The Alien walked into a Seattle coffee place. He’d always wanted to say, ‘Hi, how you doin’? My usual … half-caff decaff triple Grande caramel cappuccino with wings …
And of course, the chick’d say, ‘You’re British, right?’
Instead he said, ‘Espresso please.’ Got that and a wedge of Danish, went to check the phone directory.
Bingo.
There she was, under the name Bill had given him. Jotted down the address and bit into the Danish. Too sweet. The sports bag was at his feet and the shape of the bat was barely discernible.
Stella, the Alien’s ex-wife, had snuck a cigarette. In America now they don’t frown on smoking they just out and out shoot you. Her last trip home, unbeknownst to Jack, she’d bought a carton. Rothmans. In all their deadly glory. They’d come with a free T-shirt which shrunk in the wash. Size XL, a few more spins, it would fit a person.
Cracking the cellophane, she opened a fresh pack and lit up with the kitchen matches.
Ah … Dinner was in the oven and she’d have time to use air fresheners before Jack got home, add a splash of Patchouli.
Who’s smoking?
Her mother regularly sent Liptons tea and the South London Press. Jack would say, ‘You English and your tea!’ Loving it, loving she was English and stressed it. When Jack got home she made him a dry martini, very dry and with two olives. It was a ritual. He’d say, ‘Two?’
‘Cos I love you too much.’
Like that.
Then, ‘Something smells good.’
‘It’s your favourite.’
‘Meatloaf?’
‘You betcha.’
When he’d first asked for it, she thought he meant ‘Bat Out Of Hell’. She was still English then. Now she had to work at it. It wasn’t that she ever felt American, but she had the moves.
Then he hugged her and she got a blast of Tommy Hilfiger. For one fleeting moment she remembered Brut and Fenton, but let it slide, not even linger … just keep on moving, like a song you can’t recall.
So that was how it was when Jack got home. After the meatloaf, the doorbell went and Jack moved to answer.
A voice said, ‘Package for Stella.’
As he opened the door, he was still half turned to her, a huge smile making him look boyish. Fenton said, ‘One!’
And slammed the bat into Jack’s stomach.
‘Two!’
Upended it and drove the top against Jack’s chin, the bone splintering into his brain.
‘Chun!’
And he beamed at Stella, asked, ‘Howzat, darlin’?’
She was holding the dinner plates, too frozen to drop them.
Fenton kicked the door shut.
‘Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner …? And blacker than you can begin to imagine.’