by Zoe Drake
“What do you think they’re trying to do, Gareth?”
“I don’t know. They’re not touching me.”
“Are they monitoring you in any way?”
“They’re just standing there.”
“Are they trying to communicate with you?”
“They’re inquisitive.” Eyes flash in the night, eyes that Gareth recognizes. “They’re like cats. They’re wondering what it must be like.”
“What it must be like?”
“They’re wondering what it must be like to be us.”
“All right, Gareth. Allow yourself to lie there. Try to relax…”
It was too late, because Gareth was already drifting across the Fens, drifting through the cold foggy night with his head slumped onto his chest, his shoes hovering above the fields without touching them.
Sitting on the tarmac, waiting for the truck to arrive, sitting in clothes which were dry but freezing cold. Looking at his mother standing at the kitchen sink. Where was Dad?
Dawn was crying too, in the passenger seat, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. Gareth was driving, staring ahead furiously, too angry to speak.
“Gareth, you are becoming more confident and aware. I’ll count from three to one, and when I count one, you’ll be back to full waking consciousness. Three…”
He turns his head to the left, and smiles at Caroline, but she’s still sulking after the argument. Very well then, he thinks, and switches his attention back to the road. He notices from the corner of his eye that the passenger seat is now empty. Watching the tail lights of the car ahead, not too close, not too close…
“Two…”
The taillights of the car ahead suddenly go into reverse, swelling up like twin stars, blinding him. Gareth throws his arms up to cover his eyes…
The windscreen, the car, and then the whole world explodes into a storm of water and glass…
“One.”
A split second before Gareth opened his eyes, he heard the clock. The deep, friendly ticking of Bhaskar’s clock. Measuring. Measuring out the distance between the dreams and the office.
He opened his eyes, and looked up at the African mask on the wall above the couch he was lying on. The eyes of the mask stared straight ahead, refusing to look down and acknowledge him.
“Take a few minutes to rest, Gareth. Take a while to feel normal sensation return to your body. Breath deeply… in… out…”
Gareth’s head turned like a shakily held cine-camera, as he looked for Dr. Bhaskar. He was sitting near the couch in his armchair, tape recorder on the coffee table beside him. The rug, the certificates on the walls, the clock, everything looked peaceful in the soft light from the big windows. Everything was how Gareth remembered it.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“How long do you think you were away for, Gareth?”
“It felt like… I don’t know… half an hour?”
“It was an hour and twelve minutes.”
“Oh.” Gareth rolled back onto the sofa and chuckled softly. “I’m losing time all over the place, Doc.”
*
Once, many years ago, a colleague of Gareth’s had told him that if he wanted to be a good photographer, he should surround himself with his best work.
The advice had been invaluable. The walls of Gareth’s Oakington home were filled with images; faces, locations, events that – devoid of context – could only hint at the passion or tragedy they had captured.
A large number of prints around the two-story, two-bedroom house were framed pictures of Caroline. The shots of other girls were, of course, all in the line of work, as he frequently explained to Caroline. He still felt guilty about confining the pictures of Dawn to the back room, though.
Surrounded by memories. Achievements. Experiments. Not only his own work; his walls also included cut-outs from newspapers and magazines, and shots by Mitch Angerson and John Jenkins, who’d been his supervisors and mentors at the Cambridge Evening News when he started his career.
Swirling color and haunting blocks of monochrome. Exposed faces, that would never age or change expression, that would never stop smiling or cease frowning, until Gareth became bored and change them for other countenances, other stories…
As the lunchtime national TV news gave way to Look East, Gareth picked up the plate holding the deflated potato-jacket and carried it out to the kitchen. He soaped and rinsed the remains of his lunch away then returned to the living room and stared out of the front window. The street was empty.
Littlewood was late.
A touch to the remote expelled the local news from the room. He went back to the kitchen and savored the quiet, the faint noises in the background, the creaking of the house – and outside the sound of distant traffic, cars wheeling around him in the suburban sea, ebbing and flowing with the pull of the commuter tides.
Something close by caught his attention; the tiny slap of water dripping off the recently washed plate. Lost in thought, Gareth watched the carefully formed drops of water fall from the upturned plate onto the draining board.
The doorbell rang loudly, making him jump in alarm.
When he opened the front door Brian Littlewood was standing on the porch, wearing his usual coat (don’t think about anoraks), a lurid tie and an expression of supreme indifference. “Hi Gareth,” he said. “How’s it going?”
Invited inside, he sat down on the sofa while Gareth made some tea.
“So you’re up and about then,” said Littlewood. “That’s great. How do you feel?”
“I had the walking boot taken off on Saturday, thank goodness. I’m still seeing the physiotherapist once a week. I have to be careful about shifting weight onto my right foot, to avoid straining it too much… so I won’t be playing rugby for a while, I’m afraid.”
“Shame. Did you see the match last night?”
“Saw it on Sky. Bloody brilliant game.”
“I’ll say.”
Gareth brought the two mugs of steaming tea into the living room, set them down, and pressed the rewind button on his VTR.
“Look, Brian, I appreciate you coming to see me in the hospital…”
“Oh, that was the least I could do.” Was that a trace of guilt in his voice?
“Yes, well, I thought maybe we could catch up on a few things. Like, what’s been happening regarding those… things we saw.”
Littlewood’s face brightened into childlike joy. “Of course! What do you want to know?”
“What happened after my accident?”
“Doug hasn’t sent the results of any tests back to us yet. You know how long these things take… well, maybe you don’t. Poor Mr. Winslow’s horse, that pile of mineral deposits we found, the damaged grass… we’re still waiting to hear from Doug’s team of experts.”
“So you don’t know what killed the horse?”
“Er… no, we don’t.”
“And you don’t have any news about the samples you took from the ground?”
“No. If you’re frustrated, imagine how I feel right now!”
Gareth pressed the play button on the remote, and the TV screen filled with the first few seconds of last night’s rugby match.
“Did you have another Skywatch?”
“Yes, we did, actually. Mr. Winslow didn’t want to go through with another one, quite understandably, but we did try one somewhere else, a patch of waste ground near Wisbech.”
“Did you see anything?”
“Sweet Fanny Adams, I’m afraid.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Gareth muttered. The conversation waned as they watched a well-converted try. Gareth noticed a skin of milk forming on the surface of Littlewood’s untouched mug.
“Is your tea all right?”
“Yes, it’s fine, I’m leaving it to cool. I don’t drink things when they’re very hot.”
Gareth nodded. “So you’re not any close to finding out anything?”
&nb
sp; “Oh yes! The good news is, we have another witness.” Suddenly animated, Littlewood picked up his briefcase and loudly clicked open the locks. He produced a word-processed manuscript which he handed to Gareth. One eye on the rugby match, Gareth leafed through it.
“When did Sheasby score?” asked Littlewood.
“Towards the end of the first half. I’ll fast-forward it a bit.”
After speed-reading the handful of pages, he handed them back to Littlewood. He looked at the date on the first page; March 16th.
“We’ve also had official statements from the Royal Air Force and the American Air Force,” Littlewood announced gleefully, “a statement that represents all the air bases in this part of East Anglia. They confirmed they had no test flights or maneuvers during the time of the Skywatch. They also said they didn’t report any unusual radar echoes or sightings, either. Mind you, they would say that, wouldn’t they?”
Gareth sipped his tea and watched a few more moments of the match, his brow furrowed. “Brian, did anything happen after my accident? I mean, in the hours that followed?”
“Well… Doug called me early the next morning… he was very upset, as you can imagine. He gave me a lift to the police station, and after that, the hospital. We called off the Skywatch, and nobody noticed any UFO activity or anything like that.”
He paused, then looked shrewdly across the living room. “Gareth, what are you really asking about? I’ve never said anything, but I’ve wondered if there were any… unusual circumstances… regarding your accident.”
Abruptly, Gareth threw back his head and laughed, which came as almost a surprise to him as it did to Littlewood.
“Sorry,” Gareth said. “Yes, there were a few ‘unusual circumstances’. I’ve been going to a psychologist as well as a physiotherapist, you see. It seems like not all of my injuries were physical. Also, there are some things about the accident that don’t add up, Brian.”
Gareth leaned forward and tapped a cardboard folder on the coffee table. “A few days ago, I managed to speak to the police scientist who examined my car when it was hauled out of the ditch. I asked them how, in their opinion, I had managed to free myself from the seat belt when the car was under water. They finally admitted it looked like the seat belt was cut.”
Littlewood nearly jumped off the sofa. “Cut?”
“The person I spoke to said the fabric had been subjected to extreme heat, causing the material to split apart. Parts of the seat had melted, too.”
“Good Lord,” Littlewood exclaimed.
“I was found sitting near the middle of the road by a truck driver at about three in the morning. I have no memory of getting there, but of course I was in shock. The driver said I was in no pain, I was conscious, but I couldn’t speak, and my clothes were completely dry. Why wasn’t I still wet after being in the ditch?”
Gareth leaned forward, the words tumbling out. “Why didn’t I have hypothermia, if I’d been out there for four or five hours? Why didn’t anybody else see me before then, because the roads are full of traffic at night? And you know what happened to my skin? I got sunburned. I was out in the middle of the winter, in the dead of night, and I got bloody sunburned!”
Gareth threw the remote onto the coffee table. With a sharp clacking noise, it slid over the edge onto the floor.
After a pause, Littlewood said quietly, “Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Go ahead.” Gareth stood up, retrieved the remote, and with an aggressive stab brought the rugby match to a premature conclusion.
Littlewood sighed, and rubbed a hand through his greasy hair. “Right… you said you’re seeing a psychiatrist.”
“A psychologist, I said.” Gareth sank back into his chair and glared at the place where the rugby used to be. “We’ve been having sessions of hypnotherapy. I’ve had insomnia ever since the accident, and when I do finally get to sleep, I have nightmares.”
“What kind of nightmares?”
“Bloody scary ones. What other kind is there?”
“All right!” Littlewood held up his hands. “I’m only trying to help!”
Gareth rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”
“You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am upset.”
Littlewood finally took a large gulp from his lukewarm tea. “Have you had any other physical complaints after the accident? Maybe not directly related to the crash?”
“Like what?”
“Nausea. Diarrhea. Blackouts and dizzy spells.”
“Er…” Gareth remembered his brother’s dining room, and the Barley Mow. “Yes. I’ve had several fainting spells.”
“Really? You also fainted during the second Skywatch.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Gareth, do you have any physical marks on your body? Burns? Discolored patches?”
The two men exchanged glances. Gareth slowly stood, and pulled up his shirt. The light was dim in the late afternoon, but the off-color triangular bruise above his navel could clearly be seen. Littlewood put down his mug with shaking fingers, got to his feet, and inspected the mark.
“Oh my God,” he said quietly.
“You’ve seen something like that before?”
Instead of answering, Littlewood asked, “Have you had any results from that psychologist?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Under hypnosis, do you remember being taken to an unfamiliar place?”
“Well…”
“You were contacted by strange beings?”
“Er… not really…”
“Those beings conducted a medical operation on you?”
Gareth was silent, feeling sweat trickle onto his brow, staring into Littlewood’s red face.
“Gareth, you were abducted,” Littlewood said quietly.
Gareth picked up his mug and carried it out to the kitchen. “No,” he said firmly.
“You didn’t get out of that car by yourself,” Littlewood continued. “You couldn’t have. You were taken out – rescued – by the visitors. After they’d finished examining you, they put you back on the road, making sure you were picked up by the truck driver.”
“Oh come on,” Gareth snarled, dropping the mug into the sink. Littlewood followed him into the kitchen. “Don’t be stupid,” Gareth went on. “It must be something else.”
“There’s no other explanation. Or if there is, it’s even crazier than the abduction theory. Can you think of a different answer?”
Gareth leaned against the sink, folding his arms. “You know I can’t.”
“Well, there you are.”
“So what am I going to do then? If you’re the bloody expert, what do I do now?”
“Well… er…” Littlewood rubbed his chin. “We’ll have to make a report. Another report to SIAP. They’re coming down next week, anyway. Do you feel up to meeting them?”
“What for?”
“So we can document everything that happened to you. This has got to be taken seriously, Gareth. We don’t want anyone thinking you’re a hoaxer or a liar.”
“Why would I lie?”
“There are all kinds of troublemakers around, Gareth, you know there are. These guys who are coming down, you’ve got to talk to them.”
Gareth sighed. “Maybe I should talk to someone…”
“As for the rest… maybe we can’t wait for Doug to finish his testing. This puts a whole new light on things. Maybe it’s time to do something with those photos you took…”
“But what about me?” Gareth declared. “How do I deal with this? How do I make the nightmares stop? Call the Samaritans?”
“Of course, of course, I understand,” Littlewood said patiently. “Do what your psychologist says. Do you trust him? Or her?”
After a pause, Gareth nodded.
“Did you tell him about the Skywatch?”
“No. I only told him I was on an assign
ment in the Fens.”
“That was a good idea. It means he won’t be biased, he won’t be asking loaded questions. Great! Also, there are contactee groups in this country. Groups for people like you.”
“Now wait a minute–”
“If you talk to someone who’s had a similar experience, you’ll find it easier to bear.” Littlewood beamed, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“I’ll do as much as I can to help.”
It took quite a while for Littlewood to actually leave. Every time he approached the front door, he remembered something and spun a conversation out of it. Eventually, he was outside, and still talking, promising to return soon, as he climbed into his Ford.
As Littlewood drove away, Gareth stood on the driveway, feeling the mildness of the day drift about him.
A sudden sound and movement above him made him look up with a start. A small charter plane was cruising overhead, bearing down on Marshalls Airport to the east.
The sky was alive, Gareth thought. He was suddenly gripped with the idea he had to keep looking up, checking it every few minutes, because otherwise…
It’ll betray me. It’ll change into something else and threaten me, show me things I don’t want to see.
Shaking his head angrily, Gareth walked back into his house and slammed the front door.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, March 30th
All things considered, it had been an eventful week.
Wednesday and Friday, Gareth had ridden shotgun with another of Lynval’s freelancers to keep his hand in. Friday night, he’d gone out with Caroline and some of her friends who worked at Magdalene College in the office. They’d gone to see a undergraduate’s drama society double bill, with the first play something pretentious about a modern young woman falling in love with the Devil. Halfway through the second play of the double bill, there was a conversation in whispers between Caroline and her friends, as to whether to get up and walk out or not, because they’d had enough. Caroline lost, so they walked out and went down the pub earlier than expected.
As an attempt to get back to normality, it wasn’t entirely successful. Gareth went back to his GP to get stronger sleeping pills. After some quite impertinent questions, or so Gareth thought, Dr. Broome had prescribed Ambien.