Doctor Who_ Attack of the Cybermen - Eric Saward [8]
Lytton unfastened a pocket flap and produced a Beretta 92. ‘Perhaps you should take a look,’ he said, offering the gun to Joe. Without comment Joe took the gun, crossed to his pack and slipped it on. Watched by Russell and Griffiths, he then made his way back along the dank tunnel. ‘Come on,’ said Lytton, ‘we have a lot to do. Payne can catch us up later.’
Reluctantly, Charlie scrambled to his feet, his concern growing at the sight of yet another gun. Things were turning very sour, he thought. Sadly he picked up his pack and limped into the gloom after the others.
Payne rounded a corner and entered the adjacent tunnel.
Silently he eased himself into a small alcove, turned out his helmet-lamp and rummaged in a pocket for a packet of cigarettes. A moment later there was a hiss of butane, the rasp of flint against steel, followed by a contented sigh as Joe inhaled the tobacco smoke. Having to lie to Lytton about hearing someone following had been worth it, he thought, puffing hard on the cigarette.
Such was his contentment, he didn’t hear the clunk of metal against brickwork or the rasping sound of a respirator. When he finally did, he thought it was Lytton and he started to panic.
Tearing the cigarette and a layer of skin from his dry lips, he threw the thing into the gloom, as he nervously tried to ease himself deeper into the alcove. In his confusion, he hadn’t noticed that the clunking had stopped. Neither had he considered that there really might be someone stalking them. When he finally did, it was too late.
Suddenly a massive black arm shot into the alcove, lifting him from the ground and effortlessly hurling him across the tunnel. Joe hit the wall with a sickening thud, and could do little more than slither down it like dirty water.
Quickly his attacker moved in for the kill. Raising his arm, there was a loud terrifying swish as he brought it down across the back of Joe’s neck, smashing his spinal cord.
Without pausing, and leaving the dead man where he lay, the black shape, respirator rasping, moved off in the direction of the remaining members of Lytton’s team.
Oblivious of what had occurred, Russell and Charlie were examining an unexpected brickwall blocking the tunnel.
‘That will have to come down,’ said Lytton, studying his map.
Griffiths fingered the wall. ‘Does this lead to the Diamond Exchange?’
Lytton shook his head. ‘Which means we can’t use the explosives. It would alert the police before we were ready.’
Griffiths scowled. ‘We have to take it down by hand?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And how thick is it?’
‘Less than you, Griffiths,’ came the reply, without a trace of humour.
‘That’s not very kind, Mr Lytton.’
But then he hadn’t meant it to be.
Yet in spite of the banter, something was definitely wrong. Russell noticed a certain nervy tentativeness had developed in Lytton’s tone. For some reason, the discovery of the wall had disturbed him, and it annoyed Russell that he didn’t know why.
Charlie, of course, hadn’t noticed anything. He was far too busy rolling up his sleeves, spitting on his hands and practising other preparatory rituals beloved of those about to engage in hard manual labour. In the trade it is known as ‘psyching up’, and Charlie displayed enormous acumen in the technique. He also swung an impressive sledge, taking but a few minutes to cut a metre-square hole, three layers of brick deep.
Charlie was enjoying himself. He liked this sort of physical exercise, and such was his technique (a skill acquired during a brief sojourn with the local council), he could happily swing the hammer all day.
Yet in spite of Charlie’s impressive progress, Lytton was still agitated. Suddenly he turned and walked away from the wall, ducking the splinters of flying brick. Russell followed. ‘Are you all right?’
‘It’s the noise,’ Lytton lied. It’s making my head ache.’
But then he thought of a better excuse. ‘I’m also concerned about Payne. He’s been gone too long.’
The lie proved plausible. ‘I could go and look for him.’
‘And stumble over each other in the dark?’ Lytton