by Mark Edwards
Andrew shook his head sadly. He smirked.
‘Oh, Richard, Richard . . . Can’t you see? This is why Marie couldn’t stay with you. You’re such a cynic. You don’t believe in anything, do you? Not a thing.’
Quietly, I said, ‘I believe in Marie and me. I know that I love her.’
Kevin sniggered.
Andrew came closer. ‘It’s not really love that you feel for Marie. Lust, yes, and who can blame you? She’s very attractive. As a lot of people have seen.’ He looked at Kevin, who blushed. ‘And maybe you think you love her, but you could never love her as much as I do, as much as the Chorus do. And if you really did love her, you’d be happy to let her go.’
‘If you love somebody set them free?’ I said with a sneer.
‘Exactly.’
‘Crap. If you love somebody you want them near you. You don’t want to let them go. You want them beside you, to share everything with you. That’s how I feel about Marie. You’re the one who’s keeping her prisoner. Why don’t you let her come outside and talk to me? Because you know she’ll want to come home with me.’
‘She’s happy here,’ Kevin interjected. ‘She loves it here. She loves us all.’
‘You’re her family, I suppose.’
‘That’s right.’
We were silent for a few moments. I could see faces at the windows, but I couldn’t make out Marie among them. I had found her at last, but I couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t see her. Anger and frustration eddied inside me.
‘I’m not leaving until I can talk to her,’ I said.
‘No,’ Andrew replied. ‘That isn’t possible.’
‘How would you feel,’ I threatened, ‘if all this were to appear in next week’s Herald? “Alien cult members hide out near Eastbourne. Internet porn circle smashed by police”.’
Andrew laughed. ‘I couldn’t care less what you put in your pathetic newspaper.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Andrew raised an eyebrow. ‘Look at me, Richard. I’m hardly trembling, am I?’
I stepped towards him, looking at the shotgun from the corner of my eye.
‘You ought to be afraid,’ I said. As I spoke, a young woman came to the doorway. I recognised her immediately. Cherry Nova.
Andrew looked over his shoulder and shooed Cherry back inside.
He turned back to me. ‘Who am I supposed to be afraid of? Gary Kennedy?’ Though as he said this, there was a flicker of fear in his eyes that betrayed his true feelings.
‘He’s dead,’ I said.
Andrew raised both eyebrows and smiled broadly. ‘What good news. How did that happen?’
I explained: ‘He followed me to America, looking for Cherry. The Loved Ones murdered him.’
‘Well, well. Good for them. And you’ve been to Oregon? Goodness, Richard, I’m mildly impressed. How did you get on with Lisa? A little darling, isn’t she? I trust you were faithful to Marie while you were out there.’
My face betrayed me. Of course, I hadn’t actually been unfaithful to Marie, but I had come so close.
‘Oh! So you weren’t so in love with Marie that you could keep your hands to yourself? Tut. How disappointing. Don’t tell me you screwed Lisa? That would be impressive.’
‘No. No, I—’
‘And I expect it was Pete who told you where to find us. I knew we should never have let him leave here.’
I opened my mouth to speak but Andrew said, ‘I’m getting bored now. I’m going to go back indoors. I’ve got a lot to sort out.’
He walked back to the door of the farmhouse. Before going inside he said, ‘This is goodbye, Richard. We won’t meet again. Kevin and Philip will escort you from the yard.’
He went inside.
Philip lifted the shotgun again and said, ‘You heard him.’
‘Marie!’ I yelled, peering desperately at the house.
‘Come on. It’s time to fuck off.’ Philip jabbed the gun towards me.
I had no choice. I turned around and walked as slowly as I could out of the farmyard, past the chickens and through the rusted gate. Halfway up the path I turned around to look at Kevin and his shotgun-toting companion, but they had been swallowed up by the mist.
There was only one thing I could do: go home and get reinforcements. I would talk to Simon, buy a baseball bat, a knife and a torch, and go back under the cover of darkness. I had to get into that house, find Marie and take her home. And if all else failed I would go to the police. I would tell them that Andrew was holding Marie against her will. I knew that they still wanted to talk to me about Simon’s beating, which would lead to all sorts of awkward questions about Gary . . . I needed to report his murder anyway, should have done it before I left America. But I had been too worried about being detained, and I was still scared that it would be my word against thirty Loved Ones.
I would have to risk it, though. I would go to the police – I had no choice – but I was still concerned they would slow me down, ask loads of questions, stop me getting to Marie. I was scared Andrew was going to do something to her. I had to get back to that farmhouse as quickly as possible.
I got in my car and headed back towards Hastings. It sickened me to think I had been so close to Marie and yet was going home without her. Only a pane of glass had separated us, and she had looked so beautiful, a ghost at the window. There were hot and cold currents of air blowing through my chest, a dryness in my mouth. Driving was difficult, but I made it home before dark.
I opened my front door and kicked aside the small pile of post. I sat down on the sofa. I had been awake for over twenty-four hours, and with my emotions up and down and all over the place, I was shattered. My mind was still fizzing and zipping around, but my body had given up. It didn’t want to do anything except sleep.
‘No,’ I said aloud, as a yawn tried to surface. I would get out of this ridiculous outfit, drink more coffee and then go and get Simon. He would help me. After everything – all the animosity there used to be between us – he had turned out to be a good friend.
I went upstairs to get changed. Dusk had fallen and the streetlights were beginning to come on. In the half-light I undressed. I was too weary to stand. I sat on the bed and pulled my socks off. I could feel sleep clawing at me, trying to pull me under. I closed my heavy eyelids, forced them open. But I couldn’t do it. I felt myself slipping into sleep, my body betraying me.
I was gone.
24
I watched the spaceship descend. It broke through the underbelly of the clouds in a haze of colour: red and green and violet and white. The colours flickered in random patterns around the base of the ship, which was black and shone like the armour of some great beetle. I was rooted where I stood, my car parked out of reach, beyond the next field. There was nobody else around. I was alone.
There was no sound from the ship. It descended in silence, an eerie quiet that made me clasp my hands over my ears. The circular base of the spaceship came closer, and in a smooth, fluid motion, four huge legs unfolded themselves from the undercarriage, as if this was an organic structure, a living being, and a few seconds later the legs touched the Earth. The ground shook a little, barely enough to register on the Richter scale, but enough to make me lose my footing and fall down.
I lay on my back, sick with terror, looking up.
They had landed. It was all true.
For a long time nothing happened. I was frozen, unable to lift my body from the ground. Along with the terror was a sense of wonder, and one of privilege: they had chosen me. I would be the first to make contact. Perhaps they would ask me to be their spokesman upon Earth, to spread their message of peace.
If it was peace.
Because what if it was war that they wanted? What weapons did they have? I pictured tripods and death machines, death rays demolishing the streets, cities falling, mankind massacred. We would be their slaves. Or food. All these movie images of acid blood and evil eyes, of malevolent intelligence – these images paralysed me.
> And so when the hatch swung open and a bright light appeared in the belly of the ship, I tried to scream.
It caught in my throat and I swallowed it.
Shadows were cast in the doorway; dark figures that peered at the landscape. Had they been here before? Was this their first visit? And would I be the first human they had come across? An instinctive fear told me to run, and with an unprecedented act of willpower, I rose to my feet, just as two of the visitors began to descend from the ship. They floated down without the aid of steps or other visible means. As soon as they touched the soil I uprooted my legs and ran.
I hurdled barbed wire. It caught on my trousers and made me fall, my hands ripping on the wire. I cried out in pain then examined my palms. Blood poured from open wounds like stigmata. I clenched my fists and ran on, across the field, the sky turning purple above me, a cold wind pressing against me, trying to force me backwards. I knew the aliens were behind me, but I didn’t dare turn round.
Shortness of breath pricked my lungs, but soon I would be at my car. Just over the crest of the hill . . .
Across another barbed wire fence, more carefully this time though; the wounds on my palms had healed. There was no trace of blood, no scars.
I looked up from my examination of my hands and saw them:
A dozen or so humanoid figures walked in a line towards me, blocking my escape. They wore cloaks and hoods. A small figure near the centre of the line stretched out an arm.
‘Come with us,’ it said.
I jumped up from the bed and checked my watch. It was still set to Pacific time. I turned to the alarm clock. It was half-eight. I had slept for more than twelve hours, and my head still felt heavy with jet lag. And Jesus, the dream . . . It had seemed so real.
I peeked out through the curtains, just to make sure no spaceship had landed during the night. Then I thought: Marie. I had to get moving. I needed to get back to the farmhouse. On the way I would buy weapons, whatever I could find. I needed a gun, but I had no idea where to get hold of one. Or maybe I should go straight to the police after all. I couldn’t think straight. I decided I would phone Simon. He would know what to do.
But first I had to get ready. I ran around the house in a disorganised flap, washing the stale sweat from my skin, getting dressed, shoving biscuits into my face. I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. I visualised what I wanted to happen. I wanted Marie to walk out of that house and choose to come with me, to walk past Andrew and his gun-toting friend and wave goodbye to them. We would link arms and I would walk her to my car. Then I would bring her home.
I sat on the sofa with the intention of calling Simon. I noticed that I had a new voicemail. I pressed play.
A female voice said, ‘Check your email,’ then hung up.
I ran across the room to the PC. It had been Marie’s voice. Unmistakably her. The voicemail had been left at two o’clock that morning, while I was unconscious upstairs, deep in REM sleep, deaf to the sound of the telephone. Fuck! My stupid body, letting me down when I needed to be awake and alert.
I switched on the PC and went into my email account. The internet was infuriatingly slow. I banged the monitor, shouted, ‘Come on, come on.’
There it was. At the very top of my inbox, a new message from her. From Marie.
25
Dear Richard
It’s been such a long time, I really don’t know where to start. Perhaps with sorry, though I don’t think that word could ever be enough. How can five letters make up for the way I’ve made you feel? I just hope the words I’m going to write go some way to make you see why I did what I did. Why I had no choice. Maybe then, I hope, you’ll be able to accept it, and forgive me. I hope.
A few hours ago I watched from the window as Andrew and the others forced you to leave. I could see the anguish on your face. It hurt me, Richard. Right here in my heart. I wanted to run down into the yard, to put my arms around you, hold you for one last time. But I knew that if I did you wouldn’t let me go. You would ask me to go with you, to leave Andrew and the others.
“Come home with me,” you would say. And I might not be able to resist.
That was my fear.
Because I do love you. I know that must be hard for you to believe. Would I believe you if it were the other way round? I don’t know. I really don’t know. But leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.
Those hot, summer months we spent together . . . They were sublime. Beautiful times.
I remember so much. That night we first met. I thought you were gorgeous, and when I spotted you later in the club I made my friends hang around outside for ages, waiting for you to come out. I didn’t want to approach you in that horrible meat market. But I wanted you to walk me home. I could almost have invited you in that first night, but well, you know! A girl doesn’t like to appear easy :)
Do you remember when I was late for our first date? I really did plan to be on time but then I bumped into Andrew in town. You remember we were arguing? I told you it was about what time we were going to go to the convention. That was my first lie to you. Really, we were arguing about you. Andrew said it was too dangerous for me to have a boyfriend. He said it would get in the way, present difficulties later. He was right. But at the time I was angry with him. I thought it was jealousy ( yes, Andrew and I were lovers, once), and his opposition made me more determined to go ahead. It was the first and only time I have acted against Andrew’s wishes.
Richard, if I had known the pain we would go through later, I would have stood you up that first day. But I couldn’t help myself. I went ahead. I fell in love with you. And that nearly fucked everything up.
No doubt you are fixating on my statement that Andrew and I were once together. I know what men are like. But it was a long time ago, when we first met, and I swear to you, there is nothing sexual in our relationship now. He is my best friend, my teacher, my guide. Yes, I love him. But it is not a physical relationship now. I know that’s the kind of thing you would worry about, so I hope this puts your mind at rest, on that point at least.
But you must have loads of questions. I would love to be able to sit down and talk to you, face to face, but like I said, it’s impossible. Too dangerous. You might try to persuade me. But I will try to explain things as best I can. I’ll start at the beginning:
I met Andrew when I was sixteen. I was still at school, but already I had come to believe firmly in the existence of extraterrestrials. I didn’t have any real friends at school – they thought I was weird – plus my dad had left and my mum had withdrawn into a spiky shell.
I’m not even sure what got me interested in the visitors. A TV show, a library book? But I do remember reading something online about the vox celeste. And when I concentrated I discovered I had the gift. I could hear it! The voice, the singing, the abstract music. It made me feel special, when nothing else did.
I was a member of several forums and groups online, where experiencers and believers could chat. After I’d been on one these forums a while, I got a PM from Andrew, asking if we could meet in the flesh.
We met in a café in Eastbourne. He was older than me, yes, but I liked that. He was a real man, so unlike the little boys at school. I guess, if you want to analyse it, he reminded me of my dad, or was filling a ‘father figure’ void in my life. The reason he wanted to meet, he said, was because I’d mentioned hearing the vox celeste.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who can hear it too,” he said. He told me there were people in America who could also hear it, but he thought he was the only one in Britain. He said the fact that we lived just a few miles apart showed it must be fate. We were meant to find each other. I believed him.
My mum didn’t approve of Andrew. She said he was too old for me. I told her we were just friends, but she didn’t believe me. She turned out to be right. Andrew said that to cement our bond, to strengthen our aural capacities, we should become lovers. He said the voice had suggested it. I though
t I had heard something too, although being a young stupid schoolgirl I had resisted it. Sex was the unknown. It frightened me. But Andrew was so gentle, so caring. And when we made love it did make the voices grow louder. They were amplified tenfold. It was almost deafening.
I stopped reading for a moment, realising that my fists were clenched with anger. I felt overcome with sickness. Andrew had ‘seduced’ her when she was a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, exploited her beliefs, just as I had suspected. I wanted to kill him.
I read on.
I left school and home at 16 and moved into Andrew’s flat.
Through our online activities, we came into contact with the Loved Ones, and Andrew flew out to Oregon to meet Lisa and Jay. He came back inspired. He spoke of setting up our own branch of the Loved Ones, in preparation for contact. Samantha – Andrew’s ex-girlfriend – was always popping round, discussing things with Andrew for her books. And there were others too: Philip, Jacqui and Melissa. The girls were both around my age – they’re with us here now, in fact.
After the disaster of my family, it felt so good to be part of something. For the first time in my life I felt like I belonged.
A few months after his return from Oregon, Andrew said we needed to make money. “The Loved Ones have discovered a clever way of making cash,” he said, and he explained about the erotica.
At first I was really opposed to the idea. It was pandering to sickos, the kind of people who gave us a bad name. But we were desperate for money to buy a house where we could live undisturbed, and although we earned some money from the consultancy, and Samantha made a fair amount from her books, we needed more. So I agreed.
Kevin told me you found the pictures. I’m not proud of them. I agreed to it for the greater good, and the pictures and the videos, which featured some of the other girls, did bring in some money. Andrew came up with the name Candy for me, and it could have been the start of a whole career. But after a few months I said I wouldn’t do it anymore. I felt a deep sense of shame, of self-disgust. I was terrified that my mum would find out. So I refused. I felt like the photos had stolen some of my soul. I developed a phobia of having my photo taken at all.
