Chapter One: 2009

Children aren't stupid. They are right to be frightened, as there is always something to fear.

Trains are an example, mundane, ordinary.

And terrifying if your little.

The cargo train screams. It passes, the ground quaking, carriage after carriage after carriage. It never ends. Dozens of ugly shipping containers sit on its back, grimy and tattooed with graffiti. I just stand there, averting my eyes but secretly enjoying the motion. It's exhilarating. How any ordinary machine can be so powerful? And so long. I shudder when I think of the thousands of miles it must travel before it reaches its destination.

A little child would be upset by the noise and cry. It is the raucous call of a nightmare monster.

Finally the deafening roars die down. Then silence. I am able to see the other people on the opposite platform, and see how they all appear drab and tired. The youths just look angry. I see a boy, probably no older than seventeen. He has olive skin and a large forehead, and he wears a hooded jumper. But when he looks up, the whites of his eyes contrast against wary black pupils. He looks thin and angry. It is the face of a man who wants justice. I rub my arms, wishing I'd brought a sweater.

"You going straight home Eliza?" My Dad asks from next to me. I nod.

"Yeah."

"Not going to see Mom again?"

Why does he still call her that?

His train is squealing towards us.

I look at my Dad. He smiles. He is a wiry specimen, with long arms the color of ebony, and a pair of glasses that make his head look small. He is shorter than I remember.

The train rumbles in, the air chilling as it passes. Once again, exhilaration rises up through the ground.

We embrace. But it feels too stiff, too awkward.

"It was nice to see you." I tell him, and I mean it. Half heartedly.

He smiles again.

"You should really come and stay with us in Chicago." He invites. "You'll really like it; it's just your kind of place. Very lively. And Christine is dying to meet you."

Is it Dad? Does she? I do not voice my doubt, but we both feel it. Time has driven a rift between us as wide and parallel as the rail tracks. Among the passengers that are flowing onto the train, I think I see something move at the end of the platform. Something large. Not a person.

We embrace again, and I want to hold him warmly, more honestly, like I did when I was a kid. Back when I could trust him, and when I was brighter, and the world looked brighter too. More happy.

We part.

"See you soon tiger." He says with a wink.

I nod, tickled by the use of my old nickname. He boards the train, dragging his case. I see a glimpse of shabby interior behind the door. I think I hear him whistling. The doors slide shut, thudding unsympathetically. Then slowly, I watch powerless as the gray and blue wall slides away. I follow it, walking along side as the wheels begin to clatter. Like I did when I was nine. I peek through the darkened windows, seeing the grim faces of the passengers. And the small face of my Dad. He waves, I wave back, coyly. Then he's gone.

I stand, watching as the rear of the train grows smaller and smaller, amidst the spiders web of wires cables and beams that sprawl across the horizon.

Then I see it.

Right at the end of the platform is the Machine.

I stare, not conscious or caring of whether my mouth hangs open or not.

It is large, but only about as tall as an average man. Taller than me anyhow. It is made entirely out of metal. It's black. And it looks a little like a conical tank.

I have no idea what it's for. Or why it is here. Or why it has a sink plunger sticking out of its middle like an arm.

But something tells me that this is definitely a thing to be afraid of.

The people who pass it give it little attention, apart from throwing it curious glances. Some people have taken photos of it.

As I watch now, it is facing the edge of the platform, out towards the north. Its color makes me think of a posh car, like an Audi. Or the kind the Mafia would drive in.

Then it turns. Its domed head first, and then the rest of it. When it faces me, I see a long broad stalk that protrudes like a cannon from its domed head. And at the end glows a circular, icy blue light. It stops. The light pointing in my direction like the headlight of a car. And I feel my skin craw because it appears to stare like an eye. Then it just glides across the platform, a faint mechanical whine emulating from its body. People stare now. It is coming in my direction.

Feeling a shudder, I turn and head for the exit. I hate that thing. It frightens me. It is like a strange artifact, that has some important or murderous purpose that I cannot lay a finger on, but I should be able to. It is the way I would feel if I was staring at some predator.

It is unearthly.

When I was really little, I used to sit on the swing in our back yard and stare at the stars, late in the evenings. I used to wonder how far away they were, and if there was anything living there.

Then I would go and ask my Mom what she thought.

"The stars are just fire." She would say. "They are only there to shine down on Earth. Nothing lives out there Eliza. Only light."

I never liked this explanation. It made everything feel empty. Besides, in science class we were told that the stars were made of burning gasses like the sun. When I told Mom this, she would laugh and say that God set the gas alight in the first place. God was nice. But Mom didn't think about things very scientifically.

I would go and ask Dad instead.

"Well, tell me what you think Eliza?" He would ask me, sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, holding a cigarette and marking essays. I liked this question better. So I told him that I thought space had to have other things living in it because it was so huge, and it would be almost impossible for it to be empty. Oh, the good old days. The luxury of not being afraid. Dad would nod, lips creased earnestly. "Sounds good." he would tell me.

Sometimes when we had these conversations, one of us would look up, or turn around to see Mom standing by the door, her face thunderous. For some reason she didn't like me talking about that kind of thing. When I went out to play, sometimes I'd hear her arguing with Dad.

"Don't encourage her Theodore! Thinking nonsense like that!"

"Come on, give the girl a chance! She has a right to think what she wants."

By now, I'd be back on the swing again, wondering what I'd done wrong. Mom and Dad were fighting more and more these days. On these occasions, Malcolm would sidle up to me, holding his ball under his arm. He would blame me for these fights. He didn't tell me this, but I could see it in his face. Just keep your mouth shut Eliza. Yeah, maybe that would have helped us all a bunch.

So yeah, as a kid I had a lot of issues. Little ones, but issues none the less.

One was my Mom and Dad. I still don't know why I was surprised when they announced the split when I was heading off to join the Police.

One was Susanna Watkins at Ballet class.

Another was the big boys at school.

A later one was Pot.

Oh yeah.

And that black metal tank thing that hung about in Chelsea.

It was something you just saw occasionally, but never really thought about. Not too much. Like a street sweeper, it glided about, only there in the early mornings. Some days I'd be walking home from school, having just said goodbye to Melanie, and there it would be; disappearing down an alleyway. Stopped by a dumpster. One time, I swear I even saw it on the roof of a building, like a security camera. And it would scare me shitless. I didn't even know why. I would ask my family about this too. Malcolm first.

"I think it's some kind of cleaning machine." He would shrug, arranging his action figures along his shelf. Obviously he had seen it too, so he knew what I was talking about. "I guess it unblocks toilets or something, 'cos it has that plunger thingy on it."

Naturally I was disgusted.

"It glows blue though." I'd inform him. "On the telescope bit on top of its head."

Malcolm would shrug again. He did that a lot. Grunted too. My parents always told him how smart he was because of his grades, but I didn't see much of that. "Maybe it has a camera in there and that's how it sees what it's doing."

I'd pick up Optimus Prime with a snigger, turning the little plastic model in my hand.

"Maybe it's really a killer robot an' it's out there to kill us all!"

"Oh, yeah, sure! HELP!" Malcolm, without warning he would flip round and clamp his grubby hand over my face, I would scream and push him. He had cooties. "The evil plunger robot of shitty bathrooms has come to terminate us! Arrrrrgh!" Then he'd start chasing me round his room, wearing his trash can on his head, and I'd nearly die from the combination of giggling too much and nearly tripping on the hazardous amount of stuff that adorned the floor. "We're all gonna die! It'll get stuck to people's faces and never come off!"

Then we'd laugh until our sides ripped open, then go to dinner, even though it was never that funny.

In hindsight the conversation seemed a little ironic

The thought stuck with me though. The machine kind of reminded me of something out of a sci fi movie. Star Wars. Oh yeah. I wouldn't call myself a nerd, but how can anyone not love those films? Even if there is only one female character.

I liked Malcolm's theory that it was a robot. It made sense. And even more exciting, as it was so weird...it was probably from outer space. Which would mean Mum was wrong.

And more importantly mean that there were things out there. And then, at long last, all my prayers were answered.

My life could turn exciting. And I would be having an adventure.

Back in the blissful days when the word "Dalek" had never invaded my vocabulary.