Duncan Barford

‘This is lovely,’ Amanda says.

How many idiots did they show this crap to? Bukowski wonders. ‘For an apartment this tiny, it’s a rip off,’ he says.

Amanda frowns. ‘You work with aliens. We can afford it.’

‘No I don’t!’ He drops his voice as the estate agent shuffles in the hall. ‘I told you - they won’t let me near.’

‘Whatever,’ Amanda shrugs.

Relationships are mental arithmetic. Bukowski he can do them, if he’s bothered. So he thinks about furniture and paint. ‘What if we bought a sofa?’ he says.

Amanda whirls around and smiles at him. So quick, he flinches.

* * *

Bukowski has whiskey for breakfast and chews a breath-freshener. There’re empty cans and bottles in the corner. Amanda told him that when they move in together he’ll stop drinking. ‘After Saturday, you won’t have to shut things out.’ But Bukowski knows it’s the world that shuts him out, not vice versa.

He reads news-stand headlines on his walk to work. MULTINATIONALS WILL COOPERATE, ALIENS DECIDE... Freaks are dancing outside Corporation House. They strum guitars and wave tambourines. Bukowski tries to side-step them, but a freak grabs his arm.

‘Believe! And be saved!’

The freak’s got a beard, sandals, robe - the works.

‘If everyone was happy as you freaks, this shit-hole planet would be better,’ says Bukowski.

The freak grins. ‘All God asks is that we do His will.’

Bukowski nods. ‘Problem is, there’s no chance he fucking exists, is there?’

The freak backs off.

‘Call me fucking twisted!’ Bukowski spits.

In Corporation House he drains a beer, sitting on the toilet. He hides the empties in his briefcase. In the office, he slides the briefcase under his chair.

Mooncalf wanders down between the desks. ‘You seen the news, Bukowski?’

‘No.’

‘Competition’s off. We globals are working together to make the planet nice.’

Mooncalf smiles from his big face. Since he saw an alien and had a vision, he hasn’t been the same.

‘So what?’ says Bukowski.

Mooncalf slaps his back. ‘You’re the man! I’m glad I don’t have to stand and supervise you!’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ says Bukowski.

‘You’re a free agent!’ Mooncalf laughs.

* * *

Coffee break. Bukowski takes his briefcase to the toilet. But then - ah shit - it’s Monika coming down the corridor. Black dress. High-heels. He forgets to breathe.

‘Bukowski?’

He forces his eyes above the gravity of Monika’s tits.

‘Hi, Monika.’

Her eyebrows arch. She knows - he thinks - how he dreams of her underneath him, sometimes when he’s on top of Amanda.

‘I was thinking about Mooncalf.’ Monika grinds a heel, thoughtfully. ‘He’s not right, since the aliens gave him a vision.’

Bukowski nods his head. He’d like to put the briefcase down, but the cans will clank.

‘He told me you’re the man,’ says Monika.

‘He’s always saying shit like that,’ Bukowski sniffs.

Monika smiles like an evil buddha. ‘If he gets the chop, you might be next to see the alien. You might get a vision.’

Then she swings away, letting him watch the soft machinery of her arse.

* * *

Sunday morning. All night he dreamt he was lifting furniture. There was nowhere in the new apartment to stand. ‘Don’t shut yourself away!’ Amanda yelled, and he woke up.

Sunday morning. But Bukowski’s still in his room. He drinks. Throws empties on the pile. Can’t answer the phone. Might be Amanda, he thinks.

Turns out he doesn’t need to, because the phone doesn’t ring.

* * *

Mooncalf’s head rears over the toilet door.

‘Jesus fuck!’ Bukowski sputters whiskey down his suit. ‘Hey, Mooncalf - I was just - ’

‘Let me in,’ Mooncalf says.

Bukowski flips the lock. His boss squeezes inside, face white as lard. His eyes crawl up and down the cubicle walls.

‘You going to sack me?’ Bukowski says.

Mooncalf snatches the bottle and takes a swig. ‘Tell me why you look like shit.’

‘Supposed to move in with Amanda,’ sighs Bukowski. ‘I didn’t show.’

Mooncalf drains the bottle. ‘She deserves better.’

‘You’re right. I should talk to her.’

‘Fuck, no!’ says Mooncalf. ‘Leave the poor bitch alone. You’re shit.’ He hands the empty back to Bukowski. ‘How I wish I’d never seen that bastard alien.’ His gaze slides like a lizard’s. ‘Everyone asks me what they’re like. Everyone except you.’

Mooncalf’s hands tremble and flutter. Bukowski doesn’t like those fat white fingers so close.

‘I never told anyone this, so listen,’ Mooncalf says. ‘The difference between aliens and us is - the aliens are okay.’

Bukowski shrugs.

‘No. You don’t get it,’ Mooncalf sighs. He squeezes closer. His hands flap in Bukowski’s face. ‘You can’t get it,’ he says. ‘Listen: aliens - they’re fucking happy. They’re not wired up to suffer, like you and me.’

‘Don’t touch my face,’ Bukowski warns. ‘Sack me if you’re going to, but do not touch my fucking face…’

Mooncalf flinches. Then he smiles. ‘You’re the man, Bukowski!’ he laughs. ‘You’re numero uno!’

* * *

Bukowski heaps the empties into a bag and slings them out. He’s started coming early to work. Lack of alcohol makes him shake, so he tries working harder. And it helps - a bit. At night he surfs the net. He’s keeping a notebook. Filling it with lists and diagrams.

Monika stops him in the corridor. ‘You look fitter since Mooncalf got the chop.’ She licks her lips and giggles. ‘You know what? I liked the old Bukowski better.’

He’s taken Mooncalf’s advice. Hasn’t phoned Amanda. But he knows he’s got it coming. And sure enough, back at his desk there’s a call from the big boss, Mr Crayfish. He’s summoned up to the panelled office.

‘Mr Mooncalf spoke highly of you, before his retirement.’

Crayfish wears a brown suit and has thick white hair.

‘Nice of him,’ says Bukowski.

‘He said you’d make an excellent candidate for alien liaison.’ Crayfish makes a steeple of his fingers, and tilts his smiling head. ‘So what do you say?’

‘Well, I’m all right,’ says Bukowski - and Crayfish looks puzzled. ‘I don’t want to see the alien. Not especially.’

Crayfish nods. ‘Maybe I understand. Mr Mooncalf, after his encounter, seemed - strange?’

Bukowski stares at Crayfish.

‘It shouldn’t worry you,’ Crayfish says. ‘Mr Mooncalf had a vision. That’s how aliens communicate. But not everyone gets one. And those that do are rarely affected like Mr Mooncalf was.’

Bukowski blinks.

‘Did Mooncalf mention to you what the aliens are like?’

Bukowski notices that Crayfish’s smile has gone. It switched off, just like a light.

‘That’s bad,’ Crayfish says, as if Bukowski had already answered. ‘If you’ve had access to classified information, we’ll have to terminate your contract.’

Bukowski knew it’d come to this. ‘All Mooncalf ever said was that aliens are happy.’

Crayfish’s face lights up again.

‘Happy?’ he laughs. ‘Oh yes! They are!’

* * *

Monika swings across the corridor, blocking the security guards.

‘Off to see the Wizard?’ She pats Bukowski on the stomach. ‘You’ve put on weight again.’

He flinches, and buttons up his jacket.

‘Excuse us, miss.’ One of the security guard guides her out the way, then pushes Bukowski into the lift.

‘When you come down will you still like me?’ she says, pouting. Then she laughs.

The boardroom is on the top floor. More security guards stand sentry. They nod at Bukowski to go in, so he opens the door, just a slice.

The boardroom smells of polish, leather and cigars. It has high windows, a long black table. An alien is propped in the Director’s chair.

Bukowski’s feet move over the carpet.

The alien looks like a man-sized doughnut. A smooth ring of blue-grey flesh. It smells of almond essence and mothballs.

Bukowski’s eyes linger on its middle - a neat, empty hole. He stares through it, right to the back of the chair.

‘I heard you aliens are born happy,’ he says.

A moment passes. The creature swells and ebbs. Breathing, Bukowski supposes. He undoes his shirt, and shows it the home-made bomb strapped to his belly.

His gaze is sucked again into its central cavity. He’d thought it was empty, but now it radiates a milky glow, an iridescent cobweb.

That’s its fucking soul! he realises. Here’s us, not even sure we’ve got one, and these bastard things show up, wearing theirs like t-shirts...

The light from the creature brightens. It thickens like ectoplasm and gropes toward him.

‘I don’t need no vision!’ Bukowski yells. ‘You want to run this planet? You better know what it feels like!’

He shuts his eyes a second. Amanda, he thinks.

And then he smiles, because he’s sure that blue arsehole quivers as his thumb comes down on the switch.