Читать книгу Terror Firma - Matthew Thomas, Matthew Thomas - Страница 13

Kate Jennings prided herself on her open mind, cool professional objectivity and the control she exercised over her career, but this job was beginning to get under her skin. There was something about it that made her brain itch, as if a thousand locusts were dancing on her scalp.

‘Maybe you should go through it again from the top, Mr Smith,’ she said.

The subject of her interview didn’t seem any more comfortable. The young man glanced around the untidy farmhouse kitchen as if expecting to be pounced on at any moment. ‘It was like I said to your researcher on the phone – not of this Earth.’

Kate tried hard to appreciate his guarded country ways for what they were – a charming aspect of rural life that would not survive the building of one more motorway but even that was beginning to irritate her now. ‘Start again – slowly from the beginning, and I’ll just turn on my tape recorder, this time without you getting upset.’

The young farmer looked at her oddly for a second. ‘There’s no need to patronize me, Miss Jennings. Just because I don’t live within gobbing range of a tube station and dodge hordes of muggers each time I go to work, to push bits of paper from one side of a desk to another, doesn’t mean I don’t know which way to sit on a lavatory. We have traffic jams and dog-shit pavements in the country too, you know. If you saw what I saw I’m sure you’d get ‘‘a little bit upset’’.’

Kate sighed wearily. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’ve had a long day. Rest assured I’d very much appreciate any information you could give me for the show. Please go on.’

OK, she admitted to herself, a daytime true-life confession programme wasn’t what she’d thought she’d end up working on when she got into TV journalism, but Panorama wasn’t hiring at the moment. It didn’t mean the team of dedicated researchers she headed had no intention of doing a thorough job.

The worried-looking Mr Smith coughed weakly and began again. ‘Like I said, it all started last May eve. It was a beautifully clear spring evening, not a cloud in the sky. There’d been a meteor shower earlier but nothing else of note.

‘I’d just brought the cows in from the top field when Ned, my hired hand, points up to the southern sky and brings my attention to a bright light hovering in the far distance. Didn’t think much of it at the time, probably one of them new military planes they’re always testing up at the secret air base on the heath. But now I know it was the beginning of a nightmare that would come to haunt my family far worse even than that unpleasantness with Aunt Betty and the prize bullock from down Yeovil way.’

Kate leaned forward intently, determined to get some sense from her subject this time. The young farmer continued.

‘Anyway, me and Ned returned to the farmhouse without giving it a second thought. Just as we were entering for our tea Ned says, ‘‘Look, it’s still there, Smithy.’’ I told him to forget it before I gave him a sheep-dip shampoo. But all through tea Ned kept looking out the window, muttering to himself that it was coming closer, and something about ‘‘the CIA messing with his mind’’. Not much there to mess with, but there you go. After pudding, Ned was on his way. The funny thing was, as I saw him off, I could have sworn the light was nearer, though it was most likely my imagination.

‘After that me and the missis put the kids to bed. Little Gretchen said she wanted a story, so I read her one about a load of elves carting off a bitchy princess until some mad King paid the ransom. By then I was pretty tired myself, so I got my head down too. Don’t suppose you townies have an inkling what time cows set their alarms in the morning.’

Don’t suppose you have an inkling what time my neighbours get back from clubbing, thought Kate, but managed to look suitably unsure of herself.

‘All seemed normal enough till just past midnight. Tell the truth I had a funny dream about two nuns locked in a greengrocers, but that’s not the confession you’re looking for, is it? Anyway, come the witching hour I was awakened by a bright light hovering above the house. My first thought was that the roof was alight, but I could hear no sound apart from a low-pitched humming. The other thing that convinced me it weren’t a fire was its colour. It was the brightest white light you’d ever seen, not red like from flames, but tinged with blue as if from a welding torch. It seemed to be inside the attic. Shafts of light were streaming down the chimney and up through the cracks in the floorboards. I half expected a strange urge to build a copy of Glastonbury Tor in my front room, but oddly enough none came.

‘Now you might think any right-minded individual would be pretty keen to discover what had landed on his house, but not me. I was overcome with a strange lethargy. Dead casual, I got out of bed and wandered downstairs as if I didn’t have a care in the world. Didn’t stop to wake the wife. Didn’t stop to fetch the kids. Just plodded off as if this was a regular occurrence.

‘By the time I’d reached the back door the light had moved on. It seemed to have landed a hundred yards away in one of my arable fields, behind a line of trees. So I opened the back door and trekked towards it.

‘Now I’ve seen some pretty peculiar things in my time – a Ministry vet trying to explain to Twelve-Gauge Trev why all his cattle had to be slaughtered at cost price, that hunt-saboteur ravaged by fox-hounds last winter – but they were nothing compared to the debauched scene that met my eyes on that foul night.

‘The thing was as big as a barn. And not one of those cheap prefabricated modern monstrosities neither. This was like something from the days when they really knew how to build an outhouse, not that you’d want to keep your hay in this perversion against God and nature – not unless you were completely insane, that is.’

Kate lowered the levels on her mini tape-recorder as she tried to ignore the mindless cackling her host had broken into. ‘Do you think you can describe the craft?’

Mr Smith composed himself. ‘It was all silver looking, and shaped like a giant saucer. Hovering over my cornfield it was, just hanging in the air. Beneath it the crop was bent out of shape, as if by some sort of vortex. But that’s not all, see. There was this row of bright windows about half-way up the thing, and inside its occupants were doing a strange cosmic jig. Though if it’s dancing that tickles your fancy it wouldn’t have been those inside that caught your eye – no indeed. Between me and the ship was another group of them, and what they were doing was disgusting.’

Kate looked on seriously, intent on confirming this crucial point.

‘Morris dancing!’ stated her host as he barely suppressed a shiver. ‘Though no internationally recognized or authenticated routine was this. If the lads at the Amalgamated Federation of Traditional Country Stick Banging had seen them they would have had a fit – that’s if they hadn’t run screaming from the vicinity before a ‘‘hey’’ had even been ‘‘nonny nonned’’.’

Kate leaned forward as the farmer regained his breath. ‘And the Maypole, Mr Smith, can you tell me about that one more time?’

The young man winced. ‘Well, they were prancing about a sorry perversion of that traditionally wholesome symbol of English village life, though it was decorated in a fashion that makes me shudder. Atop its crown sat the head of my prize Guernsey milker, Daisy. All down its length were draped her still steaming innards. As the small grey pixies danced about its base they waved other bits of her in the air. Pig’s bladders are what we normally use, though it is customary to remove them from inside the pig first. Sickening it was, though at the time I just stood transfixed and stared.’

‘So what happened next?’

‘One of the little grey elves broke off from the pagan rite and skipped towards me. Led me by the hand it did, up into the belly of the saucer, into a dazzling bright light. That’s where I met … her.’

His voice dropped by several poignant octaves at that single menacing word. ‘Her, Mr Smith?’ Kate enquired.

‘Yes, her. Though no human woman was she. Tall, blonde, and with eyes like two burning sapphires. Not one word did she speak, but it were clear enough what she craved. Wanted me to perform … acts upon her.’

‘What sort of acts?’

Smith looked hesitant. ‘Strange … unnatural acts. The sort of perverted bedroom antics that no decent man should be asked to contemplate – not even if he marries a girl from Swindon.’

‘And that’s when you blacked out?’

Her host slowly shook his head. ‘Not quite. She pushed some sort of wriggling creature onto me forehead. Like a multi-legged small puppy, it was. The thing seemed to feed on my mental juices, sucking them out as if it needed them to grow. That’s when I finally blacked out. From what little I do remember that was a blessed mercy. Woke up the next morning in the empty field with nothing but Daisy’s mangled carcass and a screaming headache for company. But if only that were all. Had to forgo marital obligations for the best part of a month, such was me groinal discomfort.’

Kate tried to look sympathetic but failed. It wasn’t so much that she found this hard to believe, but rather the story seemed to strike some deep-rooted chord, a suppressed race memory best left untwanged. It wasn’t even as if the climactic top-self conclusion was the end of the matter. ‘So tell me about your second visitors.’

Smith took a deep breath. ‘Well, not much happened for a week or two, then things really started getting strange. The first day I’d felt well enough to go back to work I was having me tea when there was a banging at the door. Hurrying to answer it I found these three strangers dressed in black glaring back at me. Kitted out real odd, they were, – old-fashioned dark suits and hats to match. One of them was carrying a small black box. But the strangest thing about them was they were all wearing make-up, and none too subtly applied at that. They had white foundation smeared on good and thick, and each bore bright red lipstick too. Their eyes were hidden behind horn-rimmed shades.

‘Now as folks round here will tell you, I’m a bloke who likes his privacy. ‘‘That Smithy loves his privacy,’’ they say. When intimidating strangers come calling, as a rule, I’m more likely to send them packing with two barrels of buckshot than offer tea and drop scones. But on this occasion that’s just what I done. I’d lost my innate belligerence.’

‘What did they want?’

‘That’s just it. Nothing as such. Just asked me lots of silly questions. The one with the box was silent throughout; just stood there staring at me and holding his contraption as if it were some sort of gift. One of the others seemed fascinated by my TV. Asked me how it worked, then shut up after that. Their leader did most of the talking.’

‘What sort of questions did he ask?’

Smith looked genuinely baffled. ‘Mostly stuff about my nightly visitation. But not the obvious things, nothing to do with the craft, or the Morris dancers, or what I thought they were doing, just … odd things. He seemed obsessed with knowing if I had any physical scars to show for my adventures. Not so much a scarring, I told him, more of a soreness to be quite frank. Even to this day I have to be careful if I sit down at the wrong angle, and the sight of my dairy herd’s pendulous udders can spark off an excitement that leaves me doubled up in pain. Needless to say Mrs Smith ain’t as impressed as she used to be.’

The young farmer looked suddenly crestfallen down at his feet as Kate pushed. ‘And that’s when they made their threats?’

The farmer nodded. ‘Yeah, all suddenly the mood turned real nasty. Once they’d convinced themselves I bore no lasting marks they crowded round all threatening. The leader told me that if I ever mentioned their visit, or my enforced night of passion, terrible things would happen to me. After the terrible things that had already happened I was in no mood to argue. Then he handed me these.’

He showed Kate a selection of gaudy promotional fliers for what looked like a New Age mystic religion. The organization claimed to be able to make sense of the most bizarre psychic experiences – new recruits were always welcome. She wasn’t certain but she felt sure she’d heard of the Cult of Planet Love somewhere before.

Tearing her eyes from the strangely compelling, almost hypnotic symbols on the covers, she refocused on her subject. ‘But you feel able to talk about your ordeal now?’

‘Too bloody right,’ said Mr Smith, jumping to his feet and barely wincing in pain. ‘If their sort comes calling again I’ll be ready for them with my gun. I just … wasn’t ready at the time, that’s all.’

Kate stopped her tape recorder and sighed wearily. She had never heard the term ‘Men in Black’, but she had a close personal friend who knew only too much about them.