Текст книги "The Black Pathway"
Автор книги: Mark C. Sutton
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Copyright © 2015 by Mark C Sutton
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
‘The Black Pathway’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First published 2015.
Cover photo: Mark C Sutton
Cover model: CJ Charles as Howard Trenton
Cover Design: Zeelund
This book is dedicated to Charlie-Joe. For making my world such a brighter place.
The Black Pathway
Prelude
A young man, who was almost nineteen years of age, stood on a large slab of black rock at a location known locally as Wildbridge Hill, looking out at the view before him. He had a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, hiding his nose and mouth. The youth had medium-length, dirty blonde hair, and cold, pale blue eyes, that were almost oriental in shape. Indeed, it was an occasionally whispered rumour, amongst the residents of Coldsleet, that the young man’s father had been of oriental extract, but this wasn’t correct. The young man was of average height, five foot eight tall, and had a skinny frame. He wore a long, thick, grey overcoat over an unfashionable jumper and jeans, together with sturdy hiking boots. In one of his coat pockets was a knife. The young man, whose name was Howard Trenton, took the weapon from his pocket and examined the blade for a few moments, before putting it back into his coat. He smiled softly, gazing back towards the moors and the mountains that lay not too far away. Above the landscape before him, the morning winter sky was crisp and blue.
“It’s gonna be another cold one.” Howard said to himself. He stepped off the blackened chunk of rock and onto some grass that crunched under his feet. He looked down at the grass, which was covered in a layer of white frost. “Yep… it’s gonna be another cold one.” He repeated.
Howard Trenton walked across the top of Wilbridge Hill, past an old and broken wooden bench, and towards the edge of the summit. When he arrived there, Howard looked downwards, to his hometown of Coldsleet that was spread out before him. Beyond Coldsleet was the Irish Sea.
“Wouldn’t want to be out there today.” Said Howard, before turning away from the edge of the hill, and strolling back towards the bench. This is where they found you, lying just by this bench here. Or, at least, that’s where you told me they found you. Sometimes… sometimes I’m not sure if you ever really told me the truth about anything. Maybe it felt like the truth to you, as if it all really happened, but perhaps it never really did. I know that you weren’t well… capable of imagining all sorts of nonsense… so, does that make you a liar? I guess not. Not if you really believed it, pondered Howard. He ground the sole of one of his walking boots slowly along the grass, leaving a dark line across the frosty surface of the floor. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you imagined what happened up here at all. If it was all in your head, then why am I the way that I am? No, you were troubled, mom, you were really fucking troubled, but that night, up here on Wildbridge Hill… it happened. I’m a testament to that, surely?
***
1997
The young woman was carried, on a stretcher, from off Wildbridge Hill by two paramedics, with a third person – a policeman – steadying and assisting them as they negotiated their way down the badly worn stone steps that led back to the main Coldsleet to Elman road. As the paramedics and their patient disappeared from view, two more police officers remained on the summit of the hill, standing close to a wooden bench where the woman had been found just half an hour earlier, by an elderly man who had been taking his dog for some early-morning exercise. One of the police officers, a thirty four year old woman called Diana Marsh, looked over towards the stone steps, wearing a sad expression on her face.
“I know that girl. Her name’s Loretta Trenton. She’s a regular.” Said Diana. Her colleague, a burly, tall, dark-haired newcomer to Coldsleet constabulary called Peter Taylor, looked at Diana, slightly puzzled by her comment.
“What do you mean, a ‘regular’?” He asked. Diana Marsh smiled.
“Loretta gets herself into a lot of… how do I put this nicely… awkward situations around the town. She’s not a well woman.” Diana advised.
“Why? What’s wrong with her?” Peter Taylor was curious to know.
“Mental issues, I’m afraid. Loretta is a diagnosed scizophrenic. She spends a lot of time down at Hingley-Edge… there’s a psychiatric hospital there.” Diana informed her colleague.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of that place.” Peter replied. “One of my relatives, on dad’s side of the family, he ended up there, back in the nineteen seventies. He had a nervous breakdown… tried to top himself… then ended up getting sectioned. He was in Hingley-Edge for a couple of years, from what my father told me.” Said Peter. “I remember dad telling me that it wasn’t a very nice place.” He added.
“No, it isn’t.” Confirmed Diana Marsh. She gave Peter another smile, then took in a deep breath of the early morning air.
Diana Marsh looked down the hill, back towards the town of Coldsleet; her home and birthplace.
“So, what do you think actually happened to Loretta up here?” Wondered Peter. Diana shrugged her shoulders.
“I’m not sure… she looked as if she’d spent the night in a refrigerator. I could actually see ice in her hair. It’s as if it were freezing up here last night… except it couldn’t have been.” Diana pointed out.
“No… it certainly couldn’t.” Agreed Peter Taylor. “Me and Vicky had to throw the bedroom windows open last night, it was so hot and humid… just like it’s been for the past fortnight.” He said. Diana nodded.
“I fell asleep with an electric fan on… woke up at half two this morning, turned the thing off… except I was too hot and couldn’t get back to sleep, so on went the fan again. I reckon last night was one of the hottest so far this summer.” Suggested Diana Marsh.
“Yeah, it probably was.” Replied Peter.
“So, that being the case… why did Loretta Trenton appear to be half-frozen to death?” Diana asked. It was an interesting question.
***
Loretta Trenton stared up at the roof of the ambulance, then turned her head to the left. A kind-faced, plump lady was smiling at her, and holding Loretta’s hand.
“We’re nearly at the hospital now, love. How are you feeling?” Asked the woman.
“Like I’m coming out of deep-freeze… I feel like a defrosting turkey on Christmas Eve!” Loretta managed to joke. The plump lady smiled.
“Well, you certainly haven’t lost your sense of humour.” She said.
“No. Just my innocence.” Loretta snapped, with a sudden anger in her voice. There was a silence for a few moments, and then the female paramedic softly squeezed Loretta’s hand.
“My love, do you remember what happened up on the hill? How you came to be frozen like that?” She asked, with curiosity.
“I was attacked.” Loretta Trenton replied, calmly. “I was attacked, and I was raped.” She elaborated. Loretta half-smiled at the paramedic, and then turned away from the woman, staring back up towards the ambulance roof. For just a few short seconds, Loretta’s large blue eyes turned a dirty-yellow in colour.
Chapter One
It's hard to believe now, but Coldsleet was, back in the earlier part of last century, a thriving holiday destination; a seaside town where people from as far afield as Ruthley, to the north, or Salegate, to the east, would flock to, especially during bank holiday weekends. Of course, back then, in the years between the Great and Second World Wars, Coldsleet was served with a railway line, making it an easy to reach destination. Many of the local residents blamed the closure of that line, in nineteen sixty three, as the beginning of the end for Coldsleet. But it wasn’t just a rail-line closure that represented the origin of Coldsleet’s slow and steady ruination, for at the same time, people began to holiday for longer durations, the likes of which Coldsleet could not really cater for, and in addition, holidaymakers were finding it easier to access foreign climes. Truth be known, they were already turning their collective noses up at the town of Coldsleet (and others of its ilk, dotted around the British coast) long before the local railway line was closed for good.
One type of visitor that did remain consistent in visiting Coldsleet, despite the seaside town’s slow decay, was the enthusiastic hiker; the location of Coldsleet had, for many years, been the starting point (or finishing destination, depending on which direction you were heading), for the 'Black Pathway Trail', a thirty mile walk that had had a lasting and enduring popularity with walkers. The pathway began in Coldsleet, starting in the car-park next to Saint Bernadette's church, just off the steep and winding Leeton Lane, which served as one of three main road routes out of the town. In the corner of the car-park was an old wooden signpost, just to the right of a rusted and squeaky kissing gate, with the following words carved into it, accompanied by an arrow:
Coldsleet Moor – 5 M
Knighton – 8 M
Knighton Mountain – 14 M
Hoffen – 19 M
Hoffen Mountain – 23 M
Salegate – 30 M
Once through the kissing gate, the Black Pathway Trail began to climb gradually, leaving behind the town of Coldsleet, and gently winding its way first alongside Sleet River, and then, a mile further on, across it, via an old, humped, stone bridge that had straddled the water beneath it for more than two hundred years. Once over the bridge, the Black Pathway twisted sharply to the right, veering dramatically away from the River. There then followed a lengthy hike through flatlands, the likes of which that could, in bad weather, become hazardous, trapping and stubbornly retaining any heavy rain falling upon them, and turning the whole area into a swamped, muddy quagmire. Following its journey across the flatlands, the Black Pathway began to twist upwards once more until, finally, it reached the dark and threatening slopes of Coldsleet Moor.
After snaking over the northern edges of Coldsleet Moor, the Black Pathway would gently descend for a mile, and then skirt around the small, welcoming, market-town of Knighton. Knighton was the usual place for most hikers to end their first day of trekking along the pathway, and offered several guest houses in which walkers could rest themselves for the evening. Knighton was, very often, a finishing point for many who were interested only in partially walking the Black Pathway; the rest of the trail was significantly harsher, taking in two separate mountain ascents, which were certainly not suitable for the more casual rambler, or indeed those that found themselves pressed for time, and without the luxury of two more spare days in which to complete the hike fully.
Once out of Knighton, the Black Pathway continued a steady descent through pleasant fields and meadows, gradually edging towards Skerrington Forest. The forest, named after the wealthy, and much-loathed eighteenth century landowner, Lord Edward Stephen Skerrington, seemed to mirror the soul of the black-hearted man that had bestowed his name upon it. Skerrington had been an individual that, owing to his position of power, believed himself to be above the law. However, the Lord had been wrong in this foolish assumption. Lord Edward Skerrington had ended his days exposed as both a fraudster and murderer, and paid the ultimate price for his crimes at the old gallows that lay within the confines of nearby Salegate Prison. Skerrington Forest was dark and grim, and offered the rambler little in the way of scenery to enjoy. Here, the Black Pathway could be notoriously difficult to follow, especially as it criss-crossed several other nature trails that were exclusive to the forest. Many a less-experienced navigator had taken the wrong turning, which usually led to that unfortunate individual finding themselves, at some point, back at the Skerrington Forest Nature Centre, which was in the complete opposite direction to where they were meant to be going. Other unfortunate souls ended up accidentally heading first south, and then west, emerging back onto Coldsleet Moor, except now without the benefit of the Black Pathway for navigation.
Eventually, the Black Pathway left behind Skerrington Forest, and began to climb steeply as it traversed the western slopes of Knighton Mountain. The ascent was usually a straight-forward affair; any difficulties in negotiating Knighton Mountain usually occurred after reaching its summit. Once at the top of the peak, the Black Pathway not only descended and narrowed harshly, but also ran uncomfortably close, for half a mile or so, along the edge of a rocky ridge that was known locally as ‘The Fool's Gauntlet'. Over the years, many walkers had accidentally stumbled or fallen off the ridge, usually when attempting the descent of Knighton Mountain in foggy or slippery conditions. Such a plunge usually meant certain death, as most of the ridge hung more than five hundred feet above a lonely, boulder-strewn valley below, that bore more than a passing resemblance to a distant lunar moonscape.
Despite its dangers, the descent from Knighton Mountain into the town of Hoffen was an extremely picturesque one; to the south of the Black Pathway, and near to the base of the mountain, ran Sleet River. To the north, lay the peak of Hoffen Mountain. Beyond that, the hostile, and generally inaccessible slope of Gerrett mountain could be seen. The Black Pathway trail wound its way gently down the eastern slopes of Knighton, edging ever closer to Hoffen, which would finally come into view following a short hike through a small, but densely-packed, mountainside forest known locally as ‘The Friery’. After another two or so hours, the town was reached. Most individuals walking the entirety of the Black Pathway trail would spend a second night bedded down in Hoffen, though this wasn't always the case; there were a small number of extremely hardy, and highly experienced ramblers, who had completed the walk along the Black Pathway in a day, though these were extremely few and far between. Our story begins with a young man who, upon stumbling into the town of Hoffen, decided that he couldn't go on anymore; his name was Alex James Crennell, and he most certainly wasn't either an experienced, or hardy, rambler at all.
Alex, a spikey blonde-haired, brown-eyed youth of nineteen years, together with his friend, Gary Ackley, a twenty two year old who had gained some notoriety in his hometown of Coldsleet, simply for sporting a long, blue mohican haircut, argued as they finally came off Knighton mountain, and onto the streets of Hoffen.
“That’s it, man, I’m fucking done with this shit. I’m not spending another day on that sodding trail.” Cursed Alex, his whole face flushed, and soaked in sweat. “Two days… two days of hell. Well, no more, I’ve had enough. I never want to see another fucking mountain in my life.”
“Oh come on, man, don’t be a wuss. We’ve gotta finish it now. We’ve only got one more day of hiking left to do.” Replied Gary.
“Yeah? Well you can go ahead and finish the walk on your own, but me, I’m catching the next bus back to Coldsleet. Oh, and don’t call me a wuss again either, you silly, blue-haired twat.” Growled Alex, his patience at breaking point.
“Just chill a bit, Alex, take it easy. Look, how about we just crash in Hoffen for the night, like we’d planned… you know, have a few beers, get some decent grub, enjoy a good kip, then maybe you’ll feel better about everything in the morning?” Suggested Gary, who had been looking forward to climbing Hoffen mountain the next day.
“I told you, I’m not walking another inch of the Black Pathway. I’m fucking done with it, do you hear me? Done with it.” Snapped Alex. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them. Alex rubbed at them, which only made things worse. “FUCKING SWEAT!” He screamed. “I can’t stop fucking sweating.” Alex went on.
“Calm down, Alex, just cool it.” Said Gary. In a fit of temper, Alex Crennell took off the backpack that he had been carrying over his shoulder, and swung it at his friend’s head. Fortunately for Gary, the backpack missed its target.
“STOP telling me to calm down. How the fuck can I? Look at the fucking state of me! I’ve got sweat pissing out of every pore on my body, my frigging feet are covered in blisters, everything… EVERYTHING aches. Screw the Black Pathway Trail, and bollocks to stopping overnight in this shit-hole of a town. Like I said, I’m catching the next bus out of here.” Alex stormed.
Gary Ackley held his hands out, trying to placate Alex Crennell.
“Okay, Alex, okay. I get the message. Let’s just find the bus stop, and you can go home.” Said Gary, giving up on persuading his friend to try and finish the Black Pathway Trail. Alex took a long breath.
“Thank you, Gareth, for finally making a suggestion that makes some sort of fucking sense.” He said.
“Don’t call me ‘Gareth’, Alex. My name’s Gary, and you know it.” Replied the blue-haired punk, with moderate hostility.
“Bollocks, mate. If I want to call you Gareth, then I will.” Said Alex, in defiance of his friend. “Right, now where’s the fucking bus-stop around here?” He asked. Alex glanced further down the street that they found themselves walking along; all he could see were residential properties and parked cars.
“The terminus is on the edge of town, opposite a pub called ‘The Knighton Arms’.” Answered Gary.
“Right, and where’s that?” Alex wanted to know.
“I can’t remember. It’s been ages since I last came to this place.” Replied Gary.
“Oh, for fucks sake… look, just try and remember, okay?” Suggested Alex Crennell.
“I can’t.” Gary responded. “We’ll just have to ask somebody for directions.”
“Who? Who are we going to ask? There’s nobody a-fucking-bout.” Alex moaned.
“Shut up, Alex, yeah? Just stop the fucking whining, man. Look, I promise, we’ll find someone, okay?” Gary said, trying to placate his friend. “Come on, we’ll just carry on heading in this direction. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll go and knock on somebody’s door and ask for directions to the bus-stop.” He continued. Alex shrugged, then threw the backpack over his shoulder. “You’ll be back home before sunset.” Assured Gary. Alex didn’t reply.
Eventually, the hapless duo located the bus-stop.
“Thank fuck for that. The last thing that I wanted was to be stuck in the middle of nowhere for the night.” Said Alex, with relief. Gary laughed at this.
“Hoffen isn’t in the middle of nowhere. You make it sound like the back of beyond. It’s not a bad place at all, especially on a night out. There’s some decent pubs and stuff in this neck of the woods. If I remember right, the girls aren’t bad here either. You’re always putting down things that you know fuck all about.” Criticised Gary.
“Nice pubs? What, like that one, just over the road there?” Alex asked, in a sarcastic voice. He gestured towards ‘The Knighton Arms’ public house, which was boarded up, and covered in graffiti.
“That’s just one pub, Alex, and you know it.” Argued Gary.
“Yeah, and doesn’t it look just lovely? What say we go in there, get a nice pint? Oh, I forgot, we can’t, because it’s fucking dilapidated, and closed. Jesus Christ.” Alex whined on. Something caught his attention, further on up the road; a bus was approaching. As it drew closer, he saw the name ‘Coldsleet’ displayed on the front of the bus. “Finally… I’m looking forward to getting out of this dive.” Said Alex who, mentally, was already back home in Coldsleet, loitering around the bar at ‘The Stagecoach’ pub.
Gary Ackley looked awkwardly at his friend.
“So, I’ll see you in a few days then?” He asked, wincing a little in anticipation of Alex’s response.
“What are you talking about?” Alex snapped.
“I told you, Alex. I ain’t coming back to Coldsleet. Not tonight. I’m gonna spend the evening here, and then finish the Black Pathway Trail tomorrow.” Gary informed him.
“I thought that friends were supposed to stick together.” Remarked Alex.
“Stop being such a stupid, childish cunt, Alex.” Replied Gary, and before Alex had the chance to say anything back in response to his friend’s slur, the bus pulled up to the stop. “I’ll see you in a few days… now go home, and get some rest.” Said Gary. Alex grunted, and then boarded the bus. Treacherous little arse-hole, Alex thought, as he boarded the vehicle. Wimpy, whining, poncey blonde-haired snot-rag, reflected Gary, as he watched the bus pull away with Alex on it, it’ll be nice to finish off the walk without that prat whinging and moaning all of the way to the finish… thank fuck he’s going home. Gary walked away from the bus-stop, and headed, with confidence, towards the guest house where he planned to spend the night. Gary Ackley knew his way around the town of Hoffen just fine; he’d only pretended that he didn't just to piss off his annoying friend.
***
Howard Trenton looked out of the corner of his eye at Lauren Derby and Sally Wood, who were sat next to him in the lecture hall. They’re definitely laughing at me about something or other, thought Howard. He turned to Lauren, a pretty girl with long, tied-back blonde hair, and soft, mischievous green eyes.
"What's so funny?" Asked Howard, in his strange, droning voice. Lauren giggled, and turned to her friend, Sally. Howard didn't like this. He nudged Lauren's arm with his bony elbow. She turned back to him, with more than a hint of anger in her eyes.
"Do you mind not doing that, Howard?" She responded. Howard offered no apology.
"I said, what's so funny? Tell me." Repeated Howard, his face cold and emotionless. “The pair of you are taking the piss out of me, aren’t you?” He suggested. Despite being angry at Howard for his nudging her, Lauren couldn't help but burst out laughing. Several other students in the lecture hall craned their necks in order to see what all of the sudden fuss was about.
Before Lauren Derby could answer Howard's question, her friend Sally, who was also giggling, chipped-in.
"It's your face, Howard. There's blue ink all over it." She advised him.
"No there isn't." Replied Howard.
"There is, Howard. There's ink all over your lips and chin." Said Lauren, before laughing again. Howard looked down at the biro he had been chewing on earlier, and which was now sitting on the desk in front of him; there was a small puddle of ink next to the nib, which possibly corroborated Lauren and Sally’s statements. Howard rubbed his fingers across his lower face. He looked at his fingertips, which were now smeared blue.
"Damn. I need to go and wash my face." Said Howard, standing up. He began to walk towards the lecture hall door, to the merriment of his fellow students. Just as he reached the exit, Howard's tutor, Mister Rossiter, entered the hall, almost crashing into the small, wiry teenager.
"And where do you think you're going?" Asked the tutor, a tall, elderly man with unfashionably long grey hair, and a pronounced stoop.
"To the washroom, Mister Rossiter. I've got ink on my face." Advised Howard, which warranted a long, hard stare from his tutor.
"So you have." Mister Rossiter confirmed, smirking a little at his student. "Go on then, hurry, go and wash it off." He went on, waving towards the door. Howard nodded, and left the lecture hall, angered by the jeering from the other students as he made his departure.
Howard Trenton stared at his reflection in the washroom mirror. His face was now clean from the ink that had caused such feelings of joy in Lauren Derby and Sally Wood. Howard was eighteen years of age, and just about to turn nineteen, but the sombre, deadpan expression that he often wore, especially when around those who were unfamiliar to him, made the young adult look much older. Smiling wasn't really in Howard's nature; it never had been. He didn't do ‘fun’ very much. This was not to say that Howard was depressive, or negative in his outlook. Far from it. Howard liked to think of himself as an optimist, and he was reasonably happy with his lot in life. Granted, he did feel a bit directionless at times, but Howard was aware that many others of his age shared that same sense of drifting around a vast, deep ocean in a boat without a rudder.
Although many of those who had encountered Howard over the years considered him somewhat strange, distant, perhaps even possessing an air of arrogance, pretty much all of them agreed that he was, if nothing else, reliable and dependable. There were others, a handful of people, who got to know Howard Trenton well, and who discovered another side to him. These people, who were, admittedly, few and far between, found a surprisingly caring, sensitive, and affable individual underneath Howard’s outwardly distant and impassive exterior. Unlike some other young men living in Coldsleet who were also considered to be ‘a bit odd’, Howard Trenton had never been short of female admirers. Sometimes Howard was aware of such adoration, and it excited him. On other occasions, he was completely indifferent to it. On yet other occasions, Howard was capable of becoming completely fixated with a member of the opposite sex. Most of the time, that fixation would fizzle out, usually due to Howard’s attentions being diverted elsewhere. But not always…
Howard continued to gaze at himself in the washroom mirror. Then he did a strange thing. The young man reached out with his hand, towards his reflection. Howard traced the shape of his reflected face with a finger, whilst wearing a fixed, blank expression. He pulled his finger away from the mirror, and tilted his head slightly to one side, in curiosity.
"What are you?" He asked, speaking to the reflection. “Just what are you, Howard Trenton?” He repeated. “Because sometimes, I think that I know the answer but then… on days like this… I really haven’t got a clue.” There was no reply from the reflection. Or from himself, come to that. He had no answer. Howard stared at himself in the mirror for a few more moments, then he shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the washroom, his question unanswered, back towards the lecture hall and the delights of Mister Rossiter’s science lesson.
Mister Rossiter had a question for his students.
“Has there ever been any direct evidence that suggests life exists outside of our Earth?” He wanted to know. Leroy Swinton, one of the more knowledgable students in the classroom, put his hand in the air. “Yes, Leroy?”
“There has, sir.” Advised Leroy.
“Really, Leroy? Really?” Asked Mister Rossiter, somewhat incredulous at Leroy’s answer. “Then perhaps you’d like to enlighten the rest of the class?” He suggested. Leroy nodded.
“Certainly sir. There was a Martian meteorite…”
“Ah, you mean ALH84001.” Interrupted the tutor.
“Yes, that was the one. They, erm…” said Leroy, stumbling slightly with his words.
“Go on, go on.” Urged Mister Rossiter.
“They erm, found fossilised life…” before Leroy could say any more, Mister Rossiter put his hand up in the air, gesturing for the student to stop talking.
“They did NOT find fossilised life, Leroy. What was discovered in ALH84001 was microscopic chain structures that some suggested could be fossilised forms of bacteria. The case has not been proven either way, and therefore, Leroy, you are wrong to suggest that this is direct evidence of life existing outside of our Earth.” Advised the lecturer.
“Yes sir, but…”
“No ‘buts’, Leroy. ALH84001 is not definitive proof of extraterrestrial life.” Said Mister Rossiter, cutting his student short.
Sally Wood had her hand in the air.
“Yes, Sally?” Asked Mister Rossiter.
“There was a signal, sir… a radio signal, received from space. They called it the ‘wow signal’, because…”
“Stop right there, Sally. Stop right there.” Said the lecturer. He looked around at the rest of the class. “Now, has anybody else heard of this so-called ‘wow signal’?” He wanted to know. Half of the students in the hall put their hands up. “And would any of you care to tell me why the signal is NOT direct evidence of extraterrestrial life?” Asked the tutor.
“Because it could have come from Earth.” Replied a buck-toothed student called Joe Lake.
“Or it may have been a signal originating from a natural source… maybe a pulsar?” Suggested another student, Diane Morrow, who had a striking mane of bright ginger hair. Mister Rossiter smiled.
“Exactly. There are other possible explanations concerning the ‘wow signal’ that would suggest that it didn’t emanate from little green men with a big radio transm…”
“Don’t use that term.” Shouted an angry voice from the corner of the lecture hall. “I hate it when people use that term.” Everybody turned around and looked at the protester; it was Howard Trenton.
Mister Rossiter walked over to where Howard Trenton was sitting.
“What seems to be the problem, Howard?” He asked, noticing that the young student was trembling slightly with agitation.
“It’s your use of that phrase, sir… ‘little green men’… I find it… offensive.” Replied Howard.
“Oh, and may I ask why?” The tutor wanted to know. Howard let out a long sigh before replying.
“Because it’s the same old crap, sir. The same old crap. Every time I watch a news article about the possibility of extraterrestrial life, which is something that I find really interesting, they end up mentioning those three little words… ‘little green men’… usually to a back-drop of the sodding ‘X-Files’ theme tune, or some cheap and crappy variation of it… it makes the whole subject look silly and trivial, when it’s not. It annoys me, sir. It really bloody annoys me.” Howard informed Mister Rossiter.
