The Life to Come [Paperback]

Are you ready for the Life to Come?

A life in which the gods are caged, a strange creature is born from starlight, aliens invade the living room and interplanetary detritus fills the Earth, while mankind endures its own small, personal dilemmas, painful and comical by turns.

From Paris to Morocco to the English countryside, here are sixteen stories where reality and fantasy collide, dispatches from a world with only one clear certainty: that the life to come will be far stranger, more perverse and perilous than we could ever dream.

"Everyday I thank God for Tim Lees" – Andy Cox, The Third Alternative

"Tim Lees' compelling fiction beguiles and entertains in equal measures. Original, humane and darkly imaginative" – Susanna Jones, author of The Earthquake Bird

Elastic Press specialises in publishing outstanding collections of short fiction.

Tim Lees has been a warehouse worker, film extra, musician, schoolteacher, lithographer, conference organiser, and worked on the secure ward of a psychiatric hospital. Over the last few years his stories, features and reviews have been appearing regularly, to considerable acclaim. This is his first collection.

Don’t talk about the future. Don’t even think of it. The more you think, the stronger it becomes, the more it pushes back towards us, gifts us with its rubble and detritus... It’s not even our future in any case. We all made sure of that. Or thought we did. We thought we did...
*
The phone rang, one a.m. Hannah’s voice.

"...this alien," she said.

She didn’t really sound upset at first, more like the times she’d called me when her washer’d sprung a leak or she’d had trouble with her boss, something like that; controlled, and calm, and rational.

At first.

"It isn’t moving much," she said. "Just sort of sitting there, just looking, you know? And it won’t let me go near. I don’t know what to do..."

"You tell it to get out."

"It isn’t like that, John. I don’t know what might happen. It’s... it’s, well, it’s sort of scary. You know?"

"Look," I said. "You get a big stick and you poke it till it goes, alright? Simple."

"It’s not like that..."

I heard her sighing on the far end of the phone. She said, "I’d really very much appreciate it if you came round. Please John."

She always used my name at times like this – times when she wanted something and I didn’t want to give. Like an official, undeniable request.

"I’m going to bed. I’ve had a few beers, too. I don’t know if I’m safe to drive."

"Please John. Get a taxi. I’ll pay."

"What’s it doing now?"

"I don’t know. I can’t see. I’m not at home. I’m in the phone box on the corner. I was worried... It was acting funny – you know?"

I told her I’d come by tomorrow, first thing. It wasn’t what she wanted though. I tried to say, look, just forget it, call the cops, call someone else, call anyone. But I felt guilty. There were things between us, and I owed her favours; and it looked like this was when she called them in.

"Alright," I said. "I’ll come."

She didn’t comment on my tone of voice. She just had time to start to thank me, then her money ran out and the line went dead.
*
My clothes were in the laundry basket but I pulled them out and put them on. I wasn’t bothered how I looked or smelled. I thought I’d risk the car. If I could sort it in an hour or so, or less, with luck. If I could get back home to bed...

She was waiting in the street for me. As soon as I got near, she ran into the road and flagged me down, as if she thought I’d have forgotten where she lived. She wore a baggy jumper and red jeans. Her hair had been pinned up but it was starting to come loose, stray locks hanging unevenly on one side of her face.

"Thank God," she said.

"I don’t see why you couldn’t have got someone else." I was grumpy now; all through the journey, I’d been brooding. "What about the neighbours?"

"They’re away. Except for Rob, and he’s asleep..."

"It didn’t dawn on you that I might be asleep as well?"

"Oh, John," she said. "Don’t be like that."

I wouldn’t look at her. I just said, "Let’s get it over with," and headed up the drive.

Her flat was on the ground floor: two rooms, kitchen, bathroom. I waited while she fiddled with the lock, tapping my foot. She got the door open. We went inside –

And I could smell the thing. It was an ugly smell, bringing to mind old grease?caked frying pans and something harsh, electric, like the smell of dodgems at the funfair, part organic, part...

She asked me, "Are you going in?"

I turned the door handle, and slowly, slowly, peered into the front room.

It was there, alright.

Big as a small man or a ten?year?old child, perhaps. I’d never seen the like of it, not even heard of such a thing. It squatted on the writing desk, its knees up to its chin and elbows jutting ominously. What might have been its head swivelled around and looked at me.

I felt the heat off Hannah’s body, pressing on me from behind.

"Well?" she whispered. She was hoarse, and I could see why.

"Well," I said.

The room wasn’t disturbed – not much. Some books were scattered on the floor, the TV had been shifted round at a peculiar angle, but the place hadn’t been wrecked, not like you heard about sometimes.

I slipped out, pushing Hannah back behind me, and I gently shut the inner door.

She waited while I lit a cigarette. I needed one. I went into the hall and took a few drags. Then I looked round for a weapon. The best thing I could manage was the pump on Hannah’s bike.

I took it off. She looked at me.

"It hasn’t got a flat tyre. That’s not why it’s here."

"Hold this." I handed her the cigarette.

I went back in the lounge. We stared at one another then, the thing and me. It had a black, insectile carapace, and in between the joints and sutures there were moist, sticky membranes, glistening in the light of Hannah’s standard lamp. I told myself it didn’t look that tough. I reckoned you could crack that armour pretty easily, given a hammer, or a pickaxe, or a gun.

I held the bicycle pump up, as threateningly as I could.

And stepped into the room.