Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas
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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 [email protected] 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.
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