by Zoe Drake
Gareth frowned. “Did he notice… our visitors?”
“I didn’t mention them, and neither did he. But I guess he’ll hear about them soon enough.”
“And what about them?” Gareth jerked his head in the direction of Littlewood’s group. “Bunch of vultures. What do they think they’re playing at?”
“Animal mutilations,” Bennings said softly.
“Come again?”
“Well, in some UFO reports around the world with sightings near farms or ranches, some of the cattle or other animals have been found… mutilated… in strange ways. Like they’d been operated on. Some of the organs were found to have been… surgically removed.”
The silence dropped from the Fenlands sky like a hammer.
Eventually Gareth said, “Are you being serious?”
Bennings nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so.”
Gareth sighed with impatience. “Doug, what the hell’s going on? You told me that you had this grand theory that could explain UFOs. That there was no such thing as aliens, and it was all some form of natural phenomenon. Well that’s fair enough, but when there’s some weird shit like this going on, then I don’t think you can call it natural, can you?”
“I agree with you,” said Bennings, his expression morose.
Across the yard, Littlewood and the volunteers started to walk back toward their cars, a new urgency in their step.
“I don’t think this is natural at all,” Bennings muttered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Gareth clutched the camera closer to his chest and concentrated on becoming invisible.
“You see, Gareth,” said the voice of Doug Bennings, “the word “light” is a noun, a thing. Fiat Lux, the command written in the Bible means “Let there be light”. But what we actually mean by that is “illumination”. We use our eyes, and we see what is illuminated by the light, but we don’t see light itself. We can’t, because it’s electromagnetic illumination, it’s not a thing. It’s a process.”
Standing with his back to the weather-stained brick corner of the Petty Cury lane and the entrance to Lion Yard, he concentrated on not moving, watching the shoppers and families and baby carriages and business people and teenagers walk past him without stopping, an endless parade.
“The world doesn’t revolve around you!” Dad would often shout, when Gareth was having one of his teenage tantrums. Except now, it did. Gareth was part of the cityscape, as immobile as the concrete lion in Lion Yard behind him. If he stood still here for long enough, surely all of Cambridge would walk past him. Friends. Acquaintances. Business colleagues and clients. Caroline and Jenny. No, don’t think about Caroline. Don’t think about Jenny.
Dr. Bennings had done something to the camera.
He had done something to the camera to make Gareth invisible for a limited period of time.
“We know how to use light, we can calculate its properties, we think we know everything we need to know about it. Yet, we still can’t explain the double-slit interference experiment from over two hundred years ago. Scientists were trying to determine if light existed as a wave or as a particle. The experiment gave us the nonsensical result that it can be both, at the same time. At the moment of measuring – at the collapse of the wave function – we can observe it as one, or the other. How is that possible?”
Gareth remembered it so clearly, he could almost hear the American’s voice inside his head.
“If we can’t explain light’s most fundamental behavior, do we really know what light is? And if we don’t, then how can we be certain about anything else?”
But… when did Doug tell me that? He said on the phone he was on his way from the airport. When did I meet him?
And how did I get here?
The invisibility device that Bennings had made was deflecting all of the gazes and stares of the crowd. Removed from public attention, Gareth felt his body becoming part of the sunset, his presence slowly erased, textures vanishing in the obliterating dusk. He was a photograph being developed in reverse, fading back into silvery paper and fluid.
Gareth blinked, and took a deep breath. This time, it was Littlewood’s voice he heard inside his skull.
“What do I think?” said the voice of Brian Littlewood, in answer to a question that Gareth hadn’t asked. “I think you’re a lab rat, Gareth. We all are. The Greys are experimenting on us, and maybe – if we’re very lucky – we’ll get to see the results of that experiment. If we do, that could be… the next stage of human evolution.”
The dusk was slowly creeping through Cambridge city centre, softening the edges of the buildings, tinting the windows and giving the streetlights warm orange hues. Almost all the shops had closed. The market at the other end of Petty Cury had packed up and the traders had left some time ago, leaving a ramshackle wooden skeleton occupying the cobbled city square. The taxi rank was seeing the last few shoppers to their homes. It was now too late for school kids and office workers, but too early for the pub crowd.
Gareth watched morosely as a couple of foreign students walked by. They strode quickly down the passage, one of them almost shouting in his flowing, Latinate language, almost but not quite brushing Gareth’s arm with his multi-colored rucksack.
They didn’t touch me. They can’t see me, and if he’d swung his bag against my arm, it might have gone right through me. What am I doing here? Am I supposed to be meeting someone? Bennings? Littlewood?
But surely I’ve already met them, if they gave me this invisibility thing?
With a cold, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, he broke cover. He walked down Petty Cury to the empty market square, scanning the faces of everyone he passed. He stood outside the locked doors of Boot’s the Chemist, pacing and fretting for seconds that stretched out into non-events, and then with a sudden rush of paranoia, he hurried down Guildhall Street, past the Arts Theatre. He couldn’t take anything for granted. He couldn’t stand there doing nothing. He had to move.
Fortunately, Littlewood had given Gareth the address and the number of William Schenk, the Vice President of SIAP, after the Convention a couple of weeks ago. He found a public phone box outside the Theatre and called Littlewood’s house first. No answer. Then he called the hotel where Bennings had stayed during the Skywatch in February. He wasn’t there either. Finally, he called the guy from SIAP. Answering machine.
He slammed down the receiver with unnecessary force, and stalked off.
Coming to a decision, he kept walking south down Corn Exchange Street. He looked at his watch; quarter to seven. At least his watch was still working. He walked briskly, swinging his arms, every now and then getting the irresistible urge to look behind him, to glance down the street.
Turning onto Downing Street, he came to a decision. He kept walking until he found a car hire company on Regent Street that was still open. He peered through the glass door at the sign stenciled on the outside:
QBL CAR & VAN HIRE –
YOU’LL GET THERE IN A FLASH!
He gingerly put the augmented camera in the camera bag he carried, and entered the office. The middle-aged suited man inside greeted him with an air of complete indifference. Gareth chose a Toyota Corolla. Fortunately, his credit card was still good, even if everything else was falling apart.
It was time to get out of Cambridge.
And go where?
Anywhere. I can’t stay here, that’s all.
He eased himself into the driver’s seat in the company’s parking lot, letting out a long, measured breath. It felt like a long, long time since he’d done this. The wheel felt huge and clumsy beneath his grip; his feet felt too large for the pedals. Brake, accelerator, gears. He suddenly felt completely ignorant about cars; all of the knowledge, all of the skills he’d learned, seemed to belong in another body, another life.
The open road beckoned beyond the gates. The last time he’d driven…
No.
He couldn’t think about that. B
ecause if he did, his hands would lock on the wheel, his mind would freeze, even left or right would lose their meanings.
He had to face the things he was afraid of, and face them alone. Aliens, Men In Black, they had him on the run; but driving – he should be able to handle that.
The new car swung out onto Regent Street. The long avenue of shops would take him south to Hills Road, and then out of the city to Homerton, and eventually the A604 highway where he could pick up the road to London.
Paston, he suddenly remembered. Paston. He said they took the wheel.
When he motored over the green lights onto Hills Road, he noticed something wrong. The car wasn’t responding. The wheel felt stiffer, difficult to move. Although he was pressing firmly on the accelerator, the car didn’t seem to be going any faster.
He cried out in shock as the car suddenly turned itself left – into Harvey Road. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t moved his hands, except to tighten his grip on the wheel. The car had indicated left and then steered itself onto Harvey Road. As the car cruised along, he noticed a slackening of speed, a lessening of tension in the car’s cabin. Cautiously, he pressed the accelerator. The car responded. It was back under his control again.
Gareth came to a T-junction and turned right into Gresham Road, looking to join the motorway from another direction. He turned left onto Glisson Road, powering up the engine, overtaking a large van. He reached down to switch on the radio – and then he heard it.
A tiny metallic click, followed by three other clicks.
The car doors had automatically locked themselves.
“What the…?”
It was happening again. The wheel and the steering had locked; the pedals, although he pumped them frantically, had been cut off. As the car came to the next turning right it slowed, indicated, and turned into Mill Road, heading back to the city centre.
Gareth was reduced to being a passenger.
The Toyota Corolla eventually slowed to a halt. Gareth looked out of the window and saw he had stopped on Park Terrace, in the shadow of the University Arms Hotel and near the wide-open space of Parker’s Piece. Taking the hint, Gareth got out, bringing his camera bag with him. He noticed that a parking meter was very conveniently situated alongside the car’s resting place. Why not, he thought, feeding pound coins into it.
He stretched out a hand toward the hood, tentatively, as if expecting a shock of static electricity. He patted the metal. Nothing. No flashing lights. No engine roaring into life.
He turned to face the smoldering, velveteen Cambridge dusk settling onto Parker’s Piece.
What now? What the hell do I do now?
*
As the evening wore on, the main room at the Eagle pub on Trinity Street filled up and got progressively louder. Gareth sat in a well-lit corner, nursing his second pint of IPA.
The bright area of illumination around his seat meant that he was safe from any of the creatures shadowing him. Nothing could get to him here, in the middle of so many people. On the other hand, there was the possibility that someone he knew might drop into the pub, and recognize him.
He was in no mood for explanations. He had no idea what he was still doing in Cambridge.
“What do you want from me?” he suddenly asked the half-full pint glass in front of him. “What do you want from me?”
He noticed a young couple at the next table glance at him, and then swiftly turn back to their own conversation.
He might be recognized by someone he knew, but there was no chance of bumping into Bennings and Littlewood by staying in the Eagle. He decided to phone Littlewood’s house again. The phone in the pub was out of order, so he left. He took the modified camera from his bag and slung it around his neck, walking out into the Cambridge night, buzzing with distant life.
It was completely dark by now. The stately College buildings loomed over Gareth in the darkness as he walked back to the phone boxes on the market square. He walked across the road to the cobbled stretch of wooden stalls. It stood out as a maze of light and shadow, the wooden bones of the deserted stalls wrecked and hostile in the night like the timbers of a ship.
They’re not going to hurt me, he thought. They’re not going to try anything in the centre of Cambridge. Not in plain sight, with all these–
And then the figure stepped out of the dimensionless shadows to his left – a figure wrapped in a suit made of hard, urban night – and lashed out with its arm.
The fist caught Gareth squarely on the cheek, he had no time to duck or even register the attack. Sparks exploded inside his skull. He tottered for a second, then hit the cobblestones.
As he stared stupidly at the ground beneath him, trying to understand what had happened, he saw a blur at the edge of his vision and something struck his side with a deep, penetrating impact.
He was sure his cry of pain must have woken up everyone in the apartments around the market square.
He rolled over onto his side, feeling his ribs grind and shift inside him. A stabbing pain slid up through his chest, and he drew in breath sharply, painfully.
The Man In Black stood over him, studying him through dead eyes. The suit blended with the air around him. Gareth couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the leader of the group, who’d spoken to him on the rooftop.
Putting his hand on the cold, slick cobblestones, Gareth tried to lever himself up, and flinched as the attacker moved again. Hands clamped around his shoulders and pulled him to his feet, and the Man In Black shoved him across the cobblestones. Gareth struggled to keep balance, lifting his hands to lock them around the attacker’s arms until his lower back collided with the rim of the fountain in the middle of the market square.
“No…” Gareth felt the pressure at the base of his spine as his body started to curve backwards, towards the pool of the fountain, the water from the stone nozzles splashing his neck and hair. The rock-like hands shifted towards his throat, the rubbery face in front of him swaying crazily as Gareth swung his head from side to side.
“No!”
Moving by instinct, he grasped the camera resting on his chest and lifted it, shoving it against the face of the Man In Black, and pressed the button on top.
There was a muffled lightning strike as the flash went off. The face in front of him flickered a ghastly shade of white, and he thought he saw the features melt, run into each other, the mouth drop open into a silent scream of surprise and pain.
Then Gareth collapsed on top of the fountain’s stone rim as the hands were taken away from his throat. Sparks floating in front of his eyes, he watched the figure of the Man In Black recede without moving or turning around, the hands pressed to its face, until it merged with the night and was gone.
The city centre rushed back in toward Gareth. Laughter, shouting, the drone of car engines. With the camera bouncing against his chest, he ran headlong out of the market square.
As he turned the corner by Great St. Mary’s Church, he noticed a couple walking past a bookshop, their voices carrying to him on the crisp air. He called out, “Did you see him?” Limping over to the bookshop, he called again, “Was he really there? Did you see him?” His voice sounded thick and harsh as it rang in his own ears.
The couple gave him a hasty glance, and Gareth suddenly saw himself reflected in the bookshop window behind them, and stared at his own gaunt, shocked face. They broke off their conversation and increased their pace, turning their backs on Gareth to make a sudden detour into Rose Crescent.
He clenched his fists and turned on his heel.
When he reached the corner of Market Street, he stopped. Before him was the square bulk of the Senate House. To his left was the front gate of Gonville & Caius. Unable to stop himself, he glanced upwards. The gargoyles on the lip on the roof stared mockingly down at him. Remember us? They seemed to whisper.
They buildings of Trinity Street were too tall. They harbored shadows. Things hung in the air above Gareth, and as he stumbled
along, he had to keep tilting his head to him from above. Faces glimmered behind unlit windows. Heads craned over the roof to scowl down at him.
“It’s too much,” Gareth wheezed. “Stop it…”
Up ahead on St. John’s Street, he noticed several people walking in the same direction as he was. People who seemed to be recognizably human. As he gained on them, he saw they were a large group of chattering young men and women, all dressed in casual jackets and coats. He paced them at their backs, making the speed of his gait match theirs. They turned as a group and walked through the gate of Trinity College. He hesitated for a second, glanced around him, and then followed through the gate. Nobody turned around, or seemed to acknowledge his existence.
The interior of the ante-chapel was dark and filled with the scent of candle smoke. In front of him, each of the visitors filing though the passage was picking up a sheet of paper from a side table. Gareth followed them – the paper smooth to his touch, printed words in black ink faint against the yellow paper in the dim light.
Past the massive wooden screens, Gareth entered the chapel, with the choir ranged to either side, and the choristers robed in white seated on raised seats receding to the nave. At the other end lay the altar, an oasis of light ringed by lamps and candles.
At that moment the mechanical pipework organ began to sound, and Gareth almost collapsed where he stood. The bass notes of the organ struck his chest, and he felt his sternum vibrate in sympathy and his legs grow weak. His eyes recognized an empty pew beside him, and his hand groped for support. He pulled himself along the pew until he could sink down into a seat and the miniature cushion placed on it. Letting out a sigh of relief, he looked down at the sheet of paper, straining his eyes in the gloom. At the top of the page, he read:
WHISPER TO THEIR SOULS TO GO
AN EVENING OF MUSIC AND READINGS
INSPIRED BY THE POET JOHN DONNE
The organ music stopped, and there was silence after the echoes had faded away, broken only by soft coughing, clearing of throats, shuffling of papers. Seconds later a voice rang out, clear and firm, the speaker obscured by the shadows surrounding the Choir.