Invaders From Beyond

by Colin Sinclair

“Tell me about it,” Etty says, grinning.

  “You lot kicked the roof off,” I say, fanboying. I heard rumours of big record deals and a supporting-a-major-band world tour. Loads of buzz, and then nothing. “What the hell happened?”

  “Creative differences,” Etty says. Looks away.

  “The manager,” she goes on. “Who was also my boyfriend at the time. Turns out he and the bass guitarist were getting very creative.”

  Too much information is what I’m thinking.

  “Nightmare,” I tell her. Nothing else seems to fit.

  “You two gonna stand around all day staring into space,” Chas says, “or do you want to get this done?”

  Spell broken, Etty and I get back to dressing up in leftovers from the lost property box.

  “I didn’t even know we had a lost property,” Etty’s saying.

  “Oh, yeah,” Kelvin says. “For a shop without much in the way of footfall, we seem to get a lot of abandoned treasures.”

  Jost holds up a black-and-white baseball boot with a broken lace. “Just the one shoe. Seriously, how does that happen?”

  “What the fuck is this?”

  Chas is waving a fat length of concertinaed tubing, connected to a brown metal box at one end and a rubberised greying mask at the other; thick, dark lenses either side of a long tapering nose, give it an insectile look.

  “Is it a sex thing?” Chas asks.

  “Polish respirator,” Jost says. “Cold War vintage. No idea how it ended up here, tenner at auction if you’re lucky.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Chas says, and sets it to one side.

  Etty ends up with an ankle-length coat—which just about covers her biker-boots—and a hat that has the appearance of a squashed ferret tied in a knot.

  I’m sporting a slighty-too-large jacket and a rather flamboyant silk scarf.

  “You look a picture,” Kelvin says, beaming.

  “Aye,” Etty says. “Picture of what, though?”

  “C’mon,” I say, sticking out my elbow for her to take my arm. “Let’s promenade.”

  Etty loops her arm through mine. “Oh, let’s,” she says.

  And we’re off to the races.

  9

  THE DISTANCE BETWEEN Brackett’s and the upstart newcomers is about the length of a soccer pitch. Or so Chas tells me; I’m not an expert.

  Two lanes of worn-out road and a broad rectangle of immaculate car park—trimmed hedges, deep black tar, pure white lines and lights burning bright against the grey sky of a dull morning.

  The vibe is different. Brackett’s feels old, weak, sagging into the warm and welcoming earth. Giving up its ghosts.

  This place is spruced up and gleaming new. It’s made an effort.

  For Brackett, the typical weekend-gardener is an afterthought, a distraction. He makes more money from his under-the-counter wheeling and dealing.

  Here at Garden World, though, the customer is encouraged, welcomed, wanted.

  There’s bunting at the doors and a gaggle of bright dressed young folk offering drinks, cakes, even tours around the new store.

  Etty and I wave them off and enter unmolested. They aren’t pushy, they avoid crawling all over us; even this early, they’re not short of victims for the hard sell.

  The retail warehouse was designed as three stores side by side, but they’ve taken over the whole structure, knocked through the dividing walls of units one and two, left the far right side of the building sealed off.

  Even so, Garden World is vast.

  “We should mingle,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “Why are you whispering?” Etty asks.

  “We’re on a mission,” I say. “Aren’t we?”

  “Alright, but try not to look like we are,” Etty says, and then, “Goodness, darling, have you seen this?”

  She’s standing at a display of wooden playhouses; they look like miniature log cabins and shepherds’ huts.

  “Now wouldn’t that look wonderful for the east lawn?”

  I nod my approval. “Quentin would love it,” I tell her.

  “We’ll need one for Isabella too, of course.”

  “Of course,” I reply. “Wouldn’t want her getting jealous, would we?”

  And we sweep past the crowds and on down the aisle to whatever the next thing is.

  “Brash and bold,” Etty says, leaning close to my ear. “That’s the way to blend into this circus.”

  “Can’t do much else in this outfit,” I concede.

  I look like the preppy one from Scooby-Doo. Fred?

  So do most of the staff that I’ve spotted. Not the full Ascot style, sure, but a definite clean-cut, fresh-pressed enthusiasm. All of them are wearing matching outfits, or at least co-ordinated—heavy on the greens and blues—in various styles of sweatshirt, T-shirt, trousers, shorts, skirts. I even spot a few kilts.

  Beyond the ranks of youth and exuberance, there’s a more serious line of management types. Sedate looking men and women in suits and ties; broadly the same colour scheme, but a lot more staid and official looking. They’re carrying electronic tablets and wearing earpieces, taking notes—tap-tap-tap—and muttering instructions.

  I turn to point them out to Etty, but she’s already paying close attention. She’s produced a pair of mirrored sunglasses from somewhere—the real nineteen-eighties sort that conceal half her face—and is using them for cover.

  This place runs like a machine. Call for clean-up at aisle five and a crew of three is on the scene in moments—block the lane, assess the problem, tidy and reopen—done and dusted. A manager type is hovering in the background the whole time. Tap-tap-tap.

  It doesn’t smell like a garden centre.

  The air in Brackett’s is heavy; thick with old wood, damp earth, floral hints and sharp chemical tangs. Every garden centre has it. I mention this to Etty.

  “Maybe it hasn’t had time to soak in?” she says.

  It’s possible. “This place is like a pristine show house,” I say. “It’s got the shapes and colours, but it lacks the spirit. The underlying—I dunno, ethos? Something.”

  “Bouquet?”

  “It’s like a movie set; an impression of a truth.”

  “I kind of like it,” Etty says. “It’s very efficient.”

  “Anyone can sweep a floor.”

  “You’d think.”

  Not so true at Brackett’s, I have to admit.

  “It’s the environment,” I say. “You know, like that Oscar Wilde wallpaper thing?”

  “His last words, you mean? ‘Either it goes or I do’? How’s that relevant?”

  It’s skirting the edge of my brain. Something about brutality and ugly surroundings is what I’m thinking.

  “America,” I say, finally. “Wilde went to America and someone asked him why it was so crazy violent and he said it was because the wallpaper was so hideous.”

  Etty stares at me like I am mad. My face reflecting distorted in her giant sunglasses.

  “It made sense in my head,” I explain.

  Etty takes a moment, looks around. “No,” she says, “I get it. People take more care if their location is pleasant. Brackett’s is a steaming midden of ’seventies décor and out-of-date shelving, so why should we feel inclined to pretty it up? Where’s the incentive to make the extra effort?”

  “I’ll admit this place looks the part,” I say. “A spilled plant pot spoils the mood. I’d want to clear it up too.”

  “Steady on,” Etty says. “No need to go crazy.”

  “Heh.”

  We wander on down the aisle.

  10

  “THIS IS WHAT they call a soft opening,” someone is saying, in a tone that suggests high levels of smug.

  “The real thing not until next week is what I’m hearing,” they go on as we slide past.

  “Just a little something for the hoi polloi?” asks their companion.

  “Oh, indeed.” Smattering of forced laughter. “Indeed.”

  I have an u
rge to point out to correct his Greek and also tell him he sounds like a dick, but Etty sing-songs the word ‘wankers’ and then pretends it wasn’t her whilst Smug and Company cast their beady gazes at everyone in sight.

  Any further comment I could make seems redundant.

  I STEP LEFT when Etty goes right; find myself—almost accidentally—heading for the blank white wall that divides the shop-floor from the storage area at the end of the building. Here and there are posters portraying the happy-generic family future that’s on sale here.

  There are doors, spaced out along the wall, with the expected kind of signage—staff only, emergency exit, no unauthorised entry—many of them have numbered keypad locks and some of them have porthole-esque windows I can peer through. White walled corridor, storage room, another corridor.

  I’m pretending to examine some fascinating varieties of gardening glove when a door nearby opens wide. A pair of neatly pressed staff members moves out smiling, steps past me into the bright light of the shop floor, and I stick out my hand and stop the door before it closes.

  Can’t hurt to take a peek.

  I wander through the door way, take a moment to make sure it can’t lock shut behind me, and have a quick look around.

  It’s a hallway with more doors, so, you know, not all that sinister just yet.

  Dull boom of a door opening somewhere up ahead, sound of footsteps moving fast on concrete floor.

  I find the nearest door and duck in without looking.

  A cool darkness surrounds me, a foul stench like a backed-up toilet or storage for cleaning supplies. I hold the door ajar to allow some airflow and let in a thin strip of light. I don’t see much; bulky grey shapes, shelves, boxes.

  Shadows and footsteps move past in the corridor outside. I risk a search for the light switch.

  Some kind of store room. Metal shelves holding heavy duty buckets with lids. A few mops, spray bottles, rubber gloves, a steam-mop. There’s tiled flooring in one corner and what looks like a makeshift shower area.

  I take a pen and lever up the lid of the nearest bucket.

  The stench becomes more solid, rank; I can feel it burning the back of my throat.

  Soiled overalls, maybe some cleaning rags, all of it jumbled up in a sticky gloop that I don’t want to think about. Or smell.

  My stomach is about to begin a serious protest.

  I jam the lid back down.

  Turn to go and—

  The door opens.

  A wild scramble for somewhere to hide and Etty says, “I thought I saw you scoot this way, what are—”

  She covers her nose and mouth with her hand.

  “Did something die in here?” she asks. I shake my head.

  We agree to leave this place, fast.

  Back down the corridor and into the shop and I’m all apologies.

  Etty holds up her hands. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m no’ your keeper, right?”

  I’m still thinking that over when Etty tugs my sleeve.

  “They’re asking lots of questions.”

  She’s right about this.

  A scattering of eager youth with clipboards, picking out prospective customers, giving them smiles and conversation and then ushering the chosen few to little booths arrayed at one side of a cleared this-is-what-a-garden-in-summer-looks-like-when-you’re-not-a-desperate-loser display area.

  In each cubicle, a more senior looking staff member with a tablet computer.

  “Targeting both men and women,” I say. “Frequent customer points and that? Buy four garden chairs and the fifth is free, sort of thing.”

  “We have a full range of services and products,” announces someone far too close. “We cater for the whole family.”

  One of the youths, beaming brightly.

  He points to a range of plastic toys in eye burning colours; beach-balls, lawn bowling, simple tennis.

  “Do you have any children?”

  “Not that I know of,” Etty says.

  Stupid line. Makes me laugh, though.

  Staff member—the badge says SIMON—just stares, confused.

  “My little joke,” Etty tells him.

  Simon attempts a laugh in response, doesn’t quite manage to sell it.

  He looks down at his clipboard. Ticks a box.

  “Is this a store card thing?” I ask him.

  Simon nods. “It’s a lot like that.”

  “A lot like that,” I echo. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He leads us towards a booth. A suited woman is standing, one hand outstretched, as we approach. In her other hand she holds a tablet computer with a gleaming Garden World logo spinning on its face: a stylised green-blue planet, encircled in twisting vines.

  “Senior Jessica will answer your questions,” Simon explains. He offers a final attempt at a smile and steps back into the throng of shoppers and timewasters.

  Jessica’s handshake is warm, firm, welcoming. Her grin appears unforced—she’s done better on the induction training—and her accent has a trace of posh American. Which stands to reason; this place has that kind of ‘total dedication’ vibe.

  “Just a couple things,” Jessica is saying.

  She shakes Etty’s hand as well and does a little nod-bow thing while she’s doing that. Very smooth.

  “Please take a seat and let’s get started.”

  “Get started with what?”

  Etty doesn’t sound like she’s buying the charm offensive.

  “Bringing you into the Garden World, of course,” Jessica tells us. I’m thinking of television evangelists and smarmy politicians.

  Jessica’s smile is very wide.

  IT STARTS OUT basic enough. Gives us a spiel about discounts, special offers, late night shopping blitzes and such; setting out the stall before asking for our details.

  Jessica wants mobile numbers and emails rather than home addresses, which seems odd at first but then I’m thinking, it’s the twenty-first century, get with the programme, yeah?

  I offer a number from about four contracts back, and some obscure email I got when I had dial-up internet, in the dark ages.

  Jessica seems happy with that. Ignores us both whilst she does a bit of tap-tap-tap.

  “Name?”

  “Dennis,” I answer. For some reason.

  “Surname?”

  “That is my surname,” I decide right then. This undercover stuff is fun.

  “First name?”

  I look at Etty. “Tarquin.”

  Props to Etty, she doesn’t move a muscle.

  “Your name is Tarquin Dennis,” Jessica says.

  “Yes.”

  Tap-tap-tap. “Not registered to vote.”

  I notice that isn’t a question.

  “I don’t believe in it,” I tell her. “Democracy is a sham. A farce.”

  Jessica stares at me. I’ve seen that look before. Disappointment.

  Looks down at the tablet again. Tap.

  “Everyone should play a full and fulfilling role in society,” she says.

  She’s staring at me again.

  “It’s part of the Garden World creed,” Jessica says. There’s that rehearsed sincerity again.

  Etty leans forward slightly. “You’re a garden centre and you have a creed?”

  Jessica laughs; short, light, it’s got a self-deprecating tone to it. Because obviously I can read a lot into a simple laugh, yeah?

  “It’s a corporate requirement,” Jessica says. “You know. A vision thing. A plan for the future. You know?”

  “We should go,” I say.

  “We have to collect the children,” Etty adds.

  “From boxing,” I’m saying, just as Etty says, “From ballet.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Quentin from ballet; Isabella from boxing.”

  We stand and back away. It looks natural and normal.

  A voice from behind makes a suggestion, “You should bring them along.”

  Jessica stands almost at attention. “Mr Pleasance, how kin
d of you to—”

  “The children,” Pleasance is saying.

  He’s a broad-shouldered wall of a man with wonderful hair and pale blue-green eyes. Has kind of a movie star thing going on. Not sure which star in particular. Perhaps all of them?

  “Truly,” Pleasance is saying. “We’d love to see them. The more the merrier.”

  “Catch them when they’re young,” Jessica adds. Deploys her laugh again.

  “Quite.” Hint of a frown from Pleasance, then back to full beam-and-gleam.

  “Perhaps next time,” Etty tells him as we edge past.

  “Don’t forget this,” Jessica says, holding up a plastic card.

  I reach out and take the card from Jessica.

  “We’re all about loyalty,” Pleasance says.

  11

  HALF WAY ACROSS the Garden World car park, Etty says, “Scale of one to ah-dunno, one million…”

  “How creepy was that?” I finish the thought for her.

  “Bingo,” she says. “Bing-fucking-go.”

  There’s a lot to take in.

  It’s got a definite big-box-store Americana mood. Lots of product, crazy prices, shed-loads of staff looking young and fresh and glad to help.

  “Like greeters and stuff,” she says.

  “Like that, yeah,” I answer. “But also a sort of a religious devotion sort of undercurrent.”

  “Like they’re letting you into a secret?”

  “Yeah. First thing it reminded me of was televangelists,” I say.

  Etty nods.

  “And then that Pleasance turns up,” she says, “and you start thinking about serpents in the grass and Very Bad Ideas.”

  We walk on in silence.

  Everyone is waiting when we get through the doors.

  Jost catches our expressions and nods. “I’ll get a brew on.”

  The British Army never lost that reliance on the restorative power of a nice cup of tea, did it?

  “What’s the bad news?” Chas asks.

  “Demons,” Etty says.

  “You what?”

  “Americans,” I tell him. “They specialise in heavy-hitter multinational octopuses of commerce.”

  “Octopi,” Kelvin suggests.