The Kid Who Came From Space

by Ross Welford

  ‘No! My gran’s there.’

  As if on cue, I hear Gran’s voice from the direction of our house. ‘Ethan! Are you there?’

  ‘Behind the pub!’ I say, pointing. ‘Take her round behind the kitchen. No one will see you there.’

  This, then, is how I end up making friends with the strangest creature I have ever met. And it’s all about to get a lot stranger.

  This all happened in about thirty minutes: from when Iggy and I pushed our bikes up the driveway of the Stargazer, to him wrecking the press conference, to us standing face to face with a blood-soaked alien who – so far as we can tell – has just savaged to death a fierce German Shepherd and might do exactly the same to us.

  I hear Gran’s voice again. ‘Ethan! Where are you?’

  ‘Coming!’ I shout. I turn to Iggy and Hellyann. ‘Go round the side of the car park. Stay in the shadows. Come to the front door in five minutes. I’ll meet you there.’

  Iggy looks horrified. ‘You’re … l-leaving me alone? With this? What if she’s got a taste for blood? I’ll be next.’

  ‘Do not be concerned, Ikk-ee. I am a vegetablarian. I do not eat people or any mules,’ says Hellyann.

  ‘Any mules?’ Iggy repeats.

  ‘She means animals.’

  Iggy looks at her then shrugs. ‘My mum would approve. Follow me.’

  He slides into the shadows at the edge of the car park, followed by Hellyann, and I jog back through the snow to the house, where Gran is waiting in the doorway.

  And suddenly, just like that, I’m back in normal-land.

  ‘Ee, Ethan, love,’ she says as I walk up the path. ‘What was all that about? Your dad’s very upset. Where were you?’

  Oh, great. Even more trouble to be in.

  ‘Sorry. We were just … erm … having a snowball fight.’

  Gran purses her lips. ‘That Iggy character,’ she says and shakes her head. ‘Is it him putting all them daft ideas in your head?’

  We stand together in the doorway and Gran sniffs the air, a puzzled look crossing her face. I look back at her thin, red-cheeked face. Should I try again? Should I go for the ‘You’ve got to believe me!’ approach? Would it work?

  Her face softens a bit and her eyes crinkle at the edges. ‘Come on in, pet. And wipe your shoes: I think you’ve trodden in something. I’ll make some hot chocolate. There’s a concert by that Felina lass on Netflix – you know, she did that daft “Chicken Hop” song that you and Tamm—’

  She stops herself abruptly. I think she’s embarrassed, and she retreats into the warmth of the house and doesn’t see Iggy coming up the path.

  ‘Coming, Gran!’ When she’s gone I whisper to Iggy, ‘Where is she? Where’s Hellyann?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s in the pub’s toilet.’

  My jaw drops open. ‘She’s where? What are you playing at?’

  ‘She was freezing to death. I needed to get her out of the cold, somewhere she wouldn’t be seen. It’s fine. She’s locked the door to the cubicle.’

  I call back into the house, ‘I’ve left my phone in the pub, Gran! Back in a minute.’

  I don’t wait for a response. I’m already at the gate.

  ‘Come on! We’ve got to get her.’

  The pub’s toilets are located off the little entrance lobby, so we don’t have to go into the bar. Through the glass window leading to the bar room, I see Dad leaning against a stool talking to a police officer.

  Perfect. I’ll go in, check on Hellyann and then bring Dad and the policeman to see her. I know, I know – she said not to tell anyone but, honestly, what choice do I have? This is the only sensible option.

  Iggy and I both bundle into the loo, which is empty. There are four urinals along the wall and a cubicle.

  ‘Psst. Hellyann. It’s us,’ I say. I look under the cubicle door and see two feet in wellington boots. ‘Open the lock.’

  I hear it go back at the same time as the door to the toilet opens. In a panic, Iggy and I push into the cubicle and slam the door shut behind us as two men walk in.

  We hear them go to the urinals, we hear them unzip their flies, and we hear the trickle of their wee, while the three of us huddle together.

  Then one of the men lets rip with a big fart. Ordinarily, I’m pretty sure Iggy and I would have laughed, but neither of us is in a laughing mood.

  A moment passes, then the younger man says, ‘Oh my God! Was that yours, Dad? Can you smell that? What in God’s name have you been eating?’

  We look at each other in horror. The Geoffs!

  ‘Not me, son. It smelt like that when we came in.’

  It’s Hellyann they’re smelling. I had noticed it, but I guess I am getting a bit used to it.

  Suddenly, Iggy clears his throat with a deep grown-man’s growl. ‘Ahh-hmm!’

  The two Geoffs leave without saying another word – no doubt thinking that the offending smell came from the occupant of the cubicle.

  Iggy cracks open the door and looks around. ‘The coast’s clear.’

  ‘Clear for what? What are we going to do with her? I’ve got to get my … erm …’ I don’t say ‘dad’. I don’t want to alarm Hellyann.

  ‘I’ll check the lobby.’ Iggy hurries out to see if the lobby is empty.

  In the time that he’s gone, I look at Hellyann, bloodstained, shivering with cold. She’s got toilet paper wrapped thickly around her hands and stuffed into her welly tops – to warm them up, I suppose.

  It’s amazing how quickly thoughts can pass through your head. Am I simply going to march into the bar and announce to the policeman: ‘Here is the alien’? Everyone will look around and see her there. They’ll surely have to believe me then. I can trust Dad. I can trust a policeman, surely?

  Then Hellyann grips my arm, startling me. I turn to look at her strange, ugly face with blood dried into the downy covering of hair. She sniffs and gives a little shake of her head.

  ‘Please,’ she says.

  This is unnerving. It’s exactly as though she has read my mind, and I immediately feel guilty – but what else can we do?

  Her eyes are big and pleading, and I try to tell myself again that I’ve got no choice, and I’m succeeding in convincing myself, I think, when she says, ‘Do-do-do-do-do the Chicken Hop.’

  I’m amazed to hear the words of the song that Gran mentioned only five minutes ago. The song that Tammy and I used to sing to each other. Tammy loves that old song by Felina that is repeated every Christmas in every supermarket.

  ‘Do-do-do-do-do the Chicken Hop!

  Da-da-da-da-dance like you can’t stop!

  Do-do-do the Chicken Hop this Christmas!’

  It’s been in my head since Gran mentioned it. I stare at the creature in front of me, who looks back at me with her sad, slow-blinking eyes. Did she read my mind? Or was it just a coincidence?

  I don’t know how long I’m staring at her. Probably only a few seconds. But it’s long enough to know that I cannot betray Tammy. That I will do anything to get her back, and if that means keeping the secret of this creature for a little longer, then that is what I am going to have to do.

  At that moment, the toilet door slams open and Iggy comes hurtling back in.

  ‘They’re back!’ he says. ‘Get in!’

  We all squeeze again into the little cubicle as the Geoffs come back in and sniff loudly.

  ‘You’re right, Dad. That’s definitely the same smell. That thing’s been in here for certain.’

  The handle on the cubicle rattles. Iggy puts the seat lid down and stands on the toilet, helping Hellyann up too. The door handle rattles again.

  ‘Come on out. We know you’re in there.’

  Iggy points at my legs and mouths the words ‘pants down’, miming pulling down his shorts. ‘Just. Do. It.’

  So I do. He turns me around so that I’m facing away from him, and only then do I understand why, as I hear someone crouching down and see the top of a head in the gap at the bottom of the toilet door. Anyone lookin
g in will have seen a single pair of feet with pants around the ankles. He’s pretty smart, is Iggy.

  ‘There’s someone in there, Dad,’ whispers Geoff Jr.

  ‘Of course there is, Geoffrey. A bloody alien! And we’re gonna catch it. Do your thing, son.’

  The cubicle shakes as Geoff Jr kicks at the door, hard.

  And again.

  The third kick busts the lock and the door bursts open.

  The two Geoffs cram into the doorway of the toilet cubicle and stare in disbelief.

  What they see is this: two boys, one (Iggy) in a flat cap, massive woolly sweater and baggy shorts; the other (me) with his pants round his ankles, standing in a huge pile of toilet paper. A green sailing jacket lies on the floor.

  ‘Can we help you, gentlemen?’ says Iggy in his poshest-sounding voice.

  I can’t believe his cheek, but then again this is a boy who has spent a lifetime driving adults almost insane.

  The Geoffs look first at us, then at each other.

  ‘Where is it, you little toerags?’ snarls Geoff Sr, finally.

  With a massive effort, I force myself not to glance up to the little window where Hellyann clambered out, leaving the sailing jacket with me and discarding the toilet paper that had been wrapped around her hands and stuffed into her wellies.

  ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Iggy, sounding sincere. ‘But you’ve set back Ethan’s recovery by several months.’

  The older Geoff scrunches up his face and says, ‘What?’

  ‘He suffers from Lavatorial Anxiety Syndrome. Can’t visit public lavatories without risking panic attacks, right, Ethan?’ Somehow, Iggy has managed to make his voice sound both patient and annoyed, as though he is giving the Geoffs a telling-off.

  I start to tremble and say, quaveringly, ‘Y-y-yes.’

  ‘It’s been made worse by recent events. So I’m just in here, helping him, and you’ve ruined everything, including the toilet door. Ethan’s dad is going to be very unhappy with you. Especially if you’re bringing that into his pub.’

  Iggy nods downwards and I follow his gaze. Poking out of the bottom of Geoff Jr’s long coat is the shiny barrel of a shotgun.

  Whether it’s because of Hellyann’s disappearance, or being confronted by a kid telling them off, the Geoffs are rendered speechless. Do they believe him about Lavatorial Anxiety Syndrome? Whether they do or not, they probably aren’t going to risk being found having an argument with two young boys in a pub toilet, especially with one of them carrying a gun.

  At that moment, the door to the gents’ toilet opens, and the policeman who was talking to Dad walks in on the little scene. He stops and looks at us quizzically. At least I’ve pulled my pants up by now.

  Geoff Jr says, by way of explanation, ‘Caught these two stealin’ bog roll. But probably not the sort of thing to concern you, eh, officer?’ Then he turns to us. ‘We’re watching you’s,’ he whispers, and they both bustle out.

  The policeman knows who I am, and probably thinks that if I want to waste the loo roll from my parents’ pub, that’s my business. He says nothing, anyway.

  Iggy and I wait until the policeman is mid-wee then we leave as well, dumping the paper in the bin on the way out.

  Hellyann is crouched, hugging herself against the cold, behind a huge kitchen bin below the gents’ toilet window.

  She grabs the green sailing jacket from me and as she tries to pull it on, she nods gratefully.

  At least, I think it’s gratefully. I haven’t seen her smile, but perhaps they don’t. Or – more likely – perhaps she doesn’t have much to smile about.

  Iggy helps her on with the coat, like a kindly old man with his wife. As he does, his sleeve falls back to show his wristwatch, and I see with a twist in my stomach what the time is. I told Gran that I’d be right back.

  She was making hot chocolate. I know the routine. She’ll make it in the kitchen, then, holding a cup in each hand, she’ll open the door to the living room with her bottom and then chant, ‘hot-chocolate-drinking-chocolate’ because it was on some ad on TV ages ago …

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.

  ‘What? Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?’ says Iggy incredulously. ‘Come off it – you can’t leave me now!’

  ‘I have to, or … or …’ I’m not sure exactly what might happen, so I end up lamely, ‘or I’ll be in trouble.’

  ‘Like we’re not already? What are we going to do with our new friend?’

  Beside him, Hellyann stands shivering.

  I’ve already thought about this.

  First, though, I have to lie to my gran. I feel guilty with every letter I type into my phone.

  I am staying here. Sandra the FLO wants to ask me some more questions about Tammy.

  Honestly, it feels horrible dragging Tammy into my deception but I know that Gran won’t want to interfere with the police’s questions.

  Then I make the lie better by adding:

  Sorry about the hot chocolate.

  Extra for you! :)

  Enjoy the concert! Xxx

  Sometimes I really hate myself, especially now, when I am lying to my gran.

  Mad Mick’s Mental Rentals is the bicycle hire place fifty metres up the hill behind the pub, but it’s been shut since October half-term.

  Iggy explains. ‘Mick spends the winter surfing in Hawaii. I helped him to clean the place last summer and he lent me a Segway for a day in return. I’ve still got the access code. Cool, eh?’

  Hellyann watches him, saying nothing, as Iggy punches in the code. I hear the lock pop open, and we’re in. Iggy unbuttons his jacket and Suzy flaps out on to the floor. Hellyann remains expressionless.

  ‘No lights! We’re not supposed to be here, remember?’ Iggy says, so I take out my phone and turn on the torch. I give a low whistle.

  ‘Wow! Look at all these bikes!’

  It’s basically a huge shed with dozens of mountain bikes hung up on racks and workbenches for repairs. Above the sales counter is a head-high platform with a sleeping mattress, accessed by a ladder. At the end of the shed is a tiny kitchen and a bathroom, and that’s it.

  Mick has left the place very neat. All the workbenches are clean and all the bikes are tidily stowed on their hangers. Then we hear a strange ark ark ark.

  Hellyann is spinning a rear wheel by turning the pedals of a hanging bike and watching in fascination, making the strange, low barking noise.

  Iggy nudges me and chuckles. ‘Blimey, someone’s having fun!’

  Fun is probably not the right word. Fascination might be better. Her face shows no delight, just absorbed interest. Her eyes follow the chain from the pedal crank as it drives the rear wheel, then she sees us watching.

  ‘Picycle,’ she says solemnly in her raspy croak. Then: ‘I am hunkry.’

  In the corner of the shop is a switched-off vending machine. Iggy reaches behind it and it flickers to life, its big glass window revealing crisps and drinks.

  ‘Got any money?’ says Iggy.

  I feel in my pocket and bring out a £1 coin, a 20p piece and a rubber band.

  Iggy has a £2 coin.

  Hellyann leans in close and watches as we insert our money and a can of Coke, a packet of Cheesy Wotsits and a Mars bar tumble into the big collection hopper at the bottom of the vending machine.

  Iggy finds some bicycle lights with batteries in them beneath the sales counter, and he brings them to the little reception area, which is just some soft benches arranged around a glass-topped table. We plug in a fan heater that belches out dusty-smelling air that warms our feet but not much else. There’s also a camping lamp, an old-fashioned one, which Iggy lights with a souvenir cigarette lighter he has found. Hellyann flinches when she sees the flame, but then seems to relax.

  And there, in the eerie glow of two bike lights and a flickering camping lantern, we watch as Hellyann tries to eat the stuff we’ve given her, and she tells us who she is, and where she’s from.

  I really
think, without exaggeration, that it is the strangest thing that two human beings have ever heard, and that includes people who have heard Uncle Jan’s story of how he fought off a shark in the Bahamas when he was eighteen, which turned out to be mostly lies.

  As we open the packets of food, Iggy looks up and pats the seat next to him. ‘Sit down,’ he says to Hellyann.

  It’s incredible: we’re in a half-dark bicycle rental shop with what I’m by now almost certain really is an alien from outer space, and Iggy is behaving like Mam does when she’s on her best manners.

  ‘Why?’ says Hellyann.

  He glances over at me, then says, ‘All right. Standing is good.’

  So she stands there – a naked, hairy, humanish creature in Wellington boots, sniffing at the opened packet of Cheesy Wotsits.

  ‘These’ve got cheese in them,’ says Iggy. ‘It’s made from milk. Rich in, erm, healthy things and … other stuff.’

  Hellyann’s eyes widen. ‘Human milk?’

  Iggy’s eyes widen to match Hellyann’s. ‘No! Oh God, no! Cow’s milk!’

  ‘Do you not trink human milk? I believe you are “mammals” – your females produce milk and—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. We drink it when we’re babies.’

  ‘And then you change to trinking cow’s milk?’

  Iggy nods.

  ‘Why?’

  He pushes back the cap from his head and is deep in thought for a moment. Eventually, he says, ‘I think, erm … collecting human milk would be just too weird, wouldn’t you say, Tait?’

  I can only nod. I’m thinking: Why are we talking about this when I have a sister to rescue? Food can wait!

  But still Iggy and Hellyann are talking.

  ‘And what apout this?’ She points to the Mars bar.

  ‘That’s chocolate! Food of the gods, that is!’

  ‘You giff food to your gods?’

  ‘No! It’s just an expression. Although, now you mention it, I think some people might – you know, in other cultures …’

  This, I think, could take a long time.

  Hellyann tears off a bit of Mars bar with her long fingers; she sniffs it, puts it in her mouth then spits it out on to the floor.