by Andy Ritchie
Quickly he hurried through the puddles and rivulets that had formed on the car park’s tarmac surface, around to the passenger door. A moment later, he was inside. Only now did I notice he was clutching a black sports bag.
‘Hi Andy’, he said, shaking me warmly by the hand, ‘Glad you came.’
Another flash of lightning, another crash of thunder...and the briefest of glimpses of JP’s face before the shadows reasserted their supremacy. I think I managed to stifle a cry of shock, for never had I seen a face so...haunted. Pale and sallow skin sat ill on features now haggard and drawn. His lips seemed tight and bloodless. For a moment, he looked like an apparition, a ghost from my past.
But it was his eyes that scared me the most. So wide, so manic, they sat incongruously on a face so tired and so tortured. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much, who knew too much.
Even then, they were the eyes of someone who was approaching the end.
With a shudder that was not caused by the rain or the cold, I pulled myself together.
‘What’s up, JP? That was one hell of a weird phone call!’
I tried to sound matter-of-fact, but knew that my voice sounded tight and nervous.
‘Look, Andy, there’s something I need to tell you...’
And then he spoke, and I listened.
I’m not sure how long we were sat there, it could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour. In all that time, I hardly said a word. It was just JP’s voice and the endless drumming of the rain, constant and unrelenting.
‘...and it’s all here, Andy, in these diaries, everything, right down to the last grisly detail.’
When he had finished, I remember thinking only two thoughts.
Firstly, I believed.
Secondly, I was scared.
‘Andy, are you okay?’ JP asked softly, placing his hand on my shoulder.
I nodded dumbly. I wasn’t okay, not okay at all.
But, if I’m honest, it wasn’t really what he had told me which had started to make my hands shake and my bowels churn. It was the fact that I’d figured out why he had called me, why he had wanted to meet me, and why he had a bag with him, a bag he was now zipping up and offering to me.
‘I want you to get this into print, Andy. Can you do that?’
For a while, I simply stared at the bag. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to see it. In a way, I found myself wishing that I’d never answered the phone that evening...that I’d never even met JP at all.
‘If I do that,’ I whispered, ‘then THEY will know who I am.’
JP nodded slowly, his pale face sombre but his eyes still so very much alive.
‘But I have a wife, and I have children...’ I said, suddenly realising that my tone was that of a man who was pleading, begging...
‘I know,’ he replied, ‘and if there were any other way, believe me, I’d do it. But I can’t do this on my own. I need someone I can truly trust.’
His voice, though earnest, was calm. His eyes, however, were not.
I can’t remember what thoughts went through my mind in those seconds before I took the bag from him.
Perhaps I don’t want to recall how close I came to telling him to go.
But take the bag I did, and with it the responsibility for doing what he asked.
Without another word, he shook my hand once more. I don’t know whether I just imagined it, but I’m sure he squeezed my hand just a little bit harder than usual, not out of gratitude or out of recognition of the brave step I had taken; instead, I think it was because he knew that that would be the last time we would ever be together.
It took me several weeks to collate everything. You see, whilst JP may have called it a ‘diary’, it was not a diary in the normal sense of the word. It was, in fact, a collection of hand-written sheets, typed notes, beer-mats, napkins, CDs with Word documents on them, memory sticks, DVDs, audio tapes and post it notes, held together with a rudimentary cataloguing system that was anything but logical. In a way, it was the perfect reflection of the man who had created it — occasionally diligent, but flawed overall.
So, a few words about how I have structured the diary.
Firstly, and most importantly, I’ve not in any way edited Jethro’s actual words. I may have corrected his spelling once or twice (after all, I wouldn’t want him to appear illiterate!), but I haven’t changed the tone of what he has written. It’s all JP’s own words, sometimes colourful, sometimes dull, sometimes reading like an extract from a Douglas Adams novel, sometimes reading like an article in New Scientist.
And sometimes, maybe at the most unexpected times, when circumstances seem to be at their darkest, he writes something very, very funny. It’s almost as if the enormity of what he found himself involved in came close to overwhelming him, and the only defence mechanism he had was to mock the dark reality in which he found himself, as if mocking it would somehow make it all a little less daunting. And strangely, these are the bits I like the best. They show what a funny, witty guy JP really was, and demonstrate that, even in the face of adversity, he could find it within himself to conjure up moments of humour and charm. I guess that is the true measure of the man!
Secondly, I thought some of what JP had written was best presented in what I have termed ‘Explanatory Notes’. The reasons for this will, I hope, become obvious.
Thirdly, on occasions I have used extracts from other documents to further re-inforce some of the more technical points which JP and the diary attempt to get across.
Fourthly, I thought it would be useful to provide a sort of commentary on the diary, just to hold everything together, so at the beginning of every entry, and sometimes in the body of the text itself, you’ll find one of these:
[Collator’s Note: These will provide much of the context for JP’s diaries, but are not integral to the narrative itself, so I’ve interspersed them in the book as best as I can, hoping they will help build your knowledge and understanding. I hope they don’t annoy you too much!]
JP was my friend.
He had been for many, many years.
It saddens me greatly to see, within the words that he wrote and the way he wrote them, the way that this ‘adventure’ had altered him.
There is a definite progression in what he writes and how he writes it. He starts off carefree but ignorant, recording the first few days as if it were fun, a distraction from the sameness of what some may call an ordinary existence. But then, as you will see as you read, JP begins to witness both the darker side of mankind and the darker side of the universe, and in so doing, it draws forth the darker side of him as well.
At the end, he was not the man I knew before all this started.
He had changed.
But did he change for the better or for the worse?
I simply don’t know.
But then, that same question could be asked of all of us who have been caught up in this.
Maybe, at the end, you will be able to answer that question for yourself.
-----
An Introduction to the Diaries of Jethro Postlethwaite
by Jethro Postlethwaite
[Collators Note: I’m not quite sure when JP wrote this introduction, though I presume it was not too long before he passed the diary on to me.]
Thank you, whoever you are, for taking the time to read this.
I hope you find it worth the effort...and the risk.
I’d like to say that the writing of this diary has been a pleasure...but it hasn’t.
It has been a necessity, both personally and, I believe, culturally.
Why personally? Because, as each day rolled on into the next, the simple act of putting pen to paper or finger to keyboard became almost cathartic, a way of unburdening myself of the terrible weight of knowledge. In the end, the act of re-telling what has happened has become a kind of therapy for me.
Why culturally? Because (without wanting to over-state things too much) the events that I have recorded in these pa
ges are, without doubt, the most important events in the history of our planet and our species.
Now, a short word by way of introduction:
My name is Jethro Postlethwaite, but most people call me Jeth...and before you ask, yes, my parents did name me after Jethro Tull (apparently 'Living in the Past' was my Dad’s favourite song).
I’m 42 years old, single, straight, enjoy films, photography and hillwalking, own (owned) a small but well-appointed terraced house, and have (had) a pretty boring job at a stationery wholesalers in my home town of Darwen.
If asked to, I would describe myself as either ‘ordinary’ or ‘unremarkable’.
I guess that’s really all you need to know about me.
-----
Diary Entry 1
Friday 10th September
[Collator’s Note: This is the first entry in the diary, a typed Word document that, like many others, was on a CD marked ‘Diary’. As I said in the Foreword, there is often a childish excitement in some of the entries in JP’s diary. That is particularly the case with this first entry. It oozes with a sort of disbelieving giddiness, a sense of bewildered wonderment. It is possible, as you read it, to imagine JP, sat in his living room late at night, laptop on his knee, typing furiously as he desperately tries to recall everything that happened that evening and put it into some kind of context. The entry is over-flowing with jokey metaphors and flowery descriptions — a stark contrast to much of what comes later.]
Today has been the weirdest, craziest, most bizarre day of my life. Maybe of any life...and I have to get as much of this typed up as I possibly can while it’s all still fresh in my mind.
It’s about 11.30 in the evening...and an alien has just gone to bed in my spare room!
How fucking unbelievable is that?
He’s just spent the last couple of hours sat in my living room, drinking tea, eating half a packet of McVities Chocolate Hob-Nobs and some KP Salted Peanuts, talking to me about music and the fact that he has a soft spot for Queen (but we can’t all be perfect!), admiring my photographs as if he is genuinely interested, watching a bit of TV and being thoroughly, thoroughly pleasant!
I’m really, really hoping that all the pleasantness, charm and courtesy which he has displayed since the moment we met are genuine, and not some wicked ruse designed to lull unsuspecting humanoids into a false sense of security...but just in case they aren’t, then maybe this document will help to provide the Police with an explanation of why my eyes are missing from my head, my internal organs are splattered all over my bedroom walls and why my brain has been sucked so dry that it is now the size, shape and colour of a raisin.
The alien’s name is Tukaal (apparently pronounced ‘2-call’). I guess any self-respecting alien has to have an alien-sounding name. After all, who’s ever heard of an alien called Colin, or Paul, or Simon?
How can I be sure that he’s an alien?
Well, the fact that I saw him get out of a big, shiny spaceship is, I believe, something of a giveaway!
It all started about 7.30 this evening.
It had been a typical Friday in the uneventful life of Jethro Postlethwaite — I’d gone to work, been bored senseless as usual by the tedium of it all and by the inane babbling of Brenda and Christine, finished at 4, come home, had a bowl of Dolmio microwave pasta and sauce (Spicy Italian Chilli, yum!) and then, on the off-chance that the overcast skies and drizzly rain that had been around for most of the day may break up, decided to drive up to Winter Hill with the camera to see what sort of sunset there was going to be. From there, you get a view of the whole of Lancashire stretching away into the distance where the sun slips down into the Irish Sea. Gorgeous.
That was why I was where I was, walking back along an old cobbled track which (I think) is called Belmont Road, off the minor road which runs between Belmont and Rivington.
I’d parked at the end of the track (the road is too rough for a car and it’s gated anyway) and taken my camera stuff about half a mile along, looking for something interesting to put in the foreground and add interest to the backdrop of the setting sun. Unfortunately, it soon became obvious that there was going to be no setting sun because there were no significant breaks in the blanket of dull grey cloud overhead and so, after taking only a couple of dozen shots, I’d decided to call it a day and had started to pack up my camera and filters and tripod and stuff.
I thought nothing of it at the time, but looking back now I realise how quiet it was up there this evening. Usually, there are a few cars parked on the lay-bys as people take their dogs for a walk or try to give themselves heart-attacks by running or cycling to the top of Winter Hill, but today the whole place was deserted. In fact, I had actually seen only one other soul since I had arrived there.
Not that it was too surprising. The evening had not promised much weather-wise and had delivered even less, so only the truly sad would be out there...
I can’t really remember what made me look up. The distant roar of an aeroplane, the call of a bird (I had seen the odd curlew)...not sure really
But that was when I saw it.
At first I didn’t know what to make of it.
The clouds directly above me, previously just grey and uninteresting, suddenly seemed to darken, bubble and swirl all at the same time.
Not the whole sky, of course, only a small patch, suddenly becoming unnervingly active, as if they were readying themselves for some serious rain, thunder and lightning.
I had taken off my wide-angle lens and fitted my standard Sigma 28-200mm zoom lens and thought for a moment, of re-fitting the wide-angle. But I decided against it, worried that the phenomenon would be short-lived and that if I didn’t start shooting now, I’d miss it.
So I leant back awkwardly and pointed the lens towards the sky, focusing on the bizarre image of that small patch of swirling dark clouds.
The air about me was still; with hindsight it was unnaturally so, but at the time it didn't seem anything to be unduly concerned about.
The road, a few hundred yards away and never particularly busy was silent, devoid of cars and motorbikes; the track itself was deserted apart from me, the last passer-by (a guy on a bike sporting a ridiculously bright yellow top and wrap-around sunglasses!!) having passed out of sight ten minutes earlier. Even the sheep in the fields were silent.
Not that I was noting all this down at the time, you understand. I was too interested in watching what the clouds were doing...
That was when I saw it.
A shape, just on the edge of the clouds, difficult to make out in detail because of them, hanging in the air, unmoving.
It should have really freaked me out...but it didn’t.
Instead, I remember that my initial thought, a rather calm one at that, was simply:
‘Now what the hell is that?’
My second thought was less of a thought and more of a feeling. It's difficult to describe a feeling because the whole point of a feeling is that you feel it, but if I had to have a go, then I'd call it a mixture of excitement, amazement, bemusement with a soupcon of trepidation, all seasoned with a liberal sprinkling of nervousness.
As a result of this concoction of feelings, my breaths became a little shallower, my heart began beating just a little faster, the hairs on the back of my neck got a little twitchy and a thin sheen of cold sweat seemed to ooze out onto my forehead and the palms of my hands.
You see, and I know this sounds a little crazy but, even though this ‘shape in the clouds’ was far, far away, high up in the sky, I had the distinct and unshakeable impression that it was looking straight at me, like being caught in the gaze of a Cyclops...except without the Cyclops...
Anyway, I shivered, but it wasn't particularly cold.
Then I became aware that everything around me seemed to have stopped moving and fallen silent. Including the sheep. Even the insects seemed to have stopped buzzing about, as if they had sensed the heavy air of expectation and had found it sufficiently intriguing to justify a brief
pause in their short, busy lives.
It had all gone just a little bit eerie.
I wasn't scared, mind. I may have been a little bit worried, you know, the sort of worried you get when you know that whatever is happening isn't exactly what you expect to happen, and that what was probably going to happen next wasn't going to be what you expect either.
No, I wasn’t scared, but I was...
Apprehensive. That’s the word. Apprehensive sort of suggests midway between not-at-all-bothered and reasonably-concerned, but doesn’t give the impression that I'm a bit of a wimp...
Yeah, I was apprehensive.
But only a little.
The autofocus on my camera was struggling to get a fix on the shape in the clouds, so I switched to manual focus. But even before I’d managed to get the camera back up to my eye, the thing which I didn't expect to happen next, happened.
The shape suddenly fell from the sky like a stone...no, not like a stone, more like a bullet because it plummeted towards me with speed that was simply beyond comprehension. That means it was fast, and I mean really fast...just imagine the fastest thing you've ever seen and then speed it up a hundred times or so. That's how fast I'm talking.
Then, just as suddenly, it must have stopped.
I didn’t actually see it stop, however, because, in what must have been an involuntary action, I had closed my eyes tight shut, tensed my entire body, and prepared myself for the impact which would, in all likelihood, herald my sudden and instantaneous death.
I have to admit that I was more than a little disappointed that my life couldn’t be even arsed to find the energy to flash in front of my eyes...though, in all honesty, I’d probably have been pretty disappointed with what I saw if it had!
For what seemed like an age, I waited.
Then I realised that I wasn’t dead, because I was conscious of the fact that I was still waiting to die.
Cautiously, I opened an eye and looked around.