What You Wish For (11 page)

‘No!’

‘But this is your girlfriend? This is Marie Walker?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t take them. I didn’t know they existed until the other day.’ I explained how I had found them.

‘Shit.’ He looked at me carefully, then back at the photographs. He tapped them with an index finger. ‘You know, I
do
recognise her. I’ve seen her around, definitely. Thing is, though, you see so many people at these conventions, and you don’t get to know everybody. But yeah, I definitely recognise her. She’s very attractive. Shame about her friend.’

I didn’t laugh. I said, ‘So this alien porn, as you call it . . .’ I gestured for him to tell me more.

Leaning closer, he said, ‘You know what I was saying about the Karens, that they give us a bad name? There are a lot more people like that. Most of us believe in UFOs and everything that surrounds them for what I would call “pure” reasons. We simply believe that they exist and that they are contacting humankind for reasons that nobody is sure about. There are a lot of theories, and everybody has their favourites . . .’

I interrupted. ‘Marie believes that aliens are going to land and take a group of people away as ambassadors for this planet, before revealing themselves to the world and inviting us to join them.’

‘That’s a common one. A utopian theory – the idea that beyond Earth there is this wonderful society of planets and species where life is perfect. It’s the idea of Heaven, basically. There are a lot of religious ideas within ufology. Some people think aliens actually are gods. And to many, this is their religion. They base their whole lives around it. Coming to one of these conventions is like going to church. Going to Roswell or a site where UFOs have supposedly landed or been seen is akin to a pilgrimage. For them, it’s like going to see the Turin Shroud.’

I nodded, remembering Pete from the hill, who travelled the world trying to get a glimpse of the thing he so fervently believed in.

Oliver went on. ‘The unfortunate thing is that as more and more people have become interested in this whole alien thing, or at least since the internet has made it easier to communicate, the more we’ve seen way-out and sick beliefs creep in. This alien sex thing is the perfect example. You must know that a lot of people think that the aliens are using us in a vast breeding programme.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And there have been loads of abductees who have spoken of sexual encounters with extraterrestrials – mostly men, unsurprisingly. They always talk about finding themselves being seduced by some beautiful lady aliens. There’s nothing to say that some of them aren’t telling the truth, but some people have taken the testimonies of these people and decided to make some money out of it. The internet caters to every conceivable taste. There’s even a series of ebooks that have done very well about a well-endowed alien who seduces a young college student and introduces her to his red planet of pain. It’s called
Fifty Shades of Greys
.’

I laughed, then looked at the pictures again.

‘To some people,’ Oliver said, ‘this is the height of erotica. Seeing young women being fucked by aliens. There are tons of videos too. Of course, they’re even more popular but they are harder to get right than still photos.’

‘So you think these pictures are on a website somewhere?’

‘If they aren’t I’ll eat my commemorative “I’ve been to Roswell” cap.’ He stroked his chin. ‘There’s actually somebody here who knows a lot more about this stuff than I do. Do you mind if I go and get him?’

Oliver left the room. I was bombarded with images of alien-loving perverts sitting in front of their computer screens, ogling pictures of Marie, masturbating over these images of her. Anger rose up in me. I wanted to wire them up to their precious PCs, electrocute the bastards.

And who had taken the photographs? Who had made her do it? Because I had no doubt that somebody must have coerced her. I dug my jagged, heavily bitten fingernails into my palms. The prime suspect was a man who was already dead.

Oliver came back into the room with a guy for whom the term ‘pizza face’ could have been coined.

‘This is Kevin,’ Oliver said.

Kevin grinned at me and picked up the pictures. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Your girlfriend, huh? You’re a lucky man.’

‘Except she’s disappeared,’ said Oliver.

‘Really?’ Kevin looked at him, then at me. ‘That’s really odd.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

He looked at the picture again. ‘I recognise this girl. I’m, well, I’m a bit of a connoisseur of this stuff.’ He said this like it was something to be proud of. ‘I’ve got loads of stuff at home that I’ve downloaded over the last couple of years. I know most of the girls that they use in these pictures. Not personally – just to look at. And I know a lot of the people who are in the business. Most of them are in America.’

He went on. ‘The weird thing is that one of the English girls who’s in a whole load of the pictures – she’s one of the top girls – went missing recently as well. Her name’s Cherry Nova. That’s not her real name, obviously. A call went out on the Net a couple of weeks ago – has anyone seen Cherry? She’s vanished from the face of the Earth.’

We all looked at each other.

Kevin picked up the photographs again. ‘There’s something really familiar about these pictures. Maybe I’ve got copies of them at home. We can get the Tube there now if you want. I can show you my collection. I might have some more pictures of your girlfriend.’ He traced Marie’s naked, black-and-white outline with a dirty finger. He was foul, but I needed every bit of help I could get.

He said, ‘You know, she really is gorgeous.’

He licked his cracked lips and I snatched the photographs back. I dropped them into the briefcase and snapped it shut. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then I said, ‘Let’s go.’

11

Kevin lived in a flat above a newsagent in a street that was hidden away between Trafalgar Square and Covent Garden. The rent must have been astronomically high. As he showed me up the stairs into the flat I asked him what he did in the way of work.

‘I’m a programmer,’ he replied.

I should have guessed.

The flat was a disgrace. MDF bookshelves were stacked with DVDs, many of the discs separate from their boxes, dribble-streaked mugs nestled among them. More DVDs were scattered around the floor, along with computer and girlie magazines, mould-lined takeaway cartons, dirty glasses and dozens of cables, like an exploded snake’s nest. A large brown stain took pride of place on the rug – it looked like he had dropped a whole curry and not bothered to clean it up. The room smelled of cream cheese and dust.

‘Right,’ said Kevin. He booted up the PC and invited me to pull up a chair beside him. While he waited for the menu to appear he squeezed a whitehead that throbbed on his chin and wiped it on his jeans.

‘How long have you been into . . . all of this?’ I asked.

‘Since I was six or seven. That’s when I was first abducted by visitors.’ He paused as if he was waiting for me to express disbelief.

When I didn’t respond, he went on: ‘They came while I was in bed. I remember seeing these funny little men – that’s how I thought of them at that age – standing around my bed, and then they took me aboard their ship. They took my pyjamas off and poked and prodded me. They had long fingers like in
E.T
., and I remember one of the funny men putting his finger in my anus.’

Oh God. Another story of personal pain. I didn’t want to hear it.

‘Afterwards, they returned me to my bed as if nothing had happened. This went on until I was about twelve or thirteen. They’d come every few months. I looked forward to it. They told me I was special, that I’d been chosen. They hypnotised me so I couldn’t remember most of what happened, but I know that afterwards – after they’d returned me to my bed – I would always feel happy. I guess they made me feel wanted. Then they stopped coming for a while and I was mortified. I thought I’d never see them again.’

As he spoke his fingers flickered over the keyboard, clicking into different screens, typing in passwords.

‘Then they came back and I was so happy.’ He smiled, displaying his crooked teeth. ‘I was fourteen by then so I was sexually mature. They told me they wanted my seminal fluid. They said it was a valuable commodity where they came from, and that mine was really good quality. They collected it during sex . . .’

I interrupted. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said they collected it during sex.’

I drew back. ‘You’re claiming that you’ve had sex with aliens?’

‘Yes.’

‘Female aliens?’ I asked.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. ‘They were polysexual.’ He giggled. ‘It was amazing. Completely out-of-this-world. After you’ve had sex with visitors, sex with people just doesn’t compare. Once you’ve had Grey, faithful you’ll stay.’

I gawped at him.

‘The visitors would come every month, regularly. They were the happiest days of my life. Because after my sixteenth birthday they didn’t come any more. I looked out for them, waited for them every night, but they never came back. That was eleven years ago now.’

I felt horribly sorry for him. It seemed obvious that something awful had happened to him when he was young – sexual abuse, at the hands of his father or stepfather or older brother? – which he dealt with using these bizarre fantasies. But what was I supposed to do? Suggest he go to see a therapist? Try to uncover the real memories? This fantasy was probably the only way he could cope.

Kevin nodded at the screen. ‘Here we go.’ The words THE SHOCKING EVIDENCE flashed across the screen in red. I read:

Here is the incredible EVIDENCE that They didn’t want you to see. On the following pages you will see the startling PROOF that ALIENS from other galaxies are visiting Earth and forcing YOUNG WOMEN and GIRLS to take part in UNNATURAL ACTS! These poor women are hypnotized and sometimes even taken to other planets where they are used to BREED human-alien HYBRIDS for who knows what purposes?!

‘There are about twenty of these sites,’ Kevin said, flicking through. ‘I subscribe to most of them. It’s all rubbish. I mean, the aliens don’t force women to shag them. They enjoy it. It’s a
privilege
.’

The images were similar to the pictures of Marie, although some appeared more professional, and many were in colour. The aliens were usually Greys, with a few Nordic types thrown in for good measure. There were loads of videos too, which appeared to feature small men dressed up as Greys. Their penises looked human, except they were wearing grey condoms. I rubbed my eyes.

‘Beautiful images, aren’t they?’ said Kevin. ‘Especially the ones that are real.’

I barely had the mental energy to respond.

He tapped the screen. ‘Didn’t I tell you? There are real pictures among these. Most of them are fake, but some of these are of actual visitors having sex with humans. That’s why I study them so closely, why I collect them. I keep hoping that one day I’ll see a picture of the visitors that seduced me.’ He sighed. ‘You see, Richard, we’re actually quite alike, you and me. We’re both searching for our lost love.’

I was speechless.

‘Ah,’ he said, pointing at the monitor. ‘That’s Cherry Nova.’

The picture displayed was of a large-breasted woman with pillar-box-red hair straddling a Grey. ‘She’s my favourite human,’ Kevin said.

‘Who actually runs these sites?’ I asked.

‘Lots of different people. Some of the pictures come from America or Europe, some from Japan. This site is British, though. Cherry’s one of the top English girls. Or she was, anyway.’ He pointed to the corner of the screen. The logo read
Planet Flesh
. ‘They’re based in Brighton. That’s just along the coast from you in Hastings, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

Kevin accessed more sites. I was sure I would be confronted by a picture of Marie at any moment, but there were none.

‘That’s really strange,’ he said. ‘I was sure I recognised her.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk beside the mouse. ‘Maybe I’ve got hard copies of the pictures. I keep a box of my favourites under my bed. Wait here and I’ll go and have a look.’

He went off to his bedroom. I dreaded to think what it smelled like in there. Precious seminal fluid, probably. I smoked a cigarette while I waited. A few minutes later Kevin burst through his bedroom door clutching a sheet of paper which he waved at me. ‘I found it!’

He handed it to me and sat back down. It was the picture in which the alien was behind Marie. The one I hated the most.

There was a date in the corner – the image had appeared online two years ago. ‘Look,’ said Kevin, ‘these appeared on the Planet Flesh page. The same page that Cherry Nova always appeared on. Shit! Are you thinking what I’m thinking? This is really exciting!’

I stood up and pushed him off his chair. He landed on his back on the filthy carpet. In a flash I was astride him, and I put my hands around his throat and started to squeeze.

‘Exciting?
Exciting?
’ I yelled. ‘This is my life! My fucking life!’ All of my pent-up fury and frustration surged through me. Kevin gasped for air, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He made a horrible choking sound and grabbed my wrists. He dug his fingernails into my flesh. The pain broke the spell I was under and I let go.

He stared at me, rubbing his throat. ‘Get out,’ he croaked.

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Get out!’ he cried. ‘You’re a maniac.’

I picked up my briefcase and walked backwards away from him, repeating my apologies. He started to sob. I opened the front door and made my exit.

Outside, I flattened myself against a wall, gasping for breath, afraid.

Afraid of what I might have done to him. But more than that: terrified of what this search for Marie was doing to me.

On the train home, my mobile rang. It was Simon.

‘I’ve got that information you wanted about Andrew. Shall I pick you up at the station? What time’s your train due in?’

Simon was waiting in his car outside Hastings station, the radio turned up so loud I could hear the thump of the bass as I approached. I opened the door and climbed in. The interior of the car smelled of gherkins and fries. It had been raining on and off all day; raindrops drummed on the windscreen; the wipers squeaked back and forth.

Simon turned the radio down and pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Andrew Jade.’ He paused and looked at me. ‘Are you all right? You look like shit, mate.’

‘I’m OK,’ I said.

He nodded, impatient to share his news.

‘I found out some good stuff, but I don’t know how much any of it is going to help.’ He rustled the paper. ‘He was born in
Eastb
ourne on March seventeenth 1967. He seems to have lived in Eastbourne all his life. Went to the local comprehensive. Left at eighteen with three A-levels and went to Sussex University where he read geography . . . He was an only child, it seems. There’s no record that he was ever married. In fact, his name hasn’t appeared in the paper since he graduated.’

‘Apart from our piece.’

‘That’s right. I got a friend at the DSS to check his benefits history. He signed on for a couple of years after university, then got a job.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll like this. He worked in a camera shop for years. Seems he was something of a camera buff.’

‘But he never mentioned that. Surely he would have?’

Simon pulled a face. ‘I’d have thought so too. I went over to the camera shop this morning. It’s still there, in the back streets near the Arndale Centre. An old bloke called Saul runs it. I asked him if he remembered Andrew Jade and he nearly threw me out of his shop. I could tell that Andrew wasn’t exactly well-liked by this bloke so I pretended I was a debt collector trying to find him. That worked a treat.’

He turned the windscreen wipers off.

‘Andrew worked for Saul for ten years. Apparently he was really good. Although, get this, Saul said he had some weird ideas. He said Andrew used to go on about flying saucers and space invaders and all that. It gave him the creeps. According to Saul, Andrew was always being visited by these “nutters” who would bring in photos of UFOs and want them developed immediately. Saul didn’t mind, he said, because it was extra business.’

I said, ‘So he was interested in UFOs at least twelve or thirteen years ago.’

‘Yeah. And that’s not all he was interested in. One night Saul left Andrew working late on his own. Saul had to go to a council meeting or something. He did go on about it at great length, but I didn’t really listen. Anyway, after the meeting, he remembered that he’d left that day’s takings at the shop so he had to go back and collect them. That’s when he caught Andrew.’ He smirked. ‘Remember, this was in the days before digital photography went mainstream. According to Saul, Andrew was in the darkroom, developing a load of “mucky pictures”.’

‘My God!’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although I always thought Andrew looked like a creep.’

‘What . . . what kind of pictures were they?’

‘Well, I don’t know what Saul’s idea of mucky is, but it sounded like the pictures weren’t just of naked women. It wasn’t like the stuff you see in
Playboy
. From what I could gather they were of people fucking. Saul sacked Andrew on the spot and told him to take his filth with him. And that was the last time he saw him. Although he did see our story in the
Herald
this summer, and he says he remembers thinking that Andrew hadn’t changed: that he was still a weirdo.’

Had the pictures been of alien porn? It wasn’t a subject I could raise with Simon. I didn’t want him to know about Marie being in such pictures. I wouldn’t tell him unless it was absolutely necessary. Later that evening I would tell him everything else, just leaving out the bit about the world of alien pornography and my encounter with Kevin.

‘After that, I can’t find any trace of what Andrew did for a living. He didn’t go back on the dole. If he had another job then I don’t know what it was. Maybe he made a living from his consultancy thing. Did Marie ever say how she and Andrew met?’

‘They met through their interest in UFOs. But I don’t know exactly how or when.’

Simon looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘You know, I reckon you’re right. Andrew’s death and Marie’s disappearance have got to be linked. Even if it’s just that she’s done a runner because she’s so grief-stricken. Are you sure they were never, you know, shagging?’

I sighed. ‘No. No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything anymore.’

There was a brief pause during which all I could hear was the rain on the windscreen. ‘That was all I could find out, anyway. I checked the electoral register for his address, but he wasn’t on it. I could try and check his Council Tax records, but that’s pretty difficult.’ He laughed. ‘Fucking Data Protection Act. I’m going to have get some more contacts like my one at the DSS. You know, I’m enjoying this. Investigative journalism. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Like you and your flash photos for the
Telegram
.’