Chapter 1. The UFO Crash
“What we call coincidences are merely patterns we are unable to decode.”
— Chuck Palahniuk
June 13, 2016. Friday
Coincidences are not accidental...
One coincidence pulls another in its wake, which pulls a third, and so on, until the consequences of the first reach their apex and set a new chain in motion. But here is the incredible thing: the events they spawn are arranged so flawlessly, so interdependently—like links in a food chain or the systems of a living organism—that they simply cannot exist without one another.
The simplest example is the Big Bang. Almost fourteen billion years ago, entirely by chance, in a void with no matter, an infinitely small point of concentrated energy burst outward—and the Universe expanded, giving rise to clusters of galaxies, nebulae, stars, and planets. And all of it arranged itself so that a blue-green planet appeared — home to wondrous creatures, and eventually, people.
Coincidences are the design of a brilliant mind, part of the Grand Plan. And even if you are an atheist, an agnostic, or an ordinary sceptic who prefers the telly to science and religion—when it happens, you won’t be able to deny the unknown exists. Because in that very moment, our infinite Universe will become impossibly small and cramped, exactly like a birdcage or an aquarium.
The story I want to tell has already happened… or will happen in the future. Or perhaps it is happening right now? Who knows? The chief principle of coincidences is that they simply happen. Such is their nature.
You may consider this the absurd invention of a science-fiction fanatic. But I assure you: everything told in this book is no less real than the telly remote. Because in a Universe such as this, stories are never truly made up.
Coincidences are not accidental, Gabrielle Fennis reminded herself. She sat behind the wheel of her brand-new silver Volkswagen, staring at the nearly empty road ahead with the determination of a Formula 1 driver on the final straight.
Coincidences are not accidental, she repeated—and accidentally knocked over the instant coffee she’d bought at some random roadside café. Her thoughts echoed in her head like an alarm bell. Hazy smudges flickered before her eyes. A tremor shook her chest—the kind that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Guess that’s what they call anxiety, she figured.
It was June. A sunny, warm June, spoiled by grey rags of cloud stretched lazily across a sky that had been blue only a couple of hours earlier over Britain. Thin, reluctant drops began to fall, splattering against the freshly polished windscreen.
Gabrielle flinched and blinked hard, as if trying to shake off a bad dream. The GMC (the Great Morning Coincidence) had happened to her, taking possession of all her senses. Eyes glued to the road, she spun the radio dial.
The stations darted like frightened birds.
“…repeat, sighted over Willowbrook… [static] …this is not a drill, I saw it myself, it was… [static] …”
“…planet, aliens, invasion,” one presenter droned monotonously, as if reading out a shopping list. “…spaceship…”
“…at five in the morning there was a glow over the forest, and my dogs, my dogs, sir! Have you ever heard dogs howl like that all night?.. [static] …”
“…officials are not commenting at this time… [static] …we urge you to remain calm… [static] …do not approach the crash site… [static] …”
In that hum, through the static and the fragments, the same words kept surfacing: “planet,” “aliens,” “invasion,” “spaceship.” Every caller launched into the same incoherent rant.
“This is no coincidence!”
Gabrielle froze; goosebumps crawled down her spine like a dozen tiny spiders.
“It’s an invasion! I saw them, at dawn today,” a frightened male voice lamented, breathless. “Spaceships don’t just land on Earth! They’re going to take over the world! Can you hear me? Can you even hear me?!”
“Mr Burnett,” the presenter responded amiably, in a soothing, almost lulling tone, “you, like many witnesses to the UFO crash over Willowbrook, claim you saw a flying saucer fall. But is that so? We cannot rule out that we are dealing with space debris or a large meteor burning up in the atmosphere. It could have been an Earth satellite that fell out of orbit. Dashcams, unfortunately, don’t have the image quality we need. We would also like to remind you that the police helpline…”
“Fall? Ha! Like hell it was a ‘fall’! It was BRAKING! Do you understand—BRAKING!.. [static] …”
Click. Gabrielle switched off the radio.
A UFO? she thought, staring at the even, sun-baked trunks of the pines. What does a UFO have to do with it? It has nothing to do with my problem!
She groaned and drummed on the steering wheel like a child disappointed in a Christmas present.
The silver Volkswagen tore through Willowbrook. And over the forest canopy, cutting through the thick, lazy clouds, a silver spaceship plummeted as well.
The streamlined ship, resembling a flying saucer—the classic flying-saucer shape—glowed with emergency lights.
The UFO flew right over Gabrielle’s car and, cutting a grim arc across the sky, crashed into the thick green canopy.
But Gabrielle didn’t notice: just as she was about to turn the radio off, her mobile buzzed and sputtered, apparently drenched in the same instant coffee from the roadside café. That drew all her attention—and every curse word she’d learned over twenty-six years of navigating the complicated world of social interaction.
“Yes, I’m listening!” she snapped, awkwardly wiping the phone on her jeans.
“Gabby, Gabby! You’ll never guess what I just found out!” Aunt May tutted and shook her head on the other end of the line. “Michael was just on the phone crying to me that you, allegedly, called off the engagement for no reason at all! And a week before the wedding! I’m so upset! The money we poured into the dress—heaven forbid!”
Gabrielle was silent. She didn’t grind her teeth or roll her eyes like she usually did with Aunt May. Voicing protest in her company was as useless as trying to cut running water with scissors—and today, she didn’t even have the energy for the usual dance. And this restraint wasn’t a sign she’d matured, but the same GMC problem, turning her usual sense of reality upside down.
The truth was, Gabrielle had woken that day very early in the morning—or very late at night, depending on how you looked at it. She had suddenly felt that something was thoroughly wrong: wrong body and soul, as if a bad premonition were welling up. She was nauseous, her heart had dropped somewhere into her stomach, her thoughts all tangled up. She woke up in a cold sweat—and that was when the strangeness began.
The first strange thing happened when she crawled to the bathroom and looked into the round mirror in its tarnished copper frame, which Aunt May had once given her with the comment: “The bloke in the shop told me that if you look into it long enough, you’ll see your future husband.”
In that same second, Gabrielle was bewildered: her long honey-red hair had suddenly turned short and tousled, as if she’d stuck her head in a lawnmower. A few desperate sprays of hairspray did nothing but leave a greasy sheen and that suffocating chemical smell.
As her hands frantically felt her head, she found something else, just as frightening. On Gabrielle’s ring finger — Gabrielle, who had always regarded marriage with scepticism and even a little contempt — there suddenly glittered a perfect white gold ring with a beautifully set diamond.
Gabrielle flung the ring into the sink in horror and recoiled as though she had just seen her worst nightmare.
For several long minutes she pondered in silence, hoping to catch the slightest thread of logic that might explain it all. But the thread, alas, had snapped that night.
Gabrielle pulled on ripped jeans and a black T-shirt with a grim print and the caption “WE’RE ALL HEADED FOR HELL,” which always made her aunt’s smile twist into a strange expression. Over it she threw an oversized checked shirt, shoved her feet into red trainers, and slipped out of the house—never having discovered the greatest strangeness of that morning: the miraculous resurrection of Aunt May, who had been buried just yesterday.
“Auntie…” Gabrielle cut off her chatter, bewildered.
“Well, are you going to explain yourself?” the other insisted.
“Auntie!”
“Well, what is it?!”
“It is you, Auntie, isn’t it?” Gabrielle clarified, just to be on the safe side, though she was a hundred percent sure this was the same Aunt May who ought right now to be sitting on a cloud rather than going on about someone else’s personal life over the phone.
“Of course it’s me! What a silly question!”
“Um…” Gabrielle swallowed. “May I ask a private question?”
“If it’s about Howard, it’s a misunderstanding. There’s nothing between us! He came by, ahem, on business. Let’s say, to fix the tap. Yes, the tap.”
“No, Auntie… Where are you right now?”
“I told you, dear: I won’t be in town for a while, I’ve gone to Leeds on business.”
“But you can’t be in Leeds right now! You’re supposed to be lying in a grave!”
“What?!” Aunt May cleared her throat and launched into a tirade about the ill-mannered generation of today and the degradation of society, then dragged in the Bible and poor Jesus, hinting at her own martyred fate.
Gabrielle sighed and hung up.
