Landing Night Florence Hoyle 8:11 PM - The Red Bell, London ‘To the Martians!’ The man to my right thrusts his beer into the air, peppering my forehead with flecks of froth. ‘Sorry mate,’ he grunts, without turning to me. His looming presence overwhelms me from a seat away. I clutch my drink, fighting against the mess of my fringe to take another sip. ‘They’re not Martians,’ his friend hisses. ‘Does it matter?’ The big guy dunks his moustache in more beer froth. ‘Listen,’ his friend continues, ‘we’d best be more polite with them. My cousin in the army reckons some of them have already landed.’ ‘I’d spot them a mile off,’ the big guy scoffs, wiping his lip. ‘That’s the thing mate. Apparently, they can look like us.’ The men stop talking, consumed by a shared tension. It’s probably nonsense, I think to myself. It feels like every set of eyes in the pub are glued to me. I don’t need to worry about shapeshifters on top of th‘Is this seat taken?’ I pull myself out of my drink and turn to the voice. A tall girl with shaved sides and a leather jacket grins at me. She’s holding a Ribena with a straw in it. I don’t want her to sit with me. ‘Go for it,’ I croak. Damn it. She sits down, loudly sipping her Ribena as if to declare her presence. I ignore her, focusing on the stream of
26 | Landing Night
