Martin King and the Space Angels

Chapter 3 - The Immaterial Voice

Spit bubbled up in the corner of Martin’s dad’s mouth. The drop grew bigger and heavier, and trickled down his chin. Another bubble began to form.

‘Morning, dad,’ said Martin.

‘What?’

His dad opened his bloodshot eyes. He was slumped over the battered sofa; a bottle of vodka lay partially concealed by the table beside him. His blotched face was overgrown with six months’ worth of beard.

‘Sleep well?’ said Martin.

‘What? Yes.’

‘I said—did you sleep well?’

‘Yes! I said yes—what’s the damn matter with you?’

Their flat was poorly lit and very untidy. Martin tidied up whenever he got the time, but he always seemed to be busy with homework. A fly buzzed around the bare light-bulb, and Martin glanced around the living room. The carpet was torn, the back of the TV was cracked and covered with sellotape, and the coffee table was covered in a thick layer of dust.

It had been three days since Falcon’s visit to Earth. Despite what the alien had told them, none of the three friends had developed any sort of special power. The Axis Dust had done nothing. The events of that night now seemed like a faded dream.

Martin pulled the brass monocle from around his neck, where it was hanging from its leather strap, and ran his fingers over the edge, as if convincing himself that it was real. He held the lens up to his eye and surveyed his dad through it. It revealed nothing. He just saw his father, the same as ever, lying in a stain of his own sweat.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’

Martin pushed the monocle back behind his shirt.

‘Damn kid. Nothing? Damn kid.’

‘I’m going to school now, dad. See you later.’

‘Damn kid.’

Martin hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and left the room. He reached the end of the corridor and stood before the lift.

The lift. Martin pressed the glowing switch, and the steel doors rattled open. Inside, the lights were dim and a tall mirror spat back a slightly warped reflection. Martin took a step forward.

‘It’s just a lift,’ he said, under his breath. ‘It’s just a lift.’

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t just a lift. It was a steel tomb, a coffin, a death trap. He took a step backwards.

Martin and his dad lived at the top of a tower block, and Martin stood outside the lift every day, preparing himself to climb fearlessly into the tiny box.

Martin hated any enclosed space, but lifts were the worst. He knew that his fear was irrational, but he could never stop himself wondering what if…?

What if I got stuck in the lift, and died from lack of water before anyone found me? Or what if I ran out of oxygen in there? Or what if the lift came loose from its cable and crashed down to the ground—with me inside it?

But Martin felt that, maybe, if he could summon the courage to travel in a lift all his other problems would also be solved. He would no longer seize up with rigidness around girls at school. He would have the bravery to ask Darcy to go out with him.

So every day he would stare at the lift, and the lift would stare back, and Martin would keep pressing the button, keep opening up the elevator when it closed, keep staring into the metal box… and then eventually he would walk away and take the stairs.