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Purkiss and Walbeck waiting for us. Walbeck was jumping up and down on the pavement and grinning. As we got closer, he pointed a finger at the sky and shook his head violently. Purkiss laughed.
    Purkiss is small with a shock of black hair and the beginnings of a hump. Walbeck is huge but lost. They both wear anoraks. Walbeck is deaf and dumb. But he is fantastically talkative. I’ve worn out many an envelope in conversation with Walbeck.
    As usual, Mr Marr just nodded to them as we passed and they fell in behind us. He lets them come along, but they’re not top-quality ufologists. They’re apparently very unscientific in their attitude to the beings who are hurtling through space-time towards Wimbledon Common. I often worry whether the four of us are
enough
. You know? What will it be like when they spin down out of the upper atmosphere and cop a load of me, Mr Marr, Purkiss and Walbeck? Will they be impressed?
    ‘You’re a dark horse, Simon,’ Mr Marr said as we climbed the hill towards the Common. It was dark now, but still warm. We were moving past bigger houses than ours. Houses that seemed to put out their secrets for all to see, but were, nonetheless, more mysterious than the cramped terraces of Stranraer Gardens. ‘You never say what’s on your mind.’
    ‘Do you reckon?’ I said.
    He looked at me sideways.
    ‘But you’re on the right side, anyway!’
    Mr Marr reckons that we as a society are not doing enough about the extraterrestrials. When you think of all the money that is put into medical research and the English National Opera – why can’t we put aside a few quid to welcome the boys in the saucers. You know? I mean, what are they going to think?
    He’s particularly keen on what he calls ‘instrumentation’. I think this comes from being an engineer. He has instruments for listening to them, instruments for picking up their lights, instruments for talking to them and an amazing variety of gadgets for making the long night watches easier. Things to rest your head against, things to put your feet on, little chairs to make sure you are pointing towards the night sky at the right angle and little trays that enable you to have your dinner and keep your eyes on the Crab Nebula at the same time. We all miss a lot of stuff, Mr Marr says. We wander around looking at the ground – and up there, there’s a party going on!
    His wife died ten years ago. She was apparently the most beautiful woman you could ever wish to look at. Her name was Mabel. I’ve seen her photograph, and it obviously doesn’t do her justice. She has just the one head, but she definitely has an alien look about her. She was a terrific cook though, Mr Marr says.
    ‘Well . . .’ he said. ‘Anything happen today?’
    ‘My dad died!’
    He was the first person I had had to tell. For some reason it made me feel tremendously important. It didn’t seem a difficult thing to say. It was the sort of thing real men said to each other. I was so concerned with actually saying it, rather than thinking what it meant, that it came out wrong. I wanted to sound serious but unweepy. Instead, I sounded positively chirpy about the whole business.
    Mr Marr stopped. ‘Oh, Simon!’ he said. ‘Oh
Simon
!’
    He’s from the North, is Mr Marr. He has this funny voice and this great big tuft of ginger hair that sticks up in surprise from his head. He’s really nice.
    ‘Should you be out tonight?’
    ‘It’s OK, Mr Marr. Honestly.’
    Purkiss looked at Walbeck. He pointed at me. Then he raised his hands above his head. Then he pointed at the ground and made what looked like shovelling movements. They could have been something different, of course. It’s always hard to tell with Purkiss.
    Walbeck was looking at him, as usual, in total puzzlement. I don’t think he and Purkiss really communicate. They resent being so much together, I think – which, from both their points of view, is an entirely understandable reaction.
    Mr Marr took over. He set