Russell awoke from a deep and relaxing sleep to discover himself immobilized, almost paralyzed, and unable to breath. A dozen or more pythons appeared to be constricting him from every angle. Something furry and dense pressed heavily upon his head.
‘Aagghhh!!!’
A sudden writhing of limbs, a panicked thrashing, and Russell found himself forcefully bouncing off a bed and landing on a carpeted floor with a thud. When he looked up he saw Mr. Waterstone standing on the bed, looking confused, ears back, tail flicking. Ceres and Michael stood at the opposite side, both gazing at him silently with inscrutable expressions.
This was his bedroom, in his flat above the aerobics studio in Bermondsey, but what were this lot still doing here!? And how exactly had they slept!? In one tight confusing ball of limbs, by the feel of it, with him in the middle, contorted, stuck, and suffocating. Russell held no memory of ending up here but the rest of the evening and night were clear enough:
After leaving the hybrid on the Finsbury roof, Russell had been instructed once again to drive. This time west. Out of London altogether and then all the way to Wiltshire. Traffic escaping London clogged up the M4 but Michael’s satnav found him uncongested routes on various B roads that allowed the Bentley to reach its destination before dusk: a wheat field. One apparently in need of a crop circle, which he and Mr. Waterstone had to beat down with wooden pallet boards. That was exhausting and took over two hours to complete, mainly due to Michael’s strict supervision from the side of the field using a night-vision drone.
Following that, it was a drive all the way back to London and a night of hedonism and high living. First there were the London super clubs and private raves and then on to the sex parties hosted by wet lipped oligarchs. Sweeping through London that night, Russell felt as though he were part of a larger organic entity composed of hundreds of partygoers: like a flock of starlings in the late evening sky searching for the next roost, but always maintaining a beautiful and fluid shape. Bits occasionally broke off from the main group, and sometimes he found himself hooked up with other revellers and with no idea of the whereabouts of the crazy gang. Then they’d all meet up again at some other venue down the line. Ceres cast the most intoxicating of spells on that hottest of nights.
And then suddenly he was here…
‘Breakfast?’ he eventually managed.
Without waiting for a reply he headed down the hall to his kitchen, the memories of the previous night still vivid in his mind. He could get used to this! But something needed to be done about the sleeping arrangements.
He examined his fridge and was happy to see it well stocked.
‘Nice one, Meg,’ he muttered to himself. As well as her secretarial work Meg made extra cash working as Russell’s personal shopper. A newspaper sat on the table and Russell idly perused it before realizing the significance of it being today’s. That meant Meg had already been in here!
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine forty-three.’
Russell turned around to see his three house guests taking seats at his table. ‘Full English,’ declared Ceres. Mr. Waterstone extended a paw; presumably he wanted the full English breakfast as well.
‘Michael?’
‘Just a black coffee for me, thanks.’
This all seemed very domestic. The time suddenly sank in:
‘Nine forty-three!!??’
‘Well, nine forty-four now,’ replied Michael.
‘Shit, I’ve got a class at ten!’ Russell frantically began preparing the breakfasts. It had been some time since he’d last prepared an English, but it was fairly easy to put together: fried eggs, fried bacon, fried bread, fried sausage and fried mushrooms, and something else… fried beans!
He eventually placed two large greasy servings on the table, and Michael was handed his black coffee. Everyone seemed satisfied. Mr. Waterstone began to wolf his down with gusto, and the woman ate hers with an accompaniment of erotic noises. Meg suddenly burst into his flat.
‘You’re up!’ she shouted at Russell, ‘you know you’ve got a class in like five minutes!? Oh, hello.’
Meg gawped at Ceres and Mr. Waterstone.
‘Err, Meg, this is Ms. Ceres,’ said Russell, nervously.
‘Delighted to meet you, Meg,’ replied Ceres with a huge food-splattered grin.
Meg smiled, seemingly transfixed by Ceres’s luminous beauty, but then her attention switched to the cat. Mr. Waterstone was finishing his breakfast.
‘Whoa!! That cat’s using a knife and fork! Hahaha!!’
Crap, shouldn’t the perception filter take care of that sort of thing? ‘Yes, he’s called Mr. Waterstone. Ceres here is training him.’
Meg looked thrilled. She turned to Ceres: ‘You should put him on YouTube!’
‘Wait till you hear him talk,’ replied Ceres.
‘Really!!??’
Russell intervened: ‘Yeah, it’s mainly just “sausages” it needs a bit of work.’ He was growing uneasy by this banter, but at least Meg was ignoring Michael. As her attention switched again to Russell the smile on her face vanished.
‘Russell, for God’s sake, change out of those stinking clothes! You can’t go down looking like that!’
Russell looked down and was aghast to discover that he was still attired in yesterday’s aerobics outfit. It was filthy, stained and torn and it smelled a bit ripe. The too-short shorts had a giant split in the rear.
Russell reluctantly left Meg with the others while he took a quick shower and, at last, changed into a new outfit. When he returned to the kitchen Meg had gone. He turned to the others:
‘If there are no objections I must now conduct a one-hour aerobics class.’ The others stared at him. ‘After the class perhaps we could clarify our, err, relationship. I mean do you still require me? The Sponsors are dealt with, right?’
As Russell sidled towards his front door, Mr. Waterstone and Michael jumped down from their seats and followed. Were they going to stick to him like glue from now on?
‘You want to join my class?’ he enquired, flippantly.
‘Wouldn’t miss it!’ replied Michael.
Russell turned to Ceres but she held up a hand. ‘Conduct your keep-fit class, and take these two with you.’ She then pointed behind Russell to the corner of the kitchen and Russell instinctively turned to look. The demonic blackboard had made another unwelcome appearance.
‘Oh no, not that again!’
‘Settle down, Mr. Tebb, there is an important truth to be told but this time we can just utilize words and pictures.’
Russell wasn’t sure what that meant. ‘Alright,’ he said with a shrug. He then led Michael and Mr. Waterstone down to his studio.
The hour seemed to speed by. The regulars in his class accepted the two new members without any carry-on and both Michael and Mr. Waterstone acquitted themselves quite well, although Mr. Waterstone did have to retire early due to a stitch, presumably caused by his recent large breakfast.
On returning to his flat Russell was once again confronted by that blackboard. It had been moved to his lounge and placed in front of the TV. Three pictures were stuck to it.
The image in the top left corner appeared to be a photograph of a mountain gorilla, or yeti-type creature. It stood on its hind legs and was covered from head to toe in long blonde hair, with a darker Mohican running from the top of its head down the length of its back. A roughly hewn club was gripped in its right hand. The picture actually looked staged: that furtive glance at the camera at odds with its fearsome expression, as though it were saying to the photo-shoot director: “Is this enough for you? I can give you more”.
Russell studied the picture over on the top right: a grey ‘ufology’ alien. As he had noticed yesterday when staring closely at the Sponsor, certain overlaps in the features could be discerned. So these creeps did exist after all! Presumably a related species. Russell supposed he was being shown the next targets – the next set of non-terrestrials that were in need of a smack-down. The grey was siniste
r, but old Boris Johnson on the left there didn’t look like much of a threat.
The picture at the bottom was of a particularly ornate and complex crop circle. It was amazingly detailed. Russell recalled with a smile his and Mr. Waterstone’s shambolic efforts the previous night. Come to think of it, he had not seen the completed image. Could this be it!? The photo on the blackboard was not a standard daylight shot, but rather some graphically enhanced night shot.
As Russell studied the pictures closely he could not begin to guess the connections between them, if any existed, nor the nature of this ‘truth’ Ceres was about to dispense.
***