The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (33 page)

I wouldn’t see him again for three months.

***

A lot of what happened next you’ll already know. You saw it on TV, you read the papers. You know who I am. But you won’t know it from my side. You won’t know how it really all went down, won’t know the proper timeline of things, so I’ll give you the short version here.

Was it shallow? Was it an embarrassment of excess? Would I have gotten tired of it all in the end? Yes, yes, and probably. A lot of it I’m embarrassed by, when I think about it now. But at the same time,
fuck it
; it was simultaneously the most fun and the most lonely time of my entire life. I wish it had never ended.

This is what I remember of it.

—The early wake-up call at the hotel, head pounding, exhausted from a restless night of excitement about my glorious new future. A knock at the door to deliver some toiletries and some comfort clothes for the day: jeans, a T-shirt, clean boxers and socks. Being told a car would arrive for me in twenty minutes. The buzz kicking in through the tiredness, knowing I was about to become the centre of the world. It was … indescribable.

—The drive to a small field nearby, getting into the waiting chopper. Landing on top of a London skyscraper and being met by David, who was to be my liaison for the day, carrying a clipboard and wearing, of all things, a headset, like a TV show-runner. David doesn’t talk much, is middle-aged, always wears a grey suit. Stern faced, even more businesslike than Straub, if that’s possible.

—David escorting me down into the building, which looked like an ordinary office block, with people dashing here and there and working at computers in cubicles. Asking where we were, and David saying that it was a government department and not telling me anything more.

—Being taken into a blank waiting room and left alone for several minutes, then being fetched again by David and taken into a larger room with a desk and two more people, a man and a woman, whose names I never get because that is the point at which the speed of the day ramps up to ridiculous levels.

—Bullet points, diagrams, diversionary tactics for difficult questions, a list of twenty likely questions to memorise and the appropriate responses for each (there would be four questions allowed of me before the conference would be wrapped up). Q and A practice sessions, at one point occurring whilst a woman with a tape measure takes down my vitals for the making of my bespoke suit. I was to look good on TV. Being told to make sure I mentioned the destruction of my home, regardless of the questions, to help shore up my credibility. Protocol for meeting the Prime Minister, where to stand. Documents to sign, waivers, disclosure agreements. Realising that I don’t have a phone. Asking about this, and being told I would be given one. Later, being given a Blackberry. It’s not as good as my old one. Eating somewhere in the middle of all this, being brought a tray of rather nice sandwiches and juice.

—The end of an exhausting afternoon, head bursting from all the things I had to remember, and departing around 5:00 p.m. in a car with blacked-out windows that takes me to Downing Street, sitting on the backseat with big men in suits who sit either side of me, also wearing earpieces. The wait in the car seeming to go on forever, even once we’d arrived. Half an hour before showtime, being brought inside Number 10 and meeting the Prime Minister. It seems unreal, as does the whole day so far. His greeting is friendly, but short and businesslike, and then he goes back to his team of advisers. A makeup artist attends him, then me.

—The press conference on the steps of Number 10, dazzled by the hundreds of paps and journos gathered in front of us; national-level guys with faces I recognise, faces I once envied but now I know that I am about to surpass them utterly. I wear my new suit, and it fits like a glove.

—The Prime Minister delivering the PR account of the Stone Man story, with the delivery and assuredness of a pro. Then I am presented, not quite as a hero—what did I actually do in the end, even in this version of the story, other than simply being at the heart of it—but with a tone suggesting that I am very important indeed. Feeling deeply nervous as the hands go up and the voices start. I am not a TV reporter, but I handle the questions well. They are all within the list of twenty likely questions, and I’ve been prepared well.

Describe the mental sensation.
When did you first have your vision. What do you say to people that call you a fraud. Do you think it will come back.
And that’s when everything is wrapped up and we’re done.

—Being taken to a different hotel, under guard for my own protection, where the arrival is totally different to the previous night: a mob of press are somehow waiting at the other end, and my two burly minders bully me through them and into the elevator. They wait outside my room at night.

—Ringing flatmate Phil and getting him to gather every newspaper he could that mentioned me. Steve going nuts with questions, asking why my phone had been off, how the hell I got mixed up in this, where I’d gotten the suit from. Apparently he’s been telling everyone that I was his flatmate, and I think that maybe his tone sounds friendlier than I’ve ever heard it.

—Lying in bed, exhausted but still browsing online, reading every online article about myself that I can find. Egotistical? Perhaps, but wouldn’t you do the same in my shoes? Annoyingly, every one is merely about my account of events, with almost no assessment of me as a man. The only objective description of any note is that I was ‘confident’ at the podium, and one article adds the word ‘local’ to the word ‘reporter’ when mentioning my job. I wince when I read it, and silently curse the jealous little toad that wrote it. 

—Being collected early the next day for my examinations, and taken to a private room in a London hospital. We start with an MRI and blood work. We do ESP tests, Zener cards and the like. Visual exams, personality profiling. Halfway through the day I meet my cabinet-appointed agent, Bryan, who will be talking to me later about various offers. He will negotiate the best deals and look after my interests, but also make sure the government’s take priority, and ensure that the boat isn’t rocked, as he puts it. The treasury get thirty percent, too, which stings a great deal, but I am not in a position to argue. Plus, when I hear what Bryan has to say about my potential earnings, even losing such large portions of it seems insignificant. Bryan says that so far, it looks like TV is the way to go, as expected, and that all of the networks—US, of course—are fine with me being the one to write and present it. The highest offer so far is eight million dollars, and Bryan expects it to go way beyond that. The base rate of advertising for the Superbowl is four million per ad, and my report of my experiences with a confirmed extraterrestrial will have ratings far higher than the Superbowl. Legitimate alien experience? Massive. Worth at least one hundred million in advertising revenue, if the Superbowl generates seventy-five. He expects to get me twenty million as a minimum. I’m stunned. This all has to be a dream.

—Facebooking Paul once I’m back at the hotel at night. I find that he’s already added me, and messaged me with his number.
Watched your performance,
he says.
Looked good.
All well this end, once she’d calmed down. Get in touch when you can. PS Love the suit.
I send him the new Blackberry’s number.

—Being flown to America on day three, with government representative David and agent Bryan in tow. David still hardly ever speaks, but he’s here to vet proceedings. I begin to think that David might actually be some kind of high-ranking spook. We fly business class, and I drink champagne. I pass out during the flight for several hours, and it’s good, but my headache is back when I wake up.

—Meeting the producers in LA. Bryan has already told me that NBC will be paying me twenty-one million dollars. Even after the treasury’s cut, I am a multimillionaire. I am wined and dined and asked to cowrite a one-hour-long script with their writing team. David insists that I am allowed to write it alone, then turn it in for editing. He also demands that we have final cut approval of the finished programme; he doesn’t say it, but I know that by ‘we’ he means himself and his superiors. He’s given what he wants, of course.

—Spending three days in a luxurious LA hotel, writing the script based on the government's timeline of events and writing Paul out of it as requested. I no longer went to Sheffield solo; I went with the military and government reps after convincing the local police that I was legit (saying exactly what was happening with the Stone Man on TV whilst an officer watched it on his phone in another room. Describing the cars and surroundings onscreen with no way of seeing them. This was supposedly enough for the Coventry police to grant me access to the higher-ups, who at that point, due to Coventry being ground zero for the Stone Man, were in contact with the military. Not my story, the government’s.) David analyses the final product, then sends it back to the UK for assessment. With some minor edits, it is approved.

—The NBC team adapting my draft into a more suitable TV format. I am then flown back to the UK to shoot on location. David stays with me throughout the whole process, as does Bryan. I like Bryan, but I can’t relax with the guy; I strongly suspect he wouldn’t give me the time of day if I wasn’t of use to him. David is just cold, his lined faced always stern. I try to place an exact age on him. I think fifty-five. We’re granted exclusive access to the damage sites for filming. The many ruined areas of Coventry are still guarded by police, to ward off sightseers and memorabilia hunters whilst the city is being repaired. The government are done taking their samples too. It feels strange being back, like stepping into a past dream. It’s only been a week, but it feels like months since I was last in Coventry. The city is already rebuilding, but the end is a long way off. Flattened again, as it was in wartime, and having to rebuild for a second time. It isn’t fair.

—Reporting to camera, walking past the various sites, giving not only my own ‘personal’ account but also passing on news information about the local riots and movement of people. I find that I have a knack for it, surprisingly, and start to relax into the role, becoming confident.

—Having a trailer. Starting to drink more. Loving every minute of it but still seeing Patrick’s face at night. I think about calling Paul. I don’t.

—Being finished three days later, and flying straight back to the US for a round of media appearances—Oprah, Letterman—whilst the final report is quickly edited. Again I have to follow carefully drafted responses, this time by the NBC producers, so as not to blow any material in the upcoming show. The interview questions are vetted beforehand and edited. I don’t feel much like a reporter at all. David now heads back to the UK, after telling me that they’ll be in touch when necessary, and I am then alone for the first time since my press conference prep. He gives me another new phone with location tracking built into it, telling it to keep it on me at all times. I think the Blackberry might already have it, but I assume this one has the same but with bells on; I don’t think he means it just has conventional GPS.

—A parcel arriving from Paul. It’s a present; a new Dictaphone. The one I’m using as I tell this story, in fact. It comes with a note.
To replace the old one ... and to get it all out if you need to
. I appreciate the thought.

—Calling the
Times
from my hotel to offer a piece on the growth of nostalgia cinema. They’re excited—my name already carries weight—and they offer good money. The
New York Times
offers more. I start to make notes for the article. The TV special broadcasts, and the ratings are through the roof, topping the last record-breaking Superbowl. I think about buying a house, but then wonder where I’d buy it. America? I like it there. The money arrives in my account. My wealth is official.

—Flying home to the UK for a break whilst I finish the
New York Times
piece. I stay at the Savoy. The
NY Times
publishes my work to some minor fanfare, and it’s noted in media outlets that it’s my first report since the Stone Man. There are a few dissenting voices, asking why my work is now a big deal when before, I couldn’t get anything into the nationals. These voices hurt.

—Receiving an invite for a big Samsung product launch in New York. I take it up, and contact David to inform him that I’ll be out of the country.

—Flying back to the States (business class, again, as I AM now a multimillionaire, something I actually keep forgetting, forcing myself to look at the pricier options on menus as I don’t fully realise that I can afford them) and having two weeks that I don’t really remember very much about. Bryan calls with the best prices on the book offers, and they’re good. He says we’ve kept the movie rights in all potential deals. I decide to get started, but first I ring the
New York Times
again about another story, perhaps something about the current nature of celebrity. They want it, but the offer is less than before. I wonder if it’s the subject matter, or my own celebrity appeal already starting to slip. I write the article, realising now is the time to begin to cement myself as a writer, and that I have to try to get the book finished.