The Alien House

1 THE ALIEN CONSPIRACYIt was a warm summer's morning, and it was too hot for the old man to lie on the beach any longer. He sat up rubbed his eyes and looked in the mirror app on his tablet. His creased face and squinty eyes made him look older than his sixty-two years. His thin grey hair, once brown, stuck out like a toilet brush and he had two-days of stubble. A crumpled short-sleeved shirt, knee-length shorts and old, but once expensive sandals completed the depressing image of a man who, once well-cared for, now neglected his appearance. Tutting to himself, he walked down to the sea, splashed some of the cool Bristol Channel onto his face to wake himself up and returned to the small plot that he had staked out with his towel. The beach was already half-full with young families and more were arriving by the minute. He dried his face, wetted and combed his hair, packed his few things into his duffel bag and trudged up to the road. His back hurt again and his feet were slightly swollen and red from having been exposed to the sun for too long when he was asleep. 'You silly old sod, Michael! Now look what you've gone and done!' he said to himself, although not out loud. He often talked to himself these days, perhaps he always had - he couldn't be bothered to remember, but he was grateful that he hadn't yet got to the stage of voicing his thoughts. 'You should know better than not to allow for the moving shadows at your age...' 'It wasn't my fault... it was the alien abduction... the gamma rays my feet were subjected to when the Greys abducted me...' he countered. A car's horn caused him to realise that he was in the middle of the busy Beach Road. He held up his hand and smiled an apology as he shuffled on to the safety of the opposite pavement. “That's it!" he exclaimed under his breath, and then thought: 'I was lying in bed with my beautiful wife, when aliens walked through the wall and started to carry her away. “No, don't take her, take me instead!”, I pleaded, and blow me down, they did 'n' all... and that's how my feet got burned and my back got hurt. Gamma radiation on the feet and a poorly-placed implant between two of my lower vertebrae'. He stood outside a coffee shop wanting one to wake himself up fully. “I'm not paying those prices for a coffee!” he said aloud looking at his watch. “I'll walk into town and have one there. The beach will be too hot and too busy for me for at least another five hours”. So, he shuffled on, his back pain slowly easing as it got exercise, although his feet still throbbed. 'At least I'll be safe from abduction in this crowd', he mused as he walked against the tide of people streaming towards the sea. 'I'll be safe for at least a mile... at least an hour... and then I'll duck into Joe's Greasy Spoon. They won't think of looking for me in there either!' 'What are you talking about you dozy old sod? They can track you with the RFID implant in your back!' said his alter ego, Ralph. 'Oh, yes... Ah, but because they misplaced it, my vertebrae have crushed and destroyed it; so it's not working any more!' 'OK, that might work... if you can believe that beings intelligent enough to traverse the universe would misplace an implant...' 'Well, they're only human...' 'You just said they were aliens!' 'Yes, I did didn't I... but I didn't say that they were infallible!' 'No, that's true. So, how many of them got lost coming to Earth?' 'I don't know... they didn't live to tell the tale... they crashed into the Sun,' he chuckled to himself. 'Oh, I give up. I can't have a decent conversation with you!' said his alter ego. 'That cuts both ways', he replied and noticed a woman walking towards him with a worried look on her face as she gave him the once over. "Good morning, madam!" he said to her. "Make sure you put plenty of X Factor sunblock on, the Sun is mighty fierce today". She pursed her lips, looked the other way and hurried on past thinking him to be drunk. “Oh, well,” he muttered, “you sure as Hell can't please everybody, so, you might as well just please yourself”. As he entered the High Street, where the Greasy Spoon was, a jolly, short, student-type woman handed him a glossy brochure. “Support the High Street Traders!” she said with a practised smile as she turned to say the same to another passer-by. He wanted to refuse it, but again just couldn't be bothered, so he entered the café and put it on the window table where he normally sat, fully intending to leave it there for Joe to dispose of when he left. “Morning, Michael, my good man! Ah's your bum for cracking walnuts today, chiefy? The usual is it? The VIP brunch?” said the tall, good-looking sixty-odd year-old man behind the counter. He was wearing a chef's tall white hat, white jacket, a long white apron over shorts, flip-flops, and a lugubrious smile on his large, sad-looking mouth. His eyes were bright and grey displaying a keen sense of humour. “Yes, please, Joe. And my bum's fine at the moment, thanks, but I don't know what it'll be like after one of your delectable breakfasts. I can see that you're rushed off to your feet at the moment, but could you put this on charge for me, please?” He handed Joe a seven by five inch tablet. “Ay... less of that. I was only being friendly! There's always at least one joker in the pack, I'n' there? Anyway, I got a backlog, it'll be about fifteen minutes”, he moaned as he took the tablet and walked off. Michael looked around the café pointedly, but already knew that there was only one other person in there. It was the same sort of banter every morning, but it was good-natured, and both men knew that they didn't mean anything by it. Michael picked up the magazine and flicked through it, glad of something to while away the time with now. His eyes settled on an article about a local estate agent, whose office he passed almost every day on the way to Joe's, although he had never paid it the slightest bit of attention before. The photo showed the owner with his staff. They were all smiling. 'Well, they would be, wouldn't they?' he thought. 'No boss is going to allow his staff to look grumpy in a glossy promotional magazine'. He studied their faces, and thought that they looked pretty genuine in spite of his rationale. 'They could be aliens morphed into human form... they could be an alien outpost... there must be some reason for them to be smiling... no other bugger is around here'. “One VIP Brunch, for the miserable old sod in the window seat!” he called out as he put the items down. “One bacon sandwich; extra toast; coffee and a glass of water with an ice cube. Just as sir likes it. Will there be anything else?” “Yes, less of the sarcasm” “Yes, sir, sorry, sir. Tomorrow, less sarcasm for the gentleman. You got that, Mary?” he shouted into the kitchen, although there was no-one there, because Joe ran the place single-handedly. Michael watched Joe go back behind the counter, took a sip of water and picked up half of his sandwich. 'Joe could be an alien too... feeding the population of the town with laxatives so there would be less resistance when the invasion came'. He smiled broadly to himself at the idea, but Joe misread it. “That 'it's the spot, does it? Something brought a smile to your face anyway, unless it was wind”. It was Joe's turn to laugh. “It's very nice, Joe. Up to your usual standard”. “We aim to please, you know that, Mike. Don't forget: if you liked your meal, tell your friends, and if you didn't, keep it to your-bloody-self!” He laughed again, and Michael smiled again at the old joke. It all brought five o'clock, as the saying went... it all helped pass the day... the seemingly interminable days. He nodded 'Hello' at the other customer and then shook his head, “Old Joe's a card, isn't he? He gets worse every time I come in here”. In truth, Michael spoke more to Joe and heard more from him during the hour or so that Michael spent there every day, than he did with all the other people he met throughout the rest of the day... and sometimes, too often, in fact, there wasn't anyone else who said a word to him. It bothered him sometimes, but only because he thought that it ought to. Most of the time, he was quite happy talking to himself and making up stories in his head. A lot of his previous friends had not been able to understand that about him, which was why he thought that it ought to worry him from time to time. When he had lingered as long as he reasonably could over his meal, Joe waited a while too and then started to clear away. “Can I get you another coffee, Mikey? On the house, of course, and another glass of iced water?” He did that sometimes when he thought that Michael could do with it. "Yes... thanks, Joe. That's very kind of you", he replied. Joe took the drinks over and set them down. “The coffee's free, two quid for the water, OK?" “Yes, I'll be sure to leave it to you in my will” he retorted. “Hey, Joe, before you rush off, who is this guy in the article... the estate agent?” “Oh, er, Mr. Parker... Roger Parker. He don't come in here much, but he always says 'Hello' if I sees him on the street. He seems like a nice enough bloke”. “Yes, he looks like one too... Roger Parker... sounds like an affirmation from the guy with the paddles on an aircraft carrier to an incoming pilot: 'Roger, park 'er. Over' he thought, and said aloud, “An alien...” “No, at least, I don't think so, Mike. He's got a British accent anyway... 'though I don't suppose that means anything these days. Some foreigners speak better English than what we do, don't they? You'd be able to tell, I suppose, you spent a lot of time abroad, didn't you? That's where you picked up that poncy habit of drinking water with your coffee. Why don't you just put milk in it like everybody else?” “Yes, I did pick up the habit abroad. It suits me because I like black coffee, but that burns my stomach, unless I water it down. It makes perfect sense”. “I suppose so, but when in Rome... eh? That's what they say”. “Each unto his own, Joe. Don't let it give you ulcers”. “Oh, you do what you like. I'm easy... you know that. No, siree, it don't bother me. You please yourself”. “Thank you, Joe, that is very gracious of you”. “No skin off my nose, brother,” he said returning to his pastime of cleaning imaginary dirt off his cooker and work surfaces. Michael skimmed through the article and studied the photo again, then counted out the money he owed and stood up slowly. “Er, all right to use the facilities, is it, Joe?” “Sure, you know where it is”. Joe retrieved Michael's tablet, put it on the table and collected his payment. When Michael returned, he picked up the tablet and placed it in Michael's hand. “Can't be without your remote control, can you? It's fully charged again now”. “Thanks, Joe”, he said shuffling over to the doorway. “See you tomorrow, I expect”. “I'll be here. Thanks, Mike, you take care now”. “Cheers”, he replied stepping onto the pavement and squinting against the Sun. He had no clear plans for the rest of the day. Normally, he would spend his time in Joe's working out what to do, but he had spent it reading about some strangers instead. As if he would ever need an estate agent again at his time of life, he thought. His usual options were to return to the beach, if it wasn't too hot or raining or go to the library, coffee shop or pub, where he could read and surf the Internet. He did not own a phone, but he could use Skype and f******k to talk to the few people who cared about him. He walked a few paces down the way he had come and leaned against the wall. His feet wouldn't get him the two miles to the library, not today. He considered sitting in the pub car park and piggybacking off their Wi-Fi. He didn't want to spend his small amount of money on alcohol or more coffee at that early hour. He liked to keep that for emergencies like when the weather was inclement. Michael considered himself to be a happy sort of person by nature. Furthermore, he believed in Karma, so accepted whatever happened to him as Fate, but it still seemed unfair sometimes. He staggered forward and stopped himself from falling by putting the palms of his hands on the roof of the car parked alongside him. There was an immediate wailing of sirens. He looked over the roof of the large black car, and straight into the faces of the people in the photograph he had just been studying. They had gathered at the display window of the office, and a man was reaching for something that a girl was holding out to him. He took the device and pointed it at Michael. 'A ray gun!' The thought flashed through his mind, just before the alarm stopped and the office door opened. “Are you all ri....?” the man asked, as the alarm cut in again. Michael understood, stopped leaning on the car, and the man fired the ray gun again. The sirens fell silent, just as the man reached him. “Are you all right, sir? You looked as if you were about to fall then”. “Yes, I'm fine, thanks. I burned my feet this morning...gamma rays...” he mumbled looking down at the key fob in the man's hand. “that is, I went to sleep in the shade, but the Sun came around and burned my bare feet... er on the beach. I'd been swimming... early morning swim”. “OK”, said the man looking concerned. “Let's get you into my office and one of the girls will make us a nice cup of tea”. He put his hand on Michael's back and steered him across the road into his office where a girl was holding open the door. She smiled at Michael as he passed, and the man asked her to make a pot of tea. “Take a seat by here, and get your breath back. My name is Roger, Roger Parker”, he said with a broad grin extending an arm. “Nice to meet you, Roger. Thanks for your help. My name is Michael, Michael Jones. Sorry about your car. I hope I haven't damaged it. I might have fallen flat on my face if it hadn't been there”. “No, no damage, I'm sure. The alarm is very sensitive. Too sensitive, I think, sometimes. Ah, here's Joy with the tea. Thanks, Joy”, he smiled, “Just leave it there, I'll be mother. How do you like your tea, Michael? Milk and sugar?” “No sugar, please, Roger”. “Would you like a drop of something else in there... a fortifier?” “Oh, that's very kind of you. A small medicinal whisky or brandy would not go amiss”, he replied looking at his watch. “Yes, why not? We are well into the afternoon”. “I have some excellent Martel here, if you like”. Michael nodded. He hadn't tasted Martel for years. They clinked glasses and studied each other as they wished each other good health and took a sip. “Ambrosia...” purred Michael. “Isn't it just!” agreed Roger. Michael felt that if things had worked out well for him, he would have looked more like Roger - they were the same age and the same height - as near as damn it, but Roger was elegant in his expensive light-grey suit and coiffured grey hair. “Cheers!” Roger toasted again. “Down the hatch!” replied Michael before finishing off their Cognacs. Michael imagined that he was being drawn into an alien trap, but he decided to go with the flow anyway – he had nothing to lose.