Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [10]
Across the village, by the post office, Noah Bishop sat with his knees tucked up under his chin. He was a rangy, rather striking teenager and was wearing a loose T-shirt and cut-off denim shorts. As the traffic thundered by, he picked idly at the raised rubbery emblem on his old baseball shoes.
It was getting hot now, the sun glinting harshly off the paintwork of the lorry convoy which continued unabated, destroying the calm of the village and filling the pollen-heavy air with the smell of diesel.
Noah sat on a flaking metal bench set slightly to one side of the village green.
Another lorry rounded the corner and he squinted against the sunlight to try and make out the shape covered by the black tarpaulin. As he watched, the lorry took the corner rather too quickly. Noah saw it thundering towards him.
There was a long, drawn-out moment, as though time were slowing down, and Noah felt his heart beat very fast. He jumped to his feet and scrambled out of the way just as the lorry mounted the kerb, brakes screeching. Its massive wheels instantly cut through the turf of the green, throwing up a muddy furrow like a brown wave.
Noah backed away and dropped to his knees, eyes fixed on the vehicle which had come to a halt only yards from the bench.
There was a sudden silence.
The lorry’s engine steamed madly.
Noah jogged cautiously forward, straining to see through the tinted windscreen.
‘Hello?’
He walked up to the front of the lorry, frowning. The driver didn’t seem to be in any hurry to reverse or even get out of the cabin.
‘Are you OK?’ called Noah.
He walked to the other side of the lorry, resting his hand on the bonnet. He pulled it back in shock, surprised at how hot the casing was.
It was only as he reached the back of the truck that he realised the tarpaulin had come loose and some of the cargo had spilled to the ground.
He cocked his head to one side, not at all sure what he was seeing.
Three large, cylindrical caskets were splayed out on the parched grass. They were about seven feet long and rounded at one end like torpedoes. In the sunlight they seemed sleek, black and glossy like wet liquorice. Noah couldn’t see any break in their smooth surfaces but they reminded him at once of coffins.
As he bent down on one knee and put out his hand to examine one of them, a large, pale, cold hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. He stepped back in surprise.
A man – some sort of officer judging by the braiding on his black shirt – was standing over him, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses and a wide smile on his handsome face.
‘We’ll take it from here, son,’ he said. His voice was low and gentle, like a breeze through a cornfield.
‘I don’t mind giving you a hand.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ repeated the man, releasing Noah’s wrist.
Noah shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
Half a dozen more men appeared from the top of the green, like shadows detaching themselves from the side of the old water pump. They were dressed in identical black uniforms and sunglasses and immediately began to manhandle the caskets back on to the lorry.
The senior officer marched swiftly up to it and pulled open the door. Noah shifted his weight to see inside.
To his surprise, the driver wasn’t moving. He was merely staring ahead, blinking slowly and, of all things, smiling. A pair of sunglasses lay broken on the dashboard.
Shock, Noah reasoned.
He remembered the time he’d come off a scooter while on holiday in Greece. The friction burns on his elbows and legs were nothing compared to the strange, cold feeling that had swept over him and the nebulae of spots that had exploded before his eyes.
Rather than move the driver to one side, however, the officer spoke to him in the calm, level tone he’d used to Noah.
‘Reverse. The cargo has been replaced. Reverse and continue to the aerodrome.’
The driver didn’t react, save for a momentary widening of his smile. He turned the ignition key and shifted the gear lever.
The engine thrummed into life.
The officer clambered down from the cab in one swift movement