The Slick Grey Thing

By Emma Finn

A DELIGHTFUL BLEND OF MENACE, PATHOS AND MOMENTS OF DARK WIT"

Ellie Merryday’s life and family are slowly falling apart but she has no conception yet of how much worse things can get. When her son James finds an alien unlike anything he’s ever seen on TV under the bushes out on the heath, apparently unconscious and wounded, he decides to take it home.

But after the alien is responsible for the shocking death of someone very close to him, James realises that the game has changed. It isn’t about becoming famous anymore. It’s about staying alive. And he realises that he’s going to have to take drastic steps to protect himself and his family: to take the wounded alien in hand before anyone else gets hurt.

But what preventative actions might a precocious and very inventive twelve year old take to protect his loved ones? And what repercussions might this lead to?

"CREEPY & TENSE BUT WITH SUCH AUTHENTIC CHARACTERS & SETTING THAT IT FEELS REAL"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Finn
• Release date: May 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496130815

Emma Finn

Emma Finn is an exciting and prolific author who has been publishing popular stories online for years. She releases a new book every one to two months right here and posts new chapters free online every day on: http://transformation-stories.blogspot.co.uk/ & http://emma-finn-thrillers.blogspot.co.uk/

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE SLICK GREY THING

1

On Sunday night, on his way home across the heath, James Merryday found something alien. To be more specific, it found him.

Since James was nine he had been allowed to cross the heath no later than dusk after visiting his friend Rob’s house. This was on the proviso that he came straight home and stuck to the wide main path that came all the way through to Upton.

The heath was a wild continent-shaped segment of open plain, woods, streams and marshland with no lampposts or signs. The straight central path may or may not once have been a railway line in olden times. There were no train tracks anymore and James had never met a soul who remembered them. Apart from that, the paths that webbed their way across the heath were horribly unreliable. There were no easy routes. Many of the paths struck out across marshland; others petered into nothing. Any that did reach their way through did so by a horribly circuitous route.

For the first couple of years of his journeys, James had been sure in the way only a child can be, when imagination parallels and supersedes reality, that there was something malevolent out there in the tall yellow grasses. It wasn’t human or animal – it wasn’t bird or insect or anything you could see a picture of in the school library – but it was alive and it was waiting. He didn’t know what it was. His imagination was sporadically brilliant but underdeveloped. It didn’t give a visible shape to what was out there beyond a vague image of a bulbous hunching thing, with claws perhaps and teeth. He didn’t group syllables together to give the creature a name.

At age nine, that fear had kept him hurrying. He hadn’t put off his departure as he did in later years. He was sure that something nasty was out there; knew it as surely as he knew that it would catch him if he didn’t keep moving.

But he was wrong.

The tall grasses that leant the heath an African feel did not conceal the kind of monster he feared; there was nothing sinister in any of the relatively distant clusters of woods; not even in the very dark wood near his house. But if there had been a monster, James might have been ready for it in the way a nine year old boy can be ready for things that shouldn’t exist.

Each time he took the journey it chipped a chunk of the fear away. Every trip proved that there was nothing to worry about, and soon the concerns James had invented started to take a back seat to his other thoughts. If he considered the imaginary creature at all it became more of a game than a reality. He made friends with the darkness and then, eventually, he forgot.

And shortly after that, three years since he’d started making the journey, the fear that he had on that first trip at nine years old – that there was some strange creature out there… waiting – became real.

2

Your mother’s going to call worried if you don’t get off now James, said Rob’s mum from the kitchen. It’s getting dark.

The boys were in the segment of passage by the back door next to the doubly stacked washing machine and tumble dryer. Okay Auntie Pam, said James. I’m just going now. He tutted quietly to Rob and looked to the heavens. Rob giggled. I’ll see you at school, he said.

Yeah.

Rob’s mum called through again, still out of sight. You might want to take our torch with you James. She was doing the dishes, tapping crockery together and thunking it into place in the dishwasher. Rob, show him where it is.

Rob opened the shallow cupboard opposite the washing machine. He was taller and slimmer than James. Puberty had hit early. He had no trouble reaching the higher shelves. James would have been on tiptoe or jumping up and down. Rob took the torch and shoved it almost painfully hard into James’s hand, smirking. You’re going to need this sissy boy.

It was a small black thing with a stem no bigger than the loop between James’s finger and thumb, but it was surprisingly heavy. There was no ON button. James turned the lens end and the beam illuminated. The only light in that section of passage came through the little window in the back door and from the crack between kitchen door and doorframe. It was late enough for the trees at the bottom of the garden to be blocking out most of what remained of the daylight. The torch’s beam did little to illuminate things. The batteries were low. The faint yellow light looked like the colour of a T-shirt that had been through the wash a couple of thousand times too many.

James considered asking if they had spare batteries but decided against it. He wasn’t going to look scared. He just said Thanks in a dull voice as though he thought the idea of taking anything was dumb and stuck it in his jeans pocket. I’ll seeya.

Rob made a grin that passed out of sight on both sides of his face. Have a nice walk home little girl.

James punched him softly in the shoulder. Bastard. He opened the back door.

Say hi to your mum will you! came a voice from the kitchen. James didn’t answer. He nodded noncommittally at Rob, walked to the bottom of the garden and let himself out through the gate.

This was the very edge of the heath. A narrow wood ran along this segment of its border, containing interlacing dry mud paths. It was dark under the canopy but the sun was still above the horizon. It wasn’t as far above as it had been three years earlier on James’s first trip. Age had fostered a slight cockiness when it came to punctuality. His mum would stave off tea if need be and the worst thing that could happen was a case of heating his plate up in the oven and a light tell-off.

James reached for the torch in his pocket then looked back at Rob’s house. Rob was standing in the doorway. James took his hand away from the torch. He started to wave then changed his mind. He didn’t want to look immature so he just walked away.

The old railway path crossed over the path he was on via a brick bridge fifty yards or more up to the right but James didn’t go that way; he turned left and followed the line of the trees. His mum didn’t check up on him anymore to see that he took the safest route and if she had he would have fibbed his way out of it. The truth was he got tired of taking the same path more than twice in a row.

He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, the front flaps swinging with the movement of his arms. It was March; not cold enough for the zip to be done up. The path through the woods followed the edge of the heath and wasn’t the fastest route home. That was down the old railway track and through the dark wood. He didn’t mind the distance though: better that than boredom.

After a short while the path veered right and the trees fell back. A sand coloured track splintered through a gap in the woods on the left towards a road that met and ran parallel to the way he was going. Between James and the road was maybe twenty yards of foliage. The road linked the bottom end of Creekmoor with the outskirts of Upton. It was rare even in the middle of the day to see people walking along it. At this time – when plates full of steaming food were being laid on tables all across Dorset and in every county the length of England – it was completely empty.

He kept going down the path, foliage on his left, trees hanging overhead, a narrow leaf-clogged stream and barbed wire fence to his right. Beyond the fence was an open stretch of long grasses. There was plenty of open sky now but the sun wasn’t plainly in sight. The horizon wasn’t distant and there were trees near enough across the plain to block the view of the sunset. The light glittered through the leaves, visibly sinking. It was even later than he’d thought so James quickened his walking pace. It was true that he didn’t worry too much about being late but there was no point risking a tell-off for nothing.

The deeper down the path he went, the darker it got. He was beginning to regret his decision not to use the torch but he didn’t want Rob making fun of him next morning if he did. Visible through the foliage, maybe forty yards away to his left was the glow of streetlights. They cast no light where he was walking. His foot came down in a long rutted mud puddle and the water went straight through the cloth sides of his trainers.

Shit, said James. He lifted his foot to check how bad it was. It was too dark to get a good look. He stepped into what he thought was his back-track and came down in another muddy stretch. Fuck.

James had been swearing fairly solidly now for two years. He didn’t do it in front of his mum or teachers but when he was alone or with friends he slipped in four letter words whenever he could.

He jumped gingerly clear, this time coming down on packed earth. Releasing his weight off his feet one-by-one, James tested his trainers for water damage. One was dry; the other gave off a filthy squelch that impacted as sound in his ears and suction on his foot simultaneously. He glowered to himself for a moment then looked back the way he’d come to see if Rob had followed. No one was there, though by now if they had been, they would have been black on black and practically invisible.

Taking the torch out, James turned the end, looked into the feeble beam, shook it to try and increase the light then started to walk on, circumnavigating the long ridged puddle. Almost as soon as he’d started walking he stopped: he wasn’t sure why.

He made himself very still; listening. There was nothing – except distant traffic drone from the Upton bypass and another, slower moving car nearer by in the suburbs of Creekmoor – nothing noteworthy.

He shone the torch ahead, almost afraid that it would illuminate something. He was sure if there was someone there only a pallid face would be visible in the beam but there was nothing; not even a shuffling dog. The path back towards Rob’s house was empty too.

Something had made him stop. He didn’t know what… but something.

To his left the foliage was thick except for a low narrow gap no more than a foot high: what he used to call a rabbit path. Inside the path was blank darkness. The torchlight, such as it was, illuminated only the wide shiny leaves around the path’s entrance. It didn’t penetrate further. Whatever it was that had… what?… called out to him?... was in there.

James turned the beam back down the route he’d been walking one more time then returned it to the bushy cavity. For just a moment his imagination switched back online, tapping into those nine-year-old fears. For that moment he KNEW that something was in there, something monstrous… then it was gone.

He zipped up his coat then wielding the torch like a switchblade he moved toward the rabbit path and started to push his way through.

3

There was a slight rise of pine-needle-covered mud in front of the arch of leaves that was the entrance to the rabbit path. James climbed it and stopped.

Whatever it was that had made him halt was making no audible or visual signal. There was no physical evidence that anything was off at all. At the same time James still felt it. It wasn’t like a phone ringing or the revolving flash of a lighthouse. If anything… If anything it was more like… No. In a way it was similar to a gentle prodding; like someone were prodding him with the tips of their fingers at the base of his skull, so softly they were only placing their fingertips there and releasing them again, over and over but with long gaps in between. But again it wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t physical. It was new: a sense that he had never before utilised, that there was no reference or quantification for.

He pulled the legs of his jeans up half an inch as he’d seen his dad do and crouched next to the opening. It wasn’t a genuine rabbit path because the hole was too high. Real rabbit paths were made by rabbits, or maybe foxes. This one at one time or other had more likely been made by somebody like him, some kid making a way through to build a base behind the trees.

James shone the light into the cavity. The ground was covered in faded brown pine needles and shrivelled leaves. There was nothing unusual.

He looked at where his watch should have been but it wasn’t there. The strap had broken a couple of Saturdays before when he was playing football. He knew he was late for getting home though; he’d been late before he’d even left Rob’s. The sun was down now. He was going to get in trouble and if he didn’t naturally, his sister, Suzanne, was bound to try and stir things up. A lot of times, especially nowadays, Mum let things slide, but Suzanne took great pleasure in reminding her when James needed a reprimand. She could be a total bitch. The smart thing was to go straight home and run the whole way, or as much of it as he could. Whatever was in the bushes would still be there tomorrow.

He swung the beam of the torch out of the cavity, looking for reference points. If there was some defining landmark to remind him of the spot he could get a lift after school with Rob’s mum then come out here and investigate with his friend.

The long rutted puddle was a possible marker but too unreliable. It might change if there was more rainfall or if enough people tramped through it, and there were probably loads more the same down the rest of the path. He continued searching until he saw something else that would do the job.

Sticking vertically from the clogged-up stream opposite was a victory stick: a branch that started off straight then formed a V near the top. In his earlier years, when he’d played army with Toby and the other kids in the close, those things had been priceless. You stood on a vantage point and held it up above your head, tipping it forward and back, generally showing disrespect for the other side with the sign for victory or two stuck-up fingers.

This one stood freely in the thick mud at the bottom of the stream. It was perfectly placed to show where the rabbit path was. He could easily find it tomorrow. He got up to go, trotting back to the main path.

But still…

It was hard to walk away. The strange ethereal prod came again at the top of his neck where the barber had shaved his hair close to the skin, then after a moment it came again.

James hunkered down, forming a support for his upper body with a hand on each knee and looked back into the hole in the bushes, following the beam of the torch. His angle of view was different now. The ground inside the cavity wasn’t totally clear. There was something there he hadn’t noticed before: something long and narrow like a broom handle, but not as straight, that disappeared in two directions out of sight, angled so it was only just visible.

It looked slick.

And grey.

And alive.

Unmoving, but alive.

And suddenly James found himself not walking away but taking one cautious step closer; followed by another.

4

The sky was darkening fast. Near the western horizon it was still comparatively pale but night was coming on and the torchlight was noticeably dimmer than it had been when James left Rob’s house. Any fearful imaginings he’d harboured at age nine had gone from his conscious mind but they still rattled around under the floorboards of his subconscious.

The long slick thing hadn’t moved. It didn’t look like a part of any animal he’d ever seen on TV.

If it was dead it would still be there tomorrow in daylight. If it was alive then he didn’t want to get any closer. He shouldn’t get any closer. The victory stick made an ideal signpost for him to come back and find this spot tomorrow. If Rob had been there he would have acted tough but he wouldn’t have gone in; he would have come up with some excuse; he wouldn’t risk it. Nobody would; not even James’s dad.

James went a little closer. Then closer still.

The long slick thing became concealed by the overhanging leaves as he reached the mouth of the rabbit path. He stooped, holding back some of the foliage with his free hand. He had to hunker quite low, making his torso horizontal, even with his knees bent. It wasn’t easy to shine the light downward and hold back the leaves with his torch hand but James tried. The result was a shaky flicker as his hand twisted at the wrist, as leaves dropped in front of the beam and got swiped back out of the way.

The long slick thing was still not visible but he was getting close to it.

He pushed hard forward at head level and felt the foliage give. He was coming out inside the bushes. Again he considered halting and retracing his steps, even going backwards if he had to, but in spite of the thoughts, he kept that same slow-footed pace: one foot forward, arms up, pushing, then the second foot forward.

He came out the other side. The bushes dropped away on either flank, opening into a claustrophobic hidden clearing with a low canopy of branches and leaves. James pointed the torch straight down at where he’d seen the long slick thing.

It wasn’t there; not exactly where he remembered it; it had shifted. It now lay a foot from where it had been. It was angled differently and he could see where one end of it stopped.

It was a leg; James was sure of that; very long and narrow, bent in the middle – forward like the hind leg of a horse, not back like a human knee – and coming to an end at a foot that was not a hoof or a paw.

James pointed the torch shakily. There was another leg beyond the first. Whatever it was lay down on its side. All he had to do was move the torch round and he would see the thing’s torso but he didn’t move it that way. He moved it down the leg toward the foot.

The closest reference for the leg he had in his child brain was the leg of a deer – very narrow and strong – but the skin wasn’t brown. It was grey, almost white, and it looked wet… or if not wet then oily. The foot was tiny, no bigger than the palm of his hand. It had six toes, three down each side; stubby things that branched outwards.

Both sets of toes suddenly curled in, flexing; a movement unlike anything he had ever seen or imagined. They touched each other then relaxed out again. James shuddered with revulsion, the flesh round his eyes and mouth quivering. The muscles across the top of his back and down into his arms spasmed. He made a brief whimpering sound then a rapid series of quaking moans, then panicking, reached for the end of the torch and turned it off.

His view of the tiny clearing inverted. Before, the leaves had been illuminated, the gaps between them black. Now it flipped. All around him was a lattice of silhouetted mesh. Only through the gaps could he see light. Thirty yards away were amber streetlamps on the road but the intervening mass of vegetation seemed impenetrable.

His breath had accelerated and shortened; it went in and out of his mouth in quick audible gasps. He shouldn’t have turned off the torch, he was standing right next to those thin oily legs, but he suddenly couldn’t stand to look at them. If the light was off then they weren’t really there. The creature, whatever the legs were attached to, wasn’t there. His breath didn’t slow; it accelerated further, filling the tiny clearing with sound.

He had to get out of there; he had to run; but he couldn’t get going. He was pinned in place, unable to even move his arms or turn his head.

Then he heard a sound… a rustling. It didn’t go on; it was just a single brief movement; but he knew what it was. He recognised the noise. It was leaves scraping one another as something shifted across them. It was the sound of the thing moving its body. Not its leg or its toes this time.

Its body.

James didn’t pray. His mother wasn’t a religious woman. He’d never knelt beside his bed and prayed the Lord his soul to keep. He knew the Lord’s Prayer from school but that was all. He prayed now, whispering short gasped phrases, pleading for God to protect him, for God to stop the creature from touching him with those oily probing toes.

He had to see again. If he could see then he could run; he could stop it touching him; but he didn’t want to do that. He couldn’t bear to look at it again.

James brought up the torch. His whole arm was shaking. It was difficult to find the inverted conical end with his other hand but he did so. He steadied it, pointing it with both hands, revolving the end to ignite the bulb.

The bushes lit up, stark green yellowed by the torchlight. The thing wasn’t standing in front of him about to pounce.

He lowered the beam. The legs were still there. They hadn’t moved. One crossed the other at the ankle. The toes on both feet were still. Trembling, he moved the beam up the legs toward the torso. The legs were long; maybe as much as five feet. They went on and on… then they joined the body.

When he saw the torso James gave out another whimper.

The thing lay flat on its side in an overhanging alcove made by drooping leaves. It was smaller than he had expected, like a medium-sized dog, but there was no fur. It was grey, a darker grey than the legs. The skin was slick. It glistened. It was almost featureless. There was no tail. The front of the body joined a set of forelegs he hadn’t seen before that splayed off under the foliage out of sight. The top of the legs were broader, more muscular, but like every other bit of it they looked clammy and wet.

It had a head but that was concealed beneath an outcrop of shiny green leaves. No features were visible, no ears, no horns or ridges but that could have simply been a result of his angle of view.

James wasn’t interested in aliens. He didn’t watch Star Trek or read science fiction comics. On TV, if it was a toss-up between Star Wars or football, he’d always choose to watch the match. He didn’t follow UFO conspiracy theories. He didn’t have an opinion either way; he just wasn’t interested.

But he knew what this was; this slick grey thing beneath the bushes. He knew exactly what it was, or rather, what it wasn’t.

It wasn’t meant to be there. It was the horror creature he had always imagined, lying in wait for him, something that wasn’t human or animal, insect or bird. It was something else that was liable to reach out and devour him if he remained still.

James didn’t command his body to start running or consciously start to scream.

He didn’t duck as he ran back through the rabbit path and the branches and leaves lashed against his face. The ground rose and fell back onto the main path and James lost equilibrium, splashing through the long rutted puddle. He no longer had the torch. He couldn’t see where the stream lay in front of him but he managed to stop himself plunging into it, to turn the right way and start sprinting.

As he ran, he clipped a tree in the path. It knocked him off course but he didn’t stop. He gagged, stomach spasming as vomit burst up his throat, coughing out through his splayed fingers, but he didn’t stop moving.

He didn’t stop running until he was home.

5

Ellie Merryday looked at the kitchen clock, sighed because it said two fifteen instead of something after six (the batteries were obviously flat) and checked her watch.

James was late. That wasn’t a surprise; he always was when he visited Rob’s. She allowed for it when she was putting tea together. In order for the food to be served out as he was walking through the door she started cooking twenty minutes later than she would have done if she expected him on time. It didn’t always work but it usually did. Now the vegetables were soaking into the water and the curry sauce and bacon chunk mix in the frying pan were starting to stodge. She sighed and turned off each hotplate, more irritable than concerned.

Ellie put one fist on her hip and opened the glasses cupboard. Suzanne! She took out a tumbler and put it on the side, opened the fridge and cracked the seal on a can of cider. Suzanne! Can you set the chairs! She poured two thirds of a glass then dropped the rest of the can into the fridge door between the milk and a carton of orange juice she knew was past its date. She drank a mouthful with her eyes closed, set the glass down and went to the kitchen door. Suzanne!

What?

The reply was a lot closer than Ellie had expected. She went through into the lounge. The room ran the length of the house, a dining area at the front, seating space at the back. It had a gothic feel to it with its dark red walls and ancient roll-top desk dominating the middle of the opposite wall. At the narrow end Suzanne was sitting on the sofa, knees up in front, cushions stacked behind, with one of Ellie’s Cosmopolitans folded open on her thighs. Ellie frowned at the discarded shoes on the floor in the middle of the carpet. I wish you wouldn’t read those, she said.

Why? They’re interesting.

You know why. Suzanne didn’t reply. Ellie hesitated, wondering whether it was worth explaining yet again. She felt too guilty not to. I don’t think you’re old enough. The articles in there aren’t meant for girls your age.

I’m fifteen!

Exactly. You shouldn’t be reading about… It’s meant for adults, not teenagers.

I am an adult.

No you aren’t.

I’m old enough to get married.

Not for another year and only with my consent. Which, needless to say, you wouldn’t get.

I wouldn’t ask you, said Suzanne petulantly. I’d ask dad.

Ellie folded her arms. Well I should hope he wouldn’t be stupid enough to say yes.

You’re always doing that! said Suzanne, getting up and tossing the magazine on the floor. Running him down. What did he ever do to you?

Ellie considered telling her daughter exactly what her saintly father was capable of but managed to hold her tongue. Please can you just lay the chairs. James will be home soon and the food’s already overdone.

Why should I? What are you going to be doing?

I just cooked your tea, said Ellie, her voice sounding weary now, like an old man’s.

Suzanne crossed to the lounge door. I have to go to the loo.

Can you do it first?

I’ll be back in a mo. The door shut. Muffled, the downstairs toilet door closed too.

Ellie sighed, bent down and picked up her magazine and Suzanne’s shoes. She dropped the magazine onto the pile on the floor concealed by the end of the sofa and packed the shoes away into the corner trunk, out of sight at least. She went to the dining table at the other end of the room, carried back two of the wooden chairs and set them in their usual mealtime places in front of the TV to function as mini-tables. She briefly felt another surge of guilt, what was starting to become her most common emotion. They shouldn’t be eating in front of the telly. It wasn’t good for their relationships. It didn’t help to teach James good table manners. On the other hand it simplified things and avoided the bickering. She went into the kitchen to fetch the cutlery and yelped in shock.

James was standing at the closed French doors, his hand on the handle. His face was bone white, his lips slack. His shoulders were rising and dropping from the exertion of running. Ellie said his name then hurried across and unlocked the door.

He came in quickly, pushing past her. His hair was wet – no; damp from sweat. His coat was hanging off one shoulder, something smeared up one of the sleeves.

James! Are you all right? You look terrible. He didn’t answer, disappearing through to the lounge. Ellie went after him. What’s that smell? Have you been sick?

James reached the table, turned, looked at her then looked away. There was something on his chin that matched the marks on his coat. He had been sick. She put her hand on his temple. What happened? Did you eat something bad at Rob’s?

He shook his head.

Did you get lost on the heath?

He didn’t say anything. He just looked away.

James. Answer me! What’s wrong? Her strict voice came out unprompted. It came out at that tone more and more lately. She couldn’t help it even though she knew she was telling him off far too much. She took a breath, made herself calm down and crouched next to him, wiping damp licks of hair off his forehead. James; talk to me. You look like you’ve run all the way home. Did something happen? Did someone… Did you see someone on the heath who—?

James shook his head. He looked at her wide eyed, concerned face. He thought about the thing he had seen out there on the heath. For a minute he almost told her about it. Then he closed up. His expression sealed. He turned away from her, his voice rough when he said, Nothing happened. I threw up and… got scared. I ran home. That’s all.

The concern remained on Ellie’s face. She scanned his eyes and his mouth for a moment. Are you sure?

He nodded solemnly.

Okay, she said, standing up. She ruffled his hair. Let’s get you cleaned up; okay?

He nodded again.

Do you think you’ll be able to eat anything?

James pictured the slick grey thing that was probably still lying out there on the heath under the bushes. He shook his head. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to eat again.

6

At four fifteen in the morning James opened his eyes.

His bedroom light was on. He had kept it off while his mother and sister were up; the grilled vent above the door would have given him away if he hadn’t. An hour and a half had passed since his bedtime before the other two had settled down for the night. He hadn’t slept; he’d barely closed his eyes.

He had known the house was locked up and that he was probably safe, but darkness was not a sane thing. It encouraged a breed of temporary insanity that let the mind wander too far. Having something to look at helped because it kept him from thinking about the thing in the woods. While he waited for them to go to bed he had looked at his side of the grill, at the diagonal slats that merged with the blackness around, keeping his eyes on the illumination.

When his mother switched off the landing light and closed her bedroom door James almost cried out for her. He restrained himself, breathing oddly again and sat up. He listened, running the checklist of what he knew the two females did before they went to sleep, finger on the light switch. He couldn’t turn it on until he was sure. They’d brushed their teeth; mum had fetched her glass of water from downstairs; both had taken a whiz. That was everything. He pressed his fingers onto the switch and guided it gradually into the on position, keeping it slow so that there would be no audible click in the other rooms. He lay back on his bed and let out his snared breath.

After two hours of staring at the green digits on his clock radio James fell asleep but not deeply. He dipped in and out, sometimes coming partially awake, sometimes staying under for an hour or more. While he slept he dreamed: he dreamed about walking in the woods and about the bulbous grey sack of a body with its long spindly legs. He dreamed of the concealed head.

When he came awake he felt as though he’d been semi-conscious the whole time. The nausea was completely gone but he felt tense, like he was waiting to stand up at the front of a class and present something. He rolled onto his left side then straight away back over to his right, facing the wall.

Was it still out there; under that same bush?

He switched onto his back and stared up, eyes raw around the edges as though he’d been staring into a bright light.

Something was different now. While he’d been dreaming a change had occurred. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was straight away but something… in his mind... Something had straightened, working itself out. Lying there, looking at the point above the curtains where his mother had sealed a hole with putty but not got round to painting over it, he slowly realised what that change was.

He didn’t feel afraid anymore.

No. That wasn’t it exactly. He did feel fear; and excitement. What he didn’t feel was terror.

If that thing out there was what he thought it was – and what else could it be – then this was important. It was the most important thing that had EVER happened to him. Maybe to anyone.

And he realised something else.

He had to go back, after school tomorrow. If it was still there, he had to go and fetch it and bring it home.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO ROWS OF TEETH

1

Chances were the alien wouldn’t even be there anymore.

Every time James thought of that he got angry. Trapped in school as he was while that thing lay under the bushes out on the heath, he felt an ever increasing intensity of thought. Missed opportunity. Stupid mistake. His fault. For the first time in his life what he wanted was infinitely significant; not a new bike or a chocolate bar or a trip to the pictures; this could change the world; it really could change the entire world and he could have been at the centre of that if only he hadn’t been so stupid.

He should have done it differently. He should have gone in the middle of the night; as soon as he realised what needed doing. If not that then he should have skipped school and gone in the morning.

How many hours was it since he’d seen the thing in the bushes? Twenty one… twenty two? Someone else would have found it by now. The number of dog walkers round there was phenomenal. One of those dogs, any one of them, would have sniffed it out and barked long enough for their owner to check. The owner would have called the police. It would be long past too late. Or almost worse than that… The slick grey thing was alive when he left it. It might have moved away from there. It could have recovered from whatever was wrong with it and left the woods; maybe left the planet! Or overnight and during the day, if it was wounded, it could simply have died.

Leaving it was the stupidest thing James had ever done. He had to go there and get it as soon as he could.

But he wasn’t dumb. He knew he couldn’t carry it home by himself. He needed help. He needed his best friend. He needed Rob.

But that was turning out to be horribly complicated.

Rob got a lift to school. There was no possibility of contact until morning break and when that came, Rob wasn’t alone by the time James found him. He and a group of other friends stood by the steps making lewd comments under their breath when girls passed. It wasn’t something James was interested in on a normal day. He knew other boys were getting into girls in a big way but although he was starting to feel guilty about it and usually played along, he couldn’t quite see what all the fuss was about. He had hoped to talk to Rob about the alien on the way back to class but there were too many people around. He couldn’t risk anyone else knowing about it.

The lesson after break was maths. James and Rob sat together. It seemed perfect but when he tried to talk about what he had found, Mrs. Thompson kept reprimanding him. By this time his frustration was starting to crackle. He was realising he’d made a big mistake not fetching the alien. When Mrs. Thompson told him off for the third time he lowered his head and mumbled the word bitch.

His feet didn’t touch the floor. James was separated from Rob and given a lunchtime detention writing lines.

By now, his anger and frustration wasn’t crackling anymore. It was rumbling.

He didn’t see Rob again until after school and for a moment it looked like his luck was going to change. Rob’s mum couldn’t pick him up. She had a dental appointment. He was going to have to walk back with James.

They walked together to the end of the heavily wooded drive, rucksacks on their backs. The strap was broken on James’s bag but he had managed to prevent other kids noticing so far by sewing it up every morning. It wasn’t a professional job and invariably broke again but it was good enough to stop people calling him a pov.

He waited until they were far enough away from other kids then said, You ever see that film – ET?

Yeah, said Rob. The bit on the bikes was good at the end but the rest was boring.

It’d be cool though wouldn’t it… if you really found an alien in the woods?

Rob shrugged. This wasn’t the kind of conversation they usually had.

I mean think how famous you could be, said James, if you discovered aliens really existed.

I guess… Mrs. Thompson was a right cow with you in Maths wasn’t she?

Yeah.

You should have told her to shove her detention up her ass. Rob grinned then chuckled. That would have been amazing.

The conversation wasn’t going the direction James wanted. He decided to just dive in head first. I found something last night.

What?

James started to speak but a third voice boomed over the top and cut him off.

Where are you two losers going?

They stopped and looked. Andrew Stokes was just behind them. James sighed. That meant his chance to talk was over.

Stokes wasn’t fat but he was dumpy. He always wore a snide fuck you smile. He was wearing it now. It was a smile that said I’m not your friend but I’ll pretend to be as long as it serves my purpose. He was new to the school but was in with everybody that mattered already and Rob thought he was great. James had never liked him but right now he would have enjoyed nothing more than to smack a cricket bat into those smiling teeth, to actually do it, to cave the front of his face in under the nose then pull the bat free and enjoy the boy’s expression.

Stokes came level. Rob started walking alongside. James remained still until he realised he was going to be left behind forgotten if he didn’t hurry to catch up. When he got level Stokes widened his grin, his eyes twinkling. The grin gave the impression that there were more teeth in his mouth than there should have been; more than one row of them, like a shark.

This was going from bad to worse to worst. Andrew Stokes lived in Creekmoor as far as James knew, close to Rob’s. Unless he played this very cleverly he was going to miss his chance to get Rob in on what needed to be done.

And there was no way he could carry that thing back alone.

2

It was a thirty minute walk from the school grounds (which were built around an old stately home on the edge of the country) to the outskirts of Upton. James hated the trip but cycling was worse. Nobody he knew cycled. He, Rob and Andrew Stokes walked side by side, one of the dozens of dribs drabbing their way home.

James still hadn’t had the chance to share what he found. The road was long and depressingly straight, medium sized suburban houses on both sides, but it wasn’t far to the shops at the triangle. After that there was only a quick trip down through the houses before Rob was going to split off.

You’re sister’s gorgeous James, said Rob.

Suzanne and her friends were walking in a tight cluster twenty yards ahead, all short skirts, long hair and giggles.

Forget that, said Andrew Stokes. She’s fucking screwable.

James glowered. That’s my sister you’re talking about.

So what? said Stokes. She’s hot. I certainly wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Would you?

Uh… no, said Rob. She’s screwable.

James tried to see what they were getting at. Suzanne was three years older than him and like the rest of her friends, she wore her school uniform skirt as short as she could get away with. Her hair was shiny and she was filling out and stuff, but she was his sister. Some of the other girls… Her friend Jenna was pretty nice; he didn’t know. He did fancy some of them probably but he didn’t like kids talking about Suzanne that way.

Why don’t you give it a rest?

Are you telling me you wouldn’t give her one? asked Stokes. She’s a honey. You could do her every night.

She’s my sister!

Ooo. Stokes laughed. I think I touched a nerve! What do you think? He elbowed Rob. I reckon Jamie’s got a thing for her. He must have, right?

Rob looked uncomfortable but gave out a couple of comradely chuckles that made James want to turn that mental cricket bat on him too. He almost said Screw you fatso to Stokes but didn’t. He played with the phrase in his mind instead, smiling to himself.

Stokes continued talking about the girls. James tuned to a different channel. The shop was coming up. Andrew Stokes hadn’t accompanied them home many times in the past but whenever he did he always went in there to buy sweets. James was going to have an opportunity then. It was going to be a short one, but it would be long enough.

That was all he had to wait for.

3

Suzanne needed to buy some cigarettes. If she didn’t then basically her life would be over.

Everybody smoked; everybody who mattered. Not every single one of her friends; but the ones who were going anywhere. Melanie and Clarissa had never touched a fag in their lives but it was starting to become clear that they no longer really suited the rest of the gang. They kept making bad choices on accessories and make-up; they didn’t have the right clothes; there was already talk about giving them the cold shoulder. It wasn’t started by Suzanne. She didn’t encourage it – she still remembered a lot of good times she’d had with Mel and Clarissa when they were kids – but they were going to have to go sooner or later and Suzanne was terrified the same might happen to her.

Now it had come to a turning point where what she did would affect everything. It would determine if she was going to stay in with her friends of get kicked off the gang quicker even than those two.

She had told Jenna that she already smoked. It was a total lie but it was getting to the point where they were starting to notice she wasn’t doing it and she didn’t want to look like a prude. One lie had led to another. She said she had a sore throat and didn’t want to make it worse by smoking. That had gone on for a week or so. It was starting to sound dumb. Now today the moment had come that she was dreading.

Kim offered her a fag on the way home from school. James and his two little dweeby friends were walking behind them. If she took one then mum would find out about it and she would be dead; so she said she didn’t like the brand. She would have bought some more at the newsagent but she didn’t have any cash on her. Then the kicker came and she was trapped: Clarissa handed her back the five pound note Suzanne had leant her the weekend before.

It was the snowball effect: like the explanation in school about the start of the First World War.

That Austrian archduke guy had been assassinated. Austria and their friend Germany declared war on Serbia, the people who’d done it. Russia joined in because they were friends with Serbia. The French were friends with Russia. Britain joined in because of some other thing she couldn’t remember and suddenly the whole of Europe was trying to kill each other.

This was the exactly the same.

She had no excuse. If she didn’t buy the cigarettes they would all know she’d been lying. They’d tell everyone at school. They wouldn’t hang with her anymore. Nobody would. She would be ostracised by everyone and she wouldn’t fit in with the geeks either. No one would speak to her. She’d become a total loser. Her grades would suffer. She’d leave school with nothing. Without friends she would let her looks slip. She would never get a husband. She’d end up alone and broke and wind up committing suicide in her mid-twenties without even leaving a note.

Maybe that was a tad melodramatic but she still had to buy the cigarettes and she had to get them now.

They crossed over at the bus stop and walked across the partition of grass that had been trampled almost into mud. The triangle shops stood