It’ll burn on your skin. The problem is that you won’t put a whisper of sun cream on underneath; you’ll just slap the hard stick of face paint on under your eyes, faintly sweet like crayons, one long stripe, and you’ll think of the school fair, six years old at your favourite stand, begging to be made a tiger.
The rumours arrive on the dawn wind and by mid-afternoon the village ladies have landed in Leonora’s kitchen to disembowel the news.
The pond cradles them in its mouth like teeth. The statues. Cracked and shattered. They’re reskinned and restitched with moss and algae.
From the time she was seven, Ketra could smell lies. Some reeked of burnt hair. Some of overripe plums. A half-truth had the scent of chewed mint, stale and thin.
When the alien lands in the layby [PLACE TO STOP TEMPORARILY AND DRINK AMBER LIQUID FROM THERMOS FLASK] on the A303 at Barton Stacey near the Travelodge, it climbs down the steps from its spaceship into gloomy light.