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Alien Abduction
The Wiltshire Revelations
By Brian Stableford
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
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Borgo Press Books by BRIAN STABLEFORD
Algebraic Fantasies and Realistic Romances: More Masters of Science Fiction
Alien Abduction: The Wiltshire Revelations
The Best of Both Worlds and Other Ambiguous Tales
Beyond the Colors of Darkness and Other Exotica
Changelings and Other Metamorphic Tales
A Clash of Symbols: The Triumph of James Blish
Complications and Other Stories
The Cosmic Perspective and Other Black Comedies
The Cure for Love and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution
The Devil’s Party: A Brief History of Satanic Abuse
The Dragon Man: A Novel of the Future
The Eleventh Hour
Firefly: A Novel of the Far Future
The Gardens of Tantalus and Other Delusions
Glorious Perversity: The Decline and Fall of Literary Decadence
Gothic Grotesques: Essays on Fantastic Literature
The Great Chain of Being and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution
The Haunted Bookshop and Other Apparitions
Heterocosms: Science Fiction in Context and Practice
In the Flesh and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution
The Innsmouth Heritage and Other Sequels
Jaunting on the Scoriac Tempests and Other Essays on Fantastic Literature
Kiss the Goat
The Moment of Truth: A Novel of the Future
News of the Black Feast and Other Random Reviews
An Oasis of Horror: Decadent Tales and Contes Cruels
Opening Minds: Essays on Fantastic Literature
Outside the Human Aquarium: Masters of Science Fiction, Second Edition
The Plurality of Worlds: A Sixteenth-Century Space Opera
Prelude to Eternity: A Romance of the First Time Machine
The Return of the Djinn and Other Black Melodramas
Salome and Other Decadent Fantasies
Slaves of the Death Spiders and Other Essays on Fantastic Literature
The Sociology of Science Fiction
Space, Time, and Infinity: Essays on Fantastic Literature
The Tree of Life and Other Tales of the Biotech Revolution
The World Beyond: A Sequel to S. Fowler Wright’s The World Below
Yesterday’s Bestsellers: A Voyage Through Literary History
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The Borgo Press
An Imprint of Wildside Press LLC
MMIX
Copyright © 2009 by Brian Stableford
www.wildsidebooks.com
FIRST EDITION
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CONTENTS
Chapter One: Learning to Relax
Chapter Two: Creationism
Chapter Three: Taking Things Seriously
Chapter Four: The Catalyst and the Chrysalis
Chapter Five: Revealing the Truth
Chapter Six: The Fertile Imagination
Chapter Seven: Taking the Wrong Direction
Chapter Eight: The Force of Darkness
Chapter Nine: Letting the Cat Out
Chapter Ten: Errand of Mercy
Chapter Eleven: Having Second Thoughts
Chapter Twelve: A Passion for Print
Chapter Thirteen: Making Slow Progress
Chapter Fourteen: The Purpose of Life
Chapter Fifteen: Clearing Up Misconceptions
Chapter Sixteen: Road Rage Incident
Chapter Seventeen: Using Twisted Logic
Chapter Eighteen: A Can of Worms
Chapter Nineteen: Hearing the Voice of Sanity
Chapter Twenty: The Wrath of Dark Time
Chapter Twenty-One: Searching for the Meaning
Epilogue: What Happened Next
About the Author
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CHAPTER ONE
Learning to Relax
Steve had never thought that the time would come when he would be glad to see Rhodri Jenkins, but the deputy head still seemed to be the only member of staff who was talking to him—or, at least, the only one who was actually prepared to sit down opposite him in the school canteen—which seemed like a very large and lonely place without any pupils in it. Although there was still an entire fortnight to go before the new school year started, the staff had been summoned to pay homage to the latest idol adopted by the local authority: Continuing Professional Development. The “refresher” course had sucked them all in, from the Newly Qualified— a category from which Steve had only just escaped—to those with thirty years service, like Jenkins.
Steve had hoped that the new year might be a chance to start again with a clean slate, but four weeks of absence had not been sufficient to make the hearts of the female staff grow fonder, or the inclination of the male staff—who were in a conspicuous minority—to withdraw their manifest support for the outrage felt by the female staff. The Tracy/Jill affair obviously would not be forgotten for some little time to come. The school’s deputy head, however, could not sensibly refuse to talk to any of those to whom he had occasionally to assign additional duties, so Jenkins actually made a point of filling one of the empty chairs on the table where Steve would otherwise have been condemned to eat alone.
“Don’t look so depressed, boyo,” Jenkins instructed him. “If you’re in that sort of a mood now, imagine what you’ll be like after thirteen weeks of teaching. Can’t let it happen. Give in to the pressure and you’ll go under.”
“CPD is enough to make anyone suicidal,” Steve told him. “It’s ten times worse than teaching. I thought I’d put that sort of bullshit behind me when I got through my probation, but now it looks as if I’ll have to put up with it for the rest of my career.”
“The secret,” Jenkins assured him, “is to let it wash over you. You have to learn to relax. Mind you, a young fellow like you ought to be perfectly relaxed after four weeks’ holiday. You’re still young enough to go on those Club 18-30 jaunts, aren’t you? Unlimited sun, sangria and sex, so they say. Or did you run out of prophylactics and catch some horrible venereal disease?”
Jenkins pronounced the first syllable of “prophylactics” to rhyme with “toe” and the second to rhyme with “pie”. Steve had never figured out whether it was a purely personal idiosyncrasy or whether everyone west of Cardiff pronounced it that way.
“I didn’t manage to get away,” Steve admitted. “Never got out of Salisbury, in fact—and now I’m back on site, everyone’s picked up exactly where they left off in July. You’re the only one who’s addressed more than a monosyllable to me all day.”
“Ach, it won’t last. Once the kids are back and life reverts to normal, they’ll relax the freeze and issue your return ticket from Coventry. They have to go through the motions first, to teach you a lesson. This is a special kind of community, not like uni, where you can play Don Juan to your heart’s content. Here, the rule is don’t shit in your own backyard...or if you do, keep it quiet...and if you can’t keep it quiet, ration yourself to breaking one heart per term.”
Steve looked glumly down at his corned-beef-and-salad sandwich, which he’d painstakingly assembled and wrapped in clingfilm all by himself that morning, because the canteen staff wouldn’t be returning to duty until the pupils were back. He couldn’t meet Jenkins’ eye for the moment, because he knew that the old man was right. If he’d just been able to keep a lid on his affair with Tracy, everything would have been fine, but a messy break-up in
mid-term would have been bad enough even if the cause hadn’t been his taking up with Jill—and to break up with Jill with two weeks still to go until the end of term had been fatal. Even Steve thought that he fully deserved the universal cold shoulder, and wasn’t yet fully qualified for remission and rehabilitation.
“Still playing cricket to keep fit, are you?” Jenkins asked.
“Yes,” Steve replied. “Saturday league games for the seconds and Sunday friendlies. Took three wickets yesterday, and a good catch down at long leg.”
“Don’t confuse me with technical terminology, Boyo—I’m a rugby man, as you know, and was only asking to be polite. I’m sorry the school doesn’t have a cricket pitch, but you could always volunteer to help us out with the rugby. Mrs. Jones would be glad to have you aboard. No chance of an injury that would spoil your looks while playing with kids, is there?”
“You’re joking,” Steve said. “I’m only five-nine—half the boys in the second year sixth are taller than I am, and the ones who play rugby are mostly two stone heavier. I manage to stay fit in the winter without risking a broken neck. I get plenty of exercise.” That wasn’t strictly true; his sporting interests over the winter consisted entirely of watching horse-racing on Saturdays, while betting on the internet exchanges, and playing internet poker—neither of which activities did much for his muscle-development.
Jenkins sighed. “That sort of exercise won’t do you much good in the long run,” he said, obviously thinking that Steve meant sex. “What you ought to try, by way of learning the art of healthy relaxation, is hypnotherapy.”
“No way,” Steve said, immediately. “I’m not letting anyone put me in a trance—and no matter what you and everyone else might think, I don’t need treatment for sex addiction.”
“For once, boyo, I’m not only thinking about sex,” the deputy head informed him. “I’m thinking about getting through the working day, week after week and term after term. Hypnotherapy’s not about trances, if there’s any such thing, and it’s certainly not about planting posthypnotic suggestions that make you think you’re a chicken and act accordingly. A proper therapist would no more dream of playing that sort of silly game than your GP would dream of using leeches. If there’s one thing people in this job need more than anything else, it’s the ability to relax when the stress mounts up. If you can’t get through a two-week refresher course in Best Practice without tensing up, that GCSE group of yours will drive you to an early grave. Since we aren’t allowed to switch them off, it’s a great advantage to be able to switch off ourselves, whenever we need to. It’s pricey, mind, but worth every penny.”
“I don’t think so,” Steve said, dubiously. “It’s not my sort of thing.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, boyo,” Rhodri told him, in the kind of authoritatively patronizing voice that schoolteachers of thirty years’ experience invariably cultivated, whether they were Welsh or not. “I only wish I’d known about Sylvia—or someone like her—when I was your age.”
“Sylvia?” Steve repeated, questioningly.
“Sylvia Joyce—my hypnotherapist. You can take that lustful gleam out of your eye, mind. She’s a handsome woman, but she’s old enough to be your mother. If she were of an age to have her heart broken, you can be certain that I wouldn’t let you anywhere near her, the way you carry on.”
Steve honestly didn’t think that having slept with four of his female colleagues in two years made him into a Casanova, even if two of them had been in the same term. After all, none of them had been married—which was probably more than Rhodri Jenkins could claim about all the female teachers he’d slept with in the course of his long career. Even so, Steve had sworn an oath never to get involved with a colleague again after the Tracy/Jill fiasco.
“I’m going out with someone else now,” he said, defensively. “Not a teacher. From now on, my sex-life is strictly out of school hours and off school premises.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jenkins said. “Not an ex-pupil, I hope?”
“No,” Steve said, patiently. “She went to the other one.” Although Salisbury qualified as a city, by virtue of possessing a cathedral, it wasn’t even as big as Swindon, so the staff and pupils at its two large comprehensives were always able to refer to “the other one” with perfect clarity.
“Better and better,” the deputy head said. “You’re a local boy, aren’t you—is that where you went to school?”
“No,” Steve said, “I went to the boys’ grammar.”
“Perhaps as well,” Jenkins observed. “A young Adonis like you would have got into all kinds of trouble in a sink of iniquity like this—probably have been paying three lots of child support all the way through uni. What does your new girl-friend do?”
“She works for Thomas Cook, in the pedestrian precinct.”
“A travel agent! No wonder there’s a verboten sign on Club 18-30. Still, you should have been able to get away easily enough, to somewhere nice. Travel agents always bag the best deals for themselves and their nearest and dearest, I dare say.”
“Well, we didn’t,” Steve said.
“Plenty to keep you at home in the first flush of enthusiasm, I dare say. You’re of an age to start thinking in the longer term, now—settling down and getting married. Keep you out of trouble, at least for a while. Think on. You’ll want to get way at half-term, I suppose—or a Christmas break in the sun. Can’t tell whether there’s a future in a relationship until you’ve gone away together. A travel agent’s ideal for fixing that sort of do—she’s probably thinking along the same lines.”
Steve didn’t say anything in response to this network of suggestions, because there was nothing he could say. The truth was that he had only been on a foreign holiday once, when his parents had dragged him to the Canaries at the age of thirteen, in spite of his loud protests. He and they had both sworn never to repeat the experiment. Since then, he hadn’t even been as far afield as Wales. He wasn’t only phobic about flying, but also of driving over large bridges. He had never been over the Severn Bridge, even as a passenger, but he had once been taken over the Clifton Suspension Bridge by his parents, while they were still optimistic enough to think that he might get over his phobia if he were forced to confront it. That was another experience they had never attempted to repeat. There had been one more occasion when they had tried to cajole and shame him into boarding a plane to Malaga, but they had failed miserably; then, like sensible folk, they’d given up and reverted to taking their last few family holidays in Bournemouth, Poole or Weymouth—all of which could reached by car, provided that the route was properly planned, without crossing any rivers wider than thirty yards.
Unperturbed by Steve’s silence, Rhodri Jenkins rambled on “I don’t go abroad, myself. Why would I, when I can go home to the lovely mountains and Cardigan Bay? I never dated a travel agent, mind. I’m not much of a boozer, mind—these days, binge drinking is all the rage, so I hear, and Spain is very cheap for that.”
“Just because Janine works for Cook’s,” Steve told him, wearily “it doesn’t mean that she’s addicted to foreign holidays. She doesn’t go binge-drinking either.” He wasn’t entirely sure about the final item, because Janine still went on occasional “girls’ nights out” with her old school friends Milly and Alison, from which boy-friends were banned—so strictly that he hadn’t yet met Milly or Alison. When she was with him, though, Janine was a very moderate drinker, and had not yet shown any conspicuous interest in dragging him off to foreign climes. If she were to start measuring him up for a permanent relationship, though, it would only be a matter of time....
“Better get back to the classroom, boyo,” the deputy head said, cutting off Steve’s train of thought. “It’s doing us good, I don’t doubt, to be put in the kids’ shoes for once. Just let it wash over you.”
“On second thoughts,” Steve said. “It can’t actually hurt to explore new possibilities, can it? What was the name of your hypnotherapist again?”
J
enkins beamed, like a man who had just made an unexpected breakthrough in pastoral care. “Sylvia Joyce.” he said, as he stood up and lobbed his sandwich-wrapper into the nearest bin, while pocketing his half-full bottle of Evian. “I’ll pop a card in your pigeon-hole, but she’s in the yellow pages, if I forget. She’ll do you the world of good—teach you to cope with any amount of stress.”
Steve didn’t hurry to keep up with the Welshman, but lingered a few moments more over his can of diet coke before tidying up in a slightly more decorous fashion and making his way back through the corridor at his own pace.
The exchange had given him food for thought. It was just possible, he thought, that a hypnotherapist might be able to help him with his phobias—which had become a considerable nuisance even before he’d started going out with Janine, if only because of the absolute necessity of concealing them from his colleagues and pupils. If ever it got around the school that he was incapable of getting on a plane or driving over the Severn Bridge, he’d be a laughing-stock till the day he retired. Maybe, if Sylvia Joyce were such a hot shot at teaching people to relax, she could also train him not to have panic attacks whenever he so much as thought about the Avon Gorge. At least he’d be safe confiding in her, if she were as scrupulous a practitioner as Rhodri Jenkins claimed.
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