Expected Visitors

The Men in Black will be coming soon. I’m quite resigned to it. It will even be a relief. I wonder if they’ll be dressed very formally, like the ones in the films and TV shows. Though I’ve never been one for formality, I rather hope that they will be. Nothing wrong with a bit of drama and a sense of occasion.

     I saw it coming from the minute I witnessed the strange lights in the sky, floating and hovering, with a colour like none I’ve ever seen before. Oh, I’d heard about such things, of course. Who hasn’t, if they’re honest? And then that sensation of floating and hearing voices telling me things they had no right to know, and quite possibly things I had no right to know. But is knowledge always power, or can it render us powerless? 

     I’m showing them some respect. It’s only right. I’m dressed in a shiny pale blue top and an almost new pair of trousers, and my hair is freshly brushed. There’s tea and coffee and even a plate of biscuits ready for them, though somehow the thought of the Men in Black sitting down to a cuppa and a biscuit is a tad bizarre. Still, it’s only manners.

     Perhaps I should have listened to my friend Zoe. “You know you’re taking a risk, Diane,” she said. Zoe has always been cautious. Not timorous or cowardly or anything like that, but as it used to say in the school stories I devoured when I was a child (and afterwards too, to be honest!) I was always the one for getting into scrapes, and she had more sense.

     But she’s loyal. She’s sitting in here now, waiting with me for the Men in Black to arrive, though she hasn’t seen the lights and heard the voices. She’s always said she has an open mind on such matters, but is a rational person. 

     Mind you, I thought I was, for all my capacity for getting into scrapes. There are things you find entertaining on the kind of TV shows you don’t always admit to watching, but don’t expect to experience yourself.

     It’s a funny kind of day for the Men in Black to come calling. It is spring, and the colours of flowers and their glorious scent are all around. That’s another curious thing that has happened to me. My senses seem to be heightened, not distorted, but more intense, sharper, and yet serene at the same time.

     I have heard (on those programmes you don’t admit to watching) that some people find the opposite happens – they lose their sense of smell or taste, particularly. That hasn’t happened to me, but if it had, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about Corona Virus now. Funny how this puts things into perspective.

     Zoe seems to be far more nervous than I am. She’s pacing around, straightening plates that are already straight, lined up on the linen tablecloth. She’s plumped up the cushions at least twice, though I somehow can’t see the Men in Black caring about plumped-up cushions. Still, for all that, her presence is calming, and I feel a lump in my throat. She looks very smart herself. But she also looks very tired. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever exactly underestimated or undervalued her, but I probably never appreciated her enough. I would tell her that now, but I don’t want to upset her. She wouldn’t want to break down in front of the Men in Black. She’s the kind of person who’s not ashamed of tears, but thinks there are appropriate times to let them flow.

     A vehicle has pulled up outside my house, outside my little terraced house on Hawthorne Road. It is plainly a large, heavy vehicle, but the sound is still oddly muffled. It is by no means unknown for strange vehicles to pull up on Hawthorne Road. Though it’s a quiet side road, it’s not far from the shopping centre, and the car parking there costs a fortune. We don’t really like it, but the Parking Enforcers hardly ever seem to come up here, and apparently it’s a grey area anyway.

     But I don’t suppose the Men in Black will be over-bothered by such things as the nuances of parking regulations. They have other things on their minds. 

     I can hear their footsteps coming up the drive, again, that odd muffled heaviness. But maybe Zoe doesn’t hear it that way, and her senses are the same as they ever were.

     I sense that she hesitates, unsure whether to meet them on the drive and let them in. But she decides to let them knock. “It’s them, Diane,” she says, looking out of the window. “They’ve come.”

     There’s a double rap at the door, not peremptory, not insistent, certainly not aggressive, but one that cannot and will not be ignored. It is like a bailiff’s knock.  One that I don’t even really want to be ignored. Zoe instinctively smoothes her hair, which is perfectly smooth anyway, and walks into my hallway with the blue and white tiles I love and the Yucca plant that suddenly seems far greener than it ever used to be. 

     They are wearing black bowler hats, and they tip them to Zoe in an old-fashioned, courteous gesture. She slightly bows her head in acknowledgement, and says, in her low, pleasant voice, “Please come in, gentlemen. You are not unexpected. I am Diane’s – Ms Coleman’s – best friend.”

     “We will make this as easy as possible, one of them says. One of them is tall, and one of them is short, and I am half-reminded, absurdly, of Laurel and Hardy. 

     She ushers them into the lounge, and just as I had expected, they politely refuse her offer of a cup of tea or coffee and a biscuit. “It’s kind of you, but we have other appointments,” the tall one says. I notice he does not say “We are busy.” Perhaps he thinks that would seem discourteous. 

     So I am not unique. Other people in town have seen the strange lights, and the colour that has no name, and have felt themselves floating, and felt their senses heighten. 

     But they have not experienced what I have, I am sure. Not experienced the few seconds of pure joy and freedom when I leapt from the cliff and swooped over the sea, despite Zoe warning me that paragliding was dangerous, especially without proper training and safety checks.

     And now the Men in Black have come. The undertakers.