‘Sort of. You have to go in holding on to these guys’ truck. Hitch a ride in, you know? Gran told me—’ He stopped, feeling a little hysterical. No, he musn’t tell them about Gran on Paradise Row—there was quite enough crazy stuff for them to take in without that.
‘Gran?’ Janet and his mother looked at each other. ‘You told Gran about all this?’
‘Well, she seemed to know—at least, I think it was her. She sent me a message, this afternoon—’ Only this afternoon? It seemed like days ago.
There was silence. His mother stared at him, her hands rising to cover her mouth.
Janet said softly, ‘Sweetheart, you do know your gran died on Tuesday afternoon?’
Finn stared at her, unable to take in the words. Then he turned to his mum, who nodded, her eyes filling with tears. She scrabbled in the pocket of her shorts and brought out a tissue. ‘It’s partly why I came back. Mum dying, and you and Richard missing. I couldn’t think what was going on—everything falling apart and me thousands of miles away, holidaying, for god’s sake!’ She wiped her eyes and nose.
Finn sat down at the kitchen table, the empty glass in one hand and the neck of the water bottle in the other. He felt about ready to give up. His own tears assembled under his eyes, ready to flow, but he swallowed hard, forcing them to disperse again, clamping his gaze on to the bottle label. STILLED WATER. His mind went silent all of a sudden, and then a whole series of loose impressions fell into place: his father whispered ‘still . . . war’; Jed muttered ‘If they can’t stand fresh air—’; the bank-vault door sealed itself behind the tankermen, like the door of a decompression chamber . . . The suits: they were not for protecting the tankermen from the slush they were putting into the drains—they kept the air out. They couldn’t stand fresh air; they had to wear the suits, like diving suits, only with some kind of gas or fluid inside. And the stuff they were pumping into the ocean—well, Finn thought he might have a vague idea what it held, and FinCom would be able to provide the details. Foul brown-black oil, shot through with putrid matter, harvested from whatever animals the tankermen could gather, shot through with . . . Finn took a deep breath and felt his scab-crusted chest protest. Shot through with dividing cells, that fed on the stuff, that grew in it, that grew, eventually, into creatures with pincer hands and clumsy gaits.
And the only weapon he had against them was in his white-knuckled hand. Pure water, guaranteed free of contaminants.
‘Where can we get a crateload of distilled water? Do 7–11s sell it?’
Janet looked at him very suspiciously before answering. ‘I’ve a lifetime’s supply in the shed, from before we got the water purifier.’
‘Enough to revive nine people, and have plenty to splash around besides?’
‘Probably.’ She laid her hands on the table and looked closely at him. ‘Don?’
His mother, too, was regarding him like a stranger. ‘What’s going on in your head, son?’ She pushed her tissue back into her pocket.
‘I think I know how to get those people free. And I think I know what to do with those things in the suits.’ He stood up. ‘But I’ll need help.’
Janet and his mum exchanged glances. ‘Well, of course,’ said his mum nervously. ‘Whatever we can do, we’ll do . . .’
‘We’re going to this place, I take it? This cutting?’ said Janet.
‘Yes. First we go up to the Cross and then over to The Rocks.’
Janet checked her watch. ‘Well, I’d better see if Heather and Mike across the road would mind taking Alex.’ On the way to the phone she unhooked the key to the shed door and tossed it to Finn. ‘You fetch the water and put it in the car.’
‘We’ll need packs to carry it in,’ Finn said to his mother. ‘Top shelf of the hall cupboard. And knives, sharp ones.’
His mother baulked. ‘Knives?’
‘Don’t worry—we won’t be stabbing any people.’ The screen door clashed shut behind him.
Finn tried as best he could to explain, as they glided across town through the sparse traffic and the cold blinkings of neon signs. He wished more than anything that they could just go on driving all the way out of town and find themselves, at dawn, jolting along some rough old country road. But as he elaborated his plan he became more and more doubtful that he would ever be so carefree. He didn’t want to think beyond the limits of his plan, because everything was hanging on its success—either it worked, and Jed, his father and those other poor people went free, or it failed, and they faded out of existence before his and Janet’s and his mother’s eyes. That is, if they executed the first part of the plan without a hitch, and the tankermen were what he suspected—not men at all.
For now, though, he was refusing to let his doubts deflect them from their purpose. Nonetheless, the air in the front seat of the Magna was thick with uncertainty. He could tell from the glances his two mothers kept exchanging and the careful way they phrased their questions that they were going along with him unwillingly. And he heard himself talking and talking, trying to convince them, but as he detailed the shooting of the policeman, the sight of his father on the cage, the tingling sensations they could expect to feel inside the wall, he could only think how mad he must sound to these two already distressed people.
So eventually he stopped trying, leaning his head on the back of the seat and closing his eyes. He fell asleep for a few seconds, but his head lolled forward at the next set of lights, which woke him again.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he said exhaustedly, sitting up straight.
‘Well, Don, it all sounds fairly . . . fantastic,’ his mother said, with an uncomfortable glance back at him. Janet drove on grimly, saying nothing.
Finn shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t explain what’s been happening any other way. I’m only going on what I saw.’
His mother took a deep breath. ‘Darling, if it wasn’t you saying these things, I’ll tell you the truth, I’d laugh whoever it was out of town.’ She reached around to squeeze his knee. ‘But it is you, and even though what you’re saying is crazy, you’re not behaving all that crazily, and I’ve never known you to tell a lie, so—’ she went on with difficulty ‘—I guess we just have to believe you’re telling the truth until events prove otherwise. What I mean is, I believe you’re telling us what you saw, but grown-ups might have interpreted what they saw . . . slightly differently,’ she finished delicately.
Grown-ups! Finn looked at his mother’s profile, and thought about his father greying before his very eyes, about the sound the policeman’s body had made falling to the ground, about Jed enduring that awful ache that had been thrumming through his body for how long now? An hour and a half? How else could you interpret those things?
His mother glanced around at him again, then quickly looked away. ‘I’m sorry, Don. I’m being a bit patronising, aren’t I?’
Finn sighed, and they were all silent. When they arrived at the lane opening, Janet parked a little way away from it, and briskly got out of the car. Finn and his mum followed her up the street.
‘This is where they found the car,’ she said to Finn’s mum, ‘and the police car was over there. No-one around.’ She spoke in a flat, businesslike voice, ignoring Finn. ‘No sign of anyone. The only reason they don’t think Richard wanted to disappear is that two of their officers went with him. So, it’s up this lane, is it?’ she said louder, still without looking at Finn.
‘Yes.’
The two women went ahead together, with Finn trailing behind them, past caring whether they believed him or not. He scouted around for hiding places. The best was a garage right at the intersection of the two lanes, with a broken fence providing footholds to climb up to the roof, and a plank across the front edge of the roof that would conceal a person. It was the ideal place to launch himself from. He climbed up and peered over the plank, into the doubtful faces of Janet and Stella, lit up pale by the single dim street lamp.
‘This is perfect,’ he said, and climbed down again.
&nbs
p; As he jumped to the ground Janet was kicking at the paving stones with the toe of her elastic-sided boot. ‘Just a reality check, Don,’ she said uneasily. ‘I gather from all you’ve said that these aren’t human beings we’re dealing with?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Finn. ‘I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen them without their suits on—not that I’d know, if they are human and walk around the streets just like anyone else. What I mean is . . .’
‘Course they’re not human,’ said Stella ironically, pulling herself up the fence and scanning the garage roof. ‘They’re creatures from outer space, aren’t they, Finn?’
Finn stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, not wanting to answer her.
‘I mean, if it doesn’t work,’ said Janet, ‘if they are people, and not . . . well, are they big? Can we handle them?’
‘One at a time, maybe, all three of us.’ Finn wasn’t at all sure. He didn’t see how they could be real people.
They were silent for a moment. Then Janet sighed. ‘We can stop all this and go home at any time, you know, Don.’
‘No, we can’t. Not if we want to catch these guys.’
Janet tapped the toe of her boot impatiently. ‘Don, I know you’re upset about your gran dying, and about your father. But really, sweetheart, what are we doing here, with our vegetable knives all sharpened up, and our getaway car—waiting for Space Invaders, for heaven’s sake?’ Her short, hopeless laugh was one of the most painful sounds Finn had ever heard. ‘How long do we have to wait here? I don’t need this kind of drama—I’ve had enough drama in the last three weeks to last me a lifetime. I don’t think I can handle having my greatest hopes and my deepest fears just . . . just played around with like this—’ Her face crumpled, and Finn’s mum quickly put her arms around her, and looked pleadingly up at Finn.
He moved towards Janet, but she shrank away from him, further into his mother’s embrace.
‘But why would I lie to you? Give me one good reason,’ he said helplessly. ‘Why would I make all this up?’
Janet didn’t answer. Finn’s mother spoke instead, in an unsteady voice. ‘Well, why would you run away, Don? None of us can quite figure out the reason for that. And you’ve been living round here—heaven knows what kind of stuff you’ve been getting into.’
‘“Stuff”? You mean, drugs?’
‘Yes, I mean drugs. You talk like someone who’s been hallucinating. And if you’re worried about where your father is, of course you’ll hallucinate that you’ve found him! If you’re upset about Mum dying, of course you’ll believe she’s sending you “messages”! Christ, Donny, you’re a textbook case!’ Her tone of weary understanding made Finn want to scream.
He leaned back against the paling fence and stared up at the stars. He should never have involved them. He should never have gone home. He’d just made it too difficult, for himself and everyone else.
But his plan was so neatly worked out, and they’d already got so far, that there didn’t seem to be an alternative. Janet and his mum would be so useful, if he could just get them inside the tankermen’s cellar so that they saw it all for themselves. Really, this was the only way he knew to save those nine people who were still alive in there.
And besides—he stood straight, listening intently—there was no time to work out a second plan. The rough revving of the tanker sounded in the street outside.
‘It’s them! They’re coming! Climb up!’ He hauled on his mother’s arm. ‘Quick, up on to the roof!’
‘Come on, Jan,’ Stella said, one foot on the lower crossbar of the fence.
‘I can’t. I can’t go on with this. It’s just silly!’
‘Come on!’ Finn yelled frantically. ‘If they see you, they’ll shoot you, it’s as simple as that!’ He followed his mum up on to the garage roof and crouched there, sticking out an arm to help Janet up.
The tanker roared as if it had just spotted its prey, turning into the mouth of the lane. Finn flattened himself on the galvanised iron, staring at Janet. If she climbed up now, they were all as good as dead.
‘Don, it’s just a truck. An ordinary, grungy old truck, with two—’ she left off talking and took a step forward out of sight.
‘Oh, no!’ Finn shut his eyes and banged his forehead on the roofing. His ears strained for noises other than the tanker’s engine churning—specifically, the fizz of a tankerman’s weapon fired at his stepmother.
‘They’re right below us,’ hissed his mother. ‘I can see—’ she ducked her head behind the plank. ‘He’s getting out. You were right about the weird suits, anyway.’
‘What about Janet?’
His mother peeped over again. ‘Oh, she’s okay—she’s just gone round the corner. I guess they can’t be after every scrap of human flesh that comes their way.’
Her teasing tone infuriated Finn. Soon she and Janet would realise how serious this was, how true! He stood up on the roof and pulled his father’s bowie knife from his back pocket.
The tankerman was below him—Finn saw his own shadow outlined on the suit before he jumped, grabbing for the tankerman’s shoulder on the way down.
The shoulder was not solid—his hand crushed it until he felt, deep within, a thin, rod-like limb. He sank his knife into the other shoulder and dragged open a long diagonal slash across the tankerman’s back.
Blackness fountained out, and Finn jumped back to avoid it. The creature turned very clumsily and reached for him, but he was too far back for it to get to him before it weakened. Finn heard a slurping inside its breathing tube. He waited until it began to topple before ducking around the front of the tanker. The driver’s door was just opening and a booted foot planted itself with great care on the cabin ladder. Finn’s knife went in at the ankle and slid up to the knee. The driver appeared not to notice, stepping down. It walked half the length of the tanker, releasing with each step a jet of black sludge from the leg of the suit, before stumbling. It fell full length and lay still.
Finn started shaking. The stench of the fluid billowed up, poisonous in the laneway. His knife-arm was sore, sorer than it ought to be for the amount of force he’d had to use. Then he realised he was leaning up against the tanker’s cabin. He pulled away, and the soreness left him. He touched the tanker’s headlight, and the pain juddered through him again.
‘Don? Are you okay?’ he heard his mother call out from above.
‘Yeah,’ he answered. He checked again that the driver was motionless, that the cabin was empty, then returned to the first tankerman, who lay in a spreading pool of dark syrup, quite still. Finn looked down on him, on the expressionless black eye-ovals and the useless breathing-snout.
‘I don’t believe what I just saw.’ Finn’s mother scrambled from roof to fence and leapt from the top bar into the laneway.
‘Don’t step in that black stuff,’ Finn said weakly. He took a step towards her and she took his hand, still clenched around the knife.
‘Shall we . . . should we cut open the suit and see exactly what we’ve got here?’ she said in a hushed voice.
Finn nodded. He picked up a wad of newspapers and dropped it into the muck, making an island for himself next to the tankerman’s head. He cut around the face of the suit, severing the snout, the bowie knife blade sliding through the rubbery stuff as if it were butter. More black juice bubbled out and eased away between the pavingstones. As Finn lifted the mask with the point of the knife, there was noise and motion underneath; he jumped backwards, clear of the pool of blackness, cannoning into Janet.
‘Sorry.’ They held on to steady each other, and Janet looked so white and small and shocked that Finn could not let her go. They stared at what he had exposed.
There was no face—at least, none they recognised as such. There was a glistening black mask, faceted like a fly’s eye, sloshing wildly from side to side in the remains of the helmet’s sludge. Short, spiky hairs grew in an even pattern across it, and bubbles formed among them in a wheezing froth. Every movement intensified the choking
smell.
‘Stella?’ said Janet in a quaver from behind her hand. ‘Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’ Finn’s mum shook herself out of her own horrified trance and leapt the oily rivers between herself and the others.
‘I’m seeing—’ The tankerman gave a last panicked wriggle and the wheezing sighed to a stop. ‘Something I’ve never seen before, some kind of creature . . . insect . . . it’s like a huge one-eyed ant . . .’ She looked to Finn for corroboration, but he stood dumb with his arm tight around Janet’s shoulders, his mouth twisted in disgust at the froth-bedecked tankerman. ‘And the stink of it, my god!’ She stepped back a few paces, her eyes watering.
Janet’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘Does this mean that everything else Don said is true?’ She looked at Stella, her eyes imploring her to deny it all.
‘Yes. I’m sorry,’ Finn said wearily. ‘This is just the beginning.’
Janet drew away from him, her gaze fixed on the dead tankerman. ‘I’d better start up the car, then,’ she said faintly.
‘Janet, are you okay to drive, love?’ said Finn’s mother.
‘Well—’ Janet glanced at the tanker. ‘No way am I getting inside that thing.’
Finn looked, too. Up close, in the dim light, the tanker had a bulbous ugliness, as ill-proportioned as a queen ant swollen with eggs. With the stink of the black juice in his nostrils Finn could not see it as anything but menacing.
He crouched to check that the driver was still motionless on the other side. ‘We’d better go, Mum.’ He managed somehow to make his voice sound calm and practical.
‘All right. But god, it’s enormous! I’ve never driven anything so big. I hope I can do it.’ She left off gazing at the tanker to go to Janet. ‘You’re sure you can handle the drive, Janet? I don’t like the thought of you being on your own.’
‘I have to handle it,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I’ve got the water, haven’t I? Let’s go. I’ve got to find out how Richard is.’
‘Of course. Take care.’
Finn and his mum watched her hurry off down the lane, then skirted the tankermen and their spillage and climbed up into the cabin of the tanker.