• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

‘Who, me?’ Ormond looked entirely put out. ‘Well, no.’

‘Do you know the wi...’ Monroe bit his tongue, and cleared the spittle out of his throat. ‘The so-called witch-woman?’

‘The African? Well, she... I don’t know her, no. I mean, I’ve spoken to her. That’s her tent there. That one. Look.’

Monroe turned. One of the other Renewalists already had his head inside the tent, searching for some trace of the Negress. Turning back, Monroe noticed the way the rest of the townspeople were slowly moving away from Ormond’s stall.

As if the symbols had suddenly taken on a whole new significance.

‘Fornication,’ he heard Erskine Morris mutter. The man’s voice was unusually quiet, and Monroe noticed that he wasn’t wearing his hood. He frowned. Bad form. Didn’t look like a rationalist at all.

The interview was long, irrational, and went round in circles.

Eventually, Catcher asked for the hall to be cleared, and was surprised how quickly the council complied. Isaac Penley had been the last out, shutting the doors behind him and apologizing all the way into the corridor.

‘You could try beating it out of me,’ said a voice with a slight Highland accent. ‘A shame to waste the opportunity, now you’ve disposed of all the witnesses.’

Catcher’s attention snapped back to the little man who was tied to the chair, an agent of Cacophony bound by the forces of Reason. Flippant even now. Chillingly typical.

‘I know you,’ said Catcher. ‘I know who you are.’

The prisoner regarded him curiously. ‘Really? Good. That saves half an introduction. Of course, I usually just say my name’s "Smith", if anyone asks, but I’ve been thinking about finding another pseudonym. It’s getting dangerously close to becoming my real name. And you are...’

‘Catcher,’ replied Catcher, without thinking He felt something click inside his head, as if the Watchmakers were tightening the springs to stop him saying too much.

‘Catcher. As in "rat". And am I to understand that you’re the leader of the local scientific alcoholics society?’

Catcher felt himself nod before he even understood the words. The springs tightened further.

‘Interesting.’ The man was staring right into Catcher’s face, as though looking for some small but significant detail. ‘You know, for the leader of a cult, you’re not terribly charismatic.

Your oratory style seems rather mechanical, if your addresses to the council are anything to go by. I wonder what the appeal is?’

‘Reason is with me,’ Catcher announced, but somehow the words just didn’t sound majestic enough.

‘Hmmm. More likely that your followers are finding it hard to adapt to this century’s change in attitude, and you’re exploiting their vulnerability. Even so, I’d say there’s more to you than meets the eye. I wonder what your secret is?’

Catcher felt his muscles stiffen. He experienced a sudden and irrational impulse to hit the man, to take him up on his suggestion of beating the truth out of him He suppressed it. I AM RATIONAL. I AM IN CONTROL.

‘You’re not in control,’ said the prisoner, casually. ‘And why did you want me alone, I wonder? Afraid of the impression I might make on the council?’

‘Cacophony must be isolated,’ Catcher said. He was satisfied with that. For a moment, he felt the springs in his head loosen, but then the man was staring at him again.

Staring at him with eyes of an irrational colour.

‘Who are you working for?’ the diabolist asked.

They were walking through the maze of paving-slabs that had once been the cloisters, past an enormous collection of mounted insect specimens that had become embedded in a marble fountain. There was a hollow ticking sound from beneath their feet, suggesting that something was trapped under the stones and scratching its way towards the surface, but they were trying to ignore it. Occasionally a chunk of masonry would float across their path, and they’d stop to let it go by. Duquesne was deliberately keeping to Cwej’s left.

‘The TARDIS is supposed to have defences that stop this kind of thing happening,