Chapter Three
Wednesday
(The Malevolence)
The hangover smashed into him like a polluted ocean wave.
‘I’m dying!’ he wailed.
The pounding headache, the intense nausea – this was worse than his forced genetic conversion! That was probably an exaggeration but now Alan finally understood how his fellow workers at GFS sometimes felt when they stumbled into work complaining of feeling like “death warmed up”.
‘Ahh, is my little pussycat feeling unwell?’ A long slender arm fell languidly over his thin hairless chest. Alan opened his eyes, the hangover momentarily forgotten.
He was lying on a king-sized bed. Black satin sheets lay tangled up near his feet. He squinted and recognized his companion: a tall, deeply tanned escort girl, one that Warner had directed his way at some point during the night after he’d tried, rather clumsily, to proposition her. God, he’d been hammered! The hangover reappeared from stage-right.
‘’Scuze, thank you.’ Alan gingerly removed the arm and attempted to sit up ... He was going to throw up! He quickly stood and raced out of the bedroom only to find himself in an open-plan lounge/kitchen area in which sat several sophisticated chattering-class types, all engaged in a murmuring conversation. One of the group was Warner, the others were vaguely recognizable from the previous night, though he could not remember any names.
Alan stood before the group, naked, still preoccupied with finding a bathroom. He barely had seconds… Warner shook her head and silently indicated a closed door opposite. He charged into the bathroom and promptly projectile vomited, mostly into the toilet bowl.
This eventually helped, and once the peristaltic waves had finally subsided Alan at last felt able to function. He gave himself a quick wash, and the bathroom a wipe down with toilet roll. He then wrapped a large white towel around his middle and returned to the main communal room.
The sophisticates regarded him with varying expressions of pity and disgust. Alan just gawped at them. He’d been having a fun time with this crowd only a few hours earlier but right now they felt like strangers. He had nothing whatsoever to say to any of them, including Warner.
‘How are you feeling, Alan?’ asked Warner, not apparently very amused.
‘Rough,’ growled Alan. He then began to cough violently and felt new waves of nausea take hold.
One of Warner’s group stood: ‘I think it’s time I split, Helen. Thanks for the hospitality and the…’ he gave Alan the once-over, ‘…entertainment.’
The others, with the exception of Warner, laughed at this as they too made their excuses to leave. Warm farewells and much air-kissing followed, and in due course Alan found himself alone in the room with Warner.
‘What do you want?’ enquired Warner, ‘black coffee or soluble paracetamol?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Alan, perching himself on a stool in the kitchen, ‘I haven’t embarrassed you have I?’
‘Oh, good Lord no! Whatever gave you that impression!?’ Warner was annoyed. To hell with her.
‘Where’s that paracetamol!?’ Alan demanded. He really felt sick again.
Forty-five minutes later, Alan, now lying on one of Warner’s sofas, decided he was well enough to get dressed.
‘I should put some clothes on,’ he declared.
‘Only if you feel ready, Alan,’ replied Warner, eyes fixed on the BBC’s news channel.
Alan’s escort joined them in the lounge. She kissed Alan on the lips and sat down next to him and began playing with his hair.
‘Is she still on the clock?’ asked Alan.
The woman removed her hand and shot Alan an enraged look.
‘Excuse me!!??’ she screamed.
‘Right, that’s it! Get out!’ Warner shrieked.
Alan thought Warner was talking to the woman but her steely eyes were fixed on him.
‘Excuse me!!??’ Alan exclaimed, trying to channel some of the woman’s outrage and direct it at Warner.
‘You heard me, get out!’
Alan held his ground for a second or two but the fury directed at him forced a retreat. He returned to the bedroom and began to dress; he soon reappeared in the lounge.
‘I didn’t mean to cause any offence!’ he offered, but both women ignored him.
As Alan headed for the front door, Warner finally piped up: ‘Head for GFS, I’ll contact you if-and-when I need you.’ She did not look up from the TV.
‘Yep,’ said Alan. He departed Warner’s luxury Mayfair apartment and staggered towards Oxford Street. It was another warm cloudless day in London.
***
‘What is it!?’
‘Prime Minister, Sir Neville Stonehatch and Mrs. Collier are waiting.’ The PM checked the time: precisely nine am.
‘Good, send them in now.’
The Chief of the Security Services and his deputy entered the PM’s office.
‘Morning, morning, do sit down… So, what new horrors do you have for me
today?’
Sir Neville Stonehatch began with a briefing from Porton Down:
‘The ash material collected from London has been chemically analyzed, sir. It is a type of felsic volcanic ash more commonly associated with violent volcanic eruptions occurring near tectonic plate boundaries.’
‘Really? Why is that material present here? Was this thing made out of silica? Was it a meteorite after all?’
‘We don’t know for sure that this ash is the remains of our USO, sir. It may be part of a weapon, or weapons, that was used to destroy it.’
The PM ruminated on this for a moment: ‘Is this just a hunch or a logical deduction?’
‘Analyses of the ash fields indicate decreasing concentrations the further from point-zero we get, as would be expected, but there is a second, much higher
concentration centred elsewhere: Whitehall, to be precise, Prime Minister.’ The PM shook his head in disbelief.
‘There is also a variance between the two ash populations. The Whitehall material is recognizably felsic; but the bulk scattered over London also contains high concentrations of certain rare earths including yttrium, neodymium, cerium and erbium. We believe
these elements constitute part of the leftovers of the USO, sir.’
‘Weight for weight those are worth more than gold!’ remarked the PM.
‘Indeed, sir, considerably more, and the concentrations in the ash are even higher than is typically found in the ores mined commercially.’
‘Wow, so we can do the same with the ash!?’
‘Yes, sir. In theory there is currently as much rare earth scattered across London as has been extracted from the world’s mines to date.’
The PM was amazed. The first piece of good news! ‘We need to step up the
collection of ash and take steps for its quick processing.’
‘Already in hand, sir,’ stated Mrs. Collier,’ DEFRA, The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs will be handling the red tape. They have been instructed to keep all of this classified.’
‘Good! Any idea how much all this could be worth?’
‘Estimates vary widely, as it is still far from clear how much can be extracted.’ ‘Guesstimate?’
‘Anything from a few billion dollars to this being a new “North Sea Oil”, sir.’ The PM gaped at his security staff, mouth truly wide open.
‘A ray of light punching through the gloom, sir,’ said Sir Neville, without any hint of levity.
‘Yeah!’ The PM began to think how best to exploit this politically. It would require some thought, the dividends were enormous… his political opponents could be eviscerated with this! So much for the looming recession. That reminded him, he really should check up on all that stuff…
‘Sir, regarding the overall picture, we have attempted to develop that “narrative”
you asked for.’
‘Hmm? Oh yes! Shoot!’
Mrs. Collier began to describe the series of events as MI6 understood them to be:
‘On Monday afternoon an attack was launched against Extraterrestrial Biological Entities (EBEs), who, for reasons unknown, were concentrated at the FO annex. The EBEs then called in reinforcements from a large “mother ship” or USO…’
Mrs. Collier paused, apparently barely able to believe any of this herself, but she soldiered on:
‘Between the arrival and subsequent destruction of the USO – during those critical few minutes when the gigantic ship hovered over London – several hundred humans were killed. We assume the mother, I mean, USO, was responsible for those deaths, motive unknown. Then it was taken out by means not understood but apparently involving a focused channelling of volcanic energy and mass.
‘The perpetrators have been observed, but remain unidentified. Their status as friend-or-foe is also still to be determined, but their ransacking of Sir Neville’s office tells us a few things, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘The files they were interested in covered paranormal activity, UFOs etc. We think the gang may be gathering intel for a new assault against these aliens.’ ‘Or other groups of aliens, sir,’ added Sir Neville.
‘That it?’ asked the PM.
‘The best we can manage so far, sir.’
‘I see. Plenty of loose ends, though: What about all the different DNA found at the annex? Why have deaths occurred worldwide? And why just a few hundred? And who are the individuals that fought back and then broke into your office, Sir Neville?’
‘The investigation into the Vauxhall Cross incident is ongoing, sir. Fingerprints found there do match with some found at the annex. Mainly the male. But the female has been leaving marks as well. Other forensics are being analyzed at Lewisham.’
‘Are these “normal” fingerprints?’
‘They appear to be, sir: the man has mainly arches, the woman mainly ulna loops. Both are common.’
The PM listened to some further conjecture until it became clear that both Mrs. Collier and Sir Neville were now just throwing around unsubstantiated ideas. He held aloft a statesmanlike hand and silence returned to his office.
‘Where do we go from here? What, in your opinion, is our priority in this
investigation?’
There was a pause. Sir Neville shrugged, suggesting that beyond ongoing investigations there was nothing much else they could do, but Mrs. Collier was focusing hard on some inner thought, or idea… ‘Mrs. Collier?’ prompted the PM.
‘The Gang of Four, Prime Minister, there–’
‘Is that what we are calling them now? By the way, how many people in the secret service know about all this?’
‘That know all of it – just the three of us, Prime Minister. But there are teams working on aspects: the satellite footage, the recovery of ash, the Whitehall and Vauxhall
Cross incidents, Dosogne etc.’
‘Hmm, that sounds like a lot of people and a lot of potential security issues.’ ‘These people are reliable, sir,’ replied Sir Neville.
‘I hope so, just ensure that only we continue to know the full picture.’
‘Indeed, sir. That’s our aim, too, sir.’
‘Good. Now, Mrs. Collier, I’m sorry I interrupted you, what were you going to say about “The Gang of Four”?’
‘We have been assuming, because of their brazen antics, that they are… untouchable. And can’t be caught.’
The PM noticed that Sir Neville was nodding slowly, clearly this was his view as well.
‘Go on, Mrs. Collier,’ the PM urged.
‘It’s probably just a minor detail, Prime Minister, but their selfie can be timechecked from the camera in the office. It was not sent to Sir Neville’s phone until a full ten minutes later.’
‘Enough time for them to exit the building!’ exclaimed the PM. ‘Sir Neville, when you received the image on your phone, what did you do?’
‘I recognized my office instantly and used my phone to trigger the alarms and initiate an automatic lockdown.’
‘And then you conducted a thorough search of the building and found nothing!’
‘Yes, sir, although we assumed–’
‘You assumed the search would be fruitless as these birds had flown, teleported out of there, or something.’
‘Well, yes, something along–’
‘But they needed those ten minutes, enough time to just walk out of there! ... Okay, so we can assume they are travelling about London via conventional means ... Good deductions, Mrs Collier, but how does this help us?’
‘Well, there is also the question of the CCTV covering the building as a whole.
They took it out, but why bother if no one notices them?’
‘Your point?’
‘Somehow, they can avoid being noticed but they can’t keep their images off closed circuit television. They shut down Vauxhall Cross’s network and there have been many glitches to the city-wide network this week, including Whitehall at precisely the critical time.’
‘I thought you put that down to an EM pulse from the exploding ship?’
‘It could well have been an EM pulse,’ remarked Mrs. Collier, ‘but cameras were going off-line before that. I believe we can use this to map their movements!’
The PM leaned back in his chair and regarded a rather self-satisfied Mrs. Collier.
‘I’d give you a promotion for this, but I guess Sir Neville would object!’ The PM and Mrs. Collier both laughed.
‘There is also the question of Dosogne,’ observed the unsmiling Sir Neville.
Mrs. Collier suddenly sobered up: ‘Dosogne needs to be pulled in again. And we take the gloves off this time.’
‘I’d urge against that, sir,’ said Sir Neville.
‘Why?’ asked the PM, ‘Oh, let me guess, his legal team! I’m telling you, Dosogne’s “legal team” is the biggest bogey man in all of this! Throw them in the Thames if you have to!’
‘No, it’s not that, sir.’ Sir Neville began fiddling with his phone; he then placed it on the PM’s desk so that everyone could observe its small screen: ‘CCTV, currently from Oxford Street: one rather worse-for-wear Mr. Alan Dosogne.’
The PM and his two security officers watched as Dosogne staggered and lurched down Oxford Street, stopping frequently to prop himself up against lampposts, shop fronts, waste bins – anything that came to hand.
‘What the hell’s the matter with him?’ asked the PM.
‘He’s drunk or hungover, sir. He’s been out partying all night with some of London’s elite. We’ve been tracking him since he left NSY.’
The PM shook his head: ‘What a loser! But why does this mean we shouldn’t pull him in?’
‘Well, I feel he can be pulled in at any stage, if we so desire. But in the meantime, why not just follow him and see who he talks to. Who knows, even the Gang of Four may turn up.’
‘Yes, I suppose, you’re right,’ remarked the PM, still viewing the live footage from
Oxford Street: ‘What’s he doing now!?’
Everyone studied the phone closely: Dosogne had slumped over a railing and was not moving. Mrs. Collier frowned: ‘If he were my son I’d be very concerned!’ ‘Your sons never had one-too-many, Mrs. Collier?’ asked the PM.
‘It’s not that. His profile and background suggest a very sober young man: sharp, intelligent and generally very well-liked. But since his reappearance yesterday… well, he’s been like this!’
‘A bit of a dork,’ added the PM.
‘Hmm. He did not emerge from Monday unscathed. Something’s happened to
him!’
‘He’s on the move again,’ observed the PM.
The Prime Minister and his security staff continued to watch Dosogne until he finally tripped down the flight of stairs leading to Oxford Circus tube station.
***
Sir Grievous Mielczarek’s revival of Cats at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane was, by common consent, a triumph, with Mr. Waterstone in particular gushing with fulsome praise. He even insisted on dragging the others backstage afterwards to meet the cast.
Russell was happy to tag along. This was perhaps the third time he’d seen Cats over the years, but the first at the West End. The production values, he had to concede, were impeccable. Maybe if anything it was all a bit over-produced. But Mr. Waterstone was having none of it.
The gang finally departed Drury Lane some time after midnight and headed straight for the karaoke bars. Mr. Waterstone performed numbers from Cats, much to the hilarity of the mainly Chinese clientele, while Ceres reduced grown men to tears with her immaculate and soulful renditions of various pop classics. Michael, with the help of Russell, and a deliberately malfunctioning perception filter, banged out a disturbing version of The Prodigy’s Diesel Power. Like Ceres, he had demonstrated the ability to touch his audience emotionally, but not in the same way.
After the karaoke came the clubs, and then it all got a bit hazy...
The loud banging at his bedroom door jolted Russell awake. Once again he found himself contributing to a Gordian knot of twenty intertwining limbs, unable to move or breath. He could not even cry out!
The banging returned, more insistent: ‘Russell!?’
The Gordian knot flew apart, with Russell forced down into his mattress before being sent skyward again by the rebound. He bounced back onto his bed.
‘Christ! Why do we have to sleep like this!?’ he demanded of the others.
‘Russell!?’
‘Oh shit, that’s Meg!’ he shouted.
‘I heard that! Russell, open the door!’
Russell unlocked the door and Meg burst in. She looked over at Ceres and then Mr. Waterstone; she even glanced at Michael, who was stuck to the ceiling. But it was Russell she was interested in.
‘Russell! A word please – in private.’ Meg dragged Russell from his bedroom and towards the front door of his flat.
‘Russell, what the hell is going on!? I had to cancel two classes yesterday because of your no-show, and you’re already keeping your ten o’clock waiting today! What the hell are you playing at and–’ Meg added in a loud and hoarse whisper: ‘–why are you still hanging around with this crowd!?’
Ceres pushed by them, reaching for the front door. She beamed a large smile at Meg. ‘There’s a bakery down the high street, Mr. Waterstone has a hankering for croissants. Can I get either of you anything?’ ‘Not for me, thanks,’ replied Russell.
‘You shouldn’t feed a cat croissants, it’s bad for their digestion,’ added Meg, eyeing Ceres with obvious disapproval.
‘Who, him!?’ snorted Ceres, with laughter, as she departed Russell’s flat: ‘he’s a dustbin, he’ll eat anything!’
‘She’s a bit eccentric,’ said Russell, with a chuckle.
‘That’s hardly the point! You’re missing classes because of them and you’re running the business into the ground!’ Meg’s eyes began to moisten and Russell reached to comfort and reassure her but she pushed him away. ‘Get your arse down there asap! And change your stinking clothes!’
Meg stomped down the stairs that led to the studio, slamming Russell’s front door behind her.
‘Staff problems?’ enquired Michael, who had appeared from nowhere.
‘Piss off!’ Russell pushed past the spider and it followed him into the kitchen.
‘Just a black coffee again for me, thanks.’
Russell began to fill the kettle and glanced over at the cat who was sitting at the kitchen table expectantly: ‘Your croissants are on their way, Mr. Waterstone… you won’t need the knife and fork this time.’
Russell conducted his ‘ten o’clock’ in a distracted frame of mind. As well as the ‘issues’ facing humanity and the fact that Meg was on his case, there remained the disquieting prospect of dealing with an ET known as: “the Malevolence”. After the class he joined the others, who were watching television in his lounge.
‘What’s the itinerary for today, then?’ Russell asked, checking to see if the blackboard was anywhere in sight. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t. Every time that thing showed up his universe disintegrated.
‘We will be leaving London today, Mr. Tebb. I suggest you pack a suitcase,’ replied Ceres.
‘Now hang on! You heard Meg. I can’t just leave my business to hang like this. I have responsibilities, obligations, duties!’
‘Oh put a sock in it, Russell,’ said Michael, ‘you’ve got bigger fish to fry. Besides, you just need to cancel classes for today, tomorrow and probably Friday. If, after that, the world is still standing, you could resume classes by the weekend. Do you conduct classes at the weekend?’ ‘Yes!’
‘There you go! Russell Tebb Aerobics will survive, people are always going to need fitness instructors! – Unless, of course, your business model is flawed. How’s your cash flow?’
‘Never mind my cash flow, what about Meg!?’
‘Would you like me to talk to her, Mr. Tebb?’ enquired Ceres.
‘Err, no. I don’t–’
‘Yes, you can talk to me!’ Meg had been eavesdropping from somewhere, but she now strode directly into the lounge for a showdown with Ceres. She stood before her, arms folded.
‘You’ll have to close the shop for the remainder of this week,’ said Ceres, leaning around Meg to maintain her view of the TV.
‘What!? Why!?’
There was a groaning sound. Everyone turned to look at the cat.
‘Did you feed him those croissants? He’s probably in considerable pain right now!’ declared Meg.
‘Well, let’s hope he doesn’t blow, or we could lose California,’ remarked Michael.