'And loving it, too.' The man smiled. 'Though I didn't expect you to follow me back down here.'
'I'd follow you to hell, Shanks.'
Without further comment the man turned and stalked back to his friends. Denman shook his head, sadly. 'Kenny Shanks,' he explained. 'A thug from the first day I set eyes on him. I've spent most of my life trying to put that piece of scum away from society. Here and in the 'Pool.'
Rebecca finished off her glass of wine. 'I don't like him.'
'Nobody in their right mind would like Shanks,' said Denman.
'And then there was that terrible business with Michael Forster,' said the former headmaster. The man, mumbling his words through a mouthful of champagne and oysters, seemed to have recognised the Doctor. The Doctor was sure they'd never met before, but thought it impolite to pursue the point.
'Yes,' nodded the Doctor sadly. 'I remember.'
And he did. He remembered the noise of the Glastonbury crowd as Comanche Bloodbath, resplendent against a painted backdrop of Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now helicopters and Native American faces, finished their opening song in a squeal of feedback. And he remembered Michael Forster coming to the microphone and saying, 'I am the Resurrection, and I am the Life!', and then pulling a combat knife from his jeans pocket, telling the one hundred thousand people in the audience that life was cheap and worthless and that the only answer was death, and plunging the blade into his chest. helicopters and Native American faces, finished their opening song in a squeal of feedback. And he remembered Michael Forster coming to the microphone and saying, 'I am the Resurrection, and I am the Life!', and then pulling a combat knife from his jeans pocket, telling the one hundred thousand people in the audience that life was cheap and worthless and that the only answer was death, and plunging the blade into his chest.
Oh, yes. The Doctor remembered.
He was beginning to think that the entire reunion had been a waste of time, and that he should be getting back to Ace, and the TARDIS, when the mention of the proposed village memorial to Michael Forster brought him up short. It was as if he'd forgotten for a moment what the point of it all was, and the mere mention of Forster's name had been enough to remind him.
The Doctor glanced around the room, and for an instant he saw the faces of the shocked band members, spotted with drops of sweat and blood. He shook his head, and the hideous image faded. And the Doctor noticed that Hatch and his friends were no longer in the room.
He apologised to the old headmaster, and made his way towards the door. He spotted a tall, well-built individual with a full beard looking similarly bewildered by the men's sudden disappearance. 'Denman,' the Doctor muttered to himself.
'Another complication.'
The Doctor walked down the grand staircase and out into the grounds, slipping past a burly man in a dark suit who was trying to light a cigarette.
It was dusk now. The sun, a huge orange fireball deep in the west, was almost gone and in its place came a clear midsummer night. The smell of freshly mown grass and the buzz of small insects almost overpowered the Doctor's senses. As he walked out towards the rugby fields, he felt a prickly sensation along his spine. Perhaps he should have heeded the premonition, but the Doctor's strength of purpose was absolute. The answers that he had sought for three hundred years and four of his lives were here somewhere.
Voices. Somewhere nearby. And a flashlight.
'...and that journalist woman...?'
'Floating at the bottom of the Mersey, Matt. The lads tied her feet to a block of concrete and dumped her near the cast-iron shore. She'll never be found.'
'Good. That's what I like, an absence of loose ends.'
The Doctor strained his eyes in the gloom. It was the four men from the reunion: Matthew Hatch, Trevor Winstone, Kenneth Shanks, and Philip Burridge. They were standing around a four-by-four, and two of the men were busy pulling back a sheet of tarpaulin. The revealed metal glinted under a flashlight.
The Doctor crept as silently as he could towards the big Jeep. Suddenly one of the figures swivelled on the spot, and the Doctor was blinded by the torchlight.
'Stop where you are!'
The Doctor obeyed without question. Although he couldn't see it, he sensed that there was a gun pointing at him.
'Who's this?' asked Hatch.
'Dunno, matey,' said Shanks. He advanced, cautiously, and a glimmer of recognition crossed his features. A moment later, it was gone, and Shanks was pressing the gun into the Doctor's chest. 'A spy?'
'Get him in the car,' said Hatch angrily. 'If he moves, shoot him.'
Ian Denman left the reunion as soon as he realised that his quarry was no longer in sight. He had allowed himself to be distracted, by an eighty-year-old woman governor extolling the virtues of his public stand on school discipline.
He moved out into the twilight, pushing impatiently past one of Shanks's goons who stood at the door. Denman scanned the school grounds for any sign of movement. The noise from the party above drifted down to him.
Nothing. Except, yes, there in the distance on the playing field. Movement in the gloom. Denman jogged a few paces, crouching as he did so to try to get a look at what was going on. There was a flurry of movement as those he sought got into a sleek black saloon car. He counted five figures, but from this distance he couldn't tell who their friend was. After a moment one of the men got out of the car and moved off some distance just as the vehicle burst into life. Headlights flashed across the ground in front of Denman and he hurriedly stepped back into the shadows. When he emerged again, the car had crawled on to the gravel driveway and was heading slowly for the gates. In the distance, Denman heard another vehicle heading in the opposite direction. 'Damn,' he muttered angrily to himself.
'Where do you want me to drive to?' asked Trevor Winstone as he swung Hatch's car through the school gates and off towards the open countryside beyond.
'Anywhere,' said Matthew Hatch, red-faced. 'Just put your foot down.'
In the back of the car, the Doctor sat quietly, very aware of the gun Kenny Shanks was aiming at a point equidistant between his hearts. 'Could you be very careful,' the Doctor eventually exclaimed. 'Country roads tend to be rather bumpy.'
'Oh great,' said Shanks. 'We've got a comedian here. Go on then, crack us a joke.' Shanks lifted the gun to the Doctor's face and poked it at his nose. 'I'm waiting.'
'Shut up, Ken,' said Hatch, who was half turned in the front seat. He seemed to be considering his options. In the dull light of the car, the unflappability for which the politician was famous had been replaced by a high-octane nervous energy that crackled like static electricity. Hatch looked closely at the Doctor.
'I'd advise you to be frank with us,' he said with a voice that had lost every trace of the West Country. 'Because we certainly intend to be frank with you. We'll start with your name.'
'The Doctor.'
Shanks's pocketed the gun. 'Turn on the light, Trev,' he said, looking at the Doctor closely. 'Now I remember you,' he continued. 'You've aged well.'
'So who is he, then?' asked Hatch.
'One of the governors. We met years ago.' Shanks gripped the Doctor's collar as though any reminder of those painful days was unwelcome. 'You picked a bad night to take a stroll, Doctor.'
'I'm so sorry,' said the Doctor. 'If you want to drop me off here, I can assure you that your schemes for world domination will remain our little secret.'
There followed a lengthy silence until Hatch let out a bellow of laughter, slapping his thigh theatrically.
'What are we going to do?' asked Trevor as he slowed the car into a lay-by.
'Looks like a nice spot for a quiet execution,' said the Doctor ruefully. His own stupidity had led him to a shallow grave in a field in Wiltshire. The only consolation would be the surprise on the faces of the three men when a man with a completely different face would sit up after the shooting, asking where he was, what was going on, and could they possibly direct him to his TARDIS? 'May I ask you one question?' said the Doctor.
'Certainly,' agreed Hatch.
'Why?' asked the Doctor.
'Why what?'
'The gunrunning?' The Doctor paused. 'You're all intelligent men, surely you could find something better to do with your time than peddle weapons of destruction?'
'You have an alternative?' asked Hatch, amused.
'Many people on Earth are starving,' said the Doctor.
'Food makes you fat,' said Hatch cynically. 'Weapons make you strong.'
'Goering said something similar.'
'One of my heroes,' noted Hatch before turning to Shanks.
'Aren't you going to add anything into this conversation? He's your friend, after all.'
'Nope,' said Shanks.
'Well,' said Trevor Winstone. 'Guns mean jobs in this country, which means food on the table and less men on the dole. If we don't supply arms, some other country will.' The words flowed out like a well-rehearsed mantra. 'Things aren't as black and white as you think.'
'Few things in life are,' said the Doctor, sadly. 'Except Laurel and Hardy films.'
'A philosopher, too?' asked Hatch.
'Don't start any of that pyschobabble with me, pal,' Shanks said, turning on the Doctor angrily. 'A whole city cacks itself every time I get mad.'
'Remarkable,' said the Doctor. 'When I first met you, you couldn't even control your own bladder.'
Anger flared across Shanks's face. 'Can you sew?' he snarled.
'A little,' said the Doctor, surprised by the question. Well, stitch this, then,' said Shanks, head-butting him just above the nose.
CHAPTER 3.
THE V1LLAGE GREEN PRESERVATION SOCIETY.
The door exploded inward, and the masked men rushed into the house. 'Bring him out!' they shouted. 'He belongs to us now!'
A light came on somewhere, and a prematurely aged couple appeared at the top of the stairs, nervously pulling on thick dressing gowns despite the thunderously oppressive midnight air. 'What the hell is going on?' shouted the man.
But there was a quaver in his voice, as if a terrifying realisation were washing over him.
'You know why we're here,' said the leader of the group. His voice was muffled through the rough sackcloth mask that had been pulled over his face, his thin lips just visible behind a ragged slit. Like his companions, he wore a long, dark cloak over black jeans. He held a scythe in his hands, the blade orange with rust.
'You have no right,' said the man, coming down the stairs.
His wife seemed rooted to the spot.
'Don't be a fool,' snapped the leader. Then, in a calmer voice: 'We all know how we live, Don. And the punishments that await us if we stray.' A weather-beaten hand gestured towards those grouped behind him, and a number of them ran up the stairs two at a time, pushing past the man, who steadied himself uncertainly, his bony hands pale against the mahogany banister. He made his way to the bottom, a tiny figure before the might of the masked intruders.
'Please,' said the man. 'It'll kill 'er.'
'This is the way of things,' replied the leader, his dark clothing incongruous against the wallpaper of irises. 'Your son has been chosen.' He angled his face back towards the stairs.
All the doors on the landing had been thrown open, and a boy, still weak with sleep, was dragged out of one room. The elastic in his pyjamas had gone, a safety pin holding them around his skinny hips. His feet barely touched the ground.
The old woman fell to the floor, her lips moving soundlessly. One of the dark figures bent down to help her to her feet, but was pushed away by the others.
'William Tyley,' said the leader in a strong, clear voice. 'You have been chosen.'
Billy Tyley tried to say something, but he was pushed forcefully down the stairs. He stumbled over his feet towards the bottom and landed in a heap on the floor. He was grabbed by the group of black-clad men, who carried him swiftly through the still-open door, and out towards the village green. They lifted him high above their heads, Billy screaming at the stars above him.
The remaining men swept out of the house. Soon only the leader and the old couple remained. It was impossible to tell what thoughts crossed the mind of the cloaked man, but he did not move for some time, seeming to listen intently to the woman's sobs.
Then he turned, and ducked out through the doorway.
Out on the green, torches were being lit.