by Mark Gatiss
Graham Allinson didn’t say a word. He stared at Anthony, then down at the trapped spider.
‘What are you smiling at?’ demanded Anthony.
He got to his feet, hands curling into fists, forgetting all about the spider.
Grinning madly, Graham turned on his heel and disappeared through the narrow alley that separated doctor who Anthony’s garage from his neighbour’s.
The bully was after him at once, feet scrunching over the gravel. He emerged into the back garden and looked around wildly.
Graham was crouching on his haunches, his back to Anthony, peering down at something.
Anthony ran across and belted him in the small of the back. The skinny boy didn’t flinch.
Enraged, the bully raised his fist to hit again, then paused.
‘What have you got there?’ he muttered.
Graham did not reply. He merely rocked on his haunches, gazing down at the object at his feet.
Anthony grabbed him by the shoulder and wrenched him back. He was startled to see some kind of container lying on the ground, and what looked very much like the spider he had been burning inside it. But this ‘spider’ was big. Horribly big. And it had dark, dark eyes. And they were staring up at him.
When it was all over, Graham picked up the empty container and he and Anthony set off to see if they could make some new friends.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SLEEPERS
Jo found the Doctor just as he was emerging from the post office. The village was beginning to bustle with activity despite the early hour, and the green was already covered in refectory tables and boxes.
The Doctor shielded his eyes against the sun and frowned.
‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s the summer fête,’ said Jo. ‘Hey, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘That old bloke that Mr Whistler was worried about. He’s turned up.’
The Doctor rubbed his neck. ‘Has he indeed? Well, so has Max Bishop.’
Jo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
‘Tell me,’ said the Doctor evenly. ‘This fella… Packer wasn’t it? Was he behaving… oddly?’
Jo shrugged and shook her head. ‘No. He was all smiles.’
‘Hmm,’ said the Doctor thoughtfully. ‘Same with Mr Bishop. Happy as a sandboy. Almost… too happy. He didn’t seem to have any sense of what was going on. Or why he went off to find the constable last night.’
Jo watched as a large truck reversed into the village. Half a dozen brawny men with their shirts off got out and began to unload stacked-up piles of gaily coloured sideshow booths and stalls.
‘Perhaps we should call on the constable ourselves.’
The Doctor looked at his watch. ‘Perhaps. Where is that idiot, Lethbridge-Stewart? We could get straight to the heart of this if we could only get inside the aerodrome.’
‘Didn’t you find out anything last night?’
The Doctor looked a little wounded. ‘Little more than more unanswered questions. That and a grazed knee and a barked shin. Don’t ever tell the Brigadier,’ he added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but sometimes it’s better to take the official way in.’
Jo grinned. ‘My lips are sealed.’
A knob of rapidly melting butter slid along the length of one of Helen Trickett’s best knives. She watched it in silence as it crept across the polished Sheffield steel, pooling over the plate on which the knife lay, finally drip-drip-dripping to the tiled floor.
She stood behind the kitchen table, her eyes twitching, a pile of unbuttered bread before her.
She had things to do. A hundred sandwiches to prepare. Miss Plowman at the WI was absolutely counting on her. There was the tombola store to be organised and all the presents for the lucky dip to be wrapped in newspaper. Her daughter Nichola was twirling the baton at the head of the Culverton jazz band and her blue and silver costume still wasn’t ready. Helen Trickett had so many things to do, but she stood and watched the butter slide off the knife and fall to the kitchen floor.
John Trickett came in. He was the picture of contentment in pale green shirt, beige summer trousers and open-toed sandals with socks.
‘Lovely day, Helen,’ he cried, smiling. His wife didn’t reply. She dragged her gaze back to the piles of unbuttered bread.
‘Haven’t you got those sandwiches done yet?’ he chided gently. ‘Come on, love! Chop, chop!’
He flashed her his benevolent smile. Helen noticed that there were flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth. She picked up the knife and plunged it back into the runny butter.
John grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the worktop and bent to peck her on the cheek.
‘Well, I’ve got to pick up our guest of honour. I’ll see you later, then. Bye.’
He winked and went out through the back door.
Helen raised her hand to her cheek where John had kissed her. Her fingers trembled as she touched her skin.
There was a noise behind her and she swung to her left, dropping the knife to the floor. It clattered and span round and round like the needle on a compass.
Nichola was standing in the doorway, half in and half out of her majorette’s uniform. She was holding her tall hat in both hands and her lip was trembling. With a sudden, ragged sob, she ran to Helen and threw her arms around her mother.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ she cried, her little chest heaving with sobs. ‘That… that’s not daddy… is it?’
Helen felt herself crying too and she stroked Nichola’s hair rapidly back and forth, rocking the child gently.
Whistler had no idea that his old friend Lethbridge-Stewart was so close by. The old man was inside the hangar the Doctor had visited the previous night, his back to the thin wall, his knees tucked up under his chin. Outside, about a dozen Legion troopers were at work around the lorries.
He looked around. The hangar was familiar to him from the war and hadn’t really changed that much. The skylight roof was filthy, allowing only a little of the summer sunshine through, and the concrete floor was stained with old engine oil. Benches and chairs remained much as they had in his day. There was even the remains of an old calendar on the far wall. Betty Grable peered through the accumulated grime of thirty-odd years. Smashing legs, thought Whistler absently.
He cast a puzzled look at the row of black tables, but decided his priority was to get out of the aerodrome.
Rising to a crouching position, he managed to shoot a quick glance through one of the small, broken windows that were at eye level. He quickly pushed a section of glass out of the way. The troopers seemed completely occupied, unloading yet more of the black containers from the backs of the lorries. Overseeing them was the tall, blond man whom Whistler and Noah had encountered. How was the boy? Did he get away?
Or did Bliss have him imprisoned too…?
Whistler dropped to the floor as one of the troopers walked right past the window. He bit his lip, thinking hard. He could stay where he was, of course, but the alarm was bound to be raised soon. He had to take his chance to get out of the aerodrome because he was unlikely to survive another session with Bliss. His face darkened as he thought about what she had done to him. The clicking, metal needles swirling towards his face, glittering in the light from the lamp…
He cleared his throat and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. It was now or never.
Whistler stayed on his haunches and shuffled along the wall towards the massive hangar doors. He grabbed the edge and peered through, blinking rapidly at the brightness of the day.
Overhead, a jet was ploughing through the blue, leaving a puffy white vapour trail. Whistler focused on it for a moment and tried to gather his thoughts.
Around the corner, the troopers were at work. There was silence save for the occasional clank of metal or effortful grunt as the containers were lifted on to brawny shoulders. The Captain issued no orders, no rebukes, nor any encouragement. It was if the troopers knew exactly what was required of them and had no time for anything
else.
Whistler took a deep breath and stepped out on to the tarmac, pushing the door closed behind his back. At once he dropped to his hands and knees and made his way swiftly past the hangar doors towards the other side of the building. He could see the perimeter fence only yards away.
And now activity is building inside the steel palace. The Apothecaries have shifted the young creatures back, lines and lines of them, into the dark blue recesses of the building. Others have taken their place in the centre of the room. Twelve tall figures on a nine-sided dais.
They are multi-limbed and chitinous. A thin film covers their round, dark eyes. They are unaware of the bustling activity around them.
Inside, they are shielded from the chaos, from the wind and rain which beats ceaselessly at the great window. Lightning flashes constantly. But the warm cyan-blue of the room does not change. Those within have been carefully selected. And their time is approaching.
For the moment, though, the twelve elders and three hundred thousand others of their kind sleep on…
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart heaved a sigh of disappointment.
‘Not much to go on, Doctor.’
The Doctor and Jo sat next to him in the back seat of the UNIT car. They were finally heading for the aerodrome.
The Doctor nodded. ‘I admit it’s less substantial than we could have hoped for but really it only serves to deepen the mystery. These two missing people turning up still leaves the Wing Commander and the boy.’
The Brigadier frowned. ‘I thought you said –’
‘He’s not missing, sir,’ cut in Jo. ‘But he’s obviously had a very bad experience.’
‘That’s right,’ said the Doctor, crossing his hands over his knee. ‘Up at the aerodrome. He was muttering something about… monsters.’
The Brigadier cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s as may be. The fact is, we’ve got to try and get something on these Legion International people in the short time we have. The Ministry of Defence is refusing to play ball.’
The Doctor looked interested. ‘Is that a fact?’
Jo turned to him. ‘Doctor?’
The Doctor rubbed his chin. ‘What could Legion International be doing that’s so important to the Ministry of Defence? They’re just a private airline, after all.’
‘And the MOD sold the aerodrome to them,’ said Jo.
‘Precisely. Unless of course…’
The Brigadier’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
‘Unless of course they’re rather more than just a private airline.’
Benton threw a glance over his shoulder. ‘We’re here, sir.’ The UNIT car drew up to the main gates of the aerodrome.
Jobey Packer’s sign had disappeared and in its place was a shiny new placard bearing the legend:
LEGION INTERNATIONAL GETTING US WHERE WE WANT TO GO
CHAPTER TWENTY
OUT OF THE SHADOWS
The Reverend Darnell sighed with relief as he saw Max Bishop approaching across the green.
‘Oh Mr Bishop! Thank heavens,’ he cried, clasping his hands before him. ‘When we didn’t hear we thought… well, you know we couldn’t get along without you.’
Max grinned at him.
‘Now, I’ve had your itinerary copied,’ continued Darnell, handing Max a sheaf of photocopied papers. ‘The hoopla stall is going next to knobbly knees, as you instructed. And we’ve left a big space for the aerodrome people. Though we don’t know what their stall is going to comprise yet, do we?’
Max shook his head. ‘I think it’ll be good,’ he grinned inanely.
Darnell looked him up and down. ‘Yes, quite.’
One of the great, lumbering Legion lorries pulled up at the side of the green with a hiss of brakes.
‘Ah,’ said Darnell as ten black-uniformed, black-sunglassed men clambered from the back of the lorry. ‘Here they are.’
The Doctor looked around Bliss’s office with something like disdain.
‘Hmm,’ he sniffed. ‘Minimal, isn’t it?’
‘It suits my purposes,’ said Bliss evenly. ‘My name is Bliss,’ she purred, her nose twitching from side to side as though irritated by a particularly nasty odour. ‘I gather you are from…’ She glanced down at the passes, ‘… UNIT.’
‘That’s right, ma’am,’ said the Brigadier crisply. ‘Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. This is Miss Grant and the Doctor.’
Bliss looked at the Doctor with interest. ‘I am not familiar with the organisation.’
The Doctor turned from his examination of the whirling computer spools.
‘Oh you know. It’s one of those dreadful quangos they have so many of these days. United Nations sponsored thing. We poke our noses in, have a look around.’
Bliss’s smile widened. ‘And today you’ve decided to poke around here?’
‘Precisely.’ The Doctor flashed her a winning smile.
‘Why?’ said Bliss.
The Brigadier shot a look at the Doctor as though the simple question had flummoxed him. ‘Well… we… er…’ he stammered.
‘You’re a new facility,’ said Jo with confidence. ‘On former Ministry of Defence property. It’s standard procedure for UNIT to check how things are going.’
The Doctor nodded appreciatively at Jo.
Bliss looked Jo up and down, her black eyes liquid and inquisitive. ‘I thought we’d been through all that when we… purchased the property.’
The Doctor thrust his hands into the pockets of his smoking jacket. ‘You know the British, madam. Everything in triplicate.’
Bliss nodded. ‘I see.’
The Doctor cocked his head to one side. ‘Bliss. That’s a lovely name. Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘We…’ Bliss blinked twice, slowly. ‘I… I’m originally from South Africa.’
The Doctor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Beautiful country isn’t it? Where exactly are you from? The Transvaal?’
Bliss nodded impatiently. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ve always meant to go back to Johannesburg. You must be very proud of your capital.’
Bliss’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Indeed we are, Doctor. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy.’
She turned to the Brigadier. ‘I’ll arrange for you to see everything. A full tour. You’ll have to forgive the mess. We’re eager to get going.’
‘Yes,’ persisted the Doctor. ‘You’ve been very busy haven’t you? A lot of traffic. Especially at night.’
Bliss smoothed down her blouse. ‘As I say, we’re keen to get Legion International up and running.’
The Doctor gazed levelly at her. ‘And what about Culverton?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Are you sure you have the village’s best interests at heart?’ said the Doctor coolly.
Bliss spread her hands. ‘Naturally.’
‘And does your philanthropy extend to threatening people… or frightening young men half to death?’
Bliss didn’t react. The Doctor looked deep into her eyes. There was scarcely any white in them, just the huge, dark pupils.
‘Order must be maintained,’ said Bliss, smiling and showing her tiny white teeth.
The Doctor gave a low chuckle. ‘Sounds wonderful. A rosy future for Culverton. A state of bliss, you might say.’
The Brigadier cleared his throat and tapped his watch. The Doctor nodded. Bliss swung round.
‘You’re right. We must be getting on. You people don’t have much time left.’ She smiled her wide smile. ‘Do you?’
Whistler straightened up and made boldly for the perimeter fence. Far better to act as though he belonged here than skulk around waiting to be captured. He tried to stay light on his feet, conscious of the crisp ring his shoes made on the tarmac.
There was no sign that he had been spotted. All he had to do now was find the hole that he and Noah had made in the fence.
A hundred yards away the Legion troopers suddenly stopped work, as though frozen in time. As one,
their heads swung upwards and to one side, as if listening to something. There was no sound save for the songs of the summer birds but somewhere, on a higher register than Whistler could ever hope to detect, an alarm was sounding.
Captain McGarrigle straightened up, his head snapping to one side. He saw Whistler at once and began running towards the old man.
Whistler heard his booted feet on the tarmac and shot a look back. Gathering all his depleted strength he tore towards the fence, gripping the wire with both hands and hauling himself upwards.
Cursing his old age, he managed to drag himself higher. An image flashed through his mind of an escaping prisoner of war. Imprisonment was a fate he had managed to avoid in real life and had only ever seen in those John Mills films. Now he was experiencing it first-hand, struggling over a fence with McGarrigle in pursuit. At least they didn’t seem to have machine guns trained on him. Maybe they didn’t need to…
The Captain’s hand grasped Whistler’s thick ankle and tugged hard.
Whistler immediately kicked at him, landing a heavy blow to his shoulder. An instant later, McGarrigle bore down again, this time grasping the old man’s calf with both hands.
Despite his best efforts, Whistler felt himself sinking slowly towards the ground. He forced his hands into the mesh of the fence until he could feel it cut into his skin and kicked viciously at the Captain’s exposed face. Whistler’s shoes connected with the blond man’s grinning mouth and McGarrigle gasped as the polished toe cracked into his stained teeth.
Whistler kicked again, this time landing a savage blow right in the Captain’s windpipe. McGarrigle choked and staggered, then, with a roar of rage, jumped up and dragged the old man bodily to the ground.
Whistler fell heavily and lay there on the tarmac wheezing as the Captain, clasping his throat, loomed over him.
Blood was weeping from open cuts on Whistler’s palms. His eyes flicked up as a dozen Legion troops formed a circle around him.
Captain McGarrigle, however, seemed to be in trouble. He was breathing stertorously, his throat and chest juddering like those of an asthmatic. Saliva pumped from the corners of his wide mouth, trickling down his chin and spattering his neat black uniform.
