15

CHAOS

Constable Curtin stands on the stage and sighs. Our whole town stares back at him, not to mention a hundred tourists with their phones out, ready to start filming. Along rows of wooden seats, people press close together, constantly saying ‘Shh!’ or ‘I can’t see, we should’ve come earlier, there’s no spare seats’.

Constable Curtin walks across the stage towards the microphone or, at least, he tries. Boxes of gala goods have been stacked everywhere and he almost trips over a stuffed panda and a Monopoly board. At last he reaches the podium and does his best to look serious.

‘Right. Let’s get started, shall we? No, I’d prefer you didn’t film this, Barry. It’s a community meeting, not a celebrity sighting.’

Outside, rain whips against the windows, turning the evening sky black. The room hums under a single neon light and I glance around the room. Ellie stands by the door, trying to force vegetarian recipes into people’s hands, while our town butcher glares at her from the back row. Harriet and I lean against the back wall. Mum stands next to us, keeping one eye on Ellie and shaking her head at the room.

Constable Curtin clears his throat. ‘Now — achoo! I want to begin by addressing concerns about the influx of tourists and littering … ah-choo!’

He keeps rubbing his nose. I hope it’s nothing serious. Everyone’s crammed into a small hall, so colds and flus could spread like wildfire.

Dropping my backpack onto the floor, I resist the urge to pull out a facemask, seeing as we’re not supposed to draw attention to ourselves. If we get caught we’ll have bigger problems than flu. Having said that, no one would notice if we started standing on our heads and singing the national anthem, because they’re all busy filming through their phones and trying to act like they’re texting.

Constable Curtin starts talking about the dangers of believing in hoaxes. Dunno why, but the biggest issue involves tourists trampling flowerbeds in the rush to spot UFOs which ‘constitutes damage to private property’. I’m beginning to worry about the possibility of imprisonment due to ‘careless petunia damage’ when Harriet pokes me in the ribs and whispers, ‘Don’t worry, no one will complain about flowers when we’ve saved the school.’

‘Um, yeah. Sure.’

I wonder how Alex’s doing and whether he had to take Ana along, too. Glancing again at the door, I whisper, ‘Do you think it’s safe? I mean operating heavy machinery after all that rain?’

It’s not a stupid question because there’s talk of ‘unseasonal rain’ coming off the hills, which could mean landslides, flooded rivers and slippery roads. Nobody else seems worried, but seriously? Am I the only person who googles the dangers of global warming?

Harriet rolls her eyes. ‘Alex’s been driving tractors around his farm since he was nine. Stop worrying.’

‘Yes, but there’s usually an adult around.’

‘Well, it still works the same, right?’ She looks a little uncomfortable, but shrugs. ‘Look, everyone’s here and the roads are empty. Nothing will happen, he’s not going on the main highway.’

‘But lots of things could go wrong, like—’

‘Shhhh,’ interrupts Mum, pointing at tourists who keep throwing us angry looks. Glaring at us, one stranger points at the stage and I can’t help staring because she’s covered in tattoos and body piercings. Maybe Nose-Ring Girl loves plants; Constable Curtin hasn’t finished talking about trampled gardens and broken fences. Leaning over the podium, he sighs, ‘Destroying rose beds is a serious issue, especially given the price of fertiliser right now … ah-choo! Excuse me, folks.’

A tourist with spiky blond hair puts his hand up. Constable Curtin blinks at the man’s fingers but keeps talking. Seeing as he’s not a teacher and might’ve forgotten what raised hands mean, I call out, ‘I think he’s got a question, Constable Curtin!’

The officer takes a deep breath. Yes, thank you, Lucas. Uhh … well, … go ahead, sir.’

The man clears his throat, glancing around the audience. ‘I just wondered, why do you think they’re here?’

‘Who?’

‘The aliens, officer. Who else?’

Muttering breaks out across the room and Constable Curtin sighs again. ‘All right, I would like to categorically state, for the record, that aliens are NOT visiting Ash Hill. It’s all a hoax — ah-choo!’ He shakes his head. ‘Sorry folks, bad case of hay fever.’

A teenage girl calls out, ‘Okay, but you work for the government, right? If this is a government conspiracy you’d cover up for your bosses.’

‘I don’t think … Wait, is that Lily MacDonald? You’re Gary’s niece aren’t you?’ The girl nods but stares at her feet, like she just spotted gum on her shoes. Constable Curtin shakes his head at several rows of locals, sitting in the front. ‘Come on folks, you’re not serious? Look, you’ve all seen my off-duty car. Isn’t that proof I don’t get paid enough to cover up alien invasions? Let’s keep it real, okay?’

A few people chuckle, one or two even put their phones away. Harriet and I both glance around the room. Mr and Mrs SUV are sitting in the second row, eyes glued on the constable. Once again, they’re carrying proper cameras, not phones. I’m guessing the FBI prefer high-quality photography for spying, so their documents look professional in court. What other reason would make sense?

Harriet shakes her head. ‘Lily should be smart and keep quiet. If she’s onto a government conspiracy they could make her disappear.’ She glances at me. ‘Not that I believe in that stuff, of course.’

‘Yeah, right, Harriet.’ I shake my head. ‘And who’s “they”?’

She shrugs at me, just as Constable Curtin sneezes again, saying, ‘Sorry, but there’s no — ah-choo! No aliens in our town. End of story.’

But now he can’t stop sneezing, turning away from the crowd and covering his mouth. People take advantage of his weakened state and start calling out questions, like —

‘But how can you be sure the UFOs aren’t real? Do you know something we don’t?’

‘The cream in my fridge went off two days early. I’m telling you, it’s radiation from the UFOs!’

‘My dog’s missing! How do you explain that? I bet they’ve taken Rover for alien experimentation!’

‘I saw those lights with my own eyes, you can’t tell us nothing’s going on!’

Alex’s dad stands up and shouts, ‘All right, you lot! Stop talking rubbish! Everyone knows there’s no such thing as aliens. There’s a logical explanation for everything—’

‘Such as?’ calls out Gary MacDonald.

Constable Curtin holds up his hands. ‘Please everyone — ah-choo! Oh, for the love of … Mr Ngata, any chance you could find me some tissues? My hayfever is killing me.’

Mr Ngata gives him the thumbs-up and pushes through the crowd. Pressing past tourists, mothers with prams, and farmers leaning against the walls, he heads for the hall cupboard. ‘No worries, give us a sec.’

Someone starts shouting, ‘What about all the apple cores we’ve been finding? They’re everywhere, even in front of the O’Learys’ store. How do you explain that?’

Constable Curtin nods. ‘It seems tourists have been helping themselves to apples from Mrs Jones’s driveway. Local kids have been doing the same for years, but with these numbers they’re stripping the trees—’

He’s interrupted by Nose-Ring Girl calling out, ‘Maybe the lady who owns the camping ground was right. They aliens came for the world’s apples.’

Some people laugh, but Mr Mackenzie from Dairy Flats shouts, ‘Well, why else would they pick a farming area, instead of the cities? There might be agricultural reasons for these visits … ahem.’ His voice dies down as his wife glares at him, and he sinks into his seat. ‘If you believe this stuff. Which I don’t, of course. I’m just saying.’

Half the room laughs, but the rest of the crowd looks thoughtful. I notice the SUV couple taking notes on small pads. That can’t be good. Next to us, Mr Ngata fumbles with a large set of keys, trying to open the cupboard. Watching him, I get this weird feeling like there’s something important I should remember about the cupboard, when someone with a thick accent calls out, ‘So, is this a possible invasion?

Constable Curtin snorts. ‘Hardly, I don’t see any aliens around here!’

‘Well you wouldn’t, obviously. They’d blend in!’

A few people look at each other funny, probably wondering if they’re standing next to an alien. Constable Curtin says, ‘All right, you lot — ahh-chooo! Mr Ngata? How’re we going with those tissues?’

Our teacher jingles his keys in the cupboard lock. ‘I’ll be right there!’

‘Hang on, folks.’ Constable Curtin waves down their questions and sneezes into his hand, which is disappointing on so many levels. But it’s easy to forget basic hygiene when you’re feeling sick, so I call out, ‘Sneeze into your elbow, Constable! It prevents the spreading of germs!’

Harriet gasps. ‘Oh, no.’

‘What?’ I ask. ‘It’s good advice. Remember when the visiting nurse told us about sneezing into our elbows?’

‘No, look! Your tissues, remember?’ She points at Mr Ngata lifting out the box marked ‘Christmas Decorations’. Of course! That’s what kept bugging me, I’d forgotten about our plastic models. My stomach drops. He’s about to open the box of fake UFOs. We’re so busted.

Harriet hisses, ‘Lucas! We’ve got to stop him!’

My brain stops working. Of course, this is a disaster and I need to think of a plan, but I can’t — even though we’re seconds away from getting caught. For some reason, I’m still picturing those disgusting germs flying through the air and … germs? Sickness! Yes!

Everything moves into slow motion. Mr Ngata drops the box and leans down, reaching for the cardboard flap. I hear him saying, ‘There might be something in here. I definitely saw tissues …’

‘Errr help!’ I shout across the hall. ‘I’m not well. I’m gonna pass out.’

Everyone turns, craning their necks to see who yelled. Next to me, Harriet gasps, ‘Yes, everything seems a little blurry. The room’s spinning …’

And then she collapses on the floor, which is colossally stupid.

One fainting kid? Maybe. But who would believe two kids passing out at the same time? Still, I’m committed now, so I stagger forward, looking for a decent place to fall. Spotting a small gap between two old ladies, I close my eyes and — drop.

I’ve never fainted before and maybe I should’ve gone down knees-first. My head smacks into the wooden floor and, for a second, I really might pass out. But unconscious kids can’t say ‘Ow’ or ‘Get me an icepack’, so I lie there while people rush forwards, my head throbbing like a second heartbeat.

Mum’s voice echoes in my ear. ‘Lucas! Are you okay? Answer me — Lucas!’

Of course I’m not okay. I’ve slammed my head on the ground. But I’m also wondering how long fainting should last? Not long, I’m guessing, because I don’t want anyone trying to save my life with mouth-to-mouth or electric paddles, so I open my eyes. ‘How do my pupils look, Mum?’

‘Uh, what?’

‘Are they bigger than normal? I might have concussion.’ My head hurts for real, which helps because it’s not easy pretending you’ve got a headache. Mum always says I’m a terrible liar.

Mum frowns, then looks back at Harriet who starts stirring on the ground. Her glasses have fallen off and I hope they’re not broken. ‘Are you okay, Harriet?’

She sighs and turns towards Mr Ngata, whose face appears above a knot of faces. I’m relieved to see my plan worked. He must’ve hurried over and left the box on the stage. Mum shrugs at him. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on. Have you got a first aid kit in that box?’

Raising my head off the floor, I shout, ‘No! Um, I mean, I’ve got one in my bag, remember?’

Above Mum’s other shoulder, Nose-Ring Girl’s face pops into view, muttering ‘Wow, this is brilliant.’

Mum glares at her, pulling me into a sitting position. ‘How is this brilliant?’

‘I’m trending on Twitter.’ She shrugs like it’s obvious, holding out her phone. ‘Look, I tweeted about a mass outbreak of fainting in Ashton Hill. Everyone’s blaming the aliens.’

‘For Heaven’s sake,’ growls Mum, but she’s watching Harriet fumble for her glasses on the floor. Harriet’s grinning, probably because we’re trending, and Mum frowns again. I think she’s growing more suspicious by the second.

Turning my head away, I look for Mr Ngata. Has he gone back to the cupboard for a first aid kit? I open my mouth to tell him I might need to be carried outside and driven three hours to the nearest hospital, when — blink. We’re plunged into darkness.

Mum grabs my arm and Mr Ngata starts shouting about fuses, while Constable Curtin calls for calm and people start stumbling towards the door. Above us, rain thumps the roof and I hear the sound of someone tripping, muffled apologies and then — somebody screams.

‘Look!’ shouts a woman’s voice. ‘The window!’

We all turn towards the large window behind the podium, lit from the outside by one of the only street lamps in town. My heart stops. A small green face presses against the window. It’s blurred by rain, so I can’t make out the eyes. A small, three-fingered hand raises itself up, as if in greeting.

And then it’s gone.