if its interest in me dissipated.
I stand in front of the church, looking at the crucifix atop its spire. The building looks old, but well kept. Broad, mighty beams of wood make up its walls. A deep brown timber. The steep roof is lined with chocolate tiles, slate-like and covered in small flourishes of moss. Little aquamarine dots across the grid of rectangles.
Stone steps lead to the church’s entrance. Two large oak doors. They’re wide open. It’s dark inside but I can see the faint glow of stained glass. I adjust the pack on my bac
k and ascend the stairs.
My eyes adapt to the dim lighting. I can smell scented oils. A rich red, patterned runner lies through the centre of the giant room, dividing two long rows of pews. The aisle ends with steps at the foot of an alter. Above it, bursting out of flower arrangements, is another towering crucifix. A massive cross that shoots towards the church’s ceiling. Hanging from this cross is the statue of a bearded man, naked except for a small loincloth. He’s nailed to it, a crown of thorns on his head. He has a forlorn expression. Perhaps a look of disappointment.
There’s movement in the corner of the room. A figure pottering at a bookshelf and a table. He or she is about the same height as me and is wearing a black hooded cloak that prevents me from seeing their face. It’s too short to be the creature that chased me through the graveyard.
I step back towards the entrance and a sharp creak in the floorboards betrays me. The figure spins around, revealing a grey, wispy beard and thin bony face beneath the drape of the hood. It’s an old, human face. It tilts its head back and I can see two grey eyes staring at me.
I refrain from sudden movement. This creature seems human, but I shouldn’t take his withered frame for granted. He is an alien. He could have immense physical strength, the power of telekinesis or know any number of martial arts.
“Can I help you, young man?” he asks.
English. Clear and distinct. Just like on the gravestones outside. I comprehend every word.
“Uh, yes,” I say. “I’m… lost.”
The man remains still. Then says, “Lost?”
I panic that I’ve used a word he doesn’t understand. “Um, yes. Lost.”
“Well you have come to the right place,” he replies, his voice like bark peeling from a trunk. He walks towards me, pulling back his hood. He has white hair, cut short on his ancient skull. “This is where the lost are always welcome.”
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