‘What did you see, Noah?’ The Doctor crouched low to hear the boy’s whispered words.
‘I saw it,’ repeated Noah.
‘It’s all right, Noah. You can tell me. What did you see out there? At the aerodrome?’
The boy suddenly sat bolt upright, his pale, bright eyes staring wildly ahead.
‘Monster!’ he shrieked. ‘Monster!’
Whistler woke with a throbbing headache, the worst he had ever experienced. He tried to move on his bunk and immediately sank back, feeling waves of nausea pound through him.
He lifted a shaking hand to his face and gently examined his lacerated skin. He could feel bruising all over and his lips and cheeks were painfully swollen.
When he tried to sit up again the room remained steady. Glancing around, he saw that he had been returned to his cell. Bliss had not disposed of him as she had threatened, which meant he must still be of value to her.
The ninth key.
What had she meant? The old man silently congratulated himself on holding out against her terrible tortures. His squadron would have been proud of him.
He struggled to his feet, pressing the flat of his hand against the cold wall, groaning in pain as he took several deep breaths. His ribs ached terribly and he felt his tongue probe almost unconsciously the wet, bloody hole where his tooth had been.
Whistler straightened up and smoothed down his sweat-soaked hair. There was no mirror in the room, no furniture at all save for the bed and a small table clamped to the wall. A metal water jug and a bowl of what looked like porridge sat on the table. Whistler ate the porridge greedily with his bare hands, grateful for any sustenance, and drank almost all the water in one draught. He burped and then poured the remaining water over his head, hissing in pain as it stung his wounds.
After a moment, he glanced at the door of the cell. It was a plain, gunmetal colour with no grille or window. He couldn’t tell if a guard was posted outside, but he knew Bliss would take no chances. Looking quickly around, Whistler began to formulate his plan.
He picked up the metal jug and clambered back on to the bed, curling his arm beneath his head and pushing the jug out of sight beneath the pillow. Then, summoning up as much phlegm as he could from his aching lungs, he began to utter the throatiest moan he could manage.
‘Help,’ he gurgled, his voice rattling. ‘Help me… please!’ There was no response from beyond the door.
Whistler rolled his eyes and upped the volume of his groaning.
‘I’m… help me… I think I’m choking!’ he shrieked, improvising wildly.
This time, the door was flung open. Whistler kept his back turned, restricting his movements to a writhing spasm which he hoped would convince the guard.
The black-uniformed man came swiftly inside and advanced on the bed without saying a word. He extended a hand to pull Whistler over. The Wing Commander waited for his moment and, as he felt the man’s fingertips brush his shoulder, he swung round and smashed the water jug straight into his jailer’s face. The guard dropped like a felled tree, buckling at the knees and falling backwards on to the hard concrete floor.
Whistler stepped over him and raced for the door. He looked out into the featureless corridor, checked both ways, stepped out and then softly closed the door behind him.
As on most recent nights, young Graham Allinson had found it impossible to sleep.
He lay now, eyes aching and raw, staring at the ceiling, arm tucked behind his head, wondering what he was going to do. Sunlight was beginning to filter through a chink in the curtains like light from a film projector and he tried to take some comfort in this. But the only image that came to mind was Anthony Ayre knocking him from his bike and, even after the distraction of the strange lightning, losing no time in beating him up.
The bully was careful, though, to ensure that all of Graham’s injuries looked like they could have been caused by falling from the old Raleigh.
The boy turned over to face the door of his room and groaned at the pain in his ribs. Hot tears began to well up in his exhausted eyes.
Why did he have to be so funny looking? Why did his ears stick out? Why was he so skinny? And how come Anthony Ayre was built like a boxer when all he ever ate was chocolate and crisps?
Graham was turning these burning issues over and over in his mind when a sharp sound from outside made his ears prick up.
Wincing, he shuffled across the bed to the window and drew back the curtains a fraction.
Someone was making their way down the garden towards the freshly creosoted shed. Graham pulled himself close to the glass to try and make out who the figure – dressed all in black – was. The door of the shed opened and the figure slipped inside.
Graham frowned and glanced quickly at his alarm clock. Whoever it was couldn’t be up to any good this early.
He went back to bed, sank back on to the pillows and listened to the thudding of his own heart.
What he should do, of course, was to wake his mum and dad. They’d protest at the early hour, naturally, but then his dad would swing into action. He was always so good in times of crisis. That’s what dads were for, Graham’s grandma had once told him.
Yes, Mr Allinson would be down the garden in no time, still in his pyjama bottoms, wielding a golf club, with Mrs Allinson and Graham cowering behind him.
But not this time.
Graham jumped out of bed and put on his tartan dressing gown and slippers. He went swiftly downstairs and into the back kitchen, pausing only to slip on his anorak and give his dog a pat on the head. The dog looked up sleepily from its basket but didn’t follow as Graham unlocked the door and slipped outside.
The morning was wonderfully fresh. Dew sparkled on the grass and the blossom-heavy trees but Graham didn’t notice as, with pounding heart, he picked up his cricket bat and crept towards the shed.
Nervously, he fiddled with the rubber tube that covered the bat’s handle, rolling it back and forth. As he approached the door, he lifted the bat to shoulder height, trying to remain calm and letting the smell of linseed oil drift into his nostrils. He reached out one shaking hand and lifted the latch on the shed door. It creaked open, exposing a black rectangle of darkness. He peered inside.
Someone stepped into his line of sight and Graham yelled in terror. He swung the cricket bat high above his head and then stopped dead as he realised the figure was his father.
Mr Allinson, however, seemed oddly changed. He was dressed in a smart black uniform, boots and epaulettes shining, his eyes hidden behind chunky sunglasses. He was smiling and holding out some kind of box with both hands.
‘Dad?’ said Graham in a small voice.
His father didn’t speak, merely extending his arms so that the box was within his son’s reach.
‘What’s going on, Dad?’
Graham looked down. The box was white and seemed to be made of some kind of translucent plastic. It was glowing. The boy was sure he could see something moving inside it.
He tried to back away, to call for his mother, to get up the nerve to smash the cricket bat down on to the box, but his father peeled it open, as smoothly as a lunch box, and the thing within leapt out and latched on to Graham’s face.
A few minutes later, Graham Allinson wasn’t worried about being bullied any more.
Constable Trickett, in his new pyjamas, swung back the bedclothes and walked slowly into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
He glanced up into the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet and his own smiling face looked back at him. His teeth were oddly stained and, as he lifted the brush towards his face, something seemed to stir in the darkness just inside his mouth.
Trickett cocked his head to one side as though listening to an instruction, then carefully laid down the brush, a bead of white toothpaste untouched on its bristles. He opened the door of the cabinet so that the mirror showed a view of the bedroom beyond. His wife Helen appeared to still be asleep but Trickett could see that she was staring into space, her ey
es haunted.
She seemed to be aware that her husband was watching her and cast a quick, furtive glance towards the bathroom.
Trickett closed the cabinet, his grinning image looming up like a face drawn on a balloon.
‘Morning, love,’ he called. ‘Sleep well?’
Helen Trickett didn’t answer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RETURNS
Sergeant Benton was driving the Brigadier and Captain Yates along a narrow road lined with box-hedge. The big car hummed steadily. The Brigadier pressed the receiver of his car-phone closer to his ear and nodded.
‘All right. Very well,’ he rapped, passing the receiver to Yates.
‘Trouble, sir?’ asked Yates, replacing the telephone in its compartment below the seat.
‘Not sure, Yates,’ said the Brigadier with a frown. ‘That was the defence secretary. It seems that our passes into Legion International come with one or two qualifications.’
‘Qualifications?’
Lethbridge-Stewart nodded. ‘We have precisely one hour to complete our inspection and then we have to be off the premises.’
‘But why, sir?’
The Brigadier sank back against the red upholstery. ‘To – and I quote – “enable the facility to go about its important work undisturbed”.’
Yates shook his head. ‘Somebody up there likes them.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Brigadier grimly. ‘Let’s hope the Doctor’s got something to go on. See if you can raise Miss Grant, would you?’
He peered through the window. A road sign flashed past.
‘Culverton, two miles,’ he announced.
The parp of a car horn sounded and the Brigadier craned his neck to see. A big, black limousine was directly behind them, seemingly anxious to pass on the narrow country road. The horn blared again. The Brigadier leant forward and tapped Benton on the shoulder.
‘Better let him pass, Benton.’
‘Righto, sir.’
Benton twisted the wheel and the car moved to the left giving the limousine space to pass.
It roared by in a dark flash, without so much as a pip-pip of thanks. Benton watched it until it disappeared into the distance.
The Doctor was halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs which he’d rustled up when Ted Bishop came downstairs, looking refreshed and better than he had in a long while, except for his hair which was sticking up at the back in a cowlick.
He greeted the Doctor with a half-smile.
‘Noah’s sleeping fine now. I’m grateful, Doctor.’
The Doctor waved away his thanks. ‘Don’t mention it. Now, your brother hasn’t returned, Mr Bishop. You say he went to find the local constable?’
Ted nodded. ‘What do you think could have happened to him, Doctor?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Let’s hope he’s all right. The most important thing is we have evidence that things aren’t quite right in Culverton. That should help the Brigadier get official wheels moving. If he ever gets here.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘In the meantime, I’d better get over there and see how Miss Grant –’
The Doctor broke off suddenly as they both heard the front door open and then quietly shut.
Ted Bishop looked up. There was muffled rush of water as someone turned on a tap.
‘Max?’ called Ted. ‘Max, is that you?’
The Doctor indicated that they should go through into the kitchen. He pushed back the door and looked through. Max Bishop was standing at the sink, filling the kettle and laying out the tea things.
‘Morning!’ he said brightly. ‘I didn’t know we had company, Ted.’ He shovelled tea from the caddy into the big brown pot.
Ted frowned. ‘Where’ve you been?’
Max just smiled and hummed a little tune to himself.
The Doctor exchanged glances with Ted. ‘I’m the Doctor, Mr Bishop,’ he said, as though talking to a child.
‘Doctor, eh? Somebody poorly?’
The Doctor rubbed his chin. ‘Would you mind telling us where you’ve been?’
‘I went to see a policeman,’ said Max, his eyes shining with wonder.
The Doctor moved over to his side and held out his hand for the teapot. ‘Let me help you with that.’
Max grinned. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘Did you see the policeman?’ asked the Doctor casually, setting out the cups.
‘Oh yes,’ said Max.
Ted sighed impatiently. ‘You went to get Constable Trickett, Max. Noah’s been hurt, don’t you remember?’
Max continued to smile. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Constable Trickett told me. There’s someone coming to look after everything.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘Who? Who’s coming?’
Max looked up. The sunlight slanting through the kitchen window threw a bar of shadow across his face. It suddenly made his eyes seem very large and dark.
‘Another policeman. An important one. He’s coming from Scotland Yard.’
Jo had bathed and changed into a clean T-shirt and bell-bottom cords. A sweater was knotted around her waist and she tightened it as she popped her head round the door of the front room in Whistler’s cottage.
‘Ah, Jo,’ said Mrs Toovey brightly, wiping her mouth with a napkin. ‘How are you this morning, love?’
‘Much better for a good night’s sleep,’ said Jo sincerely, stooping to pick up a piece of toast. ‘Do you mind? I’m starving.’
Mrs Toovey got up and headed for the little kitchen. ‘I was just waiting for you to get up. Would bacon and eggs be all right?’
‘Smashing,’ mumbled Jo, her mouth full of toast. ‘What do you reckon that bloke was looking for last night?’
Mrs Toovey rubbed her ring finger. ‘I wish I knew. You were ever so brave, you know. I was frightened out of my wits.’
Jo smiled. ‘Well, I’ve been trained to just about hang on to mine.’
She looked into the middle distance thoughtfully. ‘It was really dark up there but I’m sure he wasn’t just waiting around to scare us. It was more like… he was looking for something.’
‘You mean he was just a burglar?’
Jo shook her head. ‘I think the Legion International people have set their sights higher than your candlewick bedspreads, Mrs T.’
The old woman gave a small, sad smile then straightened up, hands on hips. ‘Well, if the Wing Commander’s taught me anything it’s the importance of positive action. He’s been missing long enough. If we can’t get our constabulary interested, we’ll get on to the county coppers. See what they think. They’ll sort these aerodrome buggers out, once and for all.’
She clapped her hands together. ‘Now, love. How do you like your eggs?’
Jo gave a groan of happy expectation but was interrupted by a knock at the back door.
She shot a quick look at Mrs Toovey and got to her feet, but the housekeeper held up her hand. ‘No. I’ll go. It’s about time I stood up for myself.’
Jo followed her through into the kitchen; a beamed room cluttered with pots, its ceiling blackened by the fumes of three centuries’ dinners.
The back door was gated into two halves like a stable door. It rattled again as someone knocked twice on the outside.
Gingerly, Mrs Toovey unbolted it and swung open the top section. She gave an audible sigh of relief as a sunburnt old man in a battered straw hat was revealed.
‘Morning, Annie,’ he cried.
Mrs Toovey laid a hand flat against her chest. ‘Oh, Jobey, thank heavens it’s only you.’
She stepped back so that Jo could see the newcomer. ‘This is Jobey, my dear. He does a few odd jobs for me from time to time.’
‘Hello,’ said Jo.
Jobey Packer raised his straw hat in greeting and leant over the bottom half of the door, crossing his brawny arms.
‘The Wing Commander said you wasn’t at the pub the other night, Jobey. He was quite concerned,’ said Mrs Toovey, taking down the big
, iron frying pan from the wall. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Oh,’ said Jobey, his mouth widening into a huge smile. ‘Here and there.’
The tiny point of light was almost white in its brilliance.
It moved across the concrete like a searchlight until it found its intended victim. The spider sat immobile, its hairy abdomen throbbing gently, its legs clustered together, unaware of what Anthony Ayre had in store for it.
The boy was sitting on the concrete drive which led to his father’s garage, dressed in football shorts and a moth-eaten towelling shirt his mother made him wear when he was ‘playing out’.
In one hand he held the thick lens from Graham Allinson’s spectacles which he had stolen and broken the day before. He was putting the lens to good use, he thought, with a chuckle as he angled it towards the blazing disc of the sun and watched the focused beam crawl towards the spider.
He had caught the creature and slapped a piece of sticky tape over it to keep it rooted to the spot. It wriggled confusedly, trying to extricate itself from its prison. The beam of light came closer, closer.
This was the latest in a series of tortures which Anthony had devised. One of his favourites had always been to squirt water from an old washing-up-liquid bottle over the hundreds of red mites that seemed to crawl out of the concrete every summer and drown them.
The other kids in the street would be doing girly things like writing their names on the parched concrete with the stream of water. Anthony found his game much more satisfying. He imagined himself a great king, bringing destruction to an invading army; opening the floodgates and exterminating the heathen hordes of red mites.
Grinning, he shifted his weight on his ample buttocks and watched as the sunlight began to burn the spider’s carapace.
Whitish smoke began to curl upwards. Anthony cackled with delight. The spider struggled. A tiny black hole had been scorched into its side.
Anthony suddenly looked up as he heard shoes scraping on the concrete driveway.
A lanky boy in shirts and T-shirt stood blinking in the sunlight.
Anthony grinned. Today just got better and better.
‘Hello, Bongo,’ he said in his surly way. ‘Come back for some more?’