Alien Abduction: The Wiltshire Revelations. Brian Stableford
supportive appearances. When Walter Wainwright invited questions and comments, the gist of the opening remarks was that Jim’s experience must have been unusually disturbing, and that he was obviously coping with it extremely well, not only emotionally but intellectually and imaginatively.
Jim, who had obviously been slightly worried about the kind of reception he might get, even though he had scouted out the group before diving in head-first, blossomed in the warmth of the praise. He admitted that he was, indeed, coping very well, not only emotionally but intellectually and imaginatively, and that he was a fortunate man to be able to pass on the legacy of his experience to such understanding people.
Steve was mildly surprised that nobody even ventured to hint, let alone to suggest forthrightly, that Jim might have fallen asleep at the wheel and hallucinated the whole experience—or the ideative seed that he had since nurtured and brought to maturity by careful confabulation—in the split second before or after he hit the deer. Nor did anyone imply, by the merest word or gesture, that he might simply be telling a tall tale. Indeed, it seemed to Steve that some of the private glances exchanged between the group members were signaling that Jim’s story had made even more sense to them than it had to its teller, not just because it dovetailed with their own experiences but because their own experiences cast some light on its murkier elements. Steve was tempted, just for a moment, to throw a spanner into the works by making some slyly snide remark, but he didn’t have to make an effort to suppress the temptation; it withered and died of its own accord.
“That wasn’t quite what I expected,” he whispered in Janine’s ear.
“Nor me,” she replied. She was looking across the room at Milly, who was nodding sagely and making murmurous approving noises along with everyone else, and who seemed to have identified as forcefully with the narrator as anyone else had. Neither of the women who sat to either side of Milly, one of whom looked to be in her thirties and the other in her forties, could match her robust figure, but they didn’t seem at all frail: there was color in their cheeks and a marked liveliness in their manner a they fed on one another’s fascination and good will.
None of which signifies, Steve thought, that they’re anything but completely crazy, intoxicated by the chance to pool their craziness. Such was the atmosphere of the meeting, however, that Steve felt ashamed of the judgment as soon as he’d formulated it. He decided, on due reflection, that it didn’t matter whether he believed Jim’s story or not, or whether anyone else really believed it, or even whether Jim believed it himself. It was the kind of story that had to be treated earnestly and represented as actual experience in order to take full effect. If it were only to be reckoned a traveler’s tale, like a mariner’s account of singing mermaids, a salesman’s account of some farmer’s daughter or a scaremonger’s account of a brief encounter with a maniac serial killer, it had to be treated exactly as the members of AlAbAn were treating it in order to generate its particular frisson—and that frisson was something to be valued in itself, as a kind of intoxication far more delicate than alcohol or ecstasy could produce. As someone who prided himself on being a connoisseur of delicacy, Steve thought, he ought to be wholeheartedly in favor of that kind of thrill.
Amelia Rockham made a second huge pot of tea, although many of her guests politely refused, and began to drift away in ones and twos. Steve and Janine waited politely until Milly signaled that she was ready to depart, and then they bid farewell to their hostess and Walter Wainwright before making their way back to the Citroen.
“Is it always like that?” Janine asked Milly, as they got into the car.
“The group, yes,” Milly said. “The story wasn’t typical, by any means. Most are closer to the stereotype: little aliens in saucer-shaped spaceships, with operating tables and bright lights, with or without lengthy dialogues in which one of the aliens explains the reason for the whole enterprise, usually involving the imminent extinction of the human race by virtue of nuclear war or ecocatastrophe, or both.”
“Is that the sort of thing that happened to you?” Steve asked, tilting his head so that he could see Milly’s face in the mirror.
“Yes and no,” she replied, shortly, blushing.
“Have you told your story to the group yet?” Janine asked, as Steve switched the engine on.
“No,” Milly said. “Nobody hassles you to tell, if you’re not ready, I think Walter might worry about me, a little—he makes paternal comments occasionally—but the others have the patience of saints.”
“I’ve seen that kind of paternal interest before,” Steve said. “Some teachers are the same way—the kind who used to be always patting the kids on the head or the knee, before all physical contact was outlawed. It’s usually harmless, of course—the ones who fantasize about taking it further don’t last long in the profession—but it’s still slightly suspect.”
“Walter’s not like that,” Milly replied, with conviction. “He’s absolutely sincere.”
“That’s the salesman’s motto, isn’t it?” Steve said, as he headed off towards Alderbury. “Sincerity is the key—once you can fake that, you’re made. Did you say that he was an insurance salesman, in his working days?”
“I don’t know,” Milly said. “I think someone mentioned once that he used to work for the Prudential, but I’ve no idea what his job was.”
Steve couldn’t suppress a brief smirk. Walter Wainwright, the man from the Pru, he thought. Back in the days when the outfit prided itself on the individual attention it gave its customers, always sending its agents round to collect premiums, long before England became the Empire of the Financial Advisers. Aloud, he said “Is there something going on between him and Amelia Rockham?”
“I doubt it, at their age” Milly said, dryly. “They’ve known one another for years—since they were our age, at least, and probably since their schooldays. Amelia told me once that they knew one another before they married their respective spouses, and there might have been a wistful note in her voice, but I’d hesitate to drawn any conclusions from that. They’re both widowed now, though, and they seem to be close—they certainly see one another outside the meetings, although I doubt that it involves any hot sex. I’d like to think our friendship would last as long as that, wouldn’t you, Jan?”
“Yes, I would,” Janine replied, “Although it’s bound to be difficult once people start pairing off and getting married.”
“I’ve got no plans,” Milly said, “and Alison seems to specialize in dating men who are already married nowadays. How about you?”
Steve glanced sideways, knowing that it would be Janine’s turn to blush. She didn’t reply to Milly’s provocative question.
“It needn’t matter, anyway,” Milly said, as soon as it became clear that Janine had no comment to make. “None of us would marry the kind of husband who’d monopolize us, would we? We’d carry on being friends no matter what.”
“We ought to get together with Ali next week,” Janine said. “It’s been too long.”
“Absolutely,” Milly said. “She’s bound to have some tales to tell. She’s well on her way to becoming the Town Hall tart. Have you met Alison, Steve?”
“No,” Janine answered for him. “I’ve explained that boy-friends aren’t allowed on our girls’ nights out.”
“We could arrange something more decorous that he wouldn’t find quite as shocking,” Milly suggested. “A weekend excursion to the coast, maybe.”
“Steve plays cricket,” Janine said. “Saturdays and Sundays, most weeks.”
“Well, no one’s perfect,” Milly said. “At least he’s remembered his abduction experience, even if it did need hypnotherapy to help him remember it. You should try that, Jan—dredge up your own experience. Everybody’s had at least one, you know.”
“I’ll leave mine safely buried for the time being,” Janine replied. “I’m sure it won’t be as lurid as yours.”