Alien Abduction - The Wiltshire Revelations

by By Brian Stableford

  “Not really,” Steve said, honestly enough. “I wasn’t comprehensive-educated myself, so it seems like a strange new world to me, but real. I was only at the grammar, though, so my image of public schools is mainly based on cinematic depictions of Hogwarts Academy. I don’t think I could make it as an instructor in Defense Against the Dark Arts, alas.” It was supposed to be light banter, but Steve couldn’t help shuddering as he remembered the flying car from the second movie in the series. He had probably been the only person in the cinema who’d wanted poor Harry to remain at the mercy of the giant spiders. If Milly noticed the shiver she must have put it down to a slight chill in the autumnal air, although September had been unusually warm ever since day one.

  Milly didn’t show any conspicuous symptoms of an eating disorder when the pizza arrived, although Steve ended up eating five slices to her three, which he tried to do unobtrusively, without any apology or comment on his own greediness. Steve’s mobile didn’t vibrate once during the meal, even though it was ten o’clock by the time they left the restaurant. He didn’t know what to read into that absence. Did it mean that Janine was so busy on her management-trainee course that she hadn’t had time to ring him, or that she’d tried the landline at his flat first and had then opted to leave a message on the answerphone rather than ring his mobile number?

  “I can walk home from here,” Milly told him. “You’ll be heading in the other direction.”

  “Nonsense,” Steve said. “I know it’s not Friday, but you can’t walk through the pedestrian precinct at this time of night—too many binge-drinkers who haven’t quite reached the point of falling over in the gutter. Suppose you get spotted by someone you’ve given a ticket to? I’ll drive you back—it’s no trouble at all.”

  “Well, if you’re sure,” she said.

  “Janine would never forgive me if I didn’t,” he told her. “She may not have commissioned me to keep an eye on you, but she’d expect me to do it.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want you to disappoint Janine, would we?” Milly said, so lightly that Steve thought nothing of it, even when she invited him to come in for a quick coffee before he went home.

  He really did intend, when he crossed the threshold, to drink the coffee and go. He wasn’t quite sure, afterwards, exactly when or how the quick coffee had turned into a long slow screw up against the wall—and not in the harmless cocktail sense.

  * * * *

  By the time Steve actually got home it was after midnight, and the red light on his answerphone was blinking in a fiercely accusatory manner, of which he had not hitherto thought any mere machine capable. He only had to hear Janine’s voice apologizing for having missed him and wishing him a good night’s sleep, in a warm and affectionate tone, to feel that the world was dissolving beneath his feet and that he was about to fall into a very deep abyss.

  He didn’t ask himself what he had done, because he knew perfectly well what he had done, but he did ask himself, over and over again, why on earth he had done it, without being able to find any answer beyond the observation that it had somehow seemed like a good idea at the time. The reason he asked himself so repeatedly was not that he expected to find some further and more satisfactory answer if he only cudgeled his brain sufficiently, but because the repetition helped him to avoid moving on to the next question. That next question was, of course, what would happen now—”now” being, in this particular instance, the moment of Janine’s return to Salisbury. Steve had no alternative, however, but to move on to that uniquely awkward question eventually, and it preoccupied him for the whole of the following day.

  His Friday morning timetable was full up, so he had to mingle his tentative planning process with instructing year eleven in the heady delights of elementary optics—always a trial by fire, given that the only uses any of the pupils could think of for a convex lens involved magnifying one another’s less attractive features and focusing the sun’s rays on pieces of combustible paper—and teaching the sixth-formers about the arcane mysteries of the digestive system, all the way from the mouth to the colon. In the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising that his thought-processes became somewhat constipated.

  Steve wasn’t on duty during the lunch-hour, but his one chance to grab a solitary cup of coffee and make a little mental progress came to nothing when he was buttonholed by Rhodri Jenkins. “You look terrible, boyo,” he said. “Sylvia’s relaxation techniques letting you down, are they?”

  “Actually,” Steve said, “I’m getting some real benefit out of them. It’s just that today is a particular taxing one.”

  “End-of-the-week syndrome, eh? Never mind—got a date tonight, no doubt? A chance to get legless—or your leg over.”

  Steve made a face. “My girl-friend’s away on a course,” he said, without thinking. “Management training.”

  “Moving up in the world, eh? Good for her. Too many people your age are slackers. I know you all think the ecocatastrophe’s going to hit before you grow old but that’s no excuse for not trying to better yourselves in the meantime.”

  “Of course not,” Steve said. “I’m thinking of going for a public school position myself. Winchester, maybe. They have their own nuclear bunker, I understand.”

  “You’d stand as much chance of becoming Professor of Potions at Hogwarts,” Rhodri retorted, cruelly following a train of thought similar to the one that Steve had boarded the previous evening, before he’d somehow gone off the rails. “Sylvia may be a miracle-worker, but Jesus himself couldn’t turn you into public school material. It’s an ill wind, though—I need someone to supervise computer club tonight.”

  Steve realized, too late, that he’d made a ludicrously elementary error and violated the first rule of talking to the deputy head—which was never, under any circumstances whatsoever, to let fall the slightest hint that one might be available for extracurricular duties. “I can’t,” he said, reflexively.

  “Why not?” the Welshman countered, with deadly skill and entirely accidental accuracy. “Not two-timing the poor girl, I hope? Thought you’d had enough of that lark after Tracy and Jill.”

  “It’s Friday night, Rhodri,” Steve complained, “and I’ve got a bugger of a day. I’m back to the digestive system in five minutes, and then I have to explain the principle of the telescope to the terrible elevens.”

  “A nice quiet session in the computer-room is exactly what you’ll need to wind down, then. They’re no trouble, so long as none of them manages to get around the blocks and start using the head’s credit card number to download porn. Mostly, they don’t even try— too busy playing Grand Theft Auto. You can try to nudge them in the direction of something more wholesome if you want to, but it’s not compulsory. And you do get extra pay—help you save up for your first mortgage. You’ll need that if your girl-friend’s stepping up in the world. It won’t be just her office she’ll be managing, will it? You’ll be hooked, cooked and hung out to dry in no time.”

  Steve just managed to get “Can’t you ask...?” out of his mouth before the deputy head vanished, as expertly as any ghost in an academy of wizardry, leaving him well and truly stuck with the computer club once he’d finished failing to explain why telescopes allowed people to see further while microscopes only made things close at hand look bigger—a distinction he didn’t feel that he’d entirely mastered himself.

  Rhodri Jenkins was, however, right about the relative lack of mayhem kicked up by the computer users, who were indeed perfectly content to play violent games to while way the time. Steve tried to console himself with the thought that Milly was pounding the beat until six o’clock again, and that he couldn’t possibly make ay meaningful plans until he’d talked to her about the situation, and that he too, therefore, had nothing to do with the hours between four and six but while them away. Had he been able to absorb himself in the fiendishly difficult task of getting through to Level Two of Apocalypse Now or Slayride he’d probably have done it, but his position as a teacher-in-charge forced him to play th
e much less exciting game of Keep a Watchful Eye on the Little Bleeders instead, quietly envious of the twelve-year-olds who were probably through to Level Four of Faculty Massacre already.

  In the meantime, Steve had a certain amount of spare mindspace in which to consider his situation and get his calculative juices flowing. If Janine found out that he’d screwed Milly, she would almost certainly dump him. She had, therefore, to be prevented from finding out, if that were possible. Could Milly be persuaded to keep quiet? Quite possibly, if she didn’t want to let on to her best friend that she’d shagged said best friend’s boy-friend as soon as said best friend’ back was turned. Perhaps, in fact, Milly would be so eaten up by guilt at what she’d done that she would want to repress the memory and never speak of it again. On the other hand, perhaps she wouldn’t. Perhaps, in stark contrast, Milly now expected him to dump Janine, and form a couple with her. That wouldn’t necessarily be a worst-case scenario but it couldn’t qualify as a preferred outcome either. In any case, he wasn’t prepared to take on the burden of dumping Janine, not only because he didn’t want to do it but because it would make him out to be the bad guy—the vile seducer of his innocent girl-friend’s innocent best friend—and he was pretty sure that he wasn’t. Even if Milly couldn’t be condemned out of hand as a heartless scheming bitch, he was pretty sure that what had happened had been six of one and half a dozen of the other, with a helping hand from the inexorable logic of the unfortunately-stereotyped situation.

  No, Steve eventually decided, if Milly wanted or expected him to dump Janine, he’d have to refuse—which meant that he had to hope that she could be persuaded, if she hadn’t already made up her mind, to keep quiet. Perhaps, if she wasn’t consumed by guilt already, he could magnify whatever inclinations in that direction she might have. Would that be fair? Fair enough, he supposed, given that she really ought to be eaten up by guilt. After all, he was.

  At five-thirty Steve made his way home, which was a more-than-usually frustrating process because of the rush hour traffic, although he contrived to resist the emotional depredations of road rage. At half past six he called Milly’s mobile and asked if it might be possible to get together for a drink and a chat.

  “I’m just on my way home,” she said. “I’ve got to pop into Sainsbury’s, then I’ll need time to change out of my uniform. You can pick me up at seven, if you like.” She didn’t sound like a person eaten up by guilt; her tone was light and cheerful.

  Knowing that the occasion might call for a strong dose of alcohol, Steve left his car parked and walked to Milly’s flat. It was more than a mile away, but he had time in hand. The weather was clear and balmy, so it would have been quite a pleasant walk had the circumstances been different.

  He was five minutes late knocking on Milly’s door, but she still hadn’t changed out of her uniform. She smiled at him, but it was a friendly smile rather than a possessive or conspiratorial one.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Frightful queue at the check-out. It’s Friday night, so everyone’s stocking up on food and booze for the weekend—including me, I suppose, so I’ve no right to complain. Did you bring the car?”

  “No,” Steve said. “I figured that we could go somewhere local, if that’s okay.”

  “Fine by me,” Milly said, still giving not the slightest evidence that overpowering guilt might be corroding her inner being. “The Pheasant’s my local—it’s relentlessly old-fashioned, but very cozy. I bought some cans of cider at Sainsbury’s if you’d like to have one while I make myself decent.”

  Anxious to fortify himself for the coming ordeal, Steve agreed. Milly went into the kitchenette and came back with two cans, seemingly intent on keeping him company while she swapped her uniform for civilian dress and put some make-up on.

  Steve prowled around the room rather than sitting down, inspecting the items that he hadn’t inspected the night before. It only took him two or three minutes to check out the CDs in the racks and pass on to Milly’s computer, which was a five-year-old Compaq sitting on a wheeled desk neatly stowed away in the corner opposite the one in which the rowing-machine stood. After that he went to the window and stood looking down into the street, watching the pedestrians go by. Milly’s flat was on the first floor, so the elevation only gave him the slightest of frissons.

  He turned round when Milly’s bedroom door opened, and experienced a frisson of a different sort as she emerged wearing nothing but a towel. She waved negligently in the direction of the bathroom door, saying: “I think I’ll take a quick shower, if it’s okay with you. It’s been a long day, and the weather’s been unusually warm and sultry for September.”

  Steve contrived a nod. When he heard the hiss of the shower he decided that it might be better, after all, to sit down. By the time Milly emerged from the shower, he had finished his can of cider. After that, events moved on with a seemingly-relentless pressure of their own, one thing leading to another and all roads to the bedroom.

  Steve didn’t have much opportunity to study the books Milly employed in reading herself to sleep, although he did take note of the capaciousness of the bookshelf beside the bed. By the time he finally got around to beginning the chat he’d planned to have, they were back in the front room cracking open two new cans, and Steve was trying to figure out whether any of his prepared script was still viable.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, finally. “I only wanted to talk about last night.”

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Milly pointed out.

  “Yes,” Steve admitted, “but sometimes, they don’t make as much sense. Janine....”

  “Mustn’t find out,” Milly was quick to put in. “I only borrowed you. She doesn’t need to know. Not that I haven’t borrowed her things before, you understand—we’ve been friends for ever so long—but I’ve never actually borrowed a boy-friend, and she might consider that to be overstepping the line, especially after she ordered me to stop flirting with you last week. That was a bit unnecessary, I thought. Anyway, I’d certainly mind, if I were in her situation—and I speak from experience. Not that Jan’s ever borrowed any of my boy-friends, so far as I know, but Ali did, once. I forgave her, of course—Ali’s a slut, and can’t help it. Jan would probably forgive me—after all, she’s very fond of shrugging her shoulders and saying shit happens—but she might not. I’m not a slut, by the way. I’m very keen on people only parking where they’re allowed to park— but as I said, it’s always just a matter of time, once you’ve learned to drive. Anyhow, best keep it to ourselves. There’s no need for Jan to be upset unnecessarily. We’re friends, after all. Not that we’ve actually broken any rules, mind. It was after six o’clock, and Janine was in Brighton.” She giggled, but the laugh wasn’t as quite infectious as it usually was, in the circumstances.

  Steve clutched at the one straw that seemed capable of saving him from drowning. “She mustn’t ever find out,” he said. “As long as we’re agreed on that, we should be okay. You won’t lose a friend, I won’t lose a girl-friend.”

  “You shouldn’t look on the dark side, Steve,” Milly told him. “Think of in terms of gaining friends, not losing them. This time yesterday, you and I were just nodding acquaintances with one secret apiece. Now we’re the best of friends, with one apiece and one shared. Twice as rich—unless, of course, you’ve got some other secret I don’t know about, and some other girl-friend that Janine doesn’t know about.”

  “We shouldn’t have done it,” Steve said, dolefully. “You’re supposed to be Janine’s best friend, and I’m supposed to be her steady boy-friend. Can you imagine how she’d feel if she knew?”

  “Far better than you can, I suspect,” Milly retorted. “You could always confess everything, if you’d prefer that option. You could say that I seduced you, like some irresistibly wicked femme fatale. I’ll back you up if you want to do that. I’ve always wanted to be an irresistibly wicked femme fatale. I’ll tell her it was all my fault, if you like, and beg her forgiveness. She’s more like
ly to forgive me, if I confess that it was all my fault, than she would be to forgive you, if she thought it was all your fault, so we might just get away with it. We can play it that way if you want to—but there’s probably less risk in simply keeping quiet.”

  “It wasn’t all your fault,” Steve said, glumly.

  “That’s a shame,” Milly said, not at all glumly. “As I said, I always wanted to be irresistible, wicked and deadly. I think it’s a bit unkind of you to puncture the illusion. You weren’t thinking of trying to take all the blame yourself, were you? That would make me seem rather pathetic, don’t you think? I can’t let you do that. I’m a traffic warden, and I have the honor of the uniform to protect.”

  “So it’s all just a joke, is it?” Steve said.

  “No, it’s not,” Milly retorted, her face suddenly becoming very serious. “That’s almost as insulting as your trying to take all the blame. At least you didn’t say just a bit of fun. It was more than that, Steve, and you know it.”

  Steve took another gulp of cider, as he tried to focus on what seemed to be the one remaining issue to be settled. “Yes,” he agreed, for tactical reasons, “it was. But it has to stop there. We have to put a lid on it.”