The Book That THEY Do Not Want You To Read, Part 1

by Andy Ritchie

  [Collator’s Note: This was scribbled on a piece of paper which had been ripped out of a notepad which, I suspect, JP kept beside his bed. Above it were written little reminders, the sort of reminders that occur to all of us at about 2.46 a.m. in the morning, such as paying the papers, getting some WD40 for the hinges on the shed, checking the pressure of the air in the car tyres, etc.]

  I’ve never woken up scared before. Nervous, yes, but never truly scared.

  He’s downstairs now. I can hear him. He’s making a pot of tea and cooking some toast because I can smell it (it does smell good!). I’ve also heard him whistling. It’s a happy, jaunty whistle, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world...which, I suppose, he won’t have.

  THEY will know he’s an alien.

  And because he’s an alien, it means that THEY won’t do anything to him, just in case it sparks an interstellar incident and leads to Earth getting zapped by a super-nova death-ray or something.

  THEY won’t risk hurting him.

  But me...well, that’s different, isn’t it, because I’m just an insignificant little shit of absolutely no consequence whatsoever.

  Let’s face it, I could disappear and no-one would miss me, no-one would care.

  Christ, I wish none of this had ever happened!

  I have this really dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach...it’s like a dark foreboding, as if I know that something terrible is about to happen to me.

  I just can’t shake the feeling that, after today, I’m never going to set foot inside this house again!

  -----

  Diary Entry 6

  [Collator’s Note: In amongst the bundle of paperwork, there were two notes, written on sheets of an A5 spiral-bound notebook. Attached to the first of these two notes was a Post-It note.]

  -----

  Diary Entry 7

  [Collator’s Note: This was a Word document on the main CD. It was written early on the morning of Tuesday 14th September.]

  It’s about 4.30 a.m. in the morning.

  I’m lying in the back seat of a Volkswagen Passat owned by someone called Stella Williamson, absolutely fucking freezing, in spite of the travelling rugs I’m wrapped in and the fact that I’m wearing dry clothes. Stella is a member of the National Trust and has a copy of their Spring Pack in the back of her car.

  The car itself is now parked at a place called Bell Hagg, somewhere near Ladybower reservoir in the Peak District. It is no longer outside Stella’s house in Glossop.

  I’m utterly shattered, but I can’t get to sleep because every time I close my eyes I see weird visions.

  Every part of my body hurts.

  I want to cry...not sure why really...I just want to...but I haven’t got the energy to even do that.

  It’s a hell of a difference from the way the day had started.

  I’d risen from a nice warm bed, had a wonderfully warm shower, a lovely cup of tea, some very nice toast which Tukaal had made for me...shit, how I could murder all those things right now!

  I’m so cold, in spite of it being mid September — temperatures dropped like a stone last night, in spite of the cloud...and I’m so fucking tired, so really fucking tired...

  But I keep seeing things when I try to go to sleep...shapes...metal shapes...cables... control panels for something...and then...something black...alive...

  It gives me the creeps!

  Where was I?

  Oh yes - tea and toast.

  Those were the only good things about today.

  Everything else has been...well...pretty shit...a succession of shittiness.

  The first shit thing of the day happened when I was about to take a second bite of my toast.

  Tukaal said:

  ‘I should leave, Jeth, and quickly. I thought for much of the night about the predicament I have placed you in, and I think it would be best thing for you if I left.’

  I think he was trying to do the right thing. I hope he was. But the right thing for whom? Him maybe — after all, it would be easier for him to do what he had to do without an Earthling slowing him down and getting in the way, wouldn’t it?

  But right for me? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m not exactly sure how the hell he had come to that conclusion.

  ‘And what do you think will happen when THEY see you go out of my front door and walk off down the street, eh?’

  I had placed my toast back on the plate. My appetite had suddenly vanished.

  It was a rhetorical question, so I continued:

  ‘I’ll tell you what will happen. Scary men armed with machine guns and shit like that will break down my front door, put a black bag over my head, tie me up with gaffer tape, cart me off to some secluded interrogation building, fasten electrodes to my balls and torture me until I’ve told them everything I know about you...then they’ll take me to a quarry, put a bullet in my head and then bury me under several thousand tonnes of rubble. That’s what will happen. So can you please explain to me how leaving would be the ‘best thing for me’.’

  There was real venom in the way I spoke. I have rarely, if ever, spoken to anyone with such vehemence....and once I’d got going, there was no stopping me.

  ‘Tell me, Tukaal, in the oh-so-cleverly thought out ‘no-one’s going to believe the guy who I ask for a lift’ scenario, did you ever really consider what might happen to the poor sap you decided to pick on if things went tits-up? Did you care? Oh, how you guys at the Confederation must laugh as you share your stories about landing in the middle of nowhere, scaring the shit out of one of the local inhabitants, getting them to give you a lift to somewhere or other and telling them all that spacey crap you come out with, safe in knowledge that, should they ever tell anyone else, no-one would believe them and they’d be carted off to the funny farm! What a hoot things must really be at the Confederation’s annual Christmas Party!’

  ‘Well, now things have gone tits-up, big time, and all of a sudden, your jolly little excursion to Earth to ‘meet your colleague’ has just happened to totally fuck up my life! So don’t for an instance think that you can just pack all your gizmos into your little metal case, fuck off out of the door and leave me all alone to face the music!’

  With that, I snatched up the toast again and bit into it, staring at him defiantly.

  Tukaal was, I think, very much taken aback.

  He had started the day with a pleasant ‘Good morning’ as he put the tea and toast in front of me once I had come down after showering and dressing. Maybe that had only wound me up further. He didn’t even look worried!

  ‘I’m sorry, Jeth,’ he stammered awkwardly.

  ‘Well, sorry doesn’t really help matters, does it?’ I replied sulkily, taking another bite of the toast.

  An extremely awkward silence fell, broken only by the sound of me slurping my tea.

  It lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time before it was eventually broken by Tukaal.

  ‘I cannot guarantee your safety if you come with me to Manchester.’

  I looked him squarely in the eyes.

  ‘You certainly can’t guarantee my safety if you leave me here, can you?’

  ‘I guess not,’ he replied, dropping his eyes, unable to hold my gaze.

  ‘Once we leave here, Jeth, there is a possibility that you may not be able to come back any time soon...maybe never.’

  There it was. Confirmation of what I had earlier suspected as I lay in my bed. I was never going to be able to set foot inside my house again!

  ‘If you are coming along, I suggest you gather up some things that you want to keep with you, a change of clothes perhaps, but not your entire wardrobe...oh, and put on an extra jacket or sweater, something you won’t mind losing...oh, and see if you’ve got a couple of caps...’

  I don’t really remember much more of what he said. All I remember is that, at that moment, I hated him more than I have hated anything or anyone in my life.

  It was not just because his arrival had utterly fucked up my dull, ordinary life...i
t was because he seemed almost indifferent to that fact.

  I know I slammed my mug of tea angrily down onto the table, causing its contents to splash all over the place.

  I know I stared at him with an expression which said simply:

  ‘You twat!’

  I know I popped the last of the toast into my mouth because, in spite of it all, I was hungry.

  I know I stomped upstairs like a teenager who had just been told he was grounded for a month.

  I know all that, and I’m ashamed of none of it.

  Nor am I ashamed of the fact that once I’d reached my bedroom and closed the door behind me, I wept, out of fear, out of frustration and out of weakness.

  And I continued to weep as I packed my old, blue duffel bag with the following:

  wallet (£55 cash)

  sunglasses

  couple of Weird Fish tee-shirts

  pair of Craghopper pants

  spare socks

  spare underwear

  Marmot waterproof jacket (because the local weather forecast the previous evening had said it was going to rain)

  notepad and pen from beside my bed (not sure why, but it’s always good to have a pen and paper handy!)

  photo of Val and me when we were at Coniston

  When I eventually dried my eyes and went downstairs, I also packed my laptop and power cable from the front room.

  (One thing that has really bloody annoyed me is the fact that I went and forgot my iPod, which means I don’t have any of my music — and all the tunes are stored on a separate hard-drive, along with the bulk of my photos! What a dick!)

  With everything packed, I put on a hoodie and then, over the top, I put on a blue sweater which I got in Blackpool and which I never really liked. I also found a couple of caps (a blue one which said ‘NY’ and a black one with the Nike tick. I thought the one I got which said ‘Vote Saxon’ may be a bit too conspicuous!).

  And, just as I was stuffing the last of these things into by duffel bag, something strange happened.

  I realised that I should be at work!

  That’s right. That was the first time that day that normality elbowed its way to the front of the queue and said ‘Remember me?’

  Wow!

  I’d gotten up, showered, dressed, had breakfast and tore a strip off an alien...and only then had I realised that it was Monday.

  I looked at my watch. It was 9.30. I was already half an hour late...Mike would be really pissed off, especially seeing as I hadn’t bothered to phone in sick.

  That’s when I smiled.

  Fuck ‘em, I thought to myself. Fuck the lot of ‘em!

  And I don’t think I thought anymore about work...at all! Maybe I never will again.

  Once I’d packed my stuff, I went into the kitchen, got my Meindl boots from under the stairs, and returned to the living room where I picked up my phone.

  ‘Not the phone, I’m afraid, Jeth,’ Tukaal said as he came back downstairs with his little metal case. ‘They’ll be able to track our movements using that, even when it’s turned off. That will have to stay.’

  I thought for a moment. The numbers of all my friends were on that phone...

  ‘What if I take the SIM card out, would that be okay?’

  Tukaal nodded.

  As I took the back off the phone, I realised my hands were shaking. I tried to hide this fact from Tukaal, but he had already seen it. He reached across and placed his hand tenderly on my shoulder, giving it the gentlest of squeezes.

  I was waiting for him to tell me that everything would be all right, like a father to a son, but he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t think it was necessary. Maybe he didn’t really think everything would be all right, not for me anyway. Maybe he didn’t really care.

  And then the moment was passed.

  ‘So what’s the plan? What time are you meeting your Researcher?’

  ‘He wants to meet at 12 noon at this place.’

  He handed me a piece of paper with the words

  Restaurant, 3rd Floor, Debenhams, Market Street, Manchester

  written on them.

  ‘And how are we getting there?’ I asked. ‘If we go on the train, we’ll be followed. If we take my car, they’ll be able to follow that...they’ve probably got helicopters and satellites watching everything...thermal imaging equipment...shit, there’s no way we can get to Manchester without them seeing us...’

  While I was bemoaning the omnipotent power of our adversaries, Tukaal had made his way to the front window and eased open the curtains.

  All I heard him say as he looked out was ‘Good’.

  I looked at him quizzically as he turned to face me, but he just smiled. I swear there was a little mischievous glint in his eye, as if he was looking forward to what lay ahead.

  I wanted to be angry with him, as I had been over breakfast, but this time I couldn’t be because, much to my surprise, I found myself just a little excited at the prospect of trying to evade THEM.

  I was utterly terrified as well, of course, but just a small part of me was thinking, hey, what the hell, let’s give it a shot! I was conscious that there was a bit of adrenaline running through my veins.

  ‘Once outside, we’ll walk calmly to your car. We’ll put your bag and my case on the back seat, get in the car and set off down the street. You can drive.. The black car which was following us yesterday is parked in a similar place and they will no doubt start to follow us. As we set off, they’ll probably radio the man who has been watching the rear of the house so that they can pick him up. I’m working on the premise that they will only have the one vehicle. If there’s more than one, we may need to improvise.’

  ‘Improvise?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean by improvise?’

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up his case, opened the vestibule door and invited me to proceed.

  I have to admit that I did take the opportunity to have one long, last look around my living room.

  There was the fairly new Panasonic TV in the corner, below which was my DVD recorder and Blu-ray player.

  In the middle of my room was my settee, well worn now by the number of times I’d parked myself on there to watch a film with a can of beer, some Doritos and a jar of hot salsa.

  In the corner was my computer desk, looking a little bare now the laptop was in my bag. And beside me was the wall unit that had come from parent’s house when Mum had died a few years ago. On its shelves were the few personal mementos that I have ever bothered to keep:

  a small picture of my parents taken at Scarborough in 1987, just before Dad died of lung cancer.

  a photo of me and the lads taken about 20 years ago when we went camping in the Lakes one Easter and got absolutely pissed wet through.

  a miniature of Notre Dame cathedral.

  a one dollar bill signed by Christopher Lloyd.

  a gold crucifix and chain.

  a genuine lump of rock from the summit of Foinavon.

  I picked up the crucifix and chain and popped them into my pocket before moving past Tukaal and unlocking the front door.

  As I stepped out into an unexpectedly bright morning considering the gloomy forecast of the preceding day, I was conscious of a single tear leaking from the corner of my right eye and rolling slowly down the side of my nose.

  I made no attempt to wipe it away.

  Instead, I instinctively looked up the street to where the Black Range Rover waited, and heard its engine kick into life.

  Once Tukaal was outside, I turned and locked the door of the house (did I touch the door one last time...? I’m not sure...I think I did...). We then moved quickly down the street to where my car was parked.

  As instructed, I placed my duffel bag on the back seat, got into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine (I’ve always wanted to say ‘gunned’ rather than just ‘started’ — it sounds much more manly).

  ‘Ready?’ I asked.

  ‘Ready,’ he replied.

  I checked the side mirror — the road wa
s clear so I began to pull out. As I did so, I saw the black Range Rover begin to do the same...only, as I pulled away, I saw in my rear-view mirror that the Range Rover had stopped.

  I heard Tukaal chuckle quietly to himself.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on,’ I requested as I moved towards the T-junction at the end of the street.

  ‘Yesterday, when I walked up to the black vehicle to give them their bugs back, that wasn’t a show of bravado. It gave me the opportunity to deposit some nanites into the vent above the engine. Overnight, they’ve moved into the vehicle’s computer system and, using this, I’ve shut it down....’

  We’d reached the T-junction.

  ‘Go left,’ he instructed.

  I did as I was asked and, as we passed by the entrance to the alleyway which runs up behind my house, we could see a man sprinting desperately towards us. I was a little bit disappointed to see that he was not wearing the dark suit, dark shoes and dark glasses which an archetypal one of THEM should (in my opinion anyway) be wearing. He was, instead, dressed in a light black jacket, tee-shirt, pair of chinos and trainers. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was clearly talking into a radio as he ran, he could have been anyone.

  ‘I’m really hoping that there’s only one car,’ Tukaal said, looking over his shoulder to see what the man was doing.

  Sure enough, the man had run back the way we had come and disappeared into my street, no doubt screaming into his radio for his colleagues to come and pick him up.

  There was some satisfaction to be had from the fact he was clearly agitated.

  ‘Okay,’ Tukaal said, still looking around for signs of a second vehicle, ‘I want you to drive to Sainsbury’s car park.’

  Which I did.

  Once at Sainsbury’s, I parked up. There was no sign of the black Range Rover, no sign of helicopters, no sign of anyone. Unless they were watching us with a satellite or some circling drone aircraft, we were in the clear...for the moment.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  ‘We just need to wait...get those caps out of your bag, will you, and get rid of the blue sweater.’