Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [31]
‘Really? We have contacts at the Ministry of Defence, you know.’ The Doctor smiled pleasantly as though talking to a child.
The Captain wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
‘Then I suggest you refer the matter to them. No one is allowed in without an official pass?
He turned on his heel and marched away, leaving the two troopers standing by the bench deterring any further investigation by the Doctor. The vicar got up and crossed to the Doctor’s side. Jo came out from the porch.
Darnell introduced himself, proffering a shaking hand.
‘Jo Grant,’ said Jo quietly.
‘And that,’ said the Doctor with a sigh, ‘was Legion International.’
The vicar nodded. ‘You’ve heard of them?’
‘That’s why we’re here. Wing Commander Whistler has expressed concerns about the newcomers.’
The vicar looked over at the retreating troopers.
‘Concerns. Yes.’
‘What now?’ asked Jo.
The Doctor shot a stern look at the men by the bench and then put his arm around Jo’s shoulder, guiding her back towards the cottage. ‘Get on to Lethbridge-Stewart, would you, Jo?’
‘OK.’
The Doctor shot one last look at the Captain’s retreating form. ‘I’ve a feeling he might be right about them having friends in high places.’
And now lightning rends the sky again. The broiling, unquiet black earth shudders as the thing presses itself against the glass of the steel palace. Its dark eyes shrink back into its fleshy skull as lightning sears its pupils. Moments later, with darkness restored, it looks again.
Through the blue haze it can see others like itself. They are lying in warm cocoons, their breathing regular and untroubled by the natural disasters outside. They are of all shapes and sizes; some little more than children, others fully grown, a waxy bloom like frost spreading over their sleeping faces.
Others, in the uniform of the Apothecaries, move in silence from one cocoon to the next, checking life-signs.
The thing outside raises a desperate claw and lets it slide down the glass. It leaves a sticky trail, like spittle, dribbling down to the baking soil.
One of the Apothecaries looks over. Its round, black eyes dilate. It moves towards the window...
There were more portraits lining the staircase of Jocelyn Strangeways’ enormous house. From most of them, the familiar, slightly bilious countenance looked out, growing progressively darker as age and time stained the canvasses.
Strangeways shuffled up the stairs to his bed, the hem of his silk dressing gown whispering over each step. He clicked out the landing light and used the blue moonlight that spilled through the windows to guide himself to his room.
There was another click.
Strangeways whirled round, ears pricked, ready to face any intruder. He was spoiling for a fight after his outrageous treatment at the hands of Charles Cochrane. God help the cheeky bugger who dared to break into his house!
He jumped as a dreadful screeching sound suddenly emanated from beyond the window. Flattening himself against the wall, eyes darting from side to side, he tried to identify it.
It was horribly like a baby crying.
Strangeways thought of his ancestors, pulled himself together and made his way boldly across the landing towards the window.
Gingerly, he pressed his face towards the glass and looked out into the dark night.
Slam.
Strangeways staggered back from the window as something hurled itself against the glass. His mind reeled and then he saw a sleek black cat glaring at him, its eyes blazing like green fire.
He let out a huge sigh of relief and wandered back towards his bedroom door. The cat was joined by another. Both their hackles instantly rose and they began again the awful chorus he had heard moments before.
Strangeways pulled off a slipper and lobbed it at the window.
Both cats immediately scattered, disappearing into the darkness as though swallowed whole.
The Chief of Staff limped into his room, one foot slippered, one bare and threw off his dressing gown. It was a warm night and he lay on top of the sheets for a few moments,