Terror Firma

14. Mail

Dave sat in the shabby motel room, staring at his laptop computer screen, sipping warm flat beer, seriously considering suicide.

In truth he didn’t ‘seriously consider suicide’. He didn’t have the bottle to do anything that would have annoyed his mum that much. Flirting with suicide was just the sort of thing he liked to think he did from time to time, a bit like cleaning the fridge or having sex with another person present. It fitted his perception of himself as a tragic hero. But it was getting harder to dodge the inescapable conclusion that he had the first part of that ambition down pat, while the second eluded him like the smallest piece of soap in a very big and cloudy bath.

His and Kate’s love was not doomed to failure because of some unbridgeable class divide, nor an incurable fatal illness; it was doomed because one half of it wasn’t really interested in shagging the other. But that didn’t stop Dave’s gothic daydreams continuing to roll on and on in a grainy black and white film noir.

When he had been a teenager Dave had been heavily influenced by a certain type of eighties band; the sort that wore baggy black jumpers, stuck daffodils down their pants and wrote morose songs about their girlfriends getting flattened by JCBs. Listening to this kind of music hadn’t made Dave feel any better about himself, it had just convinced him that somewhere, someone with a silly haircut was more depressed than he was. This would help for a while, until he began thinking that – at that very moment – the apparently dour mop-haired waif was no doubt hammering his sports car around LA as he siphoned champagne from a groupie’s navel and snorted cocaine through a rolled-up royalty cheque which could have kept Hendrix in purple haze long enough for him to be reclassified as a new type of meteorological phenomenon. This sure knowledge tended to throw the pop star’s professional depression into stark contrast with Dave’s purely amateur, yet far more profound, melancholy state.

So Dave had come to the painful conclusion that there was only one thing more depressing that being young, sensitive and celibate; that was to be young, sensitive, celibate and listening to a mopey record. This horrendous state of affairs was in no way mitigated by his perception that everyone else on the surface of the planet was humping away like it was going out of fashion, including the dewy-eyed singer – who was currently droning on about how tough life was, coming from his home town and being unemployed – unless of course you happened to be in a chart-topping band, in which case it was much, much worse.

Back then Dave had only one refuge from this heady mix of sixth-form poetry and synth-based pop. Taking a copy of Busting Out All Over – Underwear for the Larger Lady, he’d retire to his room, if not exactly to spank the monkey then at least to give it a jolly stern talking to. Thankfully these days he had more meaning to his life, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself. The pages of ScUFODIN Magazine would wait for no man, not even if he was the victim of unrequited love and what Dave was fast coming to believe was a vast and awesomely subtle hoax that made a mockery of his entire working life. In the absence of a suitably morbid record, or any mail-order catalogues for that matter, Dave got back down to work.

Currently he was attempting to type up an account of the previous night’s UFO event, if you could go so far as to call it that. It was a tried and trusted routine he always performed after one of his ‘encounters’, as he liked to call them. Best get it down while it was still fresh in his mind.

But it wasn’t just the infuriating vagueness of last night’s incident which had him depressed. Dave was no stranger to the intense feeling of anticlimax which often followed a sighting – this went deeper than that. He had often reflected how UFO watching was much like being in the infantry in time of war; ninety-nine per cent stupefying boredom, one per cent shirt-drenching panic. After any fleeting high came an equally dramatic and far less fleeting low. The growing suspicion that someone, somewhere, in a darkened room, wanted it that way didn’t help in the slightest.

With a heavy sigh Dave concluded that this depression, like most of his others, could be traced back to a far less mysterious source. For the ninth time that day he checked his email to see if Kate still cared whether he lived or died. The answer on this occasion was no different from his previous eight attempts to will his incoming mail prompter to go ‘ping’. Not for the first time that day he re-read her last message.

Dear Dave,

Hope you’re enjoying yourself as much as I know you are able. Have you met any other Californian beach babes yet? I do like a spring wedding.

All hell’s broken loose back home. Have you heard the news of what went on at Glastonbury? It’s all people are talking about over here.

All hell’s broken loose at work too. After one of the most nauseating shows I can remember we’ve started researching a special one-off to go out in just a few days time. Word’s come down from the very top that we have to be on-air ASAP. It’s to be the usual format, Mr Sunbed-Tan and a studio full of ‘real people’ queuing up to have their insanity beamed out for all the world to see. But this time, the subject matter will interest you. We’re getting an audience together of folks who claim they’ve seen flying saucers. You know, ‘I’m having an alien’s love-child,’ that sort of thing, all the stuff you’re into.

Went over to the west country the other day to interview a farmer with a funny tale. I’ll pass on the details when you get back. Perhaps you can line me up some other cranks to swell the ranks. You must know a few? It’s appalling that my ‘career’ has come to this. Thinking of you as I scan the appointments pages.

Love K

x

P.S. Give me a chance to reply, why don’t you. Some of us do have better things to do than sit in front of a computer all day typing emails – even if we aren’t on holiday.

When he finished it Dave re-read it a second time. It was hard to focus on her sudden interest in Ufology, or the latest rock-and-roll PR stunts, with such a clear subtext underpinning her every word. Was it his imagination or were there signs of a subtly increased level of affection tucked in there? Of course she always ended with ‘Love K’, though this time he got the sense she’d wanted to say much, much more.

But wait a minute, she had only signed off with a single lower-case ‘x’. All last week she’d used capitals, and on Wednesday she’d used three. Dutifully Dave got out the small notebook he carried with him everywhere and entered this month’s total email kisses. At home he had a wall-planner solely devoted to graphically charting the perceived fluctuations in her affection; it would be filled in on his return.

It was at this moment that Dave concluded, not for the first time, that he was a very sad individual indeed. Yet if he could recognize that fact, didn’t that mean he wasn’t so sad after all? Or, alternately, all the sadder for being unable to do anything about it? Catching himself before he could slip into one of his all too unproductive bouts of doubt and self-loathing, of which this was just the relatively mild first stage, he composed another reply to the woman of his dreams. The fact that he’d sent three now without response didn’t deter him for an instant.

Dear Kate,

As you know, the trip so far has been a resounding success. Obviously I can’t go into details over an open channel, but I know you’ll be enthralled when I show you my snaps of Area 51. The up-coming show on ‘The Phenomena’ sounds good – glad to see you’ve finally taken an interest. Perhaps you can get me tickets.

The people over here are so friendly I’ve hardly had a moment to myself. Despite the impression I might have given in my last note, I’m just friends with April and Nadine. I’m meeting them both for drinks later. Who knows where we’ll end up – probably back in their jacuzzi again. Gosh, they wear me out.

Gotta run, I’m giving a speech to the Nevada State Saucer Convention. I’ll have to write it in the limo they’ll send to pick me up.

Love as always, see you soon,

Dave

He didn’t put any ‘x’s’ on the end of his mail. Despite the overwhelming emotions he felt for Kate, Dave couldn’t bring himself to remind them both of it at every opportunity – there was only so much his fragile ego could take. She knew how he felt about her, and he had no desire to appear as desperate as he actually was.

Dave felt no guilt over the little white lies he told to spice up the trip, Kate would see through them immediately. What was important was that Kate knew she hadn’t entirely crushed his heroically indomitable spirit.

Dave was startled by the melodic chimes which signified incoming mail. For one second he thought it might be from her – wasn’t she getting eager? But when he saw the address his heart sank. It was undoubtedly junk-mail advertising some sordid anatomically-minded site. Who had ever heard of Alien@Outerspace.org anyway? Already filling with righteous indignation, he clicked open the message and read it, waiting to be incensed. He wasn’t to be disappointed.

Greetings Earthling,

I am an Alien. Hard to believe I know, but in this case completely true.

If you want to meet up, I shall be at the Hungry Dog Diner, at the junction of Lincoln and Twelfth Street, for the next two hours. It’s not far from your motel – get back to the main street and walk three blocks west. When you arrive my companion will make himself known to you.

I need your help. Please come quickly, and be sure to come alone.

Yours,

An exotic Friend.

Dave snorted in disgust. Another feeble practical joke. He was reminded of the wave of obviously faked photographs his magazine had been sent over the previous month, and of that ridiculous Glastonbury stunt – the lengths some hoaxers were prepared to go to made him shudder. Advanced alien civilizations no more used email to communicate with mankind than they used crop circles or thirteenth-century Mayan tomb carvings, despite what some of Dave’s esteemed colleagues might think. That some spotty thirteen-year-old hacker had obtained details of his personal account was only slightly less preposterous than the notion that aliens resort to 3D Martian landscape graffiti to get their message across.

When it came to his life’s work Dave had a very poor sense of humour. He’d met enough cranks in his time to take his privacy just as seriously as he took his UFOs. They’d be at the diner all right – hunched in some dingy corner, sniggering into their crusty keyboard laptop. He meant to find the individual responsible and give them a very stiff lecture on responsibility in this wired world. After all, he was a busy man. Or at least he would be if the Nevada State Saucer Convention ever actually phoned.

Even so, despite his best efforts Dave couldn’t help a tiny buzz of intense hope charging through his veins. There was always the million-to-one chance that this tip-off was genuine. If he didn’t check it out he’d never know for sure. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do. Grabbing his shades and wallet, Dave hurried to the door.

15. Rendezvous

Frank looked up from his cheeseburger and checked the highway one more time. Good – no ice-cream vans, and none of the equally ubiquitous black stretch-limousines with the tinted windows, which the clandestine forces of government used when they were undercover and attempting to be discreet.

He’d cruised down Sunset Strip earlier that day in his stolen vehicle, experiencing a perplexing mixture of numb amazement and dim recognition. He knew this town, but he didn’t think he’d ever lived here, or even come to visit before. Driving past the casinos and the theme-park-sized hotels he’d been struck by their splendour, but also by their monotonous familiarity.

Frank was reminded yet again of the one central fact of his existence – there were huge chunks of his life which remained forever off limits to his straining memory. Over and above the fact that he’d once served in a very special military unit, the rest was just a blur. These days he accepted his black patches the same way he accepted the ever-present mutterings in his head. It was that just at moments like this, when some small detail sparked a flash of recollection – like the shape of a building, or the smell of gasoline from across the street – it became hardest to bear. The voices didn’t help. Though the upside of being a paranoid schizophrenic was at least you always had someone to talk to, even if the conversations weren’t up to much. The one claiming to be God which told him to go out and kill prostitutes was rather worrying, but he kept it well under control. He’d got the better of them and knew he’d beat these memory lapses too. He swore he’d beat them; he would do if it killed him.

At long last his aimless journey had taken him to the less opulent side of town. He didn’t know where he was going, just that he was fleeing his former flat and the uninvited guests he’d left many tired miles behind. The dull rumble from the trunk reminded him why they’d come a-calling.

When he spotted the run-down diner he experienced a maddening sense of déjà vu, all over again. He was sure he’d been here before, just as he was sure the short-order chef was a huge shovel-handed New Yorker with Marine Corps tattoos plastered up each arm. It wasn’t until he’d almost drawn level with the establishment that he realized he hadn’t eaten since his cereal that morning had been so rudely interrupted. His rumbling stomach had the final say in the matter. Swerving across two lanes of late-afternoon traffic he hung a left into the half-empty car park.

That had been more than two hours ago. In that time Frank had consumed four cheeseburgers, exchanging several wary nods of recognition with the sweat-laced kitchen-hand through the cluttered serving hatch.

For Frank this was a familiarly maddening experience. But you couldn’t just go up to folks who seemed to recognize you to ask ‘Where do you know me from?’ – it got you funny looks at the very least. For the time being Frank contented himself with the thought that their acquaintance must date back to some chance encounter before his army service came to an abrupt and painful end. He didn’t know for sure, but he felt certain he’d been happier then, with the warm companionship of comrades-in-arms to pull him through. He’d been alone so long now he’d almost forgotten what friendship meant.

Maybe he was going crazy. Carefully, he checked his hands for the first signs of palm-hair, just like the old wives’ tales advised. Outside in the trunk of his battered vehicle what was undoubtedly the find of the century was slowly rotting – so why was he suddenly so assailed by doubt? Maybe he should hire a room and buy some whisky and pills to end it all. Was this war really worth the fight? Slowly Frank rubbed his throbbing temples. What he needed most of all was a confidant; someone to remind him, after he’d gazed upon his insane find, or read that terrible book, that this was real after all and his mind hadn’t entirely slipped its gears. He also had problems of a more practical nature – like what to do next. Grand strategy had never been his area of expertise, the nitty-gritty of combat was his speciality. Frank needed an accomplice he could trust. He rocked slowly back and forth in his seat until his head sank so low it was scant inches above his plate. Closing his eyes he did something he hadn’t done for years: Frank prayed for guidance, for some sign that his struggle wouldn’t be in vain.