A chalk-white face jerked forward into the light from the screens. Its eyes were large and dark and glinted wetly as it peered at the green map. A small dwelling-place rose up from the digital read-out, the red light washing over it. Quite suddenly, a sharp, bright light began to wink steadily above it.
The figure began to smile…
Pausing for a moment outside the cottage, Whistler let the sweet fragrances of the summer night wash over him. The sky was a hazy navy-blue with a few stars visible and a miasma of insects swirled around the yellow light of the porch. The desiccated remains of their fallen colleagues lined the bottom of the lamp forming a carpet of wing-cases and compound eyes.
Whistler looked back at the house. Mrs Toovey was just settling herself back into a chair. It was a warm, Saturday evening. Perhaps she’d switch on the wireless or listen to a play or a concert. She might even risk the television. But tonight she seemed distracted. She was already knotting her hands together once again, pulling at her rings, her face wreathed in anxiety.
Whistler straightened up and made a conscious effort to throw off his melancholy mood. He took a deep breath of the flower-scented air and folded his hands behind his back. His posture was ramrod straight, his walk brisk. He began to whistle, softly and rather tunelessly and, at last, he began to feel a little better.
It made him smile to think it, but his whistling hadn’t improved. The fact was it had always been his hope that the men under his command would dub him with some affectionate nickname and ‘Whistling’ Whistler had been the one he’d naturally favoured. Yet, despite the many hours he spent deliberately plugging away at popular wartime tunes, the men had resolutely failed to catch on. ‘Stubby’ Parkinson had a nickname, of course, and ‘Beaver’ Kirk, Whistler’s old commander. But, as the war years had progressed, Whistler had found himself depressingly without a moniker of his own. He was beginning to think that even something like ‘Stinker’ would be appropriate when he’d accidentally discovered the truth. The memory made him chuckle, even after all these years.
Suddenly, with a roar of protesting engine, a lorry thundered past, its brakes hissing explosively, its wing mirror slicing through the darkness just inches from Whistler’s face.
He pulled up sharp and jumped back from the road a little shocked, feeling cold sweat spring to his skin. Mrs Toovey would not have been pleased. He had been wandering through the dark, lost in remembrance and quite forgetting the great dangerous things that were throttling through the village.
Whistler stood on the kerb and watched three or four of the vehicles disappearing into the night, their cargo invisible beneath heavy black tarpaulins. What on earth was going on? If they were doing something to the old aerodrome, surely the villagers should have been consulted. Unless, he thought, tapping his lip with a finger, unless it was very hush-hush. Now there was a thought. He might ring some of his old contacts at the MOD in the morning. See if there was something brewing. You could never really rest easy. Not with the Russians and the Chinese sitting on all those missiles…
He waited till the road was clear and the warm, silent blanket of night was restored and then set off for the pub. Just as he began to move, however, he heard the sound of approaching feet. It was a very particular sound, and familiar to him.
Troops. Marching.
Without quite knowing why, Whistler ducked down into a narrow alley between two thatched cottages. He pressed himself close to the damp plaster walls and bent down, his old knees cracking noisily. The footsteps came closer.
Whistler peered out at the road, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed, every sense alert. Then he saw them.
A group of perhaps a dozen black-uniformed men marched into view. Their handsome faces seemed to glow in the soft moonlight, as did the buckles on their black shirts.
Whistler felt himself go cold all over.
He felt in his pocket and rubbed his lucky charm until it felt warm beneath his fingertips. Then, as stealthily as he could, he ran towards the pub.
CHAPTER FOUR
CARGO
When Max Bishop was a very small boy his parents had taken him to the theatre. It wasn’t a very impressive place, its red walls scuffed and peeling, the photographs of old music-hall turns sun-faded and falling out of their frames.
Max, though, in his grey school blazer and neatly polished shoes had been immediately entranced. He had taken his seat in the stalls, wedged between his ample mother and skinny father, a bag of sherbet on his lap and a bubbling surge of excitement in his tummy. A fanfare of music had sounded, the threadbare velvet curtains had swung back and the stage was suddenly full of wonders. Jugglers, people in glittering costumes, even a troop of little people with the faces of old men whom Max had found more than a little disturbing.
It must only have taken an hour or two but, by the time Snow White and her handsome prince were married, Max Bishop’s life was transformed. He was going to go on the stage. His brother Ted, by contrast, had never really wanted much except to take over the post office business from their parents. He hadn’t much time for socialising or courting, preferring to spend time with his books rather than attend the village dances where he might meet a likely girl. Max had always despaired of him. Even in their dressing-up games, when Max had been the ruler of some foreign land, complete with home-made turban and harem of wives, Ted had been content to play a palace guard or a eunuch.
As time went by, the brothers had grown apart. Max was going to go to drama school, everyone in Culverton knew it. Ted, of course, would take on the business when their parents passed away.
But things hadn’t quite worked out as expected. Ted had been the one who had married. A lovely woman, but carried off in childbirth like someone from a Victorian novel. It had fallen to Max to take on the post office because Ted, he told everyone, simply wasn’t up to it, being so griefstricken and all. As the years passed, Max insisted upon staying on. His brother was a good man, a decent man, but business was never his forte. Max owed it to their parents’ memory to keep the business afloat. So, he had martyred himself on the altar of duty, slipped into his niche on the opposite side of the counter and scaled down his dreams to an annual production of Annie Get Your Gun.
What a trial his life was! As if the daily grind of pension books and postal orders was not enough he had to deal with Ted’s reckless son, always shirking his duties and getting into scrapes. Well, the busiest period of the year, barring Christmas, was almost on them and young Noah would have to do his bit now.
It was early in the morning and Max Bishop glanced at his wristwatch. He had convened a meeting in the church hall to take everyone through the final details of the summer fête which – yet again – he had burdened himself with organising. This year, however, he’d taken great pains to tell everyone that it really was someone else’s turn and, no, nothing could persuade him to change his mind. The villagers, of course, said it couldn’t be done without him and had sent the new vicar, Mr Darnell, to plead with him personally. After a great show of reluctance (which reminded him rather nicely of that wonderful scene where Richard III refuses the crown), Max had agreed.
Now, with a fluting sigh, he ran his hand through his thinning grey hair and pushed his spectacles up his nose. Around the table were five empty chairs. Only Miss Plowman, a tiny, bird-like woman with round grey eyes which seemed to sit on either side of her nose like pince-nez, had turned up on time.
‘Really,’ opined Max, rolling his eyes. ‘They begged me to look after this blessed fête. The least they could do is turn up.’ He turned to the little woman at his side. ‘Who’re we missing?’ he asked sharply.
Miss Plowman turned a few pages on her spiral-bound notebook. ‘Erm… Miss Arbus. Your nephew…’
Max grunted.
‘Mr Packer…’
‘Well, he’s never on time, anyway…’
‘Wing Commander Whistler…’
Max shrugged. ‘Probably cleaning that aeroplan
e of his.’
‘And Mrs Garrick.’ She closed her pad. ‘Funny. I saw Jean last night. She said she was coming in early to do the flowers on the altar.’
Max wearily rubbed his eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘You haven’t seen her?’
Miss Plowman shook her delicate little head.
Max sighed and smoothed down the front of his seersucker shirt. A long morning of sack-race registrations, tombola prizes and hoopla stretched ahead. It would be a relief when those new people from the aerodrome turned up for their meeting. At least he wouldn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He looked about the room and threw up his hands theatrically. ‘Where is everybody?’
Across the village, by the post office, Noah Bishop sat with his knees tucked up under his chin. He was a rangy, rather striking teenager and was wearing a loose T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts. As the traffic thundered by, he picked idly at the raised rubbery emblem on his old baseball shoes.
It was getting hot now, the sun glinting harshly off the paintwork of the lorry convoy which continued unabated, destroying the calm of the village and filling the pollen-heavy air with the smell of diesel.
Noah sat on a flaking metal bench set slightly to one side of the village green.
Another lorry rounded the corner and he squinted against the sunlight to try and make out the shape covered by the black tarpaulin. As he watched, the lorry took the corner rather too quickly. Noah saw it thundering towards him.
There was a long, drawn-out moment, as though time were slowing down, and Noah felt his heart beat very fast. He jumped to his feet and scrambled out of the way just as the lorry mounted the kerb, brakes screeching. Its massive wheels instantly cut through the turf of the green, throwing up a muddy furrow like a brown wave.
Noah backed away and dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on the vehicle which had come to a halt only yards from the bench.
There was a sudden silence.
The lorry’s engine steamed madly.
Noah jogged cautiously forward, straining to see through the tinted windscreen.
‘Hello?’
He walked up to the front of the lorry, frowning. The driver didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reverse or even get out of the cabin.
‘Are you OK?’ called Noah.
He walked to the other side of the lorry, resting his hand on the bonnet. He pulled it back in shock, surprised at how hot the casing was.
It was only as he reached the back of the truck that he realised the tarpaulin had come loose and some of the cargo had spilled to the ground.
He cocked his head to one side, not at all sure what he was seeing.
Three large, cylindrical caskets were splayed out on the parched grass. They were about seven feet long and rounded at one end like torpedoes. In the sunlight they seemed sleek, black and glossy like wet liquorice. Noah couldn’t see any break in their smooth surfaces but they reminded him at once of coffins.
As he bent down on one knee and put out his hand to examine one of them, a large, pale, cold hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. He stepped back in surprise.
A man – some sort of officer judging by the braiding on his black shirt – was standing over him, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and a wide smile on his handsome face.
‘We’ll take it from here, son,’ he said. His voice was low and gentle, like a breeze through a cornfield.
‘I don’t mind giving you a hand.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ repeated the man, releasing Noah’s wrist.
Noah shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
Half a dozen more men appeared from the top of the green, like shadows detaching themselves from the side of the old water pump. They were dressed in identical black uniforms and sunglasses and immediately began to manhandle the caskets back on to the lorry.
The senior officer marched swiftly up to it and pulled open the door. Noah shifted his weight to see inside.
To his surprise, the driver wasn’t moving. He was merely staring ahead, blinking slowly and, of all things, smiling. A pair of sunglasses lay broken on the dashboard.
Shock, Noah reasoned.
He remembered the time he’d come off a scooter while on holiday in Greece. The friction burns on his elbows and legs were nothing compared to the strange, cold feeling that had swept over him and the nebulae of spots that had exploded before his eyes.
Rather than move the driver to one side, however, the officer spoke to him in the calm, level tone he’d used to Noah.
‘Reverse. The cargo has been replaced. Reverse and continue to the aerodrome.’
The driver didn’t react, save for a momentary widening of his smile. He turned the ignition key and shifted the gear lever. The engine thrummed into life.
The officer clambered down from the cab in one swift movement and slammed the door behind him.
‘Is he all right?’ queried Noah. He glanced behind him. The lorry was now reloaded, the tarpaulin stretched back into place, as taut as a bat’s wing.
The officer placed a gloved hand on Noah’s shoulder.
‘There’s no problem, son. You go home now.’
Annoyed, Noah shrugged off the officer’s hand. ‘Would you mind telling me who you are exactly?’ he said loudly.
The officer said nothing, merely moving back to rejoin his men. Noah followed him, his straight, blond hair fluttering in the breeze.
‘Is something going on up at the aerodrome? We’ve got a right to know.’
The men had formed a neat line and were moving rapidly up the village green like a phalanx of cockroaches. Noah tugged at the officer’s shirt.
Without warning the man swung round, his fixed grin wavering slightly. He raised a hand as though about to strike Noah.
‘You heard the boy, identify yourself,’ barked an authoritative voice.
Noah and the officer both looked round to see Wing Commander Whistler standing by the road, striking an impressive pose as he leant on his shooting-stick.
‘Well?’ he insisted, walking right up to the uniformed men, his old face flushed with fury.
The officer slowly lowered his hand. His eyes flicked from Whistler to Noah and back again. ‘My name is McGarrigle. Captain McGarrigle.’
Whistler looked him up and down contemptuously. ‘Captain, eh? Army?’
McGarrigle shook his head. ‘Civilian.’
He touched his fingers to the tip of his cap. ‘There’s nothing to see. Good morning to you.’
Once again he grinned, tiny beads of saliva sliding over his long, brownish teeth. He turned on his heel and marched his men away.
Whistler and Noah looked round as the lorry finally moved off. It backed away from the churned-up soil of the green, executed a neat three-point turn which got it back on to the road and trundled off towards the aerodrome.
‘Well, what was all that about?’ asked Noah.
Whistler said nothing, but stared at the boy for a long, thoughtful moment. Then he marched swiftly to the phone box on the edge of the green.
He hauled open the stiff door and pulled a battered blue address book from his coat pocket. Vaguely he registered the unpleasant smell of urine and the carpet of dust and mouldering bus tickets beneath his feet, but his mind was elsewhere. He found the number he’d been looking for and laid the address book on the scuffed black shelf next to the phone. He dialled a long number, the circular dial crawling back round, digit by digit, with agonising slowness.
Whistler cradled the receiver under his chin and peered through the dirty glass panes of the phone box, sure that the troops would appear again at any moment. Noah was watching them go, gnawing anxiously at his knuckles.
‘You have reached the offices of Panorama Securities,’ said a recorded woman’s voice at the other end. ‘Please hold.’
Whistler sighed impatiently and hastily slotted three ten-pence pieces into the box.
There was a click at the end of the line and this t
ime a man spoke. ‘Hello?’
‘Yes, hello,’ said Whistler, his throat dry. ‘I need to speak to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. It’s urgent.’
CHAPTER FIVE
ESCAPE TO DANGER
A very, very long way from the village of Culverton, three moons were rising in a sky the colour of burnt orange. A dense jungle, alive with the hooting and whistling of strange creatures, was disappearing into shadowy night as a man made his way swiftly and urgently through the trees.
The Doctor was running for his life.
He pulled up sharply, resting the flat of his hand against a tall, willowy tree trunk; the bark was still warm from the heat of the planet’s day. Behind him, there was a sudden rustling sound.
The Doctor snapped his head round and squinted through the fading light to try and make out his pursuers. Only the jungle looked back at him, however, now beginning to glow bone-white in the light of the moons.
The Doctor leant back against the tree and listened to the harsh sound of his own breathing and heart beating.
A very tall, slender man, with a mane of white hair and a prominent, rather beakish nose, he was used to cutting something of a dash in his current form. But his rich blue velvet smoking jacket was torn and the collar was hanging off his ruffled white shirt as he stood in the strange three-mooned shadow, catching his breath.
The rustling from the jungle came again and the Doctor looked swiftly behind him. If he could only make it down to the lake…
Making a snap decision he ran on, peering ahead to try and make out the reflection of the water ahead. A boat was meant to be waiting for him. A boat across to the island where he had materialised the TARDIS at the start of this whole sorry, ill-advised adventure.
He had made friends and allies, of course, during the past – how long was it? – a week? Two? But the terrible regime which ruled the planet had not taken too kindly to his meddling and, not for the first time in his life, the Doctor found himself a marked man. Desperation had got him over the walls of the prison and into the dense jungle beyond, but the soldiers were hot on his track as the increasingly raucous rustling behind him showed.