by Moody, David
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Let’s be honest, Tom, we don’t really know anything yet.’
He didn’t bother trying to argue with her logic. On the screen the UN spokesman was still in full flow.
‘By unanimous agreement we have today passed a United Nations resolution which permits these travellers – our guests – asylum here until such a time as they are able to leave. It is hoped that both the visitors and ourselves will be able to take advantage of our time together in order to learn about each other’s planets, cultures and technologies. This is a tremendously exciting time for all of us.’
‘Bollocks,’ Clare interrupted. ‘Who are they kidding? Does anyone really believe they’re going to learn anything from us? Bloody hell, look at the state of their spaceship. Do you honestly think we’ll be able to tell them anything they don’t already know?’
‘You’re right,’ Tom agreed. ‘They’ve got halfway across the universe. We can’t even get a bloody unmanned probe to Mars without fucking it up.’
‘This is all spin,’ Clare said, ‘no substance. It’s all so bloody vague. I used to have the same problem with Aiden. He could talk the talk and he was full of big ideas, but when you looked deeper, there was nothing there.’
Tom glanced across at her. She picked up a magazine and started flicking through the pages, her limited interest in the aliens clearly exhausted. It was obvious from her tone that, to Clare, the sudden arrival of these visitors was just another unnecessary complication to her already unnecessarily complicated life.
The man on screen still had more to say.
‘We have been informed that there is a slight danger of a leak from the ship’s engines. Having fully considered the information provided to us by the visitors, the Security Council has agreed that the most sensible course of action available is for the aliens to destroy their ship. Arrangements are being made to launch the vessel away from Earth on a course which will guide it directly into the sun. We are assured by our solar experts that this will have no detrimental side-effects and that it is the safest and easiest way of avoiding potential dangers. Furthermore, when the—’
Tom didn’t get to hear anything else. Clare snatched up the remote and switched the TV off.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’ve heard enough for one day.’
Tom looked across at her again, concerned. She caught his eye momentarily, then looked away.
‘Listen, I’m only going to ask you this one more time. Are you sure you’re okay?’
She paused, and she seemed about to say something before deciding at the last possible second that she shouldn’t. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a miserable bitch.’
‘You’re not,’ he said instinctively.
‘I am.’
‘Okay, you are. But I understand. You don’t have to apologise.’
‘I’m probably just hormonal.’
‘Too much detail.’
She smiled. ‘It’s just that sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe, you know? It’s not Penny’s fault, and I feel like a bad mum just for saying this, but I’d just like a break. I’d like to go out and get pissed. I want to pick up my studying again and try and finish my degree. I want to be more than just a mum and an employee. Does that make any sense, or am I just being selfish?’
‘It makes complete sense.’
‘I just want to have a little control back, you know? It’s like every minute of every day I’m doing stuff for other people, and there’s never any time left for me. I think that’s why I’m not interested in these bloody aliens. I’ve already got too much to think about.’
There was nothing Tom could do or say. He waited a few seconds longer before making his excuses. ‘I should go...’
‘I don’t blame you. I would if I was you.’ She smiled. ‘Thanks for your help with the computer, Tom.’
‘No worries. If you need anything else...’
‘I’ll call.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
6
It took Tom over an hour to get back home from Clare’s. He could have run to Thatcham in half the time, and he would have if he’d known how bad the traffic was going to be. He even considered abandoning the car and coming back for it later, but there were no spaces in which he could leave it, and no sign that the congestion was going to ease.
He eventually parked up outside the bungalow and stretched his back, glad to be out of the car.
‘You leaving that there?’
Tom looked around and saw his neighbour, Ray Mercer, storming towards him. They’d had their differences from the outset, after Tom had savagely pruned several of Mercer’s Laburnums which had been overhanging his garden, blocking the light. Mercer had threatened to report him to the police. Tom had told him to stop complaining and find something better to do with what was left of his life, and things had gone downhill from there.
‘Well seeing as I’ve parked on my drive,’ he replied, ‘yes. Is there a problem?’
Mercer grunted. ‘Spoils my view of the sunset when you park there.’
‘Oh well. I’ll bear that in mind if I go out again later.’
‘You do that,’ Mercer said, turning his back on Tom and marching back to his house.
Arsehole, Tom thought, making a mental note to leave his car there more often. He found it strangely reassuring that, aliens or no aliens, Mercer was as objectionable a prick as ever.
From his high vantage point Tom looked down over Thatcham and the surrounding area. There seemed to be even more tents in the campsite just outside the village now, barely any spaces left between them. A flood of people disembarked from a usually half-empty train. Crowds of drinkers spilled out onto the street outside the Badger’s Sett. Mrs Grayson was standing in front of the supermarket, leaning up the window and puffing on a cigarette as she did most times he saw her. Life goes on, he said to himself. This time yesterday, he hadn’t been sure that would be the case.
The eyes of the world seemed still to be focused on Thatcham, and Tom felt that he was right at the centre of it all. He didn’t like it. He’d come here to get out of the limelight, to find somewhere he could go unnoticed. Maybe the madness would die down as quickly as it had begun? Despite the intense media interest, he was surprised at how relatively normal things still felt. He’d half expected the scaremongers and prophets of doom to have been out in force by now, dispensing their fabricated stories about the visitors to anyone who’d listen. But they hadn’t. It seemed the importance of this situation had been recognised by everyone. Every media outlet appeared to have access to every detail about the aliens. He guessed that there was plenty more being withheld at the highest levels but, even so, he hadn’t yet heard much in the way of speculation. Enough information had been released to avoid the need for second-guessing.
Maybe that’s for the best, Tom thought. Sensationalism and scoops have been put to one side temporarily. Just for now it’s all about disseminating the news as efficiently as possible. It’ll all be about ratings, circulation figures and profit again in no time.
He wondered whether things would ever get back to normal, before telling himself that this was normal now. A few days back, everything that had happened would have seemed completely unbelievable, laughable even. But the fantasy of science-fiction had become reality within just a few seconds yesterday afternoon. The aliens were here, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.
7
Sunday was another lazy day – Tom had had a lot of those recently – and most of it was spent at home with Siobhan. With the new term looming, Rob had caught a train into Drayton, then another on to Willsham and the university where he studied and worked. After an afternoon spent dozing in front of the TV after lunch, Siobhan too went home rather than stay the night with Tom. She had an early start at the office on Monday, with several clients to see and the realistic possibility of a flood of new work after the events of Friday afternoon. She’d been on t
he telephone to Mona already. Working in recruitment, they knew the suddenly swollen population of Drayton and the surrounding area would be ripe for exploiting.
After being surrounded by family and friends almost all of the time for the last few weeks, Tom’s small bungalow felt huge once they’d all gone and he was alone. He sat in front of the television with a sandwich and a few bottles of beer. He put a film on just after ten, but was asleep before the opening titles had finished. He woke up several hours later, the only light in the house coming from the TV. His neck was stiff, his back ached, and he’d knocked over his drink.
His planned lie-in the following morning didn’t happen either. He usually enjoyed Monday mornings and the smug satisfaction of staying in bed when pretty much everyone else was having to force themselves to get up and begin yet another week. This Monday, however, at some ridiculously early hour, the phone rang. It was James, scrounging a lift because his car had let him down (again). Much as he wanted to, Tom couldn’t bring himself to say no. He had no excuse and absolutely nothing else to do.
James worked in Drayton. The volume of traffic was just slightly heavier than usual rush hour levels and it wasn’t a particularly long journey, but before they’d covered more than a couple of miles, James had left Tom in absolutely no doubt as to why leaving his job in Birmingham had been the best move he’d made in a long time. Sure, his life might have been lacking a little purpose and direction since he’d moved out to the sticks, but it still seemed immeasurably preferable to the alternative.
‘So let me see if I’ve got this right,’ Tom said, feigning interest. ‘Your boss has said he wants you out.’
‘Not in so many words, but that’s the gist of it.’
‘There must be a reason, though. He can’t just sack you because he doesn’t like your face.’
‘We had a run-in last week.’
‘And?’
James paused before reluctantly answering. ‘And I might have said a few things I shouldn’t have. A few home truths. Nothing that wasn’t justified, mind.’
‘But that’s not the point. Bloody hell, bad mouthing your boss is never going to be a good idea, no matter how much of a shit he is.’
‘Well you don’t know Sachs.’
‘True, but I do know a fair bit about employment law and disciplinary procedures.’
‘Anyway, it’s all right for you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘No offence, mate, but you don’t know what it’s like. You don’t understand the pressure. I’ve got a wife and three kids to support. I can’t afford to lose my job.’
Tom shot him a sideways glance. ‘Then don’t piss your boss off. Anyway, you forget, I do know what it’s like. I did have a job, remember? A frigging high pressured one at that.’
It was clear that James wasn’t listening. ‘Okay, here’s an example,’ he continued, unabated. ‘This is the kind of thing I’m talking about. Last Wednesday we had this meeting about sales, and we all got given our targets. He gives me this ridiculous figure that we both know I’m never going to hit.’
‘And what about everybody else?’
‘What about them?’
‘Did they get similar figures?’
‘All us full-timers got the same.’
‘Then you don’t have a leg to stand on. Or he doesn’t. He can’t sack all of you if none of you hit the target.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, I told him it was impossible, especially at this time of the year. Holidaymakers come into our store for phone chargers and the like, not flat screen TVs. They buy those things when they’re back home. Then I told him I couldn’t do any extra hours this month because of the baby, and he starts going on about my lack of commitment. Bloody hell, my lack of commitment! I’ve been there longer than the rest of them combined, and he has the cheek to question my commitment.’
‘I know what you’re going through, actually. I had a similar situation myself. I always found the best thing to do was to overachieve. It really used to piss my boss off, and she couldn’t touch me. She’d set me a target, and I’d do everything I could to blitz it without making a noise about it. In the end she was the one who got kicked out, and I ended up being promoted into her role.’
‘Yeah, but it was probably easier where you worked, surrounded by all those fat cats and crooks.’
‘Is that right? Well you could try working somewhere else.’
‘Like where? There’s nothing else around here.’
‘You could move away.’
‘You trying to get rid of me now?’
‘Not at all...’
‘Anyway, how can I move? We can barely afford the house we’re in.’
Well, you could try hitting your targets, Tom thought but didn’t bother to say. ‘I know, mate. It’s a tough one.’
‘There was a supervisor job came up last week. Sachs went and gave it to Marie, and she’s only been working there a couple of months.’
‘Is she any good?’
‘Suppose. She’s got no commitments, though, that’s what it boils down to. She can put the time in, I can’t. And she’s not up all night with a baby before coming to work. Bloody hell, four o’clock I was up with Fliss this morning. Four o-bloody-clock!’
Tom pulled up at a set of traffic lights, willing them to change to green so he could deliver James to work and be shot of him. He knew it was probably just the Monday morning blues, or maybe even nerves, but he had little sympathy. He resisted the temptation to tell his friend a few home truths and avoided getting into a tit-for-tat game of ‘my job was harder than yours’, even though it clearly was. Christ, he’d had responsibility for a team of twenty-plus staff and a department with a budget running into millions. But he was glad that was all in the past. He didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss any of it.
‘Just here’ll be fine thanks,’ James said, and Tom pulled over into a bus lay-by. ‘Ah well, here we go again. The beginning of another shitty week at the coal face.’
‘Here’s looking on the bright side, eh?’
James shook his head. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Tom.’
Tom didn’t bite. He didn’t feel particularly lucky.
‘You sure you’re okay for getting home tonight?’
‘Fine, thanks. Steph should have the car back around lunchtime. She’ll come and get me later.’
‘Okay. Give me a shout if you have any problems,’ Tom said, hoping that he wouldn’t.
‘Will do. Cheers, mate.’
And with that the door slammed and he was gone.
Tom immediately felt the pressure lift. He watched James sloping dejectedly away towards the white goods store where he worked. He had a piss-easy job, and Tom was finding it increasingly difficult to stomach his perpetual whining. Again he remembered the pressures he’d had to deal with in his career, and the contrast was stark. As far as he could see, the only real responsibility James had was ensuring his brightly coloured uniform polo shirt was clean, and that he had his “My name’s James, how can I help you today?” badge on straight. Bloody waster.
He drove back home, looking forward to another day of doing fuck-all.
8
In Tom’s isolated little bubble, the week passed slowly but without further incident. The unusually inflated population of the village meant that, surprisingly, he saw fewer people than usual. The recruitment agency was as busy as she’d expected – both as a result of an influx of people looking for casual work and existing employers looking to take on additional temporary staff – and he saw hardly anything of Siobhan. Tom didn’t care much for the crowded streets – his quiet local pub was no longer quiet, instead filled with so many out-of-towners that it didn’t feel particularly local – and so he spent much of the week either lounging around the house or out walking. He walked for miles one day, following the coastal path he usually ran along. He walked for several hours in one direction, before turning around and coming back again, just because he could.
Tom grew to hate the twenty-four hour news channels. He thought it strange how, in the space of less than a week, footage of the alien ship had begun to appear remarkably mundane. It was beginning to bore him as much as the politics, war reports and other news stories it had temporarily usurped on the screen. It was all mind-numbingly dull when played on a loop.
Rob returned to Thatcham from university early on Friday morning, complaining that he’d had to wait hours to get on the train. It seemed that more people than ever had descended on the village today, but it came as no surprise to anyone. The reason was obvious: today was the day the aliens’ crippled ship was to be launched towards the sun. No one knew exactly when it was scheduled to happen, nor if they’d be able to see anything from the shore, but that didn’t deter any of the thousands of people who came. According to the world’s media (almost all of whom continued to report live from the village and surrounding area), sometime this evening the massive machine’s engines would be fired for the final time.
Space in and around Thatcham was already at a premium, and the situation had deteriorated markedly today. Tom had heard from John Tipper that people had been renting out their spare rooms, such was the demand for digs near to this historic event. By late afternoon Tom himself had accepted fifty quid from a man to pitch his tent and let his family of four spend the night camping on his small front lawn, much to Ray Mercer’s disgust. Rob said Tom could have held out for double that price.
Certain aspects of the bungalow afforded them a reasonable view over the ocean, but the largest windows overlooked the village rather than the water, and like everyone else it seemed, Tom, Rob and Siobhan chose to head for the cliff-tops to try and get a better view. Tom had taken a little persuading, finding himself unable to match the enthusiasm of the others. They’d been on the verge of heading out without him when he’d spotted John Tipper coming up the road and had gone out to speak to him.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Tom asked, mindful of the fact that this was the first Friday night in an age that he himself hadn’t been hunkered down in the lounge of the Badger’s Sett. ‘Who have you got looking after the pub?’