Doctor Who: Rags (14 page)

The largest one chucked a cigarette stub contemptuously in their direction. The Brigadier noticed something rather unusual as the detective and his sergeant stalked past the rear of the truck and made for the cemetery gates. They had interviewed the roadies about any possible connection between the band and the alcoholics’ murderous deeds - but they hadn’t interviewed the band themselves.

For the second time in the space of mere minutes, the Brigadier felt as if he’d just realised something he should have caught on to a long time ago. And then, unusually for someone with his precise, disciplined mind, he completely forgot it again.

She had been able to slip past the UNIT guards on the gate as they were liaising with their officer over whether to let the police in or not. When she saw the extent of the encampment, just how much it had grown since the Oblong Box, and realised just how vulnerable and incongruous she felt on her own amongst the travellers, she began to wonder if coming to the cemetery had been such a great little idea after all.

But then, did she really have a choice?

Charmagne paused next to a purple camper van as she pondered that. Of course she did. She could walk out again right now.

Of course she could...

The cattle truck caught her eye, parked beneath some overhanging yew trees, a felled stone obelisk beside it. The police were conversing with some military bigwig who had insisted on following them inside the cemetery with some blank-faced soldiers for company, and, judging from the expressions of the respective parties, it wasn’t exactly an empathic meeting of minds. Then the police, obviously having been granted access, headed off towards the truck. Charmagne decided to explore other avenues instead.

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She deliberately chose the most hostile-looking group she could find. That way she was sure of a reaction; she didn’t want noncommittal material. The four punks were squatting round the remains of last night’s fire, empty tins of beer strewn around the nearby headstones like New Wave grave decorations. They eyed her with a mixture of wariness and derision as she approached.

She almost walked on by, but her journalistic instincts forced her to make contact.

‘All right, folks?’ They ignored her greeting, staring at her blankly. One of them clutched a bag and his eyes were very red, and very empty. Pretty bloody vacant, all right. However, she’d come this far; she wasn’t going to stop now.

‘My name’s Charmagne, I’m from...’ She hesitated. The Plymouth Chronicle would sound so absurd in this context she would have laughed herself:I’m from the Daily Mail.’

On second thoughts, she reconsidered, as two of the punks snorted with contemptuous mirth.

‘D’yawanna story, love?’ one of them asked. His hair was dyed black and spiked, his leather jacket proclaimed DO IT DOG

STYLE down one sleeve.

‘Have you got one for me?’ She smiled her most encouraging smile, not too winsome, not too cocky.

‘Depends what ya want.’

‘Can you tell me about the Money Tree?’

‘Been lookin’ for it all me life,’ he shot back immediately.

She gave him a little laugh, just to make him feel good. ‘The wine bar?’ she prompted after a while. She was very conscious of the fact that the other punks weren’t saying anything, just staring at her; two with derision in their eyes, one with nothing. She wasn’t sure which was worse, until the one with blank eyes offered the bag to her and she smelt the glue. She smiled carefully at him and declined his kind offer. He continued to hold the bag out for a while, as if he couldn’t understand her refusal. She turned back to Dog Style expectantly.

‘Alkies kill brokers in cemetery tool massacre? You mean that 102

wine bar?’ He tucked his head down, slipped a fag between his lips, tilted his head back up.

‘Yeah, great Clint impression. You really are cool, maan...

‘You’ve read the headlines too? But do you know anything else that’s not in the papers?’

‘Like?’

‘Like why they did it. And was it anything to do with the tour?’

‘Now why would it be anything to do with the tour?’

‘You read the papers.’ She was becoming annoyed by his laid-back attitude. ‘You know what was written: you tell me.’ This was just a hippie with a different hairstyle; there was nothing new or radical going on with this lot. Glue instead of dope. Anarchy in the UK? The same old shit, more like.

Except she knew it wasn’t. She was seeing them in the mundane setting of daylight comedown from the night before.

There was no band to stir up the vibe. This was the convoy relaxing. You couldn’t maintain that wild energy all the time. She contained her disappointment; she wanted confrontation, controversy, quotes, for God’s sake.

Was that all she wanted?

‘Some rich bastards got chopped - that’s all that happened,’

Dog Style finally replied. ‘You expect us to give a shit about that?’

‘And the band?’ She glanced over at the truck. The roadies had strolled off to fiddle with the amps and speakers which were still roosting amongst the graves.

The punk shrugged. ‘What are you suggestin’? That the winos were fans? Got a little carried away by their enthusiasm with the music, decided to take out their pent-up aggressions on a bunch of stuck-up stockbrokers?’

‘Something like that, yeah’ She stared him straight in the eye.

He smiled.

‘Then you ain’t as dumb as you look. Now, if you excuse me, I gotta take a piss.’ He was unzipping as he rose to his feet. She took the hint and turned away. Well, maybe she had some quotes after all. But she knew she could never settle for just that. The cattle

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truck was the source of the mystery. The band were still in there presumably, and the only time she ever saw them come out was when they played a gig. She began stepping through the multitude of hippies and punks and misfits of all descriptions who were squatting on the grass or on the bonnets of battered vehicles. The roadies were busy, so she’d take a look for herself.

She got within four yards of the cab of the truck and could see nothing inside. She moved closer. The windows were opaque with dried mud, only a small section of the windscreen clear of the filth, and the cab was pushed too close into the trees for her to be able to walk round and look inside from that angle. She decided to check the back doors.

The huge padlocks securing them were rusty but firm. She fiddled with them distractedly for a moment, and then noticed the hole. She bent to peer through it.

The stink made her recoil. She felt her gorge rise, and coughed fiercely.

Decomposition and cabbages. She forced herself to look through the hole again. Blackness. She waited for her eye to adjust, and then...

Another eye was staring back at her.

An eye beyond the door.

An eye... an eye that could belong to no human... no animal.

No screams, just total paralysis. This eye was grey as snail flesh, without iris or pupil. It blinked, stone-like lid closing then lifting to stare again. Something reached inside Charmagne’s chest and molested her heart. She felt raped by that filthy eye but, like someone caught between sleep and wakefulness, could.... not... move.

‘See something you like?’

The voice broke the spell. She turned, collapsing against the corrugated steel door. The giant chief roadie was standing there, massive arms folded, dirty grin on his face. He unfolded his arms and, leisurely reaching out one hand, crushed her right breast casually, cruelly.

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‘Cos I sure see something I like...’

His raucous laughter followed her as she stumbled blindly towards the cemetery gates.

‘Nice and catchy,’ Derek Pole said as he slid the Daily Mirror across the crumb-strewn café table towards his companion.

Jeremy Willis glanced down at the headline:

STOP THIS EVIL TOUR!

The subheadings were even more lurid:

DISBAND CONVOY OF DEATH-HIPPIES AND HATE-PUNKS!

SHADOW CABINET DEMAND GOVERNMENT TAKE ACTION

AGAINST ‘CONVOY OF SEDITION’

‘Convoy of sedition, eh?’ Pole sneered. ‘One of yours I take it?’

He picked the paper up and read aloud: ‘Jeremy Willis, shadow transport minister, yesterday launched a full attack on what he describes as a complacent, ineffectual Government, prevented from taking firm action against the sinister hippie convoy and its cult band because of indecisive leadership and inefficient policies.

Willis blamed underfunding of the police force and an uncommitted cabinet for allowing such obscene "outrages against humanity"

to

remain

unpunished,

demanding

stricter

amendments to criminal bills concerning the unlawful gathering of peace-threatening movements.’ He put the paper down again and smirked at the minister.

‘Got a way with words haven’tya?’

‘Oh, but so have you, Mr Pole,’ Willis smirked right back. ‘I only have to pick up a copy of your magazine to realise exactly how eloquent you are.’

Pole lost his smile. ‘I’m glad you’re a regular reader.’

Willis smiled graciously. He gazed around the seedy little transport cafe. A yellow sign read BIG BOY’S BREAKFAST Below that invitation were similar appeals to lesser waistlines. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t have chosen somewhere more insalubrious for our meeting?’

Pole ignored this. He tapped the paper again. ‘I’m making light 105

of all this shit, Willis. But I don’t like it. Not one little bit. Too many people are making too many assumptions about this tour.

And they’re linking it to my magazine. What with the papers screaming class war and everything, it’s no wonder the Old Bill’s been sniffing around my place.’

Willis raised an amused eyebrow.

‘You think it’s funny? Remember I’m working with you on this.’

‘Is that a threat, Mr Pole?’ Willis waved the waitress away. Pole called her back and ordered a cup of tea.

‘It’s whatever you want it to be, mate,’ Pole lit a cigarette, blew some smoke towards Willis. But I think you can relax, my friend.

They got nothing on me.’

Willis maintained his smirk to prove that doing anything other than relaxing was far from his thoughts. The waitress returned with Pole’s tea, and Willis waited until they were alone again before speaking.

‘I’ve got some news for you that will take your mind off the police, Mr Pole.’

Pole leant back in his chair, tilting his head to one side expectantly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Good news. It seems fate is smiling on your little Gunpowder Plot. The very same day the princess is due to visit Bristol there is going to be a demonstration in the city centre. A pro Country Sports demo, which, if the travellers are still in Bristol - and I am doing my utmost to make sure that is the case - will almost certainly draw the two groups into inevitable conflict of some kind. After all, isn’t that what this tour’s all about - protesting against the affluent in our society? And who’s more affluent than the rural country sports brigade?’

Pole was smiling. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray, he leant forward again.

‘You know, I could almost get to like you,Willis. But then I realise what you are, and I regain control.’ Willis bowed his head with mock graciousness, an oily smirk on his face. ‘Are you absolutely sure the princess won’t cancel her visit because of the protest?’

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‘Why should she? It’s her set after all, isn’t it? And with enough pressure in the right places, the police can be convinced that the travellers and the royal cavalcade will not stretch their resources too much to warrant a rescheduling. Of course, you’ve got to make sure that if - and I’m sure it’ll be when - the travellers arrive at the protest, some of your agents kick off and start a little... excitement, shall we say. And then the police will most definitely find they have a lot on their plates...’

‘Leaving the darling princess at my mercy.’ Pole’s voice was low, but as he and Willis were alone in the cafe, and the waitress was at the other end of the room, he had no reason to worry about being overheard.

‘There will be a skeleton police and security force protecting her of course, but the vast majority of the constabulary will be at the other side of town. Supervising those infamous travellers will be far more of a stringent issue than watching the princess visit her university of choice. How jolly accommodating of her to decide to eschew Oxbridge, and how grateful you should be to those ragamuffins for deciding to bring their odious tour to Bristol.’

Willis stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘You really are a lucky man, Pole; things couldn’t have worked out better for you.’

‘Or for you: don’t forget what you’re hoping to gain out of this.’

Willis ignored this remark, preferring to continue his condescending assessment of the situation. ‘This is what your whole life’s been building up to, Pole, even if your riots haven’t -

as you promised me so vociferously they would. The biggest coup of your activist career, and you’ll hardly have to organise a damn thing. The travellers will stage it all for you.’