Doctor Who_ Cats Cradle_ Witch Mark - Andrew Hunt [12]
'What do you think? Is it a tattoo? A brand?’
'Couldn't rightly say, sir. Maybe they're all members of some religious sect. It's bloody strange, whatever it is.
Anderson thought back over it. The suitcases full of money, the brand new clothes, and now these marks. It certainly was strange, bloody strange.
Old Davy looked on with an air of cultivated indifference as the impossible happened before him. He had the sort of face that Canute probably had, and had it belonged to Pharaoh: he would have ignored the parting of the Red Sea, charged right through and killed Moses on the spot. Fortunately for the Israelites, it wasn't Pharaoh's face, it was Old Davy’s. He managed this fine control of his facial muscles by a technique that he had picked up from fifty years of watching his cows performing the same trick.
No matter what the conditions, those cows had stood in their field, or in the milking parlour, or at the market, even for several seconds after they were dead, .and they had steadfastly refused to be surprised by any of the things which had happened to them. And, of course, there are a great many things more bizarre than a blue police box materializing out of nowhere.
Its coming was heralded by a raucous sound that echoed back and forth across the valley, at the bottom of which nestled very few houses which made up the village of Llanfer Ceiriog. Davy watched the flashing white light atop the police box from his bench outside the Black Swan. The pub had received the name when it was renovated by its English owner, and it was probably because of this that most of the locals avoided it preferring to go to Gwydyr down the road. Davy, being unconcerned with nationalism in any of its forms, kept a solitary vigil outside the Black Swan day and night. If any of his friends passed by he wished them a good morning, perhaps made comment on the weather and then returned to his pint.
After several minutes of carefully judged pint-gazing, Old Davy looked up and shouted across the triangular patch of grass to where the police box had appeared next to the post office-cum-village shop.
Two figures were emerging from within. One was a shortish man with brown hair, wearing a brown jacket and dark tartan trousers. The other, whom he didn't recognize, was a girl, perhaps twenty, in black cycling shorts and an oversized T-shirt. She carried a large rucksack over one shoulder.
'Bore da, Doctor!' Davy shouted. The Doctor turned and waved, then, obviously noticing the light drizzle, he disappeared into the interior and emerged seconds later carrying an umbrella. Davy had often wondered if perhaps he should invest in such an article, but decided on reflection that a little extra water didn't make that much difference to the pub's beer. As they walked over to him, he listened to their conversation.
'It's not exactly New York is it, Professor?'
'Hmmm,' the Doctor agreed. 'None of the old Detroit perfume. I'm rather glad this is where we've ended up. Are you sure you've got everything you need, Ace? I've decided to give the TARDIS a rest -
maybe she'll regenerate some of her damaged components. I don't want you coming back every half hour disturbing the repair systems.'
'Everything's cool, Professor.' She shook her rucksack so that metallic clankings emanated from it.
'Pitons, ropes, harness, everything.' She looked at the umbrella in the Doctor's hand. ‘Is that all you're bringing?' she asked.
‘You know I always travel light. And besides, I have all the equipment I need right here,' he told her, waggling his free fingers under her nose. By now they had reached Davy. The Doctor gave him a wide grin.
‘Bore da to you too, Old Davy! This is my friend, Ace.'
'The squeaky one had enough of you; is it?' Davy chuckled. ‘And a little less of the old, if you don’t