19h February
Whilst in hospital, I had missed the media circus that had followed the meteorite impact.
Helen told me that Church Road had taken on the appearance of a street carnival – with TV crews filming and reporters interviewing anyone they could find.
Meteorite experts had apparently been located by the media, who had answered questions on the basic science.
For example, the authorities knew that it was a meteorite, not something that had fallen off the International Space Station, because all man-made space debris that could cause damage on re-entry is tracked. In addition, CCTV coverage of the meteorite’s path had also allowed the experts to rule out man-made space junk.
The experts had explained that the flaming meteorite did not set fire to the buildings because it was cold. It appears that a meteorite is very, very cold due to having been in space, and friction with the Earth’s atmosphere is not sufficient to warm other than the very surface layer. Finally, the experts predicted that the meteorite was most likely to be of a type they called ‘stony’.
I recalled that an Echo reporter had briefly interviewed me as I left the hospital, although he had known more than I had. All I could say at that point was how sad I felt about Sam’s death and how my only current plan had been to deal with the damage to my house and property.
I recognised the same reporter when I opened Helen’s front door in response to the doorbell.
‘Hello, Mr. Morrison,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We spoke when you left hospital.’
‘I remember,’ I replied. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Just tying up some loose ends for our readers,’ he answered. ‘I wondered what happened to the meteorite. When the story first broke, any crater was buried under rubble, and everyone was concentrating on the human story.’
‘I asked the salvage and demolition company to have a go at digging it up,’ I replied. ‘We didn’t find anything that we could recognise. That might have been because it disintegrated on impact or because it was made of stone – and we couldn’t tell the difference between a meteorite and a lump of hardcore. Anyway,’ I concluded, ‘we filled-in the hole again. At some point, I might dig there with expert involvement, but at the moment, I’ve got other things to think about.’
The reporter looked a little disappointed, thanked me for my comments and walked away.
I did not see any further related news items, which presumably indicated that what I had described did not amount to a story.
I closed the door and walked back through the house into the garage, where Helen was continuing to scrub the earth off an irregular lump of solid iron. The object was about fifty centimetres long, thirty centimetres wide and thirty centimetres high.
‘I’ll ring my brother,’ I said, picking up my mobile. I selected his number and listened to the ringing tone.
My only sibling, Duck, had taken over from our father the running of our family’s Oxfordshire farm, and he had bought-out my share.
I had never had any inclination to become a farmer, but our dad always liked to joke about whether he would have a Duck or a Swan succeeding him.
These were not the names on our birth certificates. Dad had called us by them for as long as we could both remember, however, and that remained the way we were both known.
Duck finally answered his phone.
‘Hello, Duck. … Fine now, thanks. … I need some help. … I’ve got the meteorite that hit the house, and I’d like you to help me get it to the farm and hide it there. … I need a winch and a trailer. … I think it weighs about three hundred kilogrammes. … Helen and I want to keep it totally secret and certainly not keep it here, until we can make arrangements to sell it. … Because we think it’s worth around a million pounds. … Yes, I did just say a million. … Just Helen, you, me and the guy that helped me dig it up, Barney. … I paid him five thousand to keep it to himself until it’s sold, with the promise of a cut of the profit. … Tonight, that’s great. … See you later.’