Cold Skies: A Psychological Thriller

by Zoe Drake

  “Yup. The latest album, Suedehead. Not as good as The Smiths, I know, but I still rate his solo stuff. I’ve got everything he’s done. One thing you Brits know how to do is make good music. But that Blur-Oasis Britpop war thing is getting to be a real drag, you know. So what do you listen to?”

  “Me? Oh, everything really. A bit of house music, a bit of reggae… old Eighties stuff…” Gareth tried to think of names that he’d heard recently on Radio One, and failed. “And I quite like Nirvana,” he said hurriedly.

  “Yeah, so do I. Real shame about Kurt Cobain, what a waste. I lived in Hawaii for a while, and people there don’t really go for Grunge much, but I love it. I’ve got Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, a whole bunch of stuff.”

  Bennings took his eyes off the road to show Gareth his teeth in a brilliant grin.

  “But you know, my favorite band right now has got to be the Foo Fighters.”

  *

  In the dark, warm, wood-paneled interior of the Plough public house outside of Coveney, Gareth ordered something called a Big Daddy – described on the menu as a roll of garlic bread filled with bacon, kidney and mushrooms, served with chips. Dr. Bennings insisted on the Cottage Pie, as he’d never heard of it before. Littlewood and most of the students chose the all-day Full English Breakfast. Gareth thought about ordering a pint of IPA, but as almost everyone else was driving, he came out in sympathy with them and asked for a ginger ale.

  When the drinks came, Bennings held up his glass and announced, “Gentlemen – to a successful Skywatch!”

  “To the Skywatch!” everyone echoed, clinking their glasses together. “Cheers!”

  Occupying the two tables next to Gareth’s, the students began to snigger at a magazine that one of them had produced. “UFO Review!” announced Littlewood, in sarcastic tones. “Now there’s a group of people who are truly up with the times.”

  As Littlewood turned in his seat and addressed the next table like a lecturer, Bennings leaned over and said to Gareth in a low voice, “Look – while they’re busy, let me tell you a few more things about this project, so you don’t get the wrong idea. Have you ever heard of a place called Hessdalen?”

  “Can’t say as I have. Is that somewhere in the Fens?”

  “No, it’s in Norway, right up near the Arctic circle. You know what a will-o-the-wisp is?”

  “Yeah. It’s a folk tale about a spooky light that leads travelers off the path. It’s supposed to be marsh gas, isn’t it?”

  “They’re also called corpse candles, hinotama, ignis fatuus, and around here Brian told me the locals call them Lantern Men… but to dismiss them all as marsh gas may be a mistake.”

  The barmaid came along, to distribute the drinks, the cutlery and the napkins. Gareth gave her a smile and a wink as she left.

  “Scientists have tried to rationalize these lights,” continued Bennings, “by linking them with the phenomenon of ball lightning.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of that. It’s something electrical in the atmosphere, like the Northern Lights, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly, but… okay. Hundreds of people have seen ball lightning, but no scientist has conclusively explained it. Ball Lightning behaves in a totally unpredictable way – like our old friend the will-o-the-wisp.”

  “So will-o-the-wisp isn’t marsh gas?”

  “That’s an over-generalization. Marsh gas is basically phosgene, which under certain conditions combusts and forms a small bluish ball of light. These lights that we hear about in the folk tales last for quite a long while – and can move around, seemingly at will, luring travelers off the path and into the darkness of the woods.”

  “So if they’re not marsh gas, then what are they?”

  “That’s what I’m getting to. Now things got interesting at the end of the Seventies, when some American geophysicists noticed luminescent phenomenon – something similar to ball lightning – occurring directly before or after an earthquake. Along the fault lines, people were witnessing these ‘earthquake lights’, as they called them. Some bright fellow came up with the question – what if the earth itself were actually producing these lights?”

  “I don’t get it.” Gareth took another sip of his ginger ale.

  “Think of it this way.” Bennings brought his hands together, balling them into fists and holding them above the tabletop. “My fists are the tectonic plates, that the mantle of the earth is resting on. These plates can move, and sometimes they grind together, and even move over each other. That creates stresses in the rock layers above them.”

  “And causes earthquakes,” Gareth added.

  “Right. Sometimes, if these rocks contain certain crystalline minerals, or if they’re near a source of water, they can emit electrical energy… in the form of light.”

  “Really?”

  “This is something that’s been proven under laboratory conditions, so yeah, this much is fact. It’s called piezoelectric strain energy.”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the food, and the group fell into a relaxed assessing of the dishes that everyone had been given. Gareth was suitably impressed with his Big Daddy, and noticed the students looking at it in undisguised jealousy. Bennings admired the handiwork on the crusted potato and grated cheese thatch of his Cottage Pie and then returned to his subject.

  “So what we have here is a theory that says rock friction, along fault lines, can produce lights. These lights hover in the air and can be witnessed as objective events. It’s called tectonic strain theory. We may have found the cause of the phenomenon usually described as ‘UFO’ sightings.”

  Gareth swallowed a mouthful of bread and kidney and peered at Bennings carefully. “Are you saying those lights are not UFOS?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You see, Mr. Littlewood and I have a slight difference of opinion over what we’re studying here.”

  Gareth took another bite of his roll and chewed thoughtfully. He took a sidelong glance at Littlewood, who was ignoring most of his meal. He was occupied instead with drawing something on two paper napkins while the students watched. On one of the napkins were three spheres titled ‘Earth’, ‘Moon’ and ‘Mars’, and on the other was a series of geometrical shapes.

  Gareth returned his attention to Bennings and picked up a couple of rapidly cooling chips. “Go on,” he said.

  “The research done on this subject by people like Persinger and Devereaux speculates that these earth lights may be constituted of plasma – really weird stuff which is a kind of ionized vapor. Some scientists have called it the fourth state of matter – solid, liquid, gas, then plasma.”

  “I’ve heard of St. Elmo’s Fire. Plasma sounds a bit like that.”

  “Good point, there are a lot of similarities. Now this plasma stuff, generated by seismic activity and charged water ions, could theoretically produce a strain field of uncertain shape, but existing within a localized area for a certain duration of time.”

  Gareth blinked, taking that in. “You mean that could be the will-o-the-wisps?”

  “Right, but here comes the really difficult question. How come these balls of plasma behave in such an animated way?” Bennings laid his cutlery together on the plate, beside the excavated pie. “The old folk tales – as well as modern witness accounts – show these lights to be capable of flitting about at incredible speeds, hovering in the air, changing direction, changing shape, sometimes even reacting to the behavior of the people who witness it. These things behave as if there’s some form of guiding intelligence.”

  “Which some people might call an alien intelligence,” added Gareth, nodding his head toward Littlewood’s table.

  “Yeah. Now this is where it gets really interesting. Gareth, do you accept that in a UFO event, people may be witnessing some form of objective light-based phenomenon?”

  “If they’re not all lying… yes.”

  “Then where do you think all this weird shit about aliens comes from?” Bennings a
dded in a low hiss.

  Gareth glanced to his right, and hid his smirk behind the rim of his glass. “I guess you’re going to say it doesn’t come from Mars.”

  Bennings winked. “That’s exactly what I’m going to say. The hypothesis I lean towards is that earthlights are somehow able to influence the human consciousness. When a human individual enters a zone containing ionized plasma generated by piezoelectric forces, it’s possible that the brain may experience disorientation, lapse of consciousness, and hallucinations. After all, the brain is a machine that works through the action of chemical and electrical impulses – and it would be entering an area where the electrical fields radiated by the earth are interfering with its performance.”

  “So that’s why people see little green men?”

  “It’s little grey men, actually. Brian would be very strong on that point.”

  On cue, Brian looked up from his napkin. “Yes?”

  “We were just discussing the Greys,” Bennings said glibly.

  Gareth leaned back in his chair, downing the last of his ginger ale. Impressive, he thought. This has been the first sensible conversation I’ve had all day.

  “There’s only one problem with this earthlights theory of yours,” Gareth said quietly, as Littlewood turned back to explaining his diagrams.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you’ve come to the Fenlands, and there are no fault lines around here. The whole region rests on peat and clay.”

  Bennings settled back in his seat with a wry smile. “Yes, I thought you might say that. This is the puzzle we’re trying to fit together. Did I mention a place called Hessdalen?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “It’s in Norway. In the Seventies, a group of scientists conducted a pretty extensive study of the unusual light phenomenon going on there. The problem is, Hessdalen is the asshole of the entire world, you know what I mean? It’s freezing cold and pretty well impossible to get to. But in recent years, more “window areas” have sprung up, areas of intense UFO light-form activity that are easier to get to. Florida, Brazil, Scotland…”

  Gareth raised an eyebrow. “And now Ely?”

  “If that’s near this place, then yeah. You must have read the reports in the local press. People are seeing things. Enough people to draw my attention, and get funding for this little project. It may be possible that earthlights can be produced by other kinds of terrain, not just fault lines.”

  Gareth leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table. “Okay Doug, this is quite interesting, but… what exactly do you want to employ me for? I thought you wanted a few publicity shots of you for local syndication, and then I’d be off.”

  “I must apologize, Gareth, I was in a bit of a hurry, and there’s been a miscommunication. To put it simply, I’d like you to be part of our team. We need someone to take care of the photographic equipment, to make sure it’s the best for our job, and – even more important – make sure it’s not been tampered with. You see, if we do spot something – and I hope we do – and get it on film, we need someone to verify it’s not an error. We’re going to have people lining up to claim it’s a mistake or a hoax, because – well, you know what they’re like. You seem to have the expertise, Gareth. So what do you say?”

  “I’d say – let’s have another drink first, and I wish it was something stronger. You having the same again?”

  While the drinks were being poured, the barmaid was more than happy to exchange some chat with Gareth as he propped up the bar. It was the same girl who’d brought the lunch. Her face held the round, puppy-fat look of someone younger than twenty, but her skill at the bar and the top-heavy swell of her Greene King T-shirt and apron gave signs to the contrary.

  Gareth brought the drinks back to the table, smiling broadly as he set them down. “Okay Doug,” he said. “I’ll be part of your team. Would that be the same daily rate mentioned in your letter?”

  Bennings nodded slowly.

  “So your Skywatch is going to last two weeks, is it?”

  “Uh-huh. We might stay for a day or two longer. It depends.”

  “Does that mean I have to stay at the B&B here?”

  “Well… I’d kind of like the team to stay together. Then if anything does happen, we can join up as soon as possible. Those expenses will be covered, naturally.”

  Gareth shrugged. “Okay. But there are things in Cambridge I have to take care of. I mean, I don’t want to miss the rugby coaching I’m supposed to do tomorrow night.”

  “Of course! I mean, we’ve all got lives.”

  Except Brian, Gareth thought, trying not to smirk.

  “Hey guys!” Bennings turned in his seat and picked up his glass of non-alcoholic lager. “Let’s toast the latest member of the team!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thursday March 14th

  Gareth stood in a long corridor, stretching away into the shadows, studded with many doors at regular intervals.

  As he moved forward, the darkness lifted away to reveal a staircase to his right, leading downwards. Looking down over the ornate wooden banisters, he saw a child looking up at him, a blond girl no older than Jenny, and a taller hooded figure standing next to her. Everything about the tall figure was dark, indistinguishable, but Gareth somehow knew the figure was male.

  “I don’t think you should be down there,” Gareth called.

  The girl’s chubby face beamed at him, and she said brightly, “Why not? One room’s the same as another, Mr. Manning. And if it’s good today, it’ll be good tomorrow.”

  She joined hands with the hooded figure, and they walked silently toward a door on the left. The tall figure opened it and led the girl inside. Gareth watched them disappear with a profound sadness.

  Without any sensation of moving, he suddenly found himself on the floor below, standing outside the same door. He reached out a hand, twisted the handle and cautiously pushed the door open.

  The light was so bright that he had to put his hands up to protect his eyes, but through the glare, he could make out the diaphanous figures that hung in the air close to the ceiling, their arms outstretched. They hovered, their wings blurring like hummingbirds, their bodies composed entirely of brilliance and joy.

  Then the door slammed shut in Gareth’s face, leaving him alone outside.

  There were more than two people, he thought calmly. Definitely more than two people in there.

  Turning around, he saw another stairwell, stretching down to another floor below. Peering over the banisters, he saw a row of lamps illuminating a stark white table placed on the black and white tiled floor below and a naked male figure lying on it. His eyes registered the stocky torso, the short hair, the mustache. Cloaked figures stood around the table, and they huddled closer, leaning over the body like crows.

  The man on the table opened his eyes and looked directly at Gareth.

  “They’re cutting me open,” he said quietly, but firmly.

  “They’re cutting me open.”

  Gareth’s head jerked upwards, and through gummy eyelids he saw the bedroom wall, the paint softly luminescent in the pre-dawn darkness. Caroline was already sitting up.

  “What were you saying?” she asked. “You kept waking me up with your mumbling. What’s all that about?”

  Gareth felt spittle on his chin, where he’d drooled onto the pillow. He clumsily wiped it off. Squinting at the soft red numerals on the bedside alarm clock, he could make out 4:47. He groaned and lay back on the bed, face pressed into the pillow.

  Warm, silky fingers brushed his back, and a gossamer light kiss touched his shoulders. “Gareth, I think you should talk to the doctor when you see him today. Maybe he can give you something to help you sleep. I’m worried about you, love.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, he thought. If you stopped worrying and just gave me a hug, that would help me sleep, wouldn’t it?

  “I might as well get up now,” she announced, lifting herself up from his s
ide. “Jenny will be awake soon.” Gareth grunted into the pillow again.

  *

  “Better or worse?”

  “Better.”

  Gareth sat, naked to the waist, on a trolley bed in the surgery belonging to the Oakington GP. He was being prodded and probed by the locum, a youngish blond doctor called Aslett. “Could you take your trousers off?” Doctor Aslett asked in a brisk fashion.

  Examining the marks on Gareth’s legs, the doctor made appreciative noises then said, “Could you walk to the door and back, please?”

  Gareth did so, his walking boot giving him a rolling gait like a sailor’s.

  “Any pain?”

  “A tiny bit. I can move without the crutches now, for short periods. It still hurts a bit when I put all my weight on my right foot, but that’s all.”

  “Good. In about another ten days you’ll be able to have that boot taken off, then you can wear your normal shoes. Congratulations, Mr. Manning, you’re making a good recovery.”

  “So, am I all right then? Is everything on the mend?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to wait a while before getting back on the rugby pitch, though.”

  “Thanks. Uh… there’s a couple of things in particular, I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, er… this wound here, do you see it?”

  “What about it?”

  “Is there anything unusual about it?”

  The wound Gareth indicated was a dark red swelling, about an inch above his navel. The doctor gently squeezed it with his fingers.

  “Well… you did have a lot of bruises on you, Mr. Manning. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve had some sort of… discharge… from it, over the last week or so.”

  “Really? It looks fine now… If it continues to discharge, give me a call, will you? Good.”

  “The other thing is…” Gareth sat down on the bed again, trying to marshal his thoughts. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. When I do get to sleep, I suffer from a lot of bad dreams. Nightmares.”