Doctor Who_ Island of Death - Barry Letts [2]
Jeremy’s shadow of a frown at her disrespect was wiped away by the sunny grin of the new-born zealot. ‘Please yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll join us in the end. Everybody will.
Honestly, Sarah, I’ve never been so happy in all my bally life!’
And off he went.
She turned to speak to the guru - who had been wiping the ceremonial cup and replacing it in a little cupboard - only to find that he was staring at her with a slight frown on his face.
Had he heard what she’d been saying?
When he caught her eye he turned away, taking a key from his pocket, to unlock the double doors underneath the sacred icon.
‘Excuse me!’ called Sarah.
He turned back - but not before he’d re-locked the door.
‘You’re missing all the fun,’ he said, with a charming smile.
She definitely knew him. In the mould of the traditional Hollywood star - literally tall, dark and handsome - you’d think he would be hard to forget. And the voice... that was like an actor’s too.
Had she seen him around Hampstead? In Tesco’s or something?
‘Could I ask you a few questions? I’m Sarah Jane Smith -
from Metropolitan. The magazine, you know? We’re doing a feature on -’
His smile abruptly vanished. ‘A journalist... Ah yes, I remember you now. Metropolitan. And can I expect you to do as efficient a hatchet job on me now as you did last time?’
Eh? Oh Lor’! Of course. He looked so different with his long hair and his white robes.
‘We only reported what the committee said.’
Alex Whitbread. Shortened his name from Alexander to woo the masses. Alex Whitbread, the charmer - until you got on the wrong side of him. The farthest right member of a right-wing government, thrown out for blatant corruption - and more than a touch of racism. Better be careful, though. He was as sharp as he was good-looking. Tipped for prime minister in his early days.
This was a story in itself! If she could grab a photo...
Her hand was creeping towards her shoulder bag. After the foul-up at Space World, she never went anywhere without a 35mm camera and a Polaroid back-up.
‘Why should I submit myself to the smears of the gutter press?’ he asked.
Gutter press! Clorinda would love that. As editor of the glossiest of the glossies...
‘Look, Mr Whitbread -’
‘Brother Alex, if you don’t mind.’
‘Okay. Brother Alex. It’s obvious that you’ve moved away from your old life. And anyway, we want to write about your... your movement. Not you personally.’
He relaxed slightly. ‘Mm. Nonetheless, you infiltrated this meeting by pretending to be a new disciple. That’s hardly likely to inspire my trust.’
‘But that’s just it. Why the secrecy? Why can’t anybody just walk in and join up? And what’s it all about?’
‘The criteria for becoming a disciple - even a guest - are extremely strict. Mother Hilda insists that...’
‘Mother Hilda?’
For a moment, Whitbread looked as if he’d let out too much. ‘Ah yes... Mother Hilda. Mother Hilda is the founder of our order. It was through the revelation vouchsafed to Mother Hilda that the divine message of the great Skang was given to the world. Skang - may his name be blessed - Skang deserves, nay demands, only the most perfect representatives of the human race as his initiates. All the vitality of supreme bodily fitness; superlative intelligence...’
Superlative intelligence! Jeremy?
‘...and a dedication and a devotion which will merit the ultimate reward.’
‘And what’s that?’ Sarah asked.
‘The reward of Skang’s incomparable love.’
Incomparable codswallop, more like. ‘I thought they were asking rather a lot of questions when I applied. I’m flattered that they let me in.’
‘I gather that you didn’t partake of the... the communal cup?’
Couldn’t bring himself to say communion, could he!
‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘I just wasn’t thirsty.’
‘Once you’ve experienced the at-one-ment of the family of Skang, you’ll understand - and be eager to learn the esoteric truths of our teaching.’
‘I believe you,’ said Sarah, drily. ‘So where does this Mother Hilda hang out?’
Again the hesitation.