Terror Firma. Matthew Thomas

      For Frank this was a familiarly maddening experience. But you couldn’t just go up to folks who seemed to recognize you to ask ‘Where do you know me from?’ – it got you funny looks at the very least. For the time being Frank contented himself with the thought that their acquaintance must date back to some chance encounter before his army service came to an abrupt and painful end. He didn’t know for sure, but he felt certain he’d been happier then, with the warm companionship of comrades-in-arms to pull him through. He’d been alone so long now he’d almost forgotten what friendship meant.

      Maybe he was going crazy. Carefully, he checked his hands for the first signs of palm-hair, just like the old wives’ tales advised. Outside in the trunk of his battered vehicle what was undoubtedly the find of the century was slowly rotting – so why was he suddenly so assailed by doubt? Maybe he should hire a room and buy some whisky and pills to end it all. Was this war really worth the fight? Slowly Frank rubbed his throbbing temples. What he needed most of all was a confidant; someone to remind him, after he’d gazed upon his insane find, or read that terrible book, that this was real after all and his mind hadn’t entirely slipped its gears. He also had problems of a more practical nature – like what to do next. Grand strategy had never been his area of expertise, the nitty-gritty of combat was his speciality. Frank needed an accomplice he could trust. He rocked slowly back and forth in his seat until his head sank so low it was scant inches above his plate. Closing his eyes he did something he hadn’t done for years: Frank prayed for guidance, for some sign that his struggle wouldn’t be in vain.

      The sound of the bell above the doorway brought him sharply back to his senses – Frank couldn’t allow his survival instincts to let up for an instant. That was when he got his first clear look at the clean-cut young man who strode in like someone with a very definite mission in mind. But to be more precise it wasn’t the first time Frank had spotted him; he’d seen that face many times before, and that was why he now sat bolt upright in his chair. The newcomer had the sunburnt, gormless look of a tourist about him, but also the determined body language of a man searching for something he very badly needed to find.

      There was no question how Frank recognized him. Not three days ago he’d read his carefully chosen words, and studied the small grainy picture above his magazine’s editorial – that was how he knew those serious, bookish features. Frank might have considered Dave to be hopelessly naïve in his conclusions, but there was no denying the young man produced a thorough and well-researched magazine, most of the time devoid of the usual mystic crap. For the moment, Frank was too shocked to appreciate his good fortune.

      Pieces of half-chewed cheeseburger cascading down his tie-dyed T-shirt, he lurched to his feet and staggered towards the man he already felt he knew. Frank regretted not having tried religion sooner – he could appreciate what folks saw in it now. It seemed his fervent prayers had been answered.

      For his part Dave saw the sad perversion of a human being stumble towards him far too late to do anything about it. For one horrible moment he thought the wild-eyed freak was going to pull a gun and demand money. Either that or beg the price of a cup of coffee.

      ‘You … you came so quickly.’ The vagrant croaked.

      Dave spoke with some venom.

      ‘Of course I came quickly. When someone reaches me that way I always want to hear how they did it. You’re party to information not available to the general public and I’d like to keep it that way. I hope you know how sensitive we are to such things.’

      Frank stared back at him with mounting admiration, and not a little awe. How could this man be so blasé about his breathtaking telepathic powers? He must take them for granted, just like any other individual’s ability to read or write. And here he was asking Frank how he’d done it – the clairvoyant elite had obviously guarded its secrets jealously.

      Frank lightly tapped the grubby side of his head, just below his tattered bandanna. ‘Don’t worry, chum, your secret’s safe with me. We’ll say no more about it. What’s important is that you came.’

      ‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,’ Dave muttered. He looked the unkempt interloper up and down and came to a rapid but eerily perceptive conclusion. Just like Upton Park, this bloke was only two stops short of Barking. He was perhaps the most wizened man Dave had ever seen. His face had that ‘lived in’ look. Dave got the distinct impression he’d been round the block so many times he’d lapped people twice his age. Old before his time, perhaps, but he was hale and hearty like a seasoned tiger. His taut skin was like tea-stained leather, his wiry beard could have comfortably housed a family of voles. He was as thin as a rake, but well corded with sinuous muscle from head to toe. Very slowly, as if speaking to the inmate of an asylum for the terminally inane, Dave spelled out every word for the crazed stranger. ‘How – did – you – recognize – my – face?’