Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas
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