by Dave Rudden
The Plasmavores sat on it with a creak.
The un-jangly part of Catherine – the part ‘making an effort’ – had hoped the Plasmavores would look less creepy out of the storm. Unfortunately, the cosy setting of the Sullivan sitting room only made Henri and Madeleine look more out of place, like finding a pair of slugs in a lunchbox.
‘What a nice little home,’ Madeleine Plasmavore said.
‘Very nice,’ Henri Plasmavore added. ‘Very little.’
There was something sly in their tone, but Maurice didn’t seem to notice. He was bad at noticing things. Sometimes, Catherine wished he was better at it.
Only Amélie, sitting on the couch with her feet not quite reaching the floor, looked like she belonged in the heat and the warm. Beneath her yellow mac, she was wearing a crinkly white dress with blue ships on it the exact colour of her huge eyes. The material made a soft shushing noise every time she moved, as if even her dress was polite.
‘I think it’s perfect,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ Maurice said, standing up to pour the tea. ‘It’s not much, but we make do.’ He smiled wanly. ‘Charity-shop chic, I like to call it. Sugar?’
He pointed at the little sugar bowl Catherine had laboriously filled from a dozen tiny packets. It wasn’t stealing. People put them out in cafés – whole boxes of them. Maurice had told her, as sternly as he was able, that it was actually stealing, and money being tight didn’t mean they should break rules, but they both knew his heart wasn’t in it. Now, Catherine emptied all the packets of sugar and salt she stole into Tupperware bowls so it was a little less obvious where she’d got them.
‘Nine sugars please,’ Amélie said.
‘None for us,’ said Henri. He looked around, smacking his lips as if tasting the air. ‘And it’s just the two of you?’
Maurice froze mid-pour. ‘I … yes. Catherine’s mother passed away six months ago. A car accident.’
He always said it in the same way: a single toneless blurt, like someone reciting a phone number. That was how Catherine said it as well. It was a bit like a phone number, when you thought about it. Something you had to hand out to people, so they knew how to talk to you.
After six months, it felt like Catherine had heard every possible response to the news that her mam had died. However, this was the first time anyone had clucked their tongue as though they’d found a hair in their food.
‘How very inconvenient,’ Amélie said. She frowned a pretty little frown. ‘I mean, what a waste.’
Silence, for five long ticks of the clock on the mantelpiece. Then, like a switch, Maurice’s smile returned as if no one had said anything at all.
The jangling in Catherine’s head intensified. She wanted Maurice to say something, except Maurice never said anything. He didn’t say anything when everyone at the parent–teacher meetings fell quiet as they entered the room, then started whispering after they’d left. He never talked about the letters Catherine knew got sent home whenever she got into fights with kids who thought she was weird for not having a mam. And he didn’t say anything when strangers barged into their Christmas and sniffed at Mam’s absence like it was somehow the Sullivans’ fault.
‘Have you called a repair service?’ Maurice asked.
‘We have,’ Henri Plasmavore said, ‘but it’ll be the morning. I’m sure we can find a hotel nearby …’
The dots landed like breadcrumbs. Like a lure. And, as Catherine knew he would, Maurice picked them up.
‘Oh, well, you must stay here! If you don’t mind an air mattress?’
‘Like a sleepover!’ Amélie said, clapping her hands in delight.
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t realise that was a real thing children did. Maybe clapping their hands is what happy children do? She resolved to do it more in future, particularly around therapists.
‘Just like a sleepover,’ Maurice said, and the way he looked at Amélie sent a pang through Catherine’s heart. She knew he’d like her to have friends. She owed it to him to try.
‘Amélie could sleep upstairs with me?’
She raised her hands to clap them, then felt a bit silly, so she put them down again, masking the gesture by lifting up the little plate of snacks she’d prepared. ‘Would you like a cracker? Or a crisp? They’re salt and vinegar –’
She might as well have offered garlic to a vampire. Both Plasmavore parents flinched backwards, as if struck. Amélie had gone so completely still that Catherine found herself checking the plate to see if she’d accidentally included a tarantula.
‘No,’ Amélie said in a high, tight whisper. ‘No, thank you.’
Henri placed a hand protectively in front of his daughter. ‘Amélie has to be very careful about her salt intake.’
‘Oh,’ Catherine said. She set the plate down, feeling very bad. Normally, Catherine didn’t worry so much about being nice. But Amélie was sitting right there, curls practically glowing, her polite little dress shushing them all, and suddenly Catherine wanted to be the best possible person she could be. ‘Why don’t I just –’
‘Throw them out?’ Amélie suggested quickly. Her sunny smile had reappeared.
Catherine stared forlornly at the plate of crisps and then, with a quick look at her dad, picked up the plate and went to the kitchen. She had just put the plate down on the counter when she heard her dad approach, sticking his head round the door frame.
‘You couldn’t have known, pet,’ he said.
She shrugged awkwardly, and that made him awkward too. Normally, Maurice was the one person Catherine wasn’t awkward around. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He’d invited other people in.
They stared at each other a little longer, then Maurice ducked back to deal with their guests. Catherine wasn’t sure whether very careful about salt intake meant mild allergy or throw out immediately, and suddenly felt very worried about all her carefully-collected Tupperware bowls of salt, but after taking a very quick look behind her, she stuffed a few crisps into her mouth. This wasn’t a wasteful house.
When she turned to leave, Amélie was standing right behind her.
Catherine jumped. She couldn’t help it. The Sullivan kitchen was very small – just a nook really – and Amélie was standing very close. Somehow her dress hadn’t made any noise at all.
‘Your dad said you would show me upstairs to your room,’ she said. ‘Shall we?’
Catherine didn’t say anything. This was partially because it seemed silly and babyish to say that normally Maurice would have tucked her in, and partially because her breath smelled of salt and vinegar, and she didn’t want Amélie to keel over and die.
So, instead, she nodded and tried to smile through her clamped-shut mouth.
‘Good,’ said Amélie.
Catherine hadn’t read one of those old German storybooks for ages. She tried to remember if the smiles in the illustrations were always so sharp.
‘Goodie-good.’
Catherine was at the top of the stairs before she realised she was having a sleepover. A sleepover, with a girl her own age. This was good. This was normal. This was … What was the word her therapist kept using? The word that made her teeth itch? Oh yes. This was integrating.
‘So, this is my room …’ Catherine said, pushing open the door and waving for Amélie to hop up on the single bed. Most of the room was taken up by a groaningly full bookcase, the floor an obstacle course of boxes the Sullivans hadn’t the room to unpack.
As always, Catherine felt calmer as soon as the door was closed. This was where she was allowed to be herself, where teachers and therapists couldn’t poke and prod and ask her to be happy when she wasn’t.
It was strange to have someone else in here with her.
‘Let me see,’ Catherine said, a trifle nervous. ‘Oh, these are good! Dad gets me a book about war every birthday.’ She handed Amélie a thick hardback, its edges festooned with brightly coloured stickers. ‘I’ve marked all of the really good gory bits.’
She rummaged a bit more.
‘Ooh! Here’s a spell book Dad bought me at the crystal shop in Temple Bar.’ She held up another book, this one bound in russet leather and inexpertly etched with symbols. She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I don’t think the spells are real. Also, most of them seem to be about “mindfulness”, which I think is like happiness but quieter. I was hoping for fireballs or curses. And then here is my collection of fancy-smelling candles. Want to sniff?’
Amélie shook her head.
Catherine shrugged. ‘They’re nice. I’m not allowed matches to light them. But I guess that means they’ll last forever …’ Catherine trailed off as she saw that there was no expression at all on Amélie’s face. ‘Is … something wrong?’
‘No,’ Amélie said eventually. ‘It’s just not what I expected a little girl’s room to look like.’
‘Oh,’ Catherine said, and put the candles down. ‘OK.’
‘I was expecting it to be pretty,’ Amélie explained. ‘You know. Frills and stuff. Like these.’ She plucked at the ruffs of her dress. ‘And to have lots of nice things. Not weird books about armies killing each other and candles that smell like dead flowers. And is that a throwing axe?’
‘I won it,’ Catherine said in a small voice. ‘In a competition.’
Amélie Plasmavore made a face. ‘And those decorations in the sitting room. Did you make those yourself?’
There was a large, awful lump making its way up Catherine’s throat. No words would fit around it, so she just nodded instead.
‘No wonder they look so ratty. Couldn’t you just have bought some? Big glittery ones. Or … or those shiny foil ones that fold out into banners.’ Her eyes had lit up again. ‘I love Christmas. It’s so indulgent. A feast for the senses. We don’t have anything like it where I’m from.’
‘They don’t have Christmas in France?’ Catherine asked, confused.
This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to go. Catherine had seen sleepovers in movies. Catherine would show Amélie the things she loved most in the world, and then they would lie under a duvet, and tell secrets, and eat popcorn, and braid each other’s hair. None of these were things that Catherine actually enjoyed, obviously. She was happiest on her own. But it was normal to enjoy those things, and so she was determined to try.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Amélie had decided to stop trying completely. Oh, she was still smiling – that blank, pretty smile, wide as the gleam of light on a knife blade – but the expression didn’t match the words coming out of her mouth.
‘I’m not French, you stupid girl,’ Amélie Plasmavore said with idle cruelty, biting off each word with a clack of her perfect white teeth. ‘I’m a blood-drinking alien from the depths of space. And I think,’ she said, looking around her, ‘that when I’ve drained you and your father dry this house will be a perfect little lair. After some redecoration, of course.’ She smoothed the front of her dress as if brushing away crumbs. ‘Little children should be sweet, after all.’
Catherine stared at her for a long moment. ‘You’re an alien.’
‘A blood-drinking alien,’ Amélie said. She seemed to be enjoying herself. ‘Yes.’
‘From space.’
‘That’s where aliens generally come from, yes.’
‘Oh,’ Catherine said. ‘Then I shouldn’t feel bad?’
Amélie frowned. ‘Bad about what?’
Catherine hit Amélie as hard as she could in the face with her book.
The Plasmavore shrieked, tumbling into the narrow space between the bed and the wall.
Catherine was already yanking the door open and scrambling out on to the landing. Dad, she thought. I have to protect Dad. Maurice would forget his own head if Catherine wasn’t there to remind him. Alien monsters were definitely beyond him.
Madeleine Plasmavore was standing at the top of the stairs.
Catherine skidded to a halt on her stockinged feet, mere inches from the huge woman’s outstretched hands, but Madeleine made no move to snatch her. Her pale, clammy fingers hovered in the air, still as a statue’s, curved into hooks as if frozen mid-grab.
Heart hammering in her chest, Catherine looked closer. The smug twist to Madeleine’s features had disappeared, replaced by a dreamy slackness. She didn’t appear to be breathing. Madeleine Plasmavore had clearly been moving, but then she’d stopped.
Like a powered-down screen, Catherine thought. Like she’s been switched off.
Catherine hadn’t even heard Madeleine coming up the stairs, even though their house had such thin walls you could usually hear the neighbours going up the stairs two houses over. Madeleine had been silent as a snake.
And then she’d just stopped.
Catherine was only a passing student in school. She daydreamed a lot. She really only listened to the parts of her classes that featured war, the supernatural or death. Numerous report cards had pointed out that this was likely to hold Catherine back in later life, but had failed to predict that her later life would involve a fight with aliens.
Blood-drinking aliens. From space.
And, though Catherine wasn’t great on her times tables and had little to no interest in verbs, she had read enough about monsters to recognise when knocking out the leader shut down the troops.
Madeleine Plasmavore stopped just as I hit Amélie.
Even as Catherine had the thought, Madeleine suddenly twitched back to life. Her head came up, the waxy flesh of her face stumbling through a series of expressions.
Booting up. Start-up protocols.
Madeleine’s eyes focused on Catherine, then narrowed. She smiled her toothless smile. But that wasn’t why Catherine’s blood went cold.
Knocking out the leader shuts down the troops. So, if Madeleine’s awake …
There was a quiet noise. It sounded very much like a shush.
Catherine dragged her gaze away from the looming Madeleine to see Amélie perched like a spider on the ceiling above her, blonde curls hanging down like grasping claws.
‘Merry Christmas,’ the Plasmavore hissed, and lunged.
Catherine Sullivan woke to her father apologising.
‘I’m so sorry, Catherine,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry.’
Her whole body ached, but worse than that was a sensation she could only describe as ‘faded’, like a drawing that had been partially rubbed out. She felt blurred and jointless, her thoughts just scratches on paper. There was a point of pain on the side of her neck.
They were in the sitting room. Maurice was in his chair, bound with loop upon loop of garden hose as if trying to do his very best caterpillar impression, an image that would have made Catherine laugh had her thoughts not been so muddled.
She tried to lift a hand to rub her eyes, but couldn’t. She was tied up too.
Amélie Plasmavore was sitting on the floor, carefully ripping all Catherine’s carefully made decorations to shreds. Madeleine Plasmavore stepped in from the kitchen and tossed a pair of scissors to Amélie, who caught them without looking.
‘Much better,’ the little creature said, and promptly snipped a Christmas star in half.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maurice said again. He was shaking his head. ‘I should have –’
‘Oh, do be quiet,’ Amélie said sharply, then gave Catherine a look of mock consternation. ‘He’s been like this for hours. How do you put up with it?’
The blurriness was wearing off, but that wasn’t why Catherine was quiet. She was quiet because she didn’t know what to say.
Amélie’s smile widened. ‘I’m not complaining, mind you. Things are so much easier when the prey doesn’t struggle.’ Her smile withered. ‘I’ve been prey long enough. Running from world to world, just one step ahead of …’ She shook herself. ‘Well. Not any more.’
She reached inside a pocket of her dress and took out a long tube. At the sight of it, Catherine felt the twinge in her neck pulse in sympathy.
It was a straw.
‘We’re …’ Catherin
e’s voice was scratchy and weak. ‘We’re not going to make much of a meal for the three of you.’
Amélie smirked. ‘If you were a civilised race, I’d be insulted.’ She indicated Madeleine with a lazy wave of her hand. ‘Don’t let their wit fool you. Henri and Madeleine are Slabs. Bodyguards with just enough of my psychic imprint to pass unnoticed among the lesser life-forms. I’ll admit their current forms are not as … artistic as I’d hoped, but a quick resculpting and they’ll be perfect.’
‘Perfect what?’ Catherine asked.
‘Perfect parents,’ Amélie said. ‘A perfect mum and dad for you.’ She shrugged. ‘Or close to perfect, anyway. My ship is being tracked. I had to take what I could get.’
The creature that had once been Henri Plasmavore stepped out of the kitchen.
The clothes were still Henri’s – the coat, the scarf, the ugly brown jumper – but now they hung loose on Maurice Sullivan’s frame. No, Catherine thought, not Maurice’s. This wasn’t her dad. It wasn’t just the tufts of hair combed back in an approximation of neatness. It wasn’t just that there were fewer frown lines crowding his eyes and mouth.
It was the fact that he looked happy. That was what really turned Catherine’s stomach. There wasn’t one, single change she could point to – even if she hadn’t been tied up. It was everything. It was his shoulders, straight and unhunched. It was the way he laced both hands comfortably round his stomach instead of fretting them up and down his chest.
This was the Maurice who used to take Catherine on climate marches, the dad who baked terrible fig rolls for every school fundraiser and took her out for walks during good storms or stayed inside and let her put sprig-like braids in his hair. This was the Maurice she didn’t have to constantly look after. The Maurice who remembered things. The Maurice who stuck up for her at school and started planning for Christmas around the thirty-first of March.