by Mark Edwards
‘Have you ever seen lights in the sky or anything like that before?’
He shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Not ever.’
‘Couldn’t it have been a plane? Surely that’s the most reasonable explanation.’
‘No way.’ He took a hungry drag on his cigarette. ‘This was no aeroplane.’ He looked at me with wide, penetrating eyes.
I laughed, then, noticing his affronted expression, said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that you sound like a character in some B-movie. That was no aeroplane . . .’
Andrew came up and put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. ‘People will always mock, Fraser. It’s something you have to get used to, as a witness.’
‘But there are a lot of us, aren’t there?’ Fraser said, eager for reassurance. ‘More and more of us?’
‘That’s right, Fraser. One day all the doubters will have to face up to the truth.’ He spoke as if addressing a dim child.
I didn’t know why Andrew had taken such an instant dislike to me. Maybe he was always like this. But his attitude made me want to wind him up.
‘It could have been any number of things you saw,’ I said. ‘Helicopters. A satellite, or a meteor shower . . .’
Andrew yawned. ‘We’ve heard it all before. Some people will never believe the evidence in front of their own eyes.’
‘What evidence?’ I asked.
Pete stepped in. ‘Hey, guys, let’s not have a conflict, huh? Let’s just watch. That’s what we’re here for.’
I said, ‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Let’s eat,’ said Pete. We sat on the lawn chairs and Pete passed round some pre-packed sandwiches. I made sure I got the chair next to Marie. Darkness had fallen while I was arguing with Andrew and it was hard to see her clearly. I leaned closer.
I said, ‘Do you think we’ll see anything tonight?’
She looked up at the moon, an alabaster disc in the starry sky. ‘I’m always hopeful. I know you don’t believe . . .’
‘No. But I would like something to happen, if only because it would make a great picture.’
She wrapped her jacket around her and picked up a long, rubber-encased torch. She flicked it on and aimed the beam at the night sky. The others looked over at her. Was she with either Pete or Andrew? Pete had a certain goofy charm and was quite good-looking. Andrew had an air of authority about him that I know some young women go for. But there was no body language to support my fears, no touching or eye contact.
She didn’t have classic good looks. Her nose was a tiny bit too narrow, there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. Her teeth were a little crooked. But she had an aura that made the air around her shimmer, and a self-assuredness that I envied.
‘We should be silent now,’ she said quietly. The men nodded. They stopped talking, seemed even, to stop moving, until all I could hear were the crickets and the sea.
We watched the skies.
There was a full moon and the sky was clear – the perfect conditions for seeing a UFO, apparently – but, of course, nothing happened. I heard Pete sigh a couple of times. Fraser looked more relieved with every second that passed. Andrew was stoic, unmoved, a grim expression on his face. And Marie just sat and looked upwards. I mimicked her. I didn’t know what else to do. I was starting to regret being here. As the temperature dropped, I thought about my bed and how comfortable it was. I had left the house in the midst of a warm evening, without thinking that it would get cold later. Now, as the day’s heat disappeared from the air, I started to shiver. I hugged myself. We weren’t allowed to light a fire. We just sat holding our torches, looking at the stars, and I tried to imagine that the light contained warmth. If it hadn’t been for my attraction to Marie I would have made my excuses and left.
‘Have we got anything to drink?’ I asked. ‘Something warming?’
Fraser said, ‘I’ve got a bottle of brandy.’
‘Perfect.’
He crawled into one of the tents and brought out a litre bottle of Napoleon brandy and some paper cups. He poured a small measure into each cup and passed them round. The liquid was fiery in my throat; warmth spread through my body.
‘That’s better.’ I had an urge to talk. All this silence was depressing me. ‘I must apologise for my colleague Simon. He was very rude to you earlier.’
Andrew shrugged. ‘We’re used to it.’
I swirled the brandy around the bottom of my paper cup. ‘I’m puzzled. Are you part of some larger organisation or group? How do you know each other?’
‘We don’t have an organisation,’ said Andrew. He spat the last word like it tasted foul. ‘It’s too dangerous. It would be so easy for the government to monitor us.’
‘The Government?’
‘Yes, they—’
‘Richard might think we’re a little paranoid,’ Marie interjected.
‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.’
My joke sputtered and died in the night air.
Marie said, ‘We met online.’
‘That’s how I know these guys,’ said Pete. ‘There’s a huge network of believers all over the world.’
I said, ‘And you came all the way from . . .’
‘Portland.’
‘You came all the way from Oregon for this?’
‘Oh no. I was in Europe anyway, staying with other people that I’d met online, in France. There have been a couple of really interesting sightings in Normandy. When I heard about the Hastings lights I thought I’d take a look and caught the Eurostar over. It’s what I do. I travel all over the world. Chasing UFOs.’
‘And how many have you seen?’
‘Um . . . none yet.’
‘None?’
He laughed. ‘People call me The Jinx. I’ve been everywhere – Roswell, South America, Japan, all over Europe . . . Not a single sighting. People say that if there was ever a threat of hostile alien invasion they’d just have to stand me on top of a mountain and the aliens wouldn’t show.’ He scratched his beard. ‘Not that that would happen, of course. Hostile aliens. That’s a crazy idea. But I know they’re out there. One day I’m going to make contact.’
‘I would have given up by now. What about you two?’ I said, addressing Marie and Andrew. They looked sheepish. ‘What, you’ve never seen a UFO either?’
‘Well . . . no,’ Andrew.
‘But how can you believe in something you’ve never seen or had any experience of?’
Marie said, ‘Millions of people believe in an entity they’ve never seen. They call it God.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘You either believe or you don’t,’ Andrew said tersely. ‘And besides, we’ve spoken to them. Now let’s just watch, shall we?’
I drank some more brandy. I felt a little sorry for them. They were so desperate. And I could imagine how jealous they must have been of Fraser who, ironically, looked like seeing a UFO was the last thing he’d ever wanted. After downing half the bottle of brandy, Fraser had crawled into his tent and fallen asleep. I could hear him snoring.
Pete fell asleep too, sitting upright in his chair, mouth hanging open.
Marie stayed awake, looking upwards calmly, while Andrew peered intently at the sky, his jaw muscles clenched. I could sense him willing the heavens to produce something inexplicable. I found myself wishing for it too, if only for his and Marie’s sake.
We were disappointed.
As the sun rose, the sky turning violet then blue, we packed up. We rolled up the tents and Andrew and Pete loaded their rucksacks. I helped them carry their equipment down the hill.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t see anything,’ Andrew said. He seemed chastened by the aliens’ no-show. ‘But thank you for joining us.’
‘Maybe you’ll have more luck next time. Are you going to try again tonight?’
Andrew shook his head. ‘Fraser’s going to keep a lookout while he’s working. If there are any more sightings he’ll let us know.’
They head
ed off in the opposite direction to me, along the seafront. The town was eerily quiet. No cars or people, just a few large seagulls pecking at discarded chip wrappers.
I watched them retreat along the promenade. I had wanted to ask Marie for her phone number, but I felt too awkward with the others standing there. The whole night had been like that. I’d yearned for an opportunity to talk to her on her own, but the three men stuck to her like they were her bodyguards.
When she said goodbye she had raised her hand, smiled at me and fixed me with a look that I was sure was full of meaning.
Kicking myself for being too passive, I set off up the hill. I didn’t expect to see any of them again.
3
Two weeks passed. Simon’s piece appeared on page seven of the Herald, with my photograph of Pete and Andrew (caption: Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft), but we had heard nothing more about UFOs or impending alien contact. We received one crank letter, scribbled in green ink, in which a man recounted in great detail a sexual encounter with ‘a beautiful, golden-skinned lady alien with two mouths’, which we had pinned on the notice board in the office. And a woman phoned to say she had seen what she thought were alien craft while out walking her dogs on the West Hill. She saw white globes hovering over the sea. On closer inspection they turned out to be street lamps.
That afternoon – the day when everything began to happen – had been, as Simon put it, ‘shit’. We had been called out to the scene of a house fire where two primary school age girls and their dad were trapped. The fire was still blazing when we got there, two fire engines sending great arcs of water into the flames. The heat coming from the building was indescribable. Eventually, the fire crew got the better of the elements and went into the house. A little while later I watched in horror as they carried out three bodies: two small, one my size. I could smell their charred flesh.
Back home, afterwards, I couldn’t get the images of the dead girls out of my head. I lay in the bath and scrubbed myself, my face, my hair. I felt unclean and irrationally guilty. I had wished for this. I had wanted excitement.
I sank beneath the water. When I surfaced the telephone was ringing. I didn’t want to answer it, but the caller was insistent.
Cursing, I climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel around me.
It was Simon.
‘I feel like I’m in shock,’ he said. ‘Even though I didn’t know them. And I’m going to have to write about it. Two children died in a tragic fire in their home . . .’
‘Did you phone to make me feel worse?’ I asked.
‘I phoned to see if you wanted to go and get pissed.’
I almost said no, but then I thought about my empty house. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’
We drank to forget. Or, at least, we tried to.
‘Do you think they were already dead when the firemen carried them out of the house?’ Simon asked, staring into a half-empty pint of Guinness.
‘Can we not talk about it? Please? How’s Susan?’
‘Yeah. Fine.’ He fiddled with his coaster, tearing the edges off it. I sensed he wanted to talk about something but couldn’t spit the words out.
I felt the alcohol start to work, getting into my bloodstream and clouding over the memory of the fire. The world around me lost clarity. The lager tasted good. I felt good. I drained my glass. I got up to the bar to buy another.
We ended up in a club near the seafront. I felt old. There were a few other people in their late twenties, but most of the clubbers were late teens, early twenties, beautiful, skinny, fit. I hadn’t been to a club for months.
Simon handed me a drink. We leaned against the bar, surveying the crowd. Simon eyed up the teenage girls in their strappy tops and little skirts. I watched the crowd. The club was packed, but still they let more people in, until we were forced away from the bar by people struggling for the attention of the staff.
Two blonde girls in mini dresses that barely covered their arses slinked by. Simon said, ‘I’m off,’ and followed them into the throng.
Things were definitely awry in Simon-and-Susan land. Wondering if he’d tell me more, I drained my bottle and headed for the dance floor.
And that’s when I saw her: Marie.
She was talking to a couple of girls, laughing, her head thrown back, exposing her pale throat. I could only see her head and shoulders; the rest of her was obscured by the mass of people in my way. She was about ten feet away, but it might as well have been a hundred. I tried to push my way through the crowd. The moment I had seen her I had felt a jolt in my chest, a quickening of the pulse. After the night on the hill I had cursed my timidity, certain I had missed my chance to get to know her. Now, maybe, I had been given another. I looked across the river of heads between us and watched her laugh and brush her hand through her hair. I had to talk to her.
‘Excuse me. Sorry.’
I pushed through perspiration-soaked bodies, using my shoulder, clutching my drink to my chest, and finally emerged where Marie had been standing.
She was gone. I stood on tiptoe and looked around. No sign. I swore under my breath. Maybe she was on the dance floor. I edged my way into the moving mass.
I caught a glimpse of strawberry-blonde hair on the other side of the dance floor and headed over. But it wasn’t her. The hair’s owner scowled at me when I touched her shoulder, and her boyfriend took a menacing step towards me. I stepped back and allowed the crowd to swallow me up.
I leant against a wall that was wet with condensation and squinted into the maelstrom of strobing lights and smoke and skin. Where was she? I started to grow angry at the crowd. Why the hell had the nightclub management let so many people in? It was crazy. God forbid if there was a fire . . .
I searched for twenty minutes, finally coming back to where I’d started. In front of me were two girls – no older than sixteen – with black circles of makeup around their eyes, lips painted purple, and I imagined the two little dead girls, their lives choked and finished that afternoon, saw them standing in front of me, looking at me with blank eyes.
I squeezed my eyelids shut. Marie had probably gone home. It was time to call it a night.
As I moved towards the exit, the door of the Ladies opened and a couple of girls ran out. They grabbed a bouncer by a thickly muscled arm. ‘There’s some bloke in the Ladies, puking.’
The bouncer’s eyes narrowed and he and another doorman went into the Ladies. They emerged, holding Simon between them. His eyes had rolled up into his head and a smear of sick glistened on his chin. The two girls laughed as the bouncers dragged him through the exit into the fresh air. I followed and watched Simon hit the pavement. ‘Don’t come back,’ one of the bouncers warned.
Simon pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. ‘Wankers,’ he slurred, then threw up in the gutter to a chorus of disgust.
‘Come on, get up,’ I said, pulling him to his feet. He reeked of beer and vomit.
‘Richard. My mate.’ His eyes were all over the place. ‘I’m gonna write about this in the fucking paper. Those bastards have had it . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘No one gets it,’ he slurred. ‘Everyone thinks I’m the bad guy. But it’s just as hard for me.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
I managed to get him into a taxi and watched the car pull away. I shook my head. No doubt tomorrow he would have forgotten all about it.
I was about to head home when I heard a voice say, ‘Hello,’ and I turned around.
It was Marie. She was wearing a short black and gold dress and strappy shoes, and was carrying a small black bag. She smiled at me, a little ironic uplift at the edge of her full Cupid’s-bow lips. Two other girls stood behind her.
‘Your friend was in the toilets making a fool of himself,’ she said.
‘Friend? I prefer colleague.’
She laughed. Her large eyes looked up at me, big and round and wide awake. It struck me how little she was, and how pretty. The grime and swe
at of the nightclub didn’t seem to have touched her. She looked like she’d just been for a pleasant stroll along the promenade. Whereas I must have looked terrible, with my hair all messed up, my clothes sticking to me and my eyes bleary from too much booze.
One of Marie’s friends said, ‘You coming?’ and she shook her head. They staggered off towards the taxi rank.
Still with that little smile on her face, Marie said, ‘So how are you?’
‘OK. Well, actually that’s a lie. I’ve had a shitty day. I came out to get drunk and forget about it. Except it hasn’t worked, really.’
‘Why don’t you walk me home and tell me about it on the way? My flat’s just along the seafront.’
‘Cool.’ I tried not to look too enthusiastic. I didn’t want to scare her. She was just being friendly, after all.
The nightclub was a pebble’s throw from the beach. We crossed the road and walked side by side along the promenade.
I told Marie about the fire. ‘It was horrible. Not just because two children died, but because I was so excited by it all. When I was taking the pictures my heart was really pounding.’ I thumped my chest in illustration. ‘I kept thinking, this is why I’m a photographer. Not much happens in Hastings, does it? The occasional murder that everyone gets hysterical about, or the odd drugs bust. But most of it isn’t stuff that you could take pictures of – not on the scene, anyway. So this fire was something different. We were actually there, capturing it. And it was aesthetic and cinematic, with the firemen running out of the house, the hysterical father, the concerned crowd. I loved the drama of it.’
‘So you feel guilty.’
‘Yes. I feel cheap and nasty and dirty.’
She put her hand on my arm. ‘And that’s good, Richard.’
‘Good?’
‘Of course. What if you’d been unmoved? The fact that you feel . . . unclean shows that you’re not desensitised.’ She smiled at me. ‘I sensed that when we first met. Beneath that cynical facade, you’re a good person.’
I looked out at the sea. ‘So it’s good to feel bad.’
‘Put that on a T-shirt and you’ll make . . . well, maybe a fiver.’