Nothing. I bet she pulled out her headphones as soon as I couldn’t see her any more. And now, where she is, what she’s doing, she won’t even notice the ringing.
“Stop right there!”
I’m so surprised that I almost do stop. But then I swerve away and the only direction left to go is towards the bothy. My foot catches at the top of the ridge and I tumble over, which is lucky because I’m pretty sure the next shot would have got me if I hadn’t fallen.
Trouble is, there’s no stopping me now. I try and pull in my arms and curl into a ball as I bump my way down the hillside and down into the valley. Every few seconds I hear the smack of a gunshot. They’re coming from different directions. So there’s definitely more than one of them.
At the bottom of the valley I realise I’ve lost the rucksack.
Sod it. Time to bail.
The bothy’s not far away, but Gail’s on the far side. It’ll take me a while to get there if I go around the outside of the line of white stones. More to the point, I’m a sitting duck down here, if one of them farmers shows up on the ridge above my head. And that might be any time now.
I look along the line of stones curving away around the edge of the valley floor.
I look over at the bothy. It’s actually not that far away, as the crow flies. Except even if a crow did fly over that way, that Blighter would still do its thing on it and I’m not sure I want to be that kind of bird.
I can’t just stand here. There’s only two choices. I can race around the edge of the stones, or head to the bothy straight. But I feel like I’m going to regret whichever decision I make. That sort of makes it easier, in a way.
I run full pelt towards the line of stones. Straight over and through, that’s the way.
Then, at the last second, I turn and run along the outside of the line of stones, without even realising at first that I’ve changed my mind. I can’t let myself get caught up, too. Gail needs me to do the thinking.
Mud spits up near my foot even before I notice the slap of gunfire.
I put my head down and pretend I’m back at school doing cross country. I’d always want to stop, sure, but then Miss Clough would’ve been right on my arse and there were all sorts of rumours about her. So get your act together, Becky Stone. Keep running, you lazy bloody layabout.
Jesus, I’m unfit. My belly feels all tight and full of sicky stuff sloshing all around.
Fsshhh, there goes another shot. I feel it pull at my hair. Those guys up there are getting better. Or maybe closer.
I look up. I’m nearly at the bothy. Once I’m around the corner, I guess I’ll be out of the line of fire for a little while. It feels like I’m running in slow motion, but not like the replays on Sky Sports and more like I’m just actually slowing down, like I’m jogging because I’m not really about to be shot in the back of the head.
The line of white stones takes me right around the corner of the bothy. I should lift up my arms like the winner I am. A gold fucking medal to go with my Blue Peter badge.
Except I don’t feel like celebrating, because look, there’s Gail. She’s standing right up against the bothy with her whole body pressed against it. Her arms are stretched out and her fingers are digging into the loose cement between the stones. She’s moaning like she might just come right there and then.
I shout out her name.
She don’t move except to wriggle a bit against the wall. It feels wrong to be watching her acting like that. If ever there was a private moment, this is it.
The people they’re always interviewing on the news always make a big song and dance about how it feels, being near a Blighter. Even the most famous one in San Francisco, the one that hardly even works, people reckon they can still feel it. Then there was that other Blighter in the mountains between France and Spain, some old ski resort that the government cleared out lickety-split as soon as they realised what they were dealing with. People paid through the nose for a trip up there and then came back down the ski lift in floods of tears. Said they’d found God.
But I sure as hell don’t remember anyone mentioning creaming their knickers like this. So that’s either something to do with Gail or something to do with this particular Blighter. Maybe she was right. Maybe it is a special one.
Not like it hardly matters now. If me and Gail both get ourselves killed, it just don’t matter.
I crouch down and feel around for one of the white stones.
The first one I throw thunks against the bothy wall. It sounds almost as loud as the gunshots. Not that Gail notices.
The second stone hits her right on the shoulder. I wince. Gail’s head jerks forwards, smacking against the wall. She moans, but not in a bad way.
The bothy’s blocking the moonlight and now my eyes are adjusting to the dark. There’s a curly silver line on the ground, stretching all the way from Gail to near where I’m standing.
The rope.
Gail must have let the rope out behind her before she stepped over the white stones, just like she was supposed to. Which is just as well, because if I wander over that line I’ll be in the same sorry state that she’s in.
I give the rope a pull and it goes tight where it’s attached to Gail’s rucksack. She bends backwards a bit and laughs. I swear I’ve never heard a laugh so creepy and tinkly and wrong.
Another pull. It’s enough to make her take a full step back, but straight away she pushes forwards again, pressing her cheek against the stone wall.
This ain’t no time for a stupid tug of war.
I wind the rope around my right hand, round and round and round.
I give it one massive yank. It pulls the straps of Gail’s rucksack tight and she jerks backwards. She laughs again but she shouldn’t, because a second later she’s on her backside, more than a metre away from the bothy.
I turn away with the rope over my shoulder, like I’m a horse pulling a carriage, or dragging a witch along the ground, which is what they used to do, isn’t it? And Gail doesn’t half sound like a witch right now, moaning and cackling and giggling. I don’t want to see her being bumped across the hard, cold ground, so I just pull and pull without looking around.
I’m doing well. A few more steps and she’ll be safely over the line of white stones. Trouble is, the further I pull her, the further I am from the shelter of the bothy. I’m out in the open again.
I duck as another shot rings out. Still can’t see any of them farmers, but they’re close.
Another slap. Something nips the hand holding the rope. I make this yelping sound.
Christ. A near miss, but it fucking hurts. Looks like a piece of shot’s nicked the edge of the webby bit between my thumb and my pointing finger.
The rope’s slipping out of my knackered hand but I grab at it, because right now I’m a bloody hero.
I do one of them primal screams. It’s more to show I’m still in the game, not from the pain.
Another shot. These blokes just won’t stop.
The rope’s gone slack.
I turn around.
Gail’s still on her back with her arms and legs upwards like a beetle in a bath, or a wasp all woozy and warm. There’s rope coiled around her and on top of her. But it’s not attached any more to the bit of rope I’m still holding in my hands.
Seriously. Them farmers aren’t great shots, but they aren’t half lucky.
I drop the useless end of rope. What now?
I’m not going to leave her like this. I’m still thinking about wasps and that makes me think about Dad, even though I’m not all that sure why. I’m not going to leave her for dead.
I run back to the line of stones, like I’m in PE and working up to do the long jump. But then that deep-down part of my brain that’s cleverer than I am kicks in again. I stop with my tiptoes touching the stones. I can’t let myself end up like Gail.
I drop forwards onto my belly. My top half is over the line of white stones, inside the circle, and my arms are stretched out towards Gail. My fingers are
digging into the soil, almost but not quite touching her.
I try to make my fingers keep pulling me towards her.
Except it’s hard to keep remembering how important it is to get her back.
Because I feel it right away. That Blighter love.
I don’t find God, though. Not a peep.
I do feel what I’m supposed to feel, I swear I do. It comes up from my fingertips, the best kind of warm, like when you drink mulled wine and listen to Christmas carols, even if you’re not a religious type and you think God’s basically a twat and not even real.
The feeling creeps up on me, more and more. Fizzy and good. My eyes keep shutting and I kind of want to just keep lying here and enjoy this tickly, happy feeling. I know I’m in a real rush and all, but can’t I take a minute and enjoy this, just a bit? Finding a Blighter is like winning the lottery but better.
Gail laughs this tinkly little laugh. She’s still upside down, kicking her legs. She looks like a baby.
That thought gets to me.
Concentrate.
Fine, so Gail’s a baby. That’s what the Blighter did to her. And I ain’t her mum but she needs my help.
I wriggle forwards some more, further over the line of white stones. Almost there.
But my mind’s going bubbly and light. I start laughing too.
That wakes me up a bit. There are least two guys with guns back there and here’s me having a good old chortle. This is proper messed up.
I make a sound that’s half roar and half belly-laugh and I pull myself up onto my feet. It takes so much of my energy that I start stumbling forwards, way past Gail. I slap my hand hard against the stone wall of the bothy to give myself a jolt. It takes me a second to get my breath back, but then that glowy feeling keeps pushing at me from inside and I can’t trust myself. I dig my fingernails into the sharp stone but it feels soft like carpet, so then I headbutt the wall and that fucking hurts, at least.
I stagger back to Gail and pull her up by the shoulders. Her head’s lolling to one side. I can’t hardly see her eyes, because they’ve rolled all the way back. She’s grinning like a maniac.
“Gail, for fuck’s sake!” I hiss. No more laughing for me. All that bubbling inside is starting to feel more like a hangover than being drunk.
She don’t move a muscle, so I drag her towards the line of white stones. Another gunshot echoes around the valley but I’m pretty sure them farmers are just taking potshots. Or at least that’s what I hope.
We’re almost there. I’m praying that when we get over the line, Gail will snap out of it.
She’s doing this weird groan now. There’s another noise, too, but it’s coming from over at the bothy. It’s a wet slapping noise, like a water balloon ready to burst. What’s that bloody Blighter doing in there? A word pops into my head, a sex word, the same word that you’d use to describe what Gail was doing when I found her. Writhing.
Gail smacks her lips and closes her eyes. She looks as happy as I’ve ever seen anyone look.
But then she speaks.
“That’s enough,” she says in a quiet voice. “That’s enough, now. Please. Kill me now.”
6
WE KEEP OUR heads down.
Gail don’t feel like leaving the sofa. I never seen anyone watch so much shit TV. Channel 5 and Sky Living. Two mugs on the coffee table are full to the brim with fag-ends. I guess you could say she’s been living with me the last couple of days, but only because she can’t quite get up the energy to leave.
“Take me back,” she says.
I shake my head, like always. Just the thought of her all spaced out and drooly up there at the bothy is enough to give me the shivers. At least I know she can’t go on her own now. The keys to her Corsa are in my jeans pocket, digging into my leg. You won’t see me giving them keys back to her.
I fill up Gail’s glass with tequila. It’s what you might call a short-term solution. She deserves not having to be the barmaid for a while, though—not that she’s even set foot in the Beast, last couple of days. Who knows who’s keeping that place going right now.
“It’s bad for you,” I say, meaning the Blighter, not the tequila, though it might as well be both.
“It was the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me.”
“Didn’t look like it. You looked like a mental.”
Gail’s face does something complicated. “I was so happy, Becky. It was more happiness than I’ve ever known. That Blighter up there must be more powerful even than the one in Portugal. What they say is right. I’m not religious, but it was like looking into the face of God.”
That’s a bit much. First, I was there in that circle of white stones, too, for a bit, and it was more like drinking shitloads of cheap champagne really fast when you’ve crashed a wedding. Second, looking into the face of God just sounds proper awkward, like when opticians lean in close and they have gross coffee-breath but part of your brain tells you you should kiss them anyway.
I do remember the stories about the Portugal Blighter. As soon as someone let the cat out of the bag, all the locals buried it under this little church to stop other folks wandering too close. They made the circle—the radius, that is—smaller. They did it just after them American scientists proved that the happy calm feeling got less and less, the more people were allowed near to a Blighter. A one-way process, them scientists said. Let too many people have a go and the thing’s knackered for good. But the ones who did get into that church, inside the radius, they had a fine old time, giggling and rolling around. People looking through the windows said they saw them speaking in tongues.
“You told me to kill you,” I say.
“I didn’t know what I was saying,” Gail says, “and that’s not how I felt.”
We both sip tequila. I think I’m going off it.
Yesterday’s Westmorland Gazette is lying on the coffee table. They still keep up Dad’s subscription, even though I keep telling the delivery lad I’ve never read a word and all it’s good for is mopping up beer stains. Still, the paper catches my eye because there’s a picture of a Blighter on the front page, blurry like it’s been taken from far away. Gail’s drawn love hearts all around the photo in green Biro. I spin the paper to read the headline: What does Blighter border standoff mean for Cumbria? At first I panic and I’m looking for mentions of Lee and Owen, before I clock that it’s not any nearby border they’re talking about. It’s the border between bloody Canada and America, for fuck’s sake. The Wessie Gezzie always do everything they can think of to make world events relate to Cumbria, no matter how much they have to stretch the facts. Probably some local’s on their hols over there and we’re all supposed to be biting our nails about will they make their flight home alright?
“How about we go see the one up in Glasgow?” I say. I point to the bottom corner of the newspaper front page, where there’s a yellow flash and an offer for Blighter roadshow tickets for every reader.
She snorts. “There’s a reason they’re giving away tickets for free, Beck. That Blighter’s been around the houses. The roadshow’s been all the way round Europe in a truck and its buzz wore out even before it left—I don’t know—Greece, or wherever it came from. From what I heard, you’d hardly know it was even alive.”
Seems like nothing’s going to cheer her up. Nothing but our big old bothy Blighter.
After a few minutes Gail says, “It’s been nearly a week now.”
I’m just about to correct her—it was only a couple of days ago, belting back down the hill to find Gail’s hidden Corsa and shaking off them gun-toting farmers—when I figure out she’s talking about Ralphie.
“Still no word?” I say. I make an oh-poor-you face. It don’t go down well. She clams up.
I look over at the record player in its big old gramophone cabinet. The last song finished before I went to fetch the bottle, and now the arm’s thunk-thunking up and down in the runout.
Gail wipes her eyes and shakes her glass. It’s empty again.
“It’s alright for you,” she says. She puts down the glass, but instead of pouring more tequila I slide the bottle around the back of the sofa. I like Gail, and she’s more fun conscious. “You’re single. No worries.”
Just her saying that makes words come rushing out of my mouth without going through my brain first. “I’m more than single.” I wave a hand, meaning just look at this bloody place. “I’m proper alone.”
I blink a few times—no tears for me—and look around the room myself. The paintings—trains going through mountains and the like—are proper horrid, but I suppose Dad thought it made him look like a man of the world. The wallpaper’s even worse and I always said I’d strip it, but the money just disappears and a scraper costs more than a pint. The old gramophone cabinet’s the only thing Dad left me that I really love. He used to tell me about ‘Cat Man’ by Gene Vincent, and how his dad—my grandad who I never met—went apeshit when Dad brought home the record and stuck it on. There’s no volume knob on the gramophone cabinet or anything, so you just open the door wider if you want it louder. And Gene Vincent was fucking loud already and I can just imagine the cabinet jumping around all over Grandad’s parquet flooring while old Gene shouts and shouts and shouts.
“Jesus. I’m sorry, Beck,” Gail says. “Listen to me going on.”
Then she looks around the room too, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. I hold up my hand and shake my head, but she says it anyway.
“It was here, wasn’t it? This is where it happened?”
Seems like I can’t move, suddenly.
Gail looks more alive than she’s been for days. I’m not liking that nasty glint in her eyes. “Was it your Auntie Alice that found them?”
“Don’t say that name,” I say, hardly managing to open my mouth. “Not here. Seriously, Gail. Don’t.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
I can feel her staring at me ’til my cheeks get hot. I look up at the ceiling. There’s a discoloured patch up there where Dad once let me set off an indoor firework that turned out to be more of an outdoor one.
Gail don’t say nothing more, but it’s like I can hear all her questions anyway. She knows the start of the story and maybe the end, but not the why or how.
Invaders From Beyond Page 16
