Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [17]
Sitting back in a rather uncomfortable chair, he looked around with a bored sigh.
The long, rectangular room was hung with gaily embroidered Bible scenes; woollen shepherds visited a woollen manger, a risen Christ gazing down on an earthly kingdom made of silver paper.
Since Max Bishop’s abortive meeting earlier in the day, trestle tables piled with slim, leather-bound hymn books had been pushed back against the walls to provide more space.
Wide-hipped, middle-aged ladies clustered around in little groups, like dodgem cars in flowery frocks, chatting and laughing.
Whistler gave a little wave to Miss Plowman but she didn’t see him as she was too busy talking to Mrs Toovey.
She, at least, glanced over at him and smiled. Next to them was the lean, rather sallow-faced Max Bishop from the post office complete with his bow tie and baggy cardigan. He was sipping from a cup of weak tea and talking to his pale, wiry brother Ted who, as usual, looked in fear of his wrath. Ted was standing in front of a scene from the Crucifixion, looking very sorry for himself. Whistler smiled. He didn’t know who looked the more worse for wear: Ted Bishop or the Son of Man.
Ted’s son Noah was close by. Whistler had arranged to meet him, keen to bring him up to date with the results of his call to his old friend Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.
Whistler sneezed again but it could have been because of the musty dampness of the unheated church hall as much as the snuff.
Shuffling from group to group was the vicar, Mr Darnell, a tall, young man with a pleasant, rather bland face. He exuded a permanent smell of dust and spice. Only in the village a month or so, he had lost no time in bounding up to Whistler’s front door, all open-toed sandals and neckerchief.
‘Oh, hello, Vicar,’ Whistler had said.
‘Call me Steve!’ trilled the newcomer.
‘No,’ muttered Whistler, slamming the door in his face.
Now Darnell was orbiting those silly women, dressed in open-neck shirt, jeans and gym shoes – if you please – and not acting very much like a vicar at all.
Whistler pulled a sour face.
‘What price the dog collar, eh, Wing Commander?’
Whistler turned round. To his surprise, Noah Bishop was sitting next to him, smiling broadly. He was dressed in bellbottom corduroys and tight T-shirt and his snub nose creased up as he smiled. Max Bishop was always complaining that the lad was a bit of a troublemaker but Whistler had been fond of Noah since he was a child.
‘What’s that?’
Noah shrugged. ‘The vicar. I get the feeling you disapprove of him.’
Whistler grunted. ‘Well, naturally. Dispensing with all the
“thees” and “thous”. It’s what church is all about. Used to be anyway. Take the wedding service. Used to be “with my body I thee worship”. What a wonderful phrase.’
He stared into space for a long moment. ‘All gone now.’
He cleared his throat. ‘But that’s neither here nor there.
Are you all right, lad?’
Noah nodded. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
Whistler shrugged. ‘Well, after this morning’s shenanigans.’
‘I’m fine. Really. It takes more than a bully in sunglasses to put the wind up me.’
Whistler grinned. ‘Good lad.’ He looked at his watch.
‘Well, if those were our mysterious visitors, then you and I have got a handle on them already, Noah, wouldn’t you say?’
Noah nodded. ‘Didn’t take to them at all.’
‘I got through to my old chum Lethbridge-Stewart. He says he knows just the fella to look into it. Sending him down forthwith.’
Noah nodded. ‘Cool.’
Whistler glanced round. ‘Well, these aerodrome johnnies are going to be late if they don’t show soon.’
Noah nodded. ‘Well, I make it just ten, they should be...’
He stopped speaking abruptly as a flash of light illuminated the room. A murmur of surprise ran through the assembled villagers but, before anyone could comment, the main doors to the hall swung open.
A breeze rushed through the long room, making the parish notices pinned to the wall flutter like butterflies testing their wings.
Three figures were framed in the doorway.
For a moment they stood in silence,