Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [72]
‘Federal agent or government man. The terms are pretty much interchange-able. They allude to agents of the FBI.’
‘I always wanted to be in the FBI,’ said Ace. She could now read the plaque beside the door: The Chapel of the Red Apocalypse. ‘Blimey. Apocalypse? That’s cheerful.’
‘Doomsday cults have always exercised a peculiar appeal to a certain sort of mentality.’
126
‘Not just an apocalypse, mind you,’ said Ace. ‘But a red one.’ The sound of running water abruptly stopped and a small man came around the side of the building, dragging a length of garden hose behind him, rolling it up as he went. He was bald, with wire-framed spectacles, wearing neat black trousers and a white shirt open at the neck. Incongruously, he was also wearing a ragged and dirty pair of tennis shoes. He looked up at the Doctor and Ace and smiled.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard the gate.’
‘It’s a little late to be calling, I know,’ said the Doctor.
‘Heavens, no. Glad to have the company.’ The little man finished rolling up the hose and placed it inside a large red ceramic urn that stood beside a pile of neatly stacked lumber. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, meticulously dried his hands with it and then shook hands with the Doctor and Ace.
‘My name’s Albert. I’m the caretaker, gardener and all-purpose handyman around here. I’m looking after the place while the Storrows are away.’
‘The Storrows being the people who run the chapel?’
‘That’s right. Run it and own it. What can I do for you?’
‘My name’s Smith,’ said the Doctor, lying smoothly. ‘And this is my assistant Miss Eckhart.’
‘Call me Acacia,’ said Ace.
Albert bobbed his head thoughtfully, as though savouring the syllables.
‘Beautiful name,’ he declared, and suddenly Ace felt ashamed about lying to him.
‘We’re here on a matter of considerable importance,’ said the Doctor.
‘Not too important to discuss over a cup of coffee, I hope,’ said Albert. ‘Come on in. The Missus will have a pot on the go or I’m a Chinaman.’
The Missus turned out to be an enormously fat woman in a blue-and-white striped dress that put Ace uncharitably in mind of a circus marquee. Her name was Elina and she was huge; at least twice the size of her husband. Her cheeks were bright red and she fanned herself cheerfully with her hands as they were introduced. ‘You’ll have to pardon me,’ she said. ‘This slave driver here has had me chained to a hot stove all day.’
‘It smells lovely,’ said Ace. The house was full of the aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘Nothing like a home-made loaf,’ said Albert. ‘It beats that mass-produced stuff all to Hades.’
‘This place doesn’t look much like a chapel,’ said Ace. In fact it looked like a pleasant suburban home.
‘Oh, all that religious cult stuff is in the temple,’ said Albert, making a contemptuous gesture of dismissal with his hand, as if sweeping all such religious cult stuff away.
127
‘And where is the temple?’ said the Doctor.
‘In the basement,’ said Elina breathlessly. ‘You should take a gander at it.’
‘We’ll show these folks around in a minute,’ said Albert. The Doctor had shown him his badge and credentials outside and the man had seemed duly impressed.
‘The things that went on in that temple,’ said Elina, addressing Ace in the sort of confidential voice reserved for prime gossip. ‘I couldn’t begin to tell you. And the couple who run this place. . . ’
‘The Storrows,’ said the Doctor.
‘That’s right. What a pair.’ Elina raised her eyebrows. ‘They’re not right in the head. You know what I mean. Crazy.’
‘Crazy like foxes,’ said Albert. ‘Look at all the dough they’re making from this operation.’
‘Fleecing the gullible,’ said Elina.
‘A fool and his money. . . ’ said Albert.
‘Are soon parted. OK. But that’s no excuse. And the sort of