Lydia drove her son to King’s Cross. It was a cold morning. While they waited for the train, she took Jacob into the snack bar where they had a pot of tea – ‘to warm you up’. It was not her way to fuss, but she was pleased when Jacob zipped up his jacket and put on his woollen gloves as they went out on to the platform. He had no case with him, just the sports bag he usually took to school. It did not look very full or very heavy. Presumably- there was equipment inside for whatever experiment it was they were engaged in.
‘Take care,’ she said, as he boarded the train. ‘And get home as quickly as you can.’
In the car she had asked no questions about Jacob’s errand. He had volunteered the information that his father wanted him in York for something to do with ‘transmission’. It made it sound as if Steven were engaged in some scientific experiment, like a latter-day Marconi or Logie Baird.
‘As soon as I’ve made contact, I just come back home,’ said Jacob. ‘It’s not much of a job really.’
Why York?
Why anywhere? York made as much sense as any other location would have done. They must be using a vantage point there, she supposed. The Minster? Clifford’s Tower? Lydia made a point of not being inquisitive. The whole family had been to the city just two years ago on a visit to the Jorvik Centre. So to choose York for this experiment was not so very strange.
Just after four o’clock Jacob got off the bus at the corner of Linden Drive in a suburban estate to the north of York. It had not been difficult to get there: his father’s directions were very precise, down to a graphic description of the bus route from the stop outside the station to the stop nearest the home of the Gwynn family.
It was dusk on a dull afternoon. The dark would not be long in coming. For Jacob, of course, neither the dark nor the light was unsafe. No one would observe him, night or day. No one would molest him, whether to rob or to terrorize. The shield about him left him visible but unnoticed. In London, his father was watching him every step of the way on the screen above the Brick.
Two people, clearly mother and daughter, got off the bus at the same stop as he did. Jacob found himself following them into Linden Drive and overhearing their conversation. They sounded faintly American.
‘Is it all right if I go shopping with Amy on Saturday?’ said the girl. ‘She needs a new pair of hockey boots.’
‘Sure,’ said her mother. ‘Only don’t stop out too late. It gets dark so early. And you never know who’s prowling about these days.’
‘Oh, Mom!’ said the girl. ‘Do you think I can’t take care of myself?’
For some reason that neither Jacob nor the girl could appreciate, that remark made the mother put an arm round her daughter’s shoulder and give her a hug.
Overprotected, thought Jacob. Then another, rueful thought came to him. He grinned self-mockingly. But not as overprotected as I am! Nobody could be!
The couple reached the gateway to Number 8 and went in. It was only then that Jacob knew they were the Gwynns. He shivered as he realized that there were things he knew about their destiny that they could not even suspect. Jacob was here on their home territory to do a job that would take the Gwynn family right out of this solar system within a matter of days. Perhaps the mother sensed something; maybe that was why she had given her daughter that impulsive hug.
Jacob dawdled till the Gwynns had gone into the house and shut the door behind them. Theoretically, he could have followed them into the drive, even into the house and they would have ignored him. But it seemed prudent not to push protection too far.
After the Gwynns were out of sight, there was no one else in the street either to notice or not to notice him. It was beginning to rain, a cold, misty drizzle. Jacob opened the gate, went in, and closed it behind him. He took the path to the side of the house, which was skirted by a high, thick hedge that separated the Gwynns’ garden from the one next door. When he reached the back garden, the first thing he saw was the frog, sitting there, squat and monstrous on its lily-pad in a disproportionately small pond.
He went up close to it and sat down on the grass, taking his bag from his shoulder and unzipping it.
From the bag he took out three pieces of equipment, none of them extraterrestrial, all very common. There was a telescopic tube, ‘borrowed’ from the handle of the carpet sweeper; a small trowel; and his father’s mobile phone.
‘Dad,’ said Jacob into the phone that he was not normally allowed to use (the Bradwells were not keen on their children using mobiles), ‘I’m here in the back garden.’
‘I see you, son,’ said Steven. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Don’t use the phone again till I ring you. Now do exactly as we arranged.’
Jacob walked up to the pond and circled it, gauging the direction till he was sure he was on the southern side of it. Then he squatted down and with the trowel he made an indentation in the soil. It was hardly big enough for a game of marbles. The ground was hard. The rain was now falling more heavily on Jacob’s head and shoulders. He found himself wishing, grumpily – like father like son! – that the shield could offer protection against the weather.
The mobile went: Diddley-dom. Diddley-dom.
There was a text message: ‘USE YOUR FINGERS.’
Jacob looked down at his gloves doubtfully and then, with reluctance, began to push crumbs of soil out of the hole he was trying to make. The gloves were soon soggy and the hole was not much bigger.
Diddley-dom. Diddley-dom.
Another text message: ‘TAKE YOUR GLOVES OFF. USE YOUR FINGERNAILS.’
Thank you, Dad, said Jacob inside his head. Thank you very much.
He glared in the direction he had established as south, removed the gloves and, distastefully, dug his nails into the ground. The area he could cover this way was clearly limited, but within this area he made progress. A hole the size of three fingers was dug down to a depth of six inches, give or take a centimetre.
Biddley, biddley, biddley. Biddley, biddley, bi-id-
Jacob took the mobile from his pocket again and put it to his ear.
‘You’re doing fine,’ said his father’s voice. ‘Couldn’t have done better myself. Now all you need to do is pull out the tube, probe it into the hole you’ve made and bang hard on it with the trowel. I wish I’d thought to give you a hammer.’
Jacob did not deign to reply. He doggedly assembled the sweeper handle, pushed it into the hole and banged vigorously on the end of it. The noise of clashing metal on metal should have drawn the attention of the lady in the house next door to the Gwynns’, who was making one of her regular surveys of the territory. But Mrs Jolly was totally unaware of Jacob. The shield was truly a powerful force.
Then, wonder of wonders, the hammering worked. The probe began to enter the soil. Just an inch or two at a time, or maybe a couple of centimetres. Then, whoosh! contact was established with the ship itself and it anxiously swallowed the whole handle till only a small shoot was left visible above ground.
I hope I can get it out again, thought Jacob anxiously. Mum is sure to want to know where her sweeper handle’s gone!