by Mark Gatiss
Jo stood close by. When there was no response after a full minute, she crept across the flowerbeds and peered through the window, shielding her eyes with the palm of her hand.
‘Any sign of life?’ asked the Doctor.
Jo shook her head.
The Doctor stepped back from the door and craned his neck to look at the upper storey.
He knocked again, then frowned. ‘Funny.’
Jo joined him. ‘The Brigadier did say he’d been in touch with the Wing Commander didn’t he?’
The Doctor nodded. ‘Yes. He’s supposed to be expecting us.’
‘Well, maybe he’s just popped out –’
She broke off abruptly as the porch light came on and the door creaked cautiously open.
‘Yes?’ Mrs Toovey sounded anxious and not a little suspicious.
The Doctor stepped forward. ‘Good evening, madam. I’m the Doctor, this is Jo Grant. We’re here to see Wing Commander Whistler.’
The old woman breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Oh yes. I’ve been expecting you.’
She opened the door fully to let them inside. ‘I didn’t hear the door. I was in the garden.’
Jo nodded and smiled. ‘That’s all right. It’s a lovely night.’
As she stepped over the threshold, the Doctor held back. He was looking towards the village green. Jo followed the direction of his gaze and made out the figure of a man walking slowly around the bench and staring down at the ground as though he’d lost something.
The Doctor indicated Mrs Toovey. ‘You go on, Jo. I won’t be a moment.’
He set off with long strides towards the green and soon saw the man more clearly. He was about thirty-five and dressed in an unironed linen suit and sandals. He had a pleasant but slightly vacuous look to him and a none-too-clean dog collar to complete the ensemble. The Doctor acknowledged the vicar with a cheery wave. ‘Beautiful evening isn’t it?’
The vicar nodded but he seemed troubled. ‘Beautiful.’ He held out his hand. ‘Stephen Darnell,’ he muttered.
‘I’m the Doctor. Is there something the matter?’ The Doctor looked down at the ground. The neatly cut grass had been churned up by heavy tyres, quite ruining the pretty verge.
The vicar pointed to the damage and then both he and the Doctor swung round at the sound of marching feet.
Jo poked her head around the door of Whistler’s cottage and glanced at Mrs Toovey. ‘What’s that?’
A group of half a dozen black-uniformed men came smartly round the corner, moving in a tight unit like a knot of glistening flies.
Jo looked at the Doctor who was frowning heavily. Completely ignoring both the Doctor and Darnell, the troops came to a halt on the village green, not far from the churned-up grass. Darnell regarded them intently and a pained look crept over his face.
The lead trooper withdrew a small black box from his jacket and laid it on the grass. The Doctor could see some kind of dial and a needle which swung sharply to the right. At once, another of the men began to dig at the green with a small spade.
Darnell gasped. ‘Excuse me, but would you mind explaining what you’re doing?’
The trooper, who wore the uniform of a captain, ignored him and picked up the box, replacing it in his jacket. The vicar persisted.
‘This village has won prizes. I really don’t think it’s right for you to dig up the green. Those lorries of yours have done quite enough damage as it is.’
He cleared his throat and shuffled awkwardly. ‘Do you hear me?’
The Captain scowled at Darnell and jerked his head in his direction. At once, two of the troops marched over to the bench and tried to drag the vicar away. He protested loudly and one of the man clamped a black-gloved hand over his mouth.
‘You sir!’ bellowed the Doctor. ‘Do you mind explaining what you think you’re doing?’
The trooper let his hand fall to his side. He looked to his Captain, who switched on a charming smile. ‘It’s for the gentleman’s own good. He needs… looking after.’
The Doctor put his hands on his hips. ‘I think he should be the judge of that, don’t you?’
The Captain’s grin broadened and, for the first time, the Doctor noticed the little clumps of saliva which clung like cuckoo-spit to his lips.
At a slight inclination of the Captain’s head, his men released Darnell who slumped back on to the bench, his eyes flickering wildly from side to side.
The Doctor regarded the newcomers steadily. ‘Legion International, I presume?’
The Captain nodded. ‘I’m Captain McGarrigle,’ he said, curtly. ‘Aren’t you from Culverton?’
‘No,’ said the Doctor. ‘I’m not… local.’
The Captain looked about a little shiftily, taking in Bessie and then Jo and Mrs Toovey who were still standing in the porch.
‘Well, it’s good that you’re here. We have plans for this village. Great plans.’
‘Do you indeed?’ The Doctor glanced down at the muddy tyre tracks on the green. ‘May I ask what you were doing just now?’
The Captain’s face assumed an innocent expression.
The Doctor pointed to the man’s black uniform. ‘That little box. Some kind of Geiger counter?’
The Captain laughed and a tiny fleck of saliva fell on to his freshly pressed jacket. ‘Nothing like that. We had an accident. I was just checking that none of our… cargo was missing.’
The Doctor looked over at the remaining five troopers, standing in a line, still and impassive, like automata waiting to be wound up.
‘And what is your cargo?’
The Captain’s dark eyes glittered. ‘Well, actually, we’re more of a passenger service.’
The Doctor smiled. ‘Is that so?’
There was a tiny flicker in the Captain’s eyes. ‘I simply mean that we’re rebuilding the old aerodrome and converting it into a working airport. We use some things in our work which are rather dangerous. Chemicals and such. You understand.’
The Doctor bent down on one knee and fingered some of the soil. ‘Well, I’m quite experienced in chemical analysis. If you like I could…’
The Captain’s face was impassive. ‘No. It’s all right. My men will see to it.’
Without him giving an instruction, two of the troopers swung round to face the Doctor. He got slowly to his feet.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I see.’
The Captain touched the brim of his peaked cap. ‘Good evening.’
The Doctor didn’t move. ‘Perhaps we could come up to the aerodrome tomorrow and have a look around? I’m sure it’s fascinating.’
The Captain shook his head slowly. ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Really? We have contacts at the Ministry of Defence, you know.’ The Doctor smiled pleasantly as though talking to a child.
The Captain wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Then I suggest you refer the matter to them. No one is allowed in without an official pass.’
He turned on his heel and marched away, leaving the two troopers standing by the bench deterring any further investigation by the Doctor. The vicar got up and crossed to the Doctor’s side. Jo came out from the porch.
Darnell introduced himself, proferring a shaking hand.
‘Jo Grant,’ said Jo quietly.
‘And that,’ said the Doctor with a sigh, ‘was Legion International.’
The vicar nodded. ‘You’ve heard of them?’
‘That’s why we’re here. Wing Commander Whistler has expressed concerns about the newcomers.’
The vicar looked over at the retreating troopers. ‘Concerns. Yes.’
‘What now?’ asked Jo.
The Doctor shot a stern look at the men by the bench and then put his arm around Jo’s shoulder, guiding her back towards the cottage. ‘Get on to Lethbridge-Stewart, would you, Jo?’
‘OK.’
The Doctor shot one last look at the Captain’s retreating form. ‘I’ve a feeling he might be right about them having friends in hi
gh places.’
And now lightning rends the sky again. The broiling, unquiet black earth shudders as the thing presses itself against the glass of the steel palace. Its dark eyes shrink back into its fleshy skull as lightning sears its pupils. Moments later, with darkness restored, it looks again.
Through the blue haze it can see others like itself. They are lying in warm cocoons, their breathing regular and untroubled by the natural disasters outside. They are of all shapes and sizes; some little more than children, others fully grown, a waxy bloom like frost spreading over their sleeping faces.
Others, in the uniform of the Apothecaries, move in silence from one cocoon to the next, checking life-signs.
The thing outside raises a desperate claw and lets it slide down the glass. It leaves a sticky trail, like spittle, dribbling down to the baking soil.
One of the Apothecaries looks over. Its round, black eyes dilate. It moves towards the window…
There were more portraits lining the staircase of Jocelyn Strangeways’s enormous house. From most of them, the familiar, slightly bilious countenance looked out, growing progressively darker as age and time stained the canvasses.
Strangeways shuffled up the stairs to his bed, the hem of his silk dressing gown whispering over each step. He clicked out the landing light and used the blue moonlight that spilled through the windows to guide himself to his room.
There was another click.
Strangeways whirled round, ears pricked, ready to face any intruder. He was spoiling for a fight after his outrageous treatment at the hands of Charles Cochrane. God help the cheeky bugger who dared to break into his house!
He jumped as a dreadful screeching sound suddenly emanated from beyond the window. Flattening himself against the wall, eyes darting from side to side, he tried to identify it.
It was horribly like a baby crying.
Strangeways thought of his ancestors, pulled himself together and made his way boldly across the landing towards the window.
Gingerly, he pressed his face towards the glass and looked out into the dark night.
Slam.
Strangeways staggered back from the window as something hurled itself against the glass. His mind reeled and then he saw a sleek black cat glaring at him, its eyes blazing like green fire. He let out a huge sigh of relief and wandered back towards his bedroom door. The cat was joined by another. Both their hackles instantly rose and they began again the awful chorus he had heard moments before.
Strangeways pulled off a slipper and lobbed it at the window.
Both cats immediately scattered, disappearing into the darkness as though swallowed whole.
The Chief of Staff limped into his room, one foot slippered, one bare and threw off his dressing gown. It was a warm night and he lay on top of the sheets for a few moments, letting the events of the day filter through his brain.
It was during trying times like this that a fella could do with a wife. Someone to bounce ideas off, at least. Someone to reinforce his opinions about the Minister of Defence. Someone to give him a cuddle…
Strangeways turned on his side.
The space in the bed yawned emptily. His wife was long gone. Twice remarried now. He put out his hand to touch the cool pillow where once she had rested her lovely head.
His fingers met something warm and sticky.
Strangeways sat bolt upright, crying out in disgust. In the moonlight, he was suddenly aware of something; a bone-white, glistening thing like a crab scuttling over the sheets towards him.
Scuttling.
He thrust out his hands to fight it off but it moved with horrible speed. In a second, its warm, wet body was clamped to the skin of his face.
Somewhere, two black cats began to wail.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MISSING
Ted Bishop was a worried man. Those who knew him would say this was his natural condition and those who knew his brother would say he had plenty to be worried about.
Ted had got home around six to begin his nightly routine; shuffling into the kitchen in his old tartan slippers, putting the kettle on the hob, and setting out three mugs – well, two mugs and Max’s rather fine china cup – on a tray. Four spoonfuls of rich-smelling black tea (one for each person and one for the pot) would be shovelled into the old brown ‘Sadler six-cup’ and then, when the kettle began to whistle, he’d rinse the boiling water round the pot to warm it.
While the tea brewed, he’d sit for a minute with the back door ajar and smoke a cigarette, taking great pains not to let the telltale tobacco fumes sneak into the house where Max’s sensitive nose might detect them.
As usual, he’d poured out Max and Noah’s tea and then carried the tray upstairs. His brother was always to be found in his room going over the day’s takings at this hour of the evening, and Noah was usually making one of his models instead of doing his homework.
Ted had placed Max’s cup on the edge of the desk and his brother had reached out a hand to take it without saying a word.
Ted then took his own mug and Noah’s through to the boy’s room. He liked to have a chat with his son before bed.
With both hands full, Ted had gently pushed the door of Noah’s bedroom open with the toe of his slipper.
‘Another day, another dollar!’ he had cried, brightly, just as he did every evening.
Noah’s room was empty.
Ted had stared at it blankly for a long moment, his gaze flickering over the neat bedspread and plumped-up pillows. He sighed and put Noah’s mug down on a nearby bookcase. His son had promised to stay at home to help his uncle with some post-office paperwork. Max had got it into his head that Noah would one day take over the business, and he needed to start learning as soon as possible. Noah was far more interested in his model of a Sunderland flying boat but had agreed to help for his father’s sake.
Ted supposed he’d better let Max know that Noah wasn’t in but, to give himself a bit of courage, he took his time and sipped at his hot tea in silence before crossing back to his brother’s room.
Max hadn’t taken it well, of course, cursing Ted’s son for being a no-good layabout and general ne’er-do-well before ordering Ted out to find him.
‘I suppose I’d better get everything ready for tomorrow,’ he’d said, running a well-manicured hand over his face. ‘It’s a good job someone’s on the ball around here.’
Max had given Ted just enough time to put on his shoes before forcibly propelling him outside and slamming the door. Ted had sighed again and then, as he looked around at the village, he had smiled.
The night had a wonderful feeling about it, and he could smell the delicious scent of heavy summer flowers hanging in the air. It had been easy, for a moment, to imagine that he had slipped back into the past. The roofs of the houses which surrounded the post office were silhouetted against the purply sky. There was even an old-fashioned little yellow car parked by the green.
Probably there for the summer fête. There had always been evenings like this. And always would be.
But his good humour had evaporated and by now he was worried about his son. He fancied he knew all the places the lad was likely to go. Noah, however, was in none of them. Why would he stay out? Surely he knew how upset Ted would be and how his uncle Max would take it out on his dad.
Ted left the village and took the road that led towards the aerodrome. Perhaps he’d gone off up there. The new arrivals had certainly caused a lot of fuss. Yes, that was where he would be, seeing if he could resist getting himself in trouble. Unless, of course, it was a girl…
Ted smiled. The lad was growing up. So perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that he’d failed to come home. Hadn’t he seen a girl making eyes at Noah over the post-office counter? And the summer was at its height. Time for a young man’s fancy to turn to thoughts of pretty girls. Cheered by this thought, Ted walked through the night towards the aerodrome with a lighter heart, and nothing disturbed him until he came across his son, spread-eagled in a ditch, eyes closed
, a thick dribble of blood pouring from the open wound on his head.
The Doctor and Jo were seated across from Mrs Toovey on a small and comfortable sofa that seemed about to engulf them in its chintzy pattern. The Doctor smiled sweetly at the old woman and drained the last of his tea.
They had been made very welcome and Jo was already looking forward to the huge, comfortable-looking bed she’d been allotted in the attic room.
The Doctor nibbled on a biscuit and leant towards Mrs Toovey. ‘Did the Wing Commander give you any idea how long he’d be?’
The old woman shook her head and stifled a sob. ‘No, sir. I warned him. I said to wait until you got here but he’s all for taking the initiative.’
Jo patted Mrs Toovey’s hand gently. ‘Good for him.’
Mrs Toovey gave a small smile. ‘I reckon he misses the war, you see. He’d never admit it but it… made him feel alive. All this mystery with the aerodrome got his taste for adventure going.’
The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. ‘And you say he was planning to go up there?’
‘Yes, Doctor. Him and Ted Bishop’s lad.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘What do you reckon to these… newcomers?’
Mrs Toovey rubbed her wedding ring, twisting it absently round and round her finger. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s a good thing. Everyone seems to think so. But all these fellas in black. Like soldiers…’
She tailed off.
Jo shot a glance at the Doctor. ‘So what exactly did Mr Whistler suspect was going on up there?’
‘Oh, he didn’t confide in me, love,’ murmured Mrs Toovey. ‘Need to know, Mrs T,’ she said, in imitation of Whistler’s military bark.
The Doctor rubbed his chin. ‘Have you noticed anything else… unusual?’
Mrs Toovey cast her gaze towards the ceiling as if in search of divine inspiration. ‘Not that I can think of… except, yes, the Wing Commander did mention that old Jobey Packer seemed to have disappeared. He asked about a bit. No one’s seen him.’
‘And that’s not like him?’ queried Jo.
