Midge Ure was a liar. That was the only thing that Bill could be certain of right now. He wasn’t even certain it was the end of the world.

There was no crying man on the wireless, for one. Bill thought that would have been helpful, because presumably this man would have been explaining why he was crying between the actual crying. That was his job, after all. But instead, when he’d been told to evacuate the office with immediate effect and return to his loved one(s), he’d got in the car and put the radio on for all of one minute. There were no explanations forthcoming. Just a robotic announcement, dripping with static, like something from Doctor Who, over and over. ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE. Every station. It wasn’t very reassuring, least of all informative. He’d expected better of Radio 4, at the very least.

There had been no dancing with tears in his eyes. No drinking to forget. Nancy hadn’t even been in his arms. Since he’d got home, weaving through the utter chaos in the streets that he’d expect more of somewhere in India than suburban Sheffield, there’d just been a sort of shuffling about, a bit of quiet confusion really. It wouldn’t exactly be right to make a massive fuss with candles and sex and things if the apocalypse wasn’t coming.

Bill peeled back the blinds and had a neb. There were people out front, howling and holding each other and running, like the music video. It looked like it might be the end of the world, alright. But he couldn’t be sure. It was more irritating, to be honest, that they looked like they knew something he didn’t. Those plonkers. It was probably on Facebook.

“Shall we ‘ave a vodka?” said Nancy, his wife, from behind.

“Go on then,” Bill replied. So the acceptance had begun.

She made a screwdriver and a voddy and coke. His and hers. They stood together by the door of the kitchen, he still in his tie and blazer, Nancy in her dressing gown, studying the ceiling for divine inspiration. The plaster had nothing to say. Perhaps if they’d left the Artex showing after they’d moved in, the answers they sought would have revealed themselves.

“At least you’re off work early,” said Nancy, wriggling uncomfortably in her slippers, gown flaps flapping.

“Yeah,” said Bill, listening to something explode down the road. “Long weekend. Nice.”

Nancy checked her phone. Tapped hard on the screen. Blinked.

“What you got?” said Bill, alert.

“Just some.... weird text.” She held out the screen to him, pursing her lips.

ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE.

Nancy sighed, glaring into nothingness. “If Sharon really did give that lad my number, I’m gonna kill ‘er.”

But Bill wasn’t really listening. His gaze had drifted back to the window. “Did you hear that loud bang just now? It feels...”

“What? Like someone reversed into that stupid lamppost again?” Nancy grimaced. “Well, no-one’s told us we’re all going to die, so I’m not gonna get all worked up and that. In fact,” she looked up briefly into her husband’s eyes, finished her drink. “I need to poop.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He took a step back. He wanted to say something about dancing, just in case. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, that he’d always love her, scoop her up in his arms and carry her off to bed. Like Midge Ure. Just in case.

But there again, that probably wasn’t a good idea if she needed a shit.

“Alright, love,” he sighed out. “I’ll get you another.”

She swished round and disappeared through the kitchen to the bathroom, slippers clapping down on the tiles, curls bouncing, gown belt snaking through a load of breadcrumbs on the counter that she’d said she was cleaning up this afternoon. Oh well.

Instead of making the drinks, he went back to the window. The people outside had grown quiet. Holding hands. Looking up. All looking up. The sky was black and moonless.

“’Urry up, love,” he roared, trying to keep his voice from catching. “I think something’s...”

Going to happen? Already happened?

“Piss off,” came the distant cry. “I ‘aven’t even sat down yet.”

All looking up. Into the black. He suddenly felt very small, very fragile, very alone. “Well maybe you should come back here.” He sounded like a little kid.

The woman he had married did not. “Too late... now leave me fucking be.”

He did. He stood and watched with the people out the window, a deep ache of anticipation rising from his stomach into his chest into his throat. He knew how it felt now. He just knew. But he didn’t know why. There had to be some explanation for this. An alien invasion. Revolution. A bubbling pot of resentment from some careless line on a map centuries ago, come to the boil. Nuclear war. God, doing some redecorating. Even just one weirdo, some heartbroken kid mourning the loss of his first girlfriend or favourite band, gone over the edge. Anyone could change the world. Anyone could end it. Any time.

It was human to make such enquiries, he knew. He wasn’t just scared. He was angry. They’d been going to finish that jigsaw tomorrow. He didn’t deserve to die. None of them did. He wanted answers.

Some of the people on the shared lawn out front were waving little rectangles of light in each other’s faces. Something was happening.

“Nancy...”

“What?”

He thought of dancing, holding her, caressing her, taking her to Rome like she’d always wanted, going bowling, lazy nights by the TV with a bottle of wine, ordering a pizza. And here he was, waiting expectantly by the window for who knew what, probably nothing, alone in his suit while his wife sat hunched on the toilet so far away. He hadn’t even kissed her before she went. There’d never be a song about that.

And why? Why?

There was a radio on the coffee table, just to his right, last used for a Christmas special in 2013, in a blanket of dust. He reached for the knob. If those tossers from 105 knew something, then surely....

The cold, digital voice grated out at full volume, making him jump, ceaseless, insistent, mocking.

ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE.

“What?” Nancy shouted again above the din.

Bill peered out into the night, at his neighbours, as they frowned and shook their heads and scrolled furiously through the white gleam of information.

ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE. ACCEPT THY FATE.

“WHAT?” Nancy shrieked.

ACCEPT THY FATE. And when Bill really listened, when he had let his hand fall from the knob and stood back and just listened, he realised that the voice was comforting.

“I love you, is all,” he bellowed through the kitchen.

There was a moment of silence. “Yeah, love you too,” Nancy said.

The heavens opened then. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. The night blackness dispelled instantly in an eruption of neon green light. Like flowers in a meadow, they emerged, and rose, and spread their petals, and then they began to fall. Showers of glowing energy, or liquid, or something else, falls of gleaming pearls, trickling slowly to Earth, while up above, the darkness reasserted itself. Whatever it was, it was falling slowly, growing brighter in his vision, getting closer. It didn’t make a sound.

“What now?” Nancy called from the bathroom. There was a tinge of fear in her tone now, brought on by the coos and howls and groans and sobs from gardens and windows all around them, here in the comfortable safety of the suburbs. “Bill, what is it?”

Bill stood by the window, hands by his sides, listening to the radio, watching the pearls fall and fall and fall, watching the flicker of their phosphorescent promise grow brighter on his lawn.

“It’s the end,” said Bill. “It’s beautiful.”