The Best British Fantasy 2013

by Steve Haynes

  I wait for the sun, anxious for a moment that it might not appear. But no – here it is, the edge of the giant star creeping over the horizon, flooding the world with crimson. A beautiful, shimmering dawn. I feel the planet’s heat infuse me, its dust lining my lungs. I kick off my shoes. At the exact moment when the light touches me, I raise my hands to the dawn and I begin to dance.

  CAROLE JOHNSTONE

  God of the Gaps

  I’m expecting it – well, I’m expecting something – so when it actually comes I should be more prepared than I am. Instead, I almost scream out a lung and fling myself forwards, nearly knocking myself out against the lift’s closed doors. Brian is shrieking too, but this concern comes far down a lengthening list that ends with possible concussion and began with the back wall of the lift being blown apart. There is much confused jostling – there were five of us in here a few seconds ago – and copious amounts of green smoke. I can’t see very much (which, I’m guessing, is probably the point), but what I can see looks very much like a giant xenomorph: all crude spines and hissing teeth, rattling briefly around our tiny space before yanking up a screaming body and disappearing backwards into nothing.

  There’s a clunk – a loud one – and then the lift resumes its descent. A new hissing begins; one that dissipates the green smoke in seconds. Someone is still coughing, and Brian is still shrieking. I’m unsurprised to see that the body who went screaming out of the lift was our guide; Suse is cowering, choking in a corner, Jeff behind her. I swallow hard. ‘Christ, that one was a bit much.’

  Brian bounces over to me, mouth wide, fingers plucking at my clothes. He wasn’t shrieking after all, though his high-pitched yips of excitement sound exactly the same.

  ‘Get off! I bloody hurt myself, Brian.’

  He lets go of me and shuts up, though it’s probably not out of obedience. I think he realises that excitable shrieks of glee probably won’t do much for his chances.

  My head is killing me; if I press a tender point above my left eyebrow, I can see white sparks. I hope it looks as bad as it feels. I try to catch Suse’s eye, but she’s still flat out on the floor. Jeff’s helping her up, and probably copping a feel while he does it.

  Our guide was a spotty sniffer called Vlado, and I’m not particularly sorry he’s gone. After the last incident: a frenzied sprint through smoking, bass-filled corridors, chased by masked, white-haired creatures who bore more than a passing resemblance to the Wraith warriors in Stargate, our first guide (‘Stuart, call me Stuey’) had died a grisly death in a stairwell. Vlado had appeared at just such an opportune moment, whisking us away down another corridor, and then into the lift. He was twitchy from the start, and like I said, I had an inkling something else was afoot.

  I lean back against the lift’s doors as we go down, down. It’s getting hot. Now that most of the smoke has been sucked away, I can see the remnants of the fake wall. The lift has two doors. Ingenious. Certainly more ingenious than what has gone before. Endless screaming chases and funhouse-style BOO!!!s through hidden doorways and around corners.

  Brian is doing a bad impression of someone who is not excited. His fingers move in and out of fists, his eyes are wide and shining. I’m feeling a bit bad about shouting at him. It’s not his fault that this is my idea of hell; that ever since the bus dumped us off outside the Arches under Station Bridge and its great big silver sign, I’d resigned myself to having a terrible time. This trip has by no means been the worst – there was the Underage Festival in Kelvingrove, and a trip to Digger World that was pure, unadulterated torture – but I’m pre-menstrual, so it feels like it is. And that’s not his fault either. The trip isn’t for me anyway. It’s for Brian and Jeff, and all the other twelve year-olds running and screaming somewhere else above us. We were first in the queue. Lucky us.

  Suse finally manages to get back onto her feet. Jeff has definitely been trying to cop a feel, because her face is pucely furious, and Jeff’s hands are hiding behind his back. Suse has even less interest in sci-fi than I do, so perhaps for her, this really is the worst trip yet. I’m about to say something to her, when the lift shudders to a halt. Brian lets escape a yip of glee.

  I watch the lift door rattle and then slide open onto (quelle surprise) yet another dark and smoky corridor. Cue appropriately booming drumbeats that sound a bit like the Blue Man Group with their batteries running down (yet another trip).

  ‘C’mon, c’mon!’

  I let Brian grab my hand and haul me out. I’m trying to fake enthusiasm that was pretty lame in the first place, but the bass is hurting my sore head. The corridor stretches left and right into gloom. Without a guide, I’m not sure which way we’re supposed to go, but I’m guessing that it doesn’t really matter, otherwise there would be signs.

  Jeff saunters out. He’s a weird one. Suse told me the only productive thing that he ever does in their weekly sessions is stare at her chest. I suppose I should be grateful that Brian does actually try to read, even if it’s only ever Motorcycle Monthly or SuperBIKES! Boring beyond belief, but at least he’s getting the hang of words like chassis, titanium, traction-control and gyroscope. And expectation – every second word is expectation. Brian is very big on expectation.

  ‘Which way, which way?’

  I still have no idea, but he’s pulling on me like he’s a child. He is one, I suppose – a child I mean – but only just. Our English teacher, Mr Payne, couldn’t dish any real dirt on any of the kids we were mentoring, but I know enough to realise that Brian’s got it pretty rough at home. He’s from the Easthill Estate, which was probably all I really needed to know at all, but Mr Payne let it slip that Brian’s dad isn’t on the scene and his mum might as well not be. He’s on a bursary and free school dinners, wears NHS specs, looks like he and his clothes last had a clean around the turn of the century, and I’m guessing that he’s chronically bullied.

  He’s twelve years old, and has a reading age of about eight if he’s lucky – maybe nine/ten if literacy was measured in ability to read aloud about superbikes. That’s why I keep on letting him read those old magazines. I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for him because no one else does.

  ‘Which way, Miss Daisy?’

  Mr Payne makes them call us that. Suse says that the way Jeff says Miss Susie makes her want to take a couple of hot showers. She doesn’t have it that bad though. The Miss Daisy jokes got very old very fast.

  We pick a direction – left – and start walking. It’s like plunging into psychedelic fog. I haven’t seen daylight in over an hour, and am regretting the half joint Suse and I smoked in the coach toilet on the way here. There’s a sudden shrill scream, and half a dozen Greys slam up at us from behind a hidden Perspex window. Or they might be those things from that other Stargate – is it the Asgard? Something Lord of the Ringsey at any rate. One of them had a name that sounded like Haemorrhoids, I think. I only know this stuff because last year I went out with Gareth in the year above, and he’s a nerd with a capital L. Cute bum though. And he’s nearly eighteen.

  Brian laughs like he’s going to collapse, while Suse screams and Holy Christs like she’s just been mugged. Even I’m beginning to get annoyed by her, although I should’ve expected it: she found Scary Movie 3 scary. We stopped having Saturday DVD nights, because her dad thought it would be healthier for her to stand on a street corner drinking BO and smoking whatever.

  Behind us, the lift dings closed, presumably to go back up and have its fake wall fixed before picking up the next suspecting customers. We keep going, and the smoke gets thicker, though that doesn’t seem possible. I’m getting that inkling again, and so is Brian – he’s holding onto my arm like it’s Christmas.

  Something bursts growling out of a fake wall dead ahead of us, sending us back the way we came. I can’t see anything, just a lumbering shadow in swirling smoke – presumably because this alien is as cheap and ripped off as all the rest we’ve been running away from
.

  Suse screams, shoves me from behind. Something skids out of a hidden corridor, collides with the wall (accidently, I think, because over the stoned Blue Man Group, I’m sure I hear it say fuck), and then starts barrelling towards us, while we’re still running towards it. Suse screams again, so does Brian, Jeff stays as creepily quiet as ever. This alien looks like a bigger version of the one in the lift. A Queen maybe, circa Aliens. It’s pretty massive actually.

  I’m beginning to feel a bit unnerved – it’s dark, it’s loud, I can hardly breathe for green smoke, I’ve already whacked my head, so health and safety clearly isn’t big here, and there are two giant fake aliens charging towards us front and rear – when (quelle surprise again) a wide corridor opens up on our left.

  Suse takes it first, dragging me behind her. I’m dragging Brian, but only because he hasn’t let me go. The aliens cross over at the corridor’s mouth, and then keep on charging in opposite directions. The music stops.

  ‘God, I hate this!’ Suse is crying, and Jeff is taking full advantage: he has one arm around her shoulder and the other around her neck in what is trying to be a headlock. He has to stand on his tiptoes to do it – and worse still, she’s letting him.

  ‘Suse, come on. The music’s stopped, we’re alright.’

  I turn back at a low growl – a low something at any rate – and Suse squeaks. There’s a shadow standing at the smoky mouth of the corridor. Just standing there, looking at us. It’s not moving, and I can’t work out what it’s supposed to be (a big person is what it looks like – a big person with very long arms). Brian finally lets go of my arm.

  ‘Suse,’ I say. ‘They just have to get us to move before the next lot come down in the lift. Come on.’

  We shuffle down the corridor, where the air gets easier again. I only realise that my heart has been beating very hard when it starts going back to normal. I wasn’t sure how much a tenner a head would buy us, but I’ve a feeling – a very glad one – that we’ve almost used it up. I finger the silver name badge at my breast. Its ALIEN ATTACK!!! hologram has been blinding me ever since I was made to put it on, and it’s probably left a bloody big hole in my shirt. Maybe I can take it off now.

  At the end of the corridor, the lack of smoke reveals black-painted breezeblock walls. A giant green arrow has been felt-tipped onto lined A4, pointing left. There are bright overhead spotlights and what look like glass cases beyond it, and further than that I can make out another even bigger sign. SHOP.

  ‘Not another exhibition,’ Brian says. His hands are little fists. There have been a lot of exhibitions.

  ‘Thank fucking God,’ Suse mutters, and she’s halfway along this new corridor before anyone can say anything else, Jeff sliding on behind.

  Brian gives me his best pained expression. ‘Daisy – Miss Daisy – please.’ He’s looking right instead of left, off into pretty much nothing as far as I can tell, but his eyes are shining.

  ‘Pleeaase?’

  Suse and Jeff are long gone, and I think that I can hear new screams as the lift starts rolling and clunking far behind us.

  ‘Alright.’ Partly because I hate being told what to do and where to go. Mainly because I feel sorry enough for Brian to want to spare him a shop chock full of over-priced crap that he can’t buy, and a quicker return to a world that he probably hates. Or that hates him.

  I still suspect that there’s nothing up here though. The walls are bare and strip-lighted; there are no hidden Perspex windows or doorways; no smoke; no growling shadows. We walk and walk. Turn once into another corridor just the same, and then walk some more. Just as I’m about to suggest turning back, we come to a room. I’m hoping it’s not a security guard’s hangout – or worse, a changing room full of spotty Australians surrounded by plastic alien suits. It’s neither. Instead, it’s a bright, white-painted room full of display cases and stands. On the door, someone’s written UFO MUSEUM in black marker pen.

  ‘Cool!’

  I don’t see how a museum is any improvement on an exhibition, but Brian seems to think it is. He’s through the door and pressed up against the first display case before I’ve had a chance to check if the coast is clear. It isn’t.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi, sorry, I’m not sure we’re supposed to be here.’

  The guy grins at me, and then cocks it towards Brian, who’s paying no attention whatsoever. The guy is tall, youngish, dressed in horrible brown trousers and a too-small white lab coat. A badge on his lapel says John. He has absolutely terrible teeth – grey, crooked tombstones.

  ‘It’s alright. Most folk don’t find us down here. Feel free to have a look around; there’s plenty stuff to see.’ He sees me checking out his horrible clothes, and shrugs with an embarrassed smile. ‘Just trying to look the part.’

  I join Brian where he’s still pressed up against the first case. He’s looking down at what looks like a coil of black hose. I remember the sign on the door. ‘Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.’

  John grins his tombstone grin again. He points to a small card at the front of the case. Rectal Probe: Peter Wilson; Jan 2009; Lanarkshire.

  ‘Cool!’ Brian’s fingers have left overawed little prints all over the glass.

  ‘Oh fuck off.’

  ‘What?’ John asks.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit big, don’t you think? I mean I’ve seen the ones they use in the hospital – endo-whatsits – and they’re about a quarter the size of that thing.’

  John shrugs. ‘It’s a replica built to the specifications of Peter Wilson. He was abducted from Wishaw High Street one Christmas Eve, and didn’t return until after New Year.’

  I scoff again, wondering if Peter Wilson’s wife bought that too. ‘So, he described to you some rectal probe he had shoved up his arse by aliens in a UFO above Wishaw High Street, and you made it?’

  John nods. ‘To his exact specifications.’ He moves us along to the next case. It’s filled with all manner of what look like dildos: metal, matte and shiny; cylindrical, cone-shaped, pointed, bulb-ended. Every single one has a name, date and place carefully documented on little table cards like you get at a wedding.

  ‘Anal probes.’

  I make a noise in the back of my throat that is as disgusted as it is incredulous. ‘As if they just stick it up there.’

  John shrugs, unconcerned. ‘They might be conductors of some kind. Some of the abductees reported experiencing various types of stimuli.’

  ‘What the hell for? What does electrocuting someone’s arse prove? And why does everything have to be so bloody big all the time?’

  John shrugs again. ‘Are chickens stuck with anaesthetic before their throats are slit?’

  I’d certainly always hoped so, though I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything. I remember Brian only when his nose squeaks against the glass of this new case. ‘Right well, I don’t think any of this is entirely appropriate.’ I pluck Brian free, ignoring his protests. I’m aware that I’ve begun sounding a bit like my mum.

  ‘Okay,’ John says. He peers at Brian’s name badge. ‘Maybe Brian would like to see some real UFOs instead.’

  ‘Yeah!’

  Seeing real UFOs involves moving on to some glass-topped tables filled with fuzzy photos of what might be sky and what might be spaceships – or grey shadowy blobs – interspersed with artist impressions of flying saucers sporting more underlighting than the average sixth-former’s Ford Fiesta. Brian oohs and ahhs a little less at these, and I can hardly blame him. Once again, each photo or drawing has a name, date and place attached.

  ‘Right, shall I tell you what I don’t get – one of the things I don’t get?’ I stab at the glass. ‘Why do they always have to be so obvious? Why does every alien buy their ride at the same showroom, and why do they always arrive lit up like a Christmas tree, only to abduct the local drunk or hillbilly, instead of, oh I dunn
o, the local chess champion or whatever? ‘Cause it’s crap, that’s why. Any alien worth their salt would at least try to disguise their arrival, and I dunno, come as a hot air balloon or something – you know, hide in plain bloody sight. Don’t they do recon? Don’t they ever debrief?’ I’m now aware that I’ve begun enjoying myself.

  ‘Look, I’m just the hired help, okay?’ John hides his horrible teeth long enough to point out a dejected looking Brian. ‘Maybe you want to tone down the scepticism a bit.’

  I suddenly feel a bit guilty, and it makes me mad. ‘So is there anything here that isn’t replica?’

  ‘You mean besides the photos?’

  ‘Right, yeah, apart from them.’ I roll my eyes – but only so John can see.

  ‘Well, obviously there’s not much. I mean, it’s not as if you’re going to be allowed to beam back down while you have a rectal probe hidden up your jumper.’

  I resist rolling my eyes again – but only just.

  ‘I’ve got a question!’ Brian shouts. It sounds very loud in the quiet. ‘Why do the aliens let them go at all?’

  ‘What are you on about, Brian?’ I think we should go now. I’m probably already in the shit.

  ‘Well, at school right, we chop up frogs to see what’s inside them, to see what’s going on, like in those animal experiment labs.’ There are bright red circles of excitement or embarrassment (I can guess at which) high on Brian’s cheeks. ‘And in Roswell, they cut the alien up, didn’t they? To find out what was what.’ Brian is sneaking past the table cabinets and further into the room as if he thinks I can’t see him do it. ‘So, my question is why? Why don’t the aliens just cut people up? Why do they let them go?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Brian. In fact, it’s a brilliant one.’ John beams. ‘You’re right. It stands to perfect reason that any race would seek to further their knowledge of another through a combination of dissection and controlled observation. And it leads me to what I was about to show you both. The only other non-replica display in the museum.’