The Primark Invasion

‘We need to get out of here,’ says one voice by the duffel coat entrance.

Mike nods frantically and makes plans; ‘They are all attacking from Piccadilly, we could get out at the other side, run back to the cinema.’

There are murmurs of agreement and some shifting towards the door that nearly brings all the clothes down on us.

‘No!’ you shout, ‘Stay here! They might be surrounding us, we won’t get away.’ It is enough to instil hesitation but Mike will not be completely desisted.

‘We need to go – now!’ he barks, like he’s an action hero, but to you and me it is clear that he is the first of the gang to die, the first of the gang with a gun in his hand, given half a chance.

I want you to reply, bite him down, but you only sigh and his fate is sealed as he and two others duck through the duffel coats and disappear for good. Lucy’s tears spring forth again. This time the sound of it solidifies the reduced numbers – we can all feel the fires approaching.

Then the gunfire stops.

Lucy halts mid-sob. We wait for significant sounds. Your grip on my hand gets tighter and mine, yours.

A hiss, large and sudden, sounds. It brings the glimmer of hope – it is the sound of fire being quenched.

It is replaced by the liquid creak.

It is an unthinkable sound, like a joint too heavily oiled, like mechanical water changing its course uphill, how you might think the iron in your blood could sound close-up. By sight, the evil robot bugs are much as we predicted with CGI-saturated blockbusters, but it is that sound which makes them aliens, the sound that shouldn’t be and yet feels so plausible.

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