The air tastes funny this morning. So does the toast. Miss Sullivan’s watching TV when the BBC interrupt with an announcement that’s out of this world…

 

She would always remember that day, though for two very different reasons. The first was that it was the day her shows stopped running. The second, it was the day the ships came down, the day the aliens landed.

Even on her deathbed, she couldn’t have told you which upset her more.

It was a typical March morning. Puddles lay strewn across the road outside her window, like corpses left behind by a war in heaven. The air wasn’t cold, but she had to wrap her cardigan tight around herself when she went to collect the milk from the front gate.

She looked up as she did, as though her subconscious already knew what the day held in store. She gazed at the grey, soupy skies that promised a complete and utter lack of sunlight, and sniffed. It was a stay indoors day. It was a books and tea day. It was a programs day.

She scurried back inside, bottle of freezing cold milk clutched to her chest.

The tea tasted funny, as though the milk had been standing outside for a few days. She poured it away and made another, but it was no better. When she tucked into her toast, she found that much the same. She sat at her tiny table in her cramped kitchen and examined her food.

The bread was very much in date and not gone off, The butter and marmalade fresh. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. It wasn’t the food that tasted bad. There was something else, some other flavour that she thought she’d taste even if she drank some water.

It tasted like battery acid smelled, and she couldn’t finish her toast. As she was putting her plate into the sink, a static shock leapt from the metal bowl and made her jump. The china clattered loud against it and she winced as she stepped back.

With a vague ache in her stomach from hunger, she shuffled into the lounge and settled herself in her viewing chair. But she turned away from the TV. It would be another couple of hours till her shows started.

She picked up her book and examined the cover. Why did all murder mysteries look the same these days? She opened it and lost herself in the seedy world of London’s crime scene. The time passed happily as some people were murdered, others shouted and complained, and the police stoically allowed the detective to make them look slow and stupid.

She put it down when a shadow flew past the window. A massive crow alighted on the bird table in her garden so Miss Sullivan rose from her seat to bash on the window. The bird cocked its head to one side and stared at her for a moment. She muttered something about respect before shoving the window open.

That was enough for the bird to spread its vast black wings and claw into the sky. She watched it rise and her mouth fell open as it was swallowed by the largest flock she’d ever seen. Thousands of shiny black bodies churned and whirled above her house before they wheeled as one and raced away beneath the grey.

She smelt the cool air creeping in and sniffed. It smelt like battery acid. She yanked the window closed and turned her viewing chair. Time for programs. The TV sprang into life and she sighed and pulled her blanket over her knees. This was better. She was hungry.

She scowled and threw her blanket off. She lumbered back into the kitchen and chewed her way through a slice of toast. It tasted even worse now, like it had been painted with nail varnish, but she shoved it down anyway. The water she chased it with tasted the same.

She coughed and reached for her inhaler. Her chest hadn’t been good this last winter, but with the warmth of the last few weeks, things had been looking up. She took a puff, but she barely needed it. At least it tasted okay.

She retreated to her chair, still wishing for something to properly wash the taste away. Her programs did their best and she was halfway through finding out how much an ancient clock was worth when the picture changed.

There was only a brief flicker before the screen cut to a man sitting behind a desk. He spoke in best BBC English, his crisp tones adding a depth of realism to the ridiculous words coming out of his mouth.

‘We apologise for disrupting our normal broadcasting. A situation has arisen of which we believe all people in England should be made aware. At 8:17 this morning, our long range satellites picked up signal from an unidentified source. We were in the process of translating it when visual contact was made with the source. At 9:34, what can only be described as an alien vessel entered our atmosphere. 

It was followed by others. 

At 9:53, the first ship broke cloud cover above London.’ 

Miss Sullivan glanced at her watch. It was a beautiful watch. Her daughter had bought it for her a couple of years ago, after complaining about her elderly mother wearing one of those dodgy Casio things. Miss Sullivan had thought about complaining that her dodgy Casio thing had lasted for years and was perfectly adequate, thank you, but the watch her daughter bought her was very lovely.

It said 9:53.

‘At this time, most electronic devices across London stopped working. The television is almost alone in remaining entirely functional. We are attempting communication with the ships, but for the moment, we ask that you stay inside and stay attentive to further messages from ourselves. 

We will be using the TV to communicate with citizens, so please keep it tuned to the BBC. We also urge to remain calm and in your houses.’ 

Miss Sullivan peered out of the window. She could see the whole of London from the top of the hill. It was a long walk and it was a cold day, but the first would do for the latter, so long as she wrapped up.

Stay indoors, he said. She chuckled as she threw the blanket off. Her earliest memory was of hiding in the tube station whilst the bombs came down. She wasn’t staying indoors for this.

She took jackets and pulled on a pair of trousers beneath her skirts. She would look ludicrous, but if the aliens really had come, she didn’t think anyone would be looking at her. Where was Val? Her daughter would be at work by now, in the city.

She paused by the phone but it was, as the man on TV promised, dead. So the best she could do was get up the hill and watch, be witness to what happened next.

The wind had risen and when she stepped out of her front door, it bit at her like an angry bird. She pulled her scarf tighter. Her feet were cold by the time she reached the garden gate. She would have liked to wear her hikers, but getting them on was tricky these days. At least with her wellies she could just step into them.

Thusly clad in wellington boots and at least six layers, Miss Sullivan clanged her gate shut behind her and set off up the hill that lay beyond it. On a weekend, the grass would be covered in kids with kites and couples strolling hand in hand.

She sniffed. The air smelt foul, like someone had dumped rubbish. But there was no rubbish up on the hill. If the council hadn’t been good with that sort of thing, her and the others who lived here certainly were. But still the smell persisted.

As she climbed the steep path, her lungs began to rattle. It sounded like the air she sucked in contained stones that banged and bashed against her ribs on the way down. Her heart did its best to beat fast, though it skipped as often as it thudded.

She hadn’t done this climb for a couple of years, not without her daughter or Nurse Estridge at her side. But today was different. The smell and the taste that clung to her was pushing her onwards. She felt younger than she had in years, nimbler too.

She paused halfway up, aware that for all her new found sprightliness, she could still collapse and not see a damned thing. She rested her hand against the bench that sat beside the path and closed her eyes.

She and Ted had sat on this bench more times than she cared to contemplate. She could remember earning disapproving stares from the passersby as she sat to feed Val, her butterfly shawl covering her naked breast and baby’s head. She and Ted would watch the sun go down from up here, painting London red and making them think of their bed.

She smiled, wrinkles spreading out from the corners of her mouth, and shook her head.

She put one foot in front of the other and resumed her climb. There were others up here. She could see them gathered at the top, watching… not her, not this time. Every one was staring into town. She quickened her pace, then slowed again as the blood rushed so loud it blocked out the cries of the crows in the trees.

She had to take it easy, or she wouldn’t get there at all.

A hand touched her arm and she glanced sideways. She wrinkled her forehead and waited for the name. Oliver. Self employed. Two kids and a lovely wife who baked remarkably good fruit bread. Miss Sullivan smiled and welcomed the arm that went beneath hers.

‘Can I help you, Miss Sullivan?’

She nodded gratefully and let him take a little of her weight.

‘What about this, then, hey?’ It was an inane question that deserved an inane answer, but since he’d come down the hill to help, she thought for a moment before answering.

‘Have they spoken to them, yet?’

‘Not yet. The ship’s just sitting there, waiting.’

‘For what, I wonder?’

‘It’s like Independence Day. Have you seen that movie?’

She almost said no, as though admitting that she watched absolutely anything with that lovely Will Smith in was a sin. Actually, in the case of a couple of his movies, it was. But not Independence Day. ‘I have. Is it that big?’

‘Bigger.’

She quickened her pace again, no longer caring about the thumping and the way her breath caught until she thought it wouldn’t ever be released. She was panting in a most unladylike way when they reached the summit, and Oliver stared at her with worry in his eyes. She stood, legs bent, until the world came back into focus.

Once she could breathe again, she patted his arm. ‘Thank you, laddie. I’m fine, just a bit out of breath. Now.’

She turned and stared at London. Her mouth fell open, though she caught it before her false teeth tumbled out, and closed it sharpish. She caught the faintest of smiles from Oliver, but said nothing.

The ship hung over London like a bomb threat. It was vast and shiny black, like the crow’s feathers. It wasn’t shaped so differently, either. The bulk of the ship was round, but a huge tail thrust out behind it, containing the engines, she surmised. At the front, a smaller globe was attached and she imagined she could see eyes where the windows would be.

Aliens. An alien race hovered above London. The air up here tasted like nothing she’d ever experienced, the battery acid tang taking on a strange, unearthly scent. Where were the others?

‘Hey, we’ve got another one.’

The crowd gathered around a man wielding a tablet. Why that was still working she had no idea, but as they parted to allow her closer, she saw the familiar BBC logo in the corner of the screen.

‘We have still not been successful in communicating with the aliens. However, they have stopped their descent and seem to be waiting for something. The Prime minister will be making a short speech in the next ten to fifteen minutes and the Queen is preparing to do the same. 

We urge you to stay indoors and out of sight. We request that you remain calm and make no efforts to stockpile food or drink. There is no reason to believe anything untoward is going to occur. Please remain calm.’

The broadcast ended and Miss Sullivan took a couple of shaky steps backwards. There was a bench up here somewhere. Oliver seemed to read her mind and took her arm, leading her back to it. She settled her elderly bones on the bench and took a deep breath.

The air slipped like acid down her throat and she coughed. ‘What are they doing to the air?’

Oliver frowned and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Can’t you taste it?’

‘Taste what?’

‘The air, young man, the air. It’s changed, it’s quite horrible.’

His frown deepened. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Sullivan, I can’t tell any difference.’

She sighed and leant back. He probably thought the food was okay as well. She stared at the ship. Eighty seven years and she’d never seen anything like it. She wished, suddenly, that Ted was here. He’d have died to see the aliens arrive. He’d always been convinced they were out there. Not in a weird, obsessive way, but in a factual way.

‘There are millions of galaxies, billions. What are the odds ours is the only one capable of sustaining life?’

Val’s ex-husband Terry had always scoffed and said if there were aliens, they were smart enough to avoid Earth. He’d always said it with a smile on his face, like he was being funny.

Val missed him, though she said she didn’t. But better for her and little Jemima he was gone. The man was a waste of space.

Miss Sullivan heard the man on the TV speaking again, but she didn’t need to hear what he said. She saw it. The clouds above them churned and boiled and something black and huge appeared, pushing through and into the air above their heads.

The ships were coming down. She relaxed her eyes and stared across London as hundreds of black vessels, each larger than a cross channel ferry, appeared through the clouds. It was breathtaking and wondrous and utterly terrifying.

She pulled her jacket tighter and wondered when the day got colder. Evey breath burnt, now, and she marveled that the others couldn’t feel it. Maybe it’s her age. Maybe she’s just more sensitive; her asthma had always made her more sensitive to those sorts of things.

The ships came lower and the people on the hillside around her shifted anxiously. She’s pleased Ted isn’t here. The man on the TV was telling people not to panic and to please remain calm. They expected to make contact any moment.

Then he coughed. It’s just a small cough, but it’s followed by another. Miss Sullivan looked at the people around her. More than one looked back at her, as though she, as the eldest, should say something. But what would she say? There’s no point telling them what she’s just realised. It won’t help.

Oliver began to cough and his cheeks turned red as he discovered he couldn’t stop. Miss Sullivan dug out her inhaler and offered it to him, but he waved it away, gripping the back of the bench. She smiled sadly and took a puff herself as the coughing is taken up by the others, passed from person to person like a ball.

She imagined she could hear it rising up from below, as all of London is gripped by whatever the aliens have been pumping into the air since they arrived.

Oliver is the first to go. One moment, he was leaning against the bench, the next he slumped to his knees. She caught a glimpse of his face, purple and bruised from the coughing, before he collapsed face down.

The others began to scream. Miss Sullivan bit her lip and remembered the blitz. They didn’t scream then, they weren’t allowed to. But there’s no one here to say otherwise, so the crowd on the hill howled and wailed as they dropped, one by one, to the damp grass.

As the last scream petered out with a weak rattle, Miss Sullivan lifted her tired bones from the bench and shuffled across to where the tablet lay forgotten on the grass. The man is gone from the desk and silence reigned in the studio. In fact, silence reigned everywhere.

The crows had stopped crying. The ships were coming down. Miss Sullivan settled back on the bench, took a deep breath, and watched them come.