*
Terry Grey became a primary part of our lives on the evening of Shell’s twenty-third birthday, on a freezing cold November evening. Shell had convinced us to go out in town, but the eastern side of the South Greenfield high street wasn’t accessible due to a power cut. It had, however, left the western side of the high street up and running, so the pubs on that side of the long road, which were always subpar anyway, were crammed with both their regulars and some irregulars. Had there been no power cut, there’s no way we would have entered Ye Old Lamplighter unless we were threatened at gunpoint, chloroformed or dead – ideally all three.
The single room of the pub was hot and sweaty and everyone had too many coats because of the outside chill, meaning that the birthday celebrations were shaping up to be pretty crap as it took us twenty minutes to get served and then there was nowhere to sit.
When you’re eighteen, standing up in a pub isn’t a problem, but only a few years later the idea is intolerable. You find yourself wanting to be able to sit at a table and hold a conversation over your drinks at a volume that doesn’t tax your vocal cords.
Shell, Priti, the newly-introduced Art, a handful of Shell’s work friends and I were clustered under a mirror and right next to a speaker that blared out some godawful music from a singer I couldn’t name if given the option to ask the audience and phone a friend.
We were saved from a night standing next to our own reflections and struggling to be heard over the noise by a fight breaking out somewhere near the pub quiz machine. Although I don’t think anyone was quite sure what caused it or how it began, it soon rippled through more and more of the pub as people came to the aid of the two fighters and began throwing punches of their own.
The solitary bouncer, who stood outside the door looking like André the Giant’s body double, leapt into action and took it as his moment of glory, grabbing people by the collar indiscriminately and turfing them out into the street, which was soon awash with flashing blue lights. By the time he’d finished and quiet order had been restored to the pub, there were enough empty chairs and tables for us to get comfortable and feel that the night was not going to be a washout.
The drink flowed – quicker now that the queue at the bar had dissipated – and the evening continued getting better and slightly more raucous, although the bouncer kept popping his head in as if checking if he’d missed anyone. It was when there was another round of gin and tonics being imbibed that Terry made his appearance.
A nose broken from rugby was his only obvious physical flaw, after years of a strict gym routine, team sports and running. His opening line, however, left a lot to be desired, given that it was, ‘Can I take a picture of you so I can show Santa what I want for Christmas?’ It wasn’t even aimed directly at Shell, more in the general area of the table, but she was the first one to reply to it, if only because she melts in the presence of muscular arms.
I can’t remember what she said, but it was something quick about being on the naughty list or… I don’t know, I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Whatever it was, it was effective and she spent the rest of the night curling him around her little finger and not speaking to us if she could help it. This left us to get into a very intense game of ‘Never Have I Ever’ that somehow ended in such a manner that that evening gained two names, alternatively ‘The Night Shell Met Terry’ and ‘The Night Priti Lost Her Bra To A Seagull’.
Terry was folded into the group rather quickly and while he may have had difficulty in following the plot of one of the Mr Men books, he made up for his lack of imagination and intelligence with simple comradeship. He was in the military and through that had learnt the importance of sticking together, meaning that even before he had apparently worked out which one of us was which, he had our backs, supported us in every endeavour and through an unspoken agreement of loyalty became the person you called to pick you up when you were stuck somewhere thanks to a diverted train or one too many drinks. I liked him immediately, and always would.
Seven
Neither Bang nor Whimper
Catsby has curled himself up on Terry’s lap, as if knowing that he’s the only person in the room who doesn’t care for animals. We’re drinking beer and red wine, sitting on my sofas and on the floor, watching the news unfold on the television. Or rather, we’re watching the news not unfold, as nothing is happening. As well as the five of us from the café, and Catsby, we’ve also been joined by Ruby-and-Alex – she seems bright and breezy next to Alex, who is clearly still hungover – as well as Pete, one half of Peregrina-and-Pete. Peregrina is on a train down from Gloucester but knows what’s happened and will be along soon enough.
The Prime Minister has been on television with a message. Every country is having a briefing from their leader, I’d imagine. I have little faith in these men and women in expensive suits being the saviours of humankind in this situation. The plans I made in my teens on how to survive a zombie apocalypse begin to come back. Thankfully, during one particularly nerdy moment when I’d overdosed on end-of-the-world films during sixth form, I had tweaked the plans to also be able to deal with alien invasion, vampire infestation and werewolf plague. Sitting in my living room with a group of friends, drinking beer and being glued to the television wasn’t ever part of the plan. Right now, we should be defending ourselves from inside the Natural History Museum, where I know of a place that, to my mind, is the safest and most unobtrusive spot in London. I have, at least, stuck my phone on charge, in case we have to make a dash for it.
Despite the unreality of what’s going on, there is a frisson of excitement bouncing around the room, particularly between the boys. Men, from what I’ve noticed, all imagine that they’re secret agents and no one’s told them, or that one day the fate of the world will fall to them and them alone. I think we get it with the Y chromosome. If women feel like this, I’ve never personally known any admit to it, which is why I reckon we could sort out ninety per cent of the world’s problems if men would accept they’ve all been involved in a dick-measuring contest for the last four thousand or so years and put women in charge.
The Prime Minister, sweating and stumbling over his words, begs the country to stay calm (as if we’d panic – we’re British!) and says that more information will be given as soon as anyone is able to give it. He scurries back behind his black door and, no doubt, retires to some underground bunker. Art and I are scrolling through newsfeeds on our phones; Priti has my laptop up and running. We’re seeking out further information because the television is playing the same footage over and over again, the same ticker tape message passing along the bottom of the screen.
‘The Americans are really pissed off,’ says Art, iPhone in hand.
‘Because of the communication blackout?’ says Pete.
‘No, because they think the aliens should’ve chosen them for first contact,’ Art says, then laughs. He actually laughs – there’s an alien invasion happening and someone is laughing. Everyone is laughing. It’s unreal.
‘Typical sodding Americans,’ says Pete. I like Pete. At forty-one, he’s fifteen years older than us, which was a bit odd at first, but he’s seamlessly slipped into a friendship with most of us via Peregrina. He’s a huge bear of a man with an enormous brown beard and tiny glasses perched on a hooked nose. When standing next to him, Peregrina looks even thinner than she already is. Like her namesake, the peregrine falcon, she’s sleek and attractive, but also gives the impression that she could cut you down with a single word.
I like strong women – that’s why I’ve surrounded myself with them. Women who take no shit from anyone. I’ll say this for them, too – they have picked well with their menfolk.
After another hour, the news looks much as it did when we started watching. It’s like when a celebrity dies and there’s not really anything to say about it, but the news feels obliged to keep mentioning it and cutting to a man standing outside the deceased’s house.
After two hours, Peregrina has turned up and been fill
ed in on the events. She is a journalist and by rights should be the sort of person we go to for information on this. Tragically, she writes for a fashion magazine, which has about as much interest in the real world as a lion does in a garden salad. They’d only write about the apocalypse if a Kardashian released a range of underwear to mark the occasion.
After three hours we have, to be honest, become bored with the whole thing, watching out of a sense of duty. Lara calls to say that she and Steve have just heard about it, but the ship has already left port and they’re cruising out towards the Atlantic.
After four hours, Priti-and-Art make a move, followed not long after by Terry. Ruby-and-Alex depart with Shell, leaving me with Peregrina-and-Pete. We order Chinese takeaway and spend the evening eating, drinking and playing with Catsby. The television remains on in the background, but since nothing is progressing, we only give it the occasional cursory glance. I had always figured that an alien invasion would be more exciting than this. It becomes so mundane eventually that we play a game of Scrabble. Peregrina wins with 201 to my 186 and Pete’s 177. Catsby spends most of the game trying to eat a C tile.
We can’t be bothered to pack the game away, so it sits between us on the coffee table, tiles and symbols scattered like we’ve been divining with runes. Full of MSG and beer and out of conversation – I’m not telling them about Georgina because Peregrina won’t approve and she’ll ignore the more pressing events around us to give me a lecture – we turn our attention back to the television. The French President is on screen, his dulcet tones barely distinguishable under the English dubbed over him.
‘The French people are taking no military action against the landed object,’ he says. Or at least, the dub says he’s saying that. It occurs to me that he could be saying anything. ‘We are keeping an armed guard around it, however, to stop the public from approaching. We do not know enough about the object to allow people near to it.’
Footage is shown of Paris but it seems that even the French people’s interest has waned, and the crowds are far smaller than they were earlier. The world ends not with a bang or a whimper, but a disinterested shrug.
‘What do we do if it is aliens?’ says Peregrina.
‘Given humans don’t have a great track record of treating their own species with decency, whatever happens won’t be pretty,’ I say, nuzzling Catsby’s sleepy head with my knuckles.
‘Do you think they’ll not even bother coming out?’ says Pete. ‘Or they’ll scan the planet, realise we’re idiots and move off again?’
‘Maybe it’s some big marketing ploy by a film company,’ I say. ‘Paramount Pictures will reveal all tomorrow. I wonder –’
When I wake up, I’m sprawled on the floor, having fallen off the sofa. Catsby is pawing nervously at my arm, meowing, a hint of genuine concern in his tiny voice. I manage to get one eye open and see Peregrina and Pete in a similar state next to me, curled together but collapsed, like two victims of Pompeii.
The last thing I remember was a flash of mustard yellow attacking every single one of my synapses, invading my field of vision so blatantly I was sure I could smell and hear it as well as see it. I prise myself up from the carpet.
‘Guys? Guys, you OK?’ I say. My mouth is furry and dry. I look at the clock – it’s five past midnight, meaning we’ve been out for the best part of three hours. That wasn’t normal, and I can’t think what caused it. I was talking and now I’m here. It’s like someone has taken the film reel of my life and snipped out a few frames. Whatever happened in those few hours, they’re on the darkroom floor. The television is on standby.
I lean over Peregrina-and-Pete and they grumble and wince, untangle themselves and sit up. Sure that they’re in one piece, I turn the television on. The BBC One newsroom suggests the same sort of activity as in my house. The newsreader is leaning back in his seat, arms flopping to his sides. The camera is wonky and the words along the bottom have been replaced by a ceaseless HHHHHHHHHHHH, like someone passed out on the keyboard.
‘What happened?’ says Peregrina. ‘I saw a flash and now… what time is it?’
‘What flash did you see?’ I ask.
‘It was yellow,’ she says. ‘A dark yellow, unusual.’
‘I had the same thing,’ says Pete. He follows up with what I think is an inappropriate comment, ‘The same colour, Peregrina! It’s like we’re made for each other!’
‘Or something serious happened across the entire planet, as I had the same colour,’ I say, having absolutely no time for their gooey conversations. I flip through the television stations and everything is the same. The channels that were on live news, which was most of them, are now showing people in chaos, waking up and having no idea what happened.
Sky News appears to have woken up quicker than everyone else, so we stick to them. They cut to reporters in the field and the reality of the situation begins to dawn. The entire world went down during the Yellow Burst, as the media has dubbed it.
Shots of Paris reappear, streets full of people picking themselves up in confusion, and then things get worse. There’s no footage yet, but people are phoning in with reports of death and destruction. Every road in the world is gridlocked with crashes, as drivers passed out and their cars, vans and lorries careered into one another. Trains have collided and ships have hit beaches and each other, many sinking. Most planes kept going thanks to their autopilot systems, and many pilots are waking up either far off course, or just three hours nearer their destination, but not all have been so lucky. Any planes coming in to land or taking off have fared less well. In this country alone, none of the major airports are left functioning.
Disasters continue to pour in and we watch the news, fascinated again. At least five nuclear power plants have malfunctioned, people in intensive care wards the world over have died, and large parts of the Western world are without electricity or running water. Thankfully, we have those at least.
With literally nothing we can do to help any of the bigger situations in the world, we decide to call it a night. I direct Peregrina-and-Pete to the spare room with instructions to help themselves to breakfast in the morning, and I go to bed, Catsby curling up on the pillow next to me. For once, I allow it. On a night like this, I wouldn’t want to be alone.
Despite everything, I sleep well.
Eight
Yellow
There’s a text message from Lara when I wake up. The cruise ship is, as predicted, full of blue-haired widows and stiff old men who are blaming the Prime Minister for the Yellow Burst. They’d been in the bar the night before when it happened and woke up irritated more by the fact they’d both dropped and wasted their drinks. Peregrina-and-Pete stay for a cup of tea and toast, before heading home to shower and, presumably, try and get on with normality, or have sex.
A worldwide clean-up mission has begun, with millions of volunteers helping those suffering. Perhaps the arrival of aliens was the thing we needed to bring about peace. Governments are naturally concerned about what’s going on, and the news indicates that every single war on the planet has ground to a halt, the world’s militaries beginning to prepare for something else.
The media is trying to remain balanced, taking opinion from both sides. Brian Cox is on the BBC, talking about what this could mean for humanity, but on the other side Katie Hopkins is doing her bit for the brainless, saying that it’s a hoax and that we should carry on as normal, and that her children would never be allowed to befriend alien children. Twitter’s biggest global trending topics are ‘Yellow Burst’, ‘#alieninvasion’, ‘Paris’ and ‘Justin Bieber’, because some things never change.
Japan, as a nation that has spent forever being destroyed in fiction – and more comprehensively than any other country in reality too – appears to have the most advanced survival plans for alien invasion. The Vatican City is deserted as the Pope and his cardinals have hidden away to discuss the implications for religion in a universe where we aren’t at the centre. Hoax or not, the world is already irreparab
ly changed.
I call or text colleagues and friends I’ve not seen and, yes, they experienced it too. A thought strikes me and I pick up the phone and call Gavin, one of my most level-headed friends.
‘Is it important?’ he says. He’s as sharp as a nail, but talks like the hammer.
‘I take it you and Frederik had the same mess as the rest of us last night?’ I say. It’s a stupid question and he isn’t afraid to let me know that.
‘No, we were the only two people in the world who didn’t pass out,’ he snaps. ‘We stormed Buckingham Palace while you were all kipping and are enjoying the first day of our reign as joint kings of England. You idiot, of course we felt it too.’
‘Then here’s a question,’ I say, ‘If we saw yellow, what did Frederik see?’ Gavin moves away from the phone and I can hear him talking to Frederik. The latter comes on the phone, his Dutch accent softer than Gavin’s Scottish one.
‘I saw what, I presume, is your yellow,’ he says. ‘I don’t think much of it. I thought it was supposed to be cheerful, but it put me in mind of repression. It sort of appeared inside my head though, like someone was projecting it into my brain, you know?’ Frederik, like all blind people, could become an enormous boon for the science community. Maybe we’ll begin to understand more about it, if studying blindness ever becomes a pressing matter again. Right now, the world has much bigger things on its plate. Colour perception is a pea compared to the rump steak that is alien invasion.
‘Whatever this is that’s going on, it’s bigger than our own stories,’ he continues. He’s right about that. I always wanted to be the hero in a story, but now something is going on and there’s nothing any of us little people can do. I don’t have any superpowers. Gavin comes back on the line and our conversation dances around any mention of the craft, trying to pretend that everything is normal – Gavin has no time for fantasy and things that don’t fit into his logical world view – before he hangs up and I’m left in silence again.
The Third Wheel Page 5