DISTANT STATION | Trevor Denyer
It is 1997, the last day of August when Diana, Princess of Wales dies in a car crash in Paris. The subsequent outpouring of grief is National, in a way that has never really happened before during Josey’s lifetime.
She remembers a time when Bob was around. She remembers how he used to breeze into the room, pleased to be home after the day’s work, the
perfect family man. He would hug Michael, the baby they had longed for and eventually conceived.
“Hi honey,” he would say, the grin lighting up his face and migrating to her, “I’m home!”
That had been then, in the summer of 1987. Rudolph Hess had been found hanged in his cell in Spandau Prison. Josey was happy with her life and
this news hardly touched her, apart from a fleeting spark of emotion that confirmed her relief that another dinosaur was dead.
Now the rain falls as daylight fades, in mourning for the death of a Princess. It’s as if the darkness is solidifying out of clear droplets. Josey cries again. She cannot help it. The sadness that pervades the world reminds her of her own loss.
She’s anxious. Dave should be home by now.
Dave is forty-five and divorced. Josey can lean on him and he supports her more than Bob ever did. They have known each other for two years
and lived together for one. These have been the happiest years of her life. Their relationship is the calm after the storm that robbed her of so
much.
The letterbox rattles. She opens the door into the lobby. The local free newspaper, damp and curling at the edges, lies on the mat.
Outside, a teenager wheels his bicycle along the path, his hair plastered to his head, a shiny helmet. Raindrops drip from the end of his nose. A cat dashes past him, desperate for shelter. Cowed by the onslaught, it races across the green, its head down and ears tucked back, its body slick and stick thin.
Josey picks up the paper. The story on the front page makes her think of Michael. The picture of a lost child is like an echo.
The phone rings. She picks up the receiver. Static fills the earpiece. She sighs, frustrated. That’s the fifth time in a row. There must be a fault, she thinks. She’ll report it in the morning.
“Dave,” she mutters, dragging a dry hand across her damp forehead, “where are you?”
She tries to convince herself that there is no problem. He’s obviously been trying to get in touch because of the number of times the phone has rung. The seeds of doubt are sown, though. He’s an hour later home than usual. An irrational fear rises, daring to hint at disaster.
The phone rings again. She ignores it for ten seconds, hoping that the fault will clear. It seems like an eternity and she cannot resist the temptation to pick up the receiver any longer. Static mocks her.
“Damn!” she says and slams the receiver down. She will have to unplug the thing, but then Dave definitely won’t be able to contact her. If only there was a more convenient form of communication, she thinks as visions of cordless, hand held wonders fill her mind. She gasps at the onslaught, a powerful, heady kick back from an unknowable future.
She stares out of the window. The darkness has come early this evening. It makes her feel uncomfortable. Twilight always makes her anxious. Memories of Michael tease her as they fuel her anxiety. She moves across the room and flicks the light switch. Nothing happens.
Something makes her turn and peer into the darkening room – a movement of air between the furniture. Her eyes stray to the picture that stands on top of the sideboard. Even in the gathering gloom she can make out the shapes of herself – long, wavy, dark-haired and hazel-eyed, and of Michael – only two years old and dying of leukaemia. It had been raining when he finally slipped away.
Bob couldn’t handle it. They separated eight years ago and he had hung himself shortly afterwards in a squalid basement flat in Peckham.
A sound – hardly a whisper – breathes through the room. Josey shivers.
“Stop it,” she whispers. “Think of Dave...”
Where is he? It’s nearly seven o’clock and he isn’t home. Earlier, she’d tried phoning him at work. The answerphone had cut in:
"Hello. This is Past and Future Times. I’m sorry we cannot speak to you at the moment. Please leave your name, telephone number and a short message. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible."
Past and Future Times. It was basically an antiques business that had been very lucrative over the last couple of years. Dave said that it was Josey’s influence that had made the difference. She was a good omen, he said.
The phone rings again. A flare of hope makes Josey run across the room. Maybe this time Dave will be there. She catches her shin on the corner of the coffee table. The sudden pain makes her cry out. The telephone stops ringing. She throws the newspaper she is still holding to the floor.
“Shit!” she says and begins to cry again. She picks up the newspaper. The story on the front page is about a toddler killed by a hit and run driver. The picture is grainy; the face is smiling. The boy has large round eyes that stare from a podgy face. Through her tears, Josey sees Michael.
Where is Dave? A frightening thought crosses her mind. Could he be the hit and run driver? He has been more subdued over the last few days. She tries to dismiss the thought as being ridiculous. Dave would never run away from the scene of an accident. Or would he?
There had been no sign of an impact on the car. Or had there? She hadn’t really looked that closely.
Another thought usurps this as Josey’s mind seeks refuge in fantasy: perhaps she is the only person alive. Maybe there are only answerphones out there, waiting for her call.
It is completely dark outside now. Rain still falls, but Josey senses that something has changed. There’s been a subtle shift in perception.
She feels isolated.
The phone rings. It makes her jump. She wipes the tears away with her sleeve and picks up the receiver.
“Dave?”
Static, only static; and then a distant voice:
“Mamma.”
The breath catches in her throat. Panic wells up and she wonders if she will ever breathe again.
“Michael?” Incredulous.
“The birds are on fire.”
A vision slams into her. She sees twin towers engulfed in flames and falling. She sees human beings jumping and burning.
“No!” she cries, agonised. There is too much death; the Princess, the Nazi and now a future crime that hasn’t happened, that cannot happen. Josey fights for breath.
“Mamma, mamma, mamma.” She feels the agony in his cry.
“Michael!” she gasps. Only static.
Josey replaces the receiver. She’s exhausted and the tears that come are tears of despair. Her imagination is playing tricks. She fears for her sanity. She needs Dave.
“Mamma.” Michael’s in the room and behind him stands the dark shape of a man. Bob watches her from icy, glittering eyes. The rain drums impatiently against the window, enclosing her in a cocoon that doesn’t feel threatening, but holds the past and the future in balance. In her present she stands at the centre and Michael whispers: “The birds are on fire...”
He stands in the shadows. Bob has gone, a messenger only.
Michael quietly weeps. Josey watches him. She wants it to be true; her son has returned and, despite everything, she is willing to believe it. She moves towards him, her arms outstretched.
As she approaches, Michael’s image dissolves like mist upon water. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, the room is empty.
The telephone rings. She grabs the receiver.
“Hi, it’s Dave.”
“Dave! Thank God! Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, I cannot speak to you at the moment, but if you’d like to leave your name, telephone number...”
Josey rips the cable from the wall and throws the phone across the room. It crashes into the photograph of her lost son and cracks the glass.
“What the fuck is going on?” she screams. “Who are you?”
The phone rings. She starts to laugh. After reality, acceptance, hope, despair, there is only hysteria. Josey answers the phone.
“Distant Station calling Earth. Distant Station calling Earth. Have we made contact?”
“Yes, you’ve made contact alright. Who the fuck are you?”
She hears the front door open.
“Josey, are you OK?”
She drops the receiver and runs into the hallway. Dave stands at the door, soaked and dripping onto the mat. Josey feels relief flood over her. She falls into his arms, but as she does, he starts to cry: “I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I should have stopped. I couldn’t take the guilt. I’m so sorry...” His image fades away.
She staggers back to the living room. There is only one thing she can think of to do. Maybe afterwards, it will make some kind of sense. She curls up on the settee and tries to sleep.
She sleeps now. Around her the aliens stand, observing. Reality is displaced. A tiny, frightened voice calls from the telephone.
When she wakes, the madness will have passed. Michael will still be dead and Dave will be there, ready to comfort her. The past and the future will be back in their rightful places.
For now, the rainfall of a different planet hammers at the cocoon.
It is 1997, the last day of August when Diana, Princess of Wales dies in a car crash in Paris. The subsequent outpouring of grief is National, in a way that has never really happened before during Josey’s lifetime.
She remembers a time when Bob was around. She remembers how he used to breeze into the room, pleased to be home after the day’s work, the
perfect family man. He would hug Michael, the baby they had longed for and eventually conceived.
“Hi honey,” he would say, the grin lighting up his face and migrating to her, “I’m home!”
That had been then, in the summer of 1987. Rudolph Hess had been found hanged in his cell in Spandau Prison. Josey was happy with her life and
this news hardly touched her, apart from a fleeting spark of emotion that confirmed her relief that another dinosaur was dead.
Now the rain falls as daylight fades, in mourning for the death of a Princess. It’s as if the darkness is solidifying out of clear droplets. Josey cries again. She cannot help it. The sadness that pervades the world reminds her of her own loss.
She’s anxious. Dave should be home by now.
Dave is forty-five and divorced. Josey can lean on him and he supports her more than Bob ever did. They have known each other for two years
and lived together for one. These have been the happiest years of her life. Their relationship is the calm after the storm that robbed her of so
much.
The letterbox rattles. She opens the door into the lobby. The local free newspaper, damp and curling at the edges, lies on the mat.
Outside, a teenager wheels his bicycle along the path, his hair plastered to his head, a shiny helmet. Raindrops drip from the end of his nose. A cat dashes past him, desperate for shelter. Cowed by the onslaught, it races across the green, its head down and ears tucked back, its body slick and stick thin.
Josey picks up the paper. The story on the front page makes her think of Michael. The picture of a lost child is like an echo.
The phone rings. She picks up the receiver. Static fills the earpiece. She sighs, frustrated. That’s the fifth time in a row. There must be a fault, she thinks. She’ll report it in the morning.
“Dave,” she mutters, dragging a dry hand across her damp forehead, “where are you?”
She tries to convince herself that there is no problem. He’s obviously been trying to get in touch because of the number of times the phone has rung. The seeds of doubt are sown, though. He’s an hour later home than usual. An irrational fear rises, daring to hint at disaster.
The phone rings again. She ignores it for ten seconds, hoping that the fault will clear. It seems like an eternity and she cannot resist the temptation to pick up the receiver any longer. Static mocks her.
“Damn!” she says and slams the receiver down. She will have to unplug the thing, but then Dave definitely won’t be able to contact her. If only there was a more convenient form of communication, she thinks as visions of cordless, hand held wonders fill her mind. She gasps at the onslaught, a powerful, heady kick back from an unknowable future.
She stares out of the window. The darkness has come early this evening. It makes her feel uncomfortable. Twilight always makes her anxious. Memories of Michael tease her as they fuel her anxiety. She moves across the room and flicks the light switch. Nothing happens.
Something makes her turn and peer into the darkening room – a movement of air between the furniture. Her eyes stray to the picture that stands on top of the sideboard. Even in the gathering gloom she can make out the shapes of herself – long, wavy, dark-haired and hazel-eyed, and of Michael – only two years old and dying of leukaemia. It had been raining when he finally slipped away.
Bob couldn’t handle it. They separated eight years ago and he had hung himself shortly afterwards in a squalid basement flat in Peckham.
A sound – hardly a whisper – breathes through the room. Josey shivers.
“Stop it,” she whispers. “Think of Dave...”
Where is he? It’s nearly seven o’clock and he isn’t home. Earlier, she’d tried phoning him at work. The answerphone had cut in:
"Hello. This is Past and Future Times. I’m sorry we cannot speak to you at the moment. Please leave your name, telephone number and a short message. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible."
Past and Future Times. It was basically an antiques business that had been very lucrative over the last couple of years. Dave said that it was Josey’s influence that had made the difference. She was a good omen, he said.
The phone rings again. A flare of hope makes Josey run across the room. Maybe this time Dave will be there. She catches her shin on the corner of the coffee table. The sudden pain makes her cry out. The telephone stops ringing. She throws the newspaper she is still holding to the floor.
“Shit!” she says and begins to cry again. She picks up the newspaper. The story on the front page is about a toddler killed by a hit and run driver. The picture is grainy; the face is smiling. The boy has large round eyes that stare from a podgy face. Through her tears, Josey sees Michael.
Where is Dave? A frightening thought crosses her mind. Could he be the hit and run driver? He has been more subdued over the last few days. She tries to dismiss the thought as being ridiculous. Dave would never run away from the scene of an accident. Or would he?
There had been no sign of an impact on the car. Or had there? She hadn’t really looked that closely.
Another thought usurps this as Josey’s mind seeks refuge in fantasy: perhaps she is the only person alive. Maybe there are only answerphones out there, waiting for her call.
It is completely dark outside now. Rain still falls, but Josey senses that something has changed. There’s been a subtle shift in perception.
She feels isolated.
The phone rings. It makes her jump. She wipes the tears away with her sleeve and picks up the receiver.
“Dave?”
Static, only static; and then a distant voice:
“Mamma.”
The breath catches in her throat. Panic wells up and she wonders if she will ever breathe again.
“Michael?” Incredulous.
“The birds are on fire.”
A vision slams into her. She sees twin towers engulfed in flames and falling. She sees human beings jumping and burning.
“No!” she cries, agonised. There is too much death; the Princess, the Nazi and now a future crime that hasn’t happened, that cannot happen. Josey fights for breath.
“Mamma, mamma, mamma.” She feels the agony in his cry.
“Michael!” she gasps. Only static.
Josey replaces the receiver. She’s exhausted and the tears that come are tears of despair. Her imagination is playing tricks. She fears for her sanity. She needs Dave.
“Mamma.” Michael’s in the room and behind him stands the dark shape of a man. Bob watches her from icy, glittering eyes. The rain drums impatiently against the window, enclosing her in a cocoon that doesn’t feel threatening, but holds the past and the future in balance. In her present she stands at the centre and Michael whispers: “The birds are on fire...”
He stands in the shadows. Bob has gone, a messenger only.
Michael quietly weeps. Josey watches him. She wants it to be true; her son has returned and, despite everything, she is willing to believe it. She moves towards him, her arms outstretched.
As she approaches, Michael’s image dissolves like mist upon water. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, the room is empty.
The telephone rings. She grabs the receiver.
“Hi, it’s Dave.”
“Dave! Thank God! Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, I cannot speak to you at the moment, but if you’d like to leave your name, telephone number...”
Josey rips the cable from the wall and throws the phone across the room. It crashes into the photograph of her lost son and cracks the glass.
“What the fuck is going on?” she screams. “Who are you?”
The phone rings. She starts to laugh. After reality, acceptance, hope, despair, there is only hysteria. Josey answers the phone.
“Distant Station calling Earth. Distant Station calling Earth. Have we made contact?”
“Yes, you’ve made contact alright. Who the fuck are you?”
She hears the front door open.
“Josey, are you OK?”
She drops the receiver and runs into the hallway. Dave stands at the door, soaked and dripping onto the mat. Josey feels relief flood over her. She falls into his arms, but as she does, he starts to cry: “I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I should have stopped. I couldn’t take the guilt. I’m so sorry...” His image fades away.
She staggers back to the living room. There is only one thing she can think of to do. Maybe afterwards, it will make some kind of sense. She curls up on the settee and tries to sleep.
She sleeps now. Around her the aliens stand, observing. Reality is displaced. A tiny, frightened voice calls from the telephone.
When she wakes, the madness will have passed. Michael will still be dead and Dave will be there, ready to comfort her. The past and the future will be back in their rightful places.
For now, the rainfall of a different planet hammers at the cocoon.