Close Encounter of the Death Eater Kind

Close Encounter of the

Death Eater Kind

Mrs. Monica Wingate, a seventy-year-old widow, flinched slightly in her Croydon home as a rapid series of popping sounds hit her ears. She looked up from the telly -- which was getting to the exciting part about evictions from the House -- and made as if to lay aside her knitting, but as usual she was too late.

One of the seven masked and black-robed figures that had abruptly appeared in her sitting room pulled out a long dark baton and pointed it at her. She was suddenly unable to move or speak.

The figure stowed his baton away again and all of the figures took off their masks, tossing them negligently aside and settling down comfortably on her settee, love seat, and several chairs.

They were a rather nice-looking group of young men, Mrs. Wingate thought, although perhaps young wasn't quite the proper term. The youngest was probably in his early forties. Still, from her perspective, they were all fine strong-looking lads in the prime of life.

"Just a moment," the hook-nosed, dark-haired, one said, heading for the kitchen.

She knew several of them by sight by now. He was the one with the sardonic smile, who looked as if he could use a shampoo.

The handsome one with the long, white-blond, hair looked around the room. "I think she's short an African violet," he said. "Wasn't there one with pink blossoms in the window, next to the Dresden shepherd, the last time we were here?"

"I have always admired your attention to detail," the dark-haired man said, coming back from the kitchen with seven glasses, a cut-glass bowl filled with ice, and a quart bottle, on her souvenir Margate tray.

"It got me where I am today," the blond said comfortably.

"So, do you come here often?" one of the others asked, grinning.

"Every week or so," the dark-haired man said, breaking the seal on the bottle and pouring out a round of drinks. "Got to give her a chance to get the shopping in, right?"

"What is this stuff?" a man with a small black moustache asked, holding his glass up to the light.

The dark haired man looked more closely at the label. "Finest Single Malt Scotch," he said.

The moustached man shrugged. "Fair enough. Bottoms up!"

There was a pleasant tinkle of ice as they drank.

"I like her decor," another man commented. He was lounging back on Mrs. Wingate's black immitation-leather settee with his ankles crossed, staring pensively at her large framed print of The Death of Sardanopolis. "Are there any crisps?"

"I'll check," the dark-haired man said, and headed back to the kitchen.

Mrs. Wingate could see the telly screen with the peripheral vision of one eye, and was divided as to whether to turn her attention to it, or to her uninvited guests, whose conversation was always rather boring, and sometimes incomprehensible.

The dark-haired man came back with two large bags. "Cheese and plain," he said.

"I prefer salt and vinegar," the blond said.

The black-haired man, looking a bit exasperated, pulled out his baton again, tapped the bag, and handed it to his companion, who tore it open with every evidence of satisfaction.

"Did you hear that?" The dark-haired man bent down to look at Mrs. Wingate, his hooked nose and black eyes only inches from her face. His lank black hair brushed her cheeks. "Salt and vinegar crisps next time!"

They finished both bags of crisps, poured out another round of drinks, and then the moustached man, looking at Mrs. Wingate's anniversary eight-day clock--which stood on top of the telly--said, "Looks like it's time to go. Where to?"

"Oh, back to the Manor, I think," the blond man said easily, finishing off his drink and putting the glass back on the Margate tray. "We have to make our report, you know."

They stood up and put their masks back on.

The dark-haired man gathered up the rest of the glasses, the bottle, and the empty chips bags, put everything on the tray, and took it back to the kitchen.

When he returned, he put on his own mask and took out his baton again.

"Going to wipe out her memories?" one of the now-anonymous men asked, his voice sounding hollow through his mask.

"What, and have her forget about the crisps?"

He pointed his baton at Mrs. Wingate for a moment, and then--with a series of little popping sounds--they were gone.

Mrs. Wingate got stiffly to her feet and laid aside her knitting, annoyed to see that she had missed the most exciting part of the telly program. She made her way to the kitchen, lips pursed.

The Margate tray was in its accustomed place, the cut-glass bowl and all of the glasses were in the cupboard, sparkling clean. The empty crisps bags were in the trash basket. The only thing that was out of place was the bottle sitting on the counter. She picked it up, clicking her tongue over the bare quarter inch of liquid left in what had been a full quart of Glenfiddich.

She took one of the glasses out of the cupboard, poured the remains of the Scotch into it, and dropped the bottle into the trash, on top of the empty bags.

Sipping at the last of the Scotch, she made a note on her shopping list about the salt and vinegar crisps.

They were nice lads, and they did clean up after themselves, but by and large she really preferred the good old days of alien abduction.

-- end --

Irena Candy Close Encounter of the Death Eater Kind 1