Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [47]
‘I saw it,’ repeated Noah.
‘It’s all right, Noah. You can tell me. What did you see out there? At the aerodrome?’
The boy suddenly sat bolt upright, his pale, bright eyes staring wildly ahead.
‘Monster!’ he shrieked. ‘Monster!’
Whistler woke with a throbbing headache, the worst he had ever experienced. He tried to move on his bunk and immediately sank back, feeling waves of nausea pound through him.
He lifted a shaking hand to his face and gently examined his lacerated skin. He could feel bruising all over and his lips and cheeks were painfully swollen.
When he tried to sit up again the room remained steady.
Glancing around, he saw that he had been returned to his cell. Bliss had not disposed of him as she had threatened, which meant he must still be of value to her.
The ninth key.
What had she meant? The old man silently congratulated himself on holding out against her terrible tortures. His squadron would have been proud of him.
He struggled to his feet, pressing the flat of his hand against the cold wall, groaning in pain as he took several deep breaths. His ribs ached terribly and he felt his tongue probe almost unconsciously the wet, bloody hole where his tooth had been.
Whistler straightened up and smoothed down his sweat-soaked hair. There was no mirror in the room, no furniture at all save for the bed and a small table clamped to the wall. A metal water jug and a bowl of what looked like porridge sat on the table. Whistler ate the porridge greedily with his bare hands, grateful for any sustenance, and drank almost all the water in one draught. He burped and then poured the remaining water over his head, hissing in pain as it stung his wounds.
After a moment, he glanced at the door of the cell. It was a plain, gunmetal colour with no grille or window. He couldn’t tell if a guard was posted outside, but he knew Bliss would take no chances. Looking quickly around, Whistler began to formulate his plan.
He picked up the metal jug and clambered back on to the bed, curling his arm beneath his head and pushing the jug out of sight beneath the pillow. Then, summoning up as much phlegm as he could from his aching lungs, he began to utter the throatiest moan he could manage.
‘Help,’ he gurgled, his voice rattling. ‘Help me... please!’
There was no response from beyond the door.
Whistler rolled his eyes and upped the volume of his groaning.
‘I’m... help me... I think I’m choking!’ he shrieked, improvising wildly.
This time, the door was flung open. Whistler kept his back turned, restricting his movements to a writhing spasm which he hoped would convince the guard.
The black-uniformed man came swiftly inside and advanced on the bed without saying a word. He extended a hand to pull Whistler over. The Wing Commander waited for his moment and, as he felt the man’s fingertips brush his shoulder, he swung round and smashed the water jug straight into his jailer’s face. The guard dropped like a felled tree, buckling at the knees and falling backwards on to the hard concrete floor.
Whistler stepped over him and raced for the door. He looked out into the featureless corridor, checked both ways, stepped out and then softly closed the door behind him.
As on most recent nights, young Graham Allinson had found it impossible to sleep.
He lay now, eyes aching and raw, staring at the ceiling, arm tucked behind his head, wondering what he was going to do.
Sunlight was beginning to filter through a chink in the curtains like light from a film projector and he tried to take some comfort in this. But the only image that came to mind was Anthony Ayre knocking him from his bike and, even after the distraction of the strange lightning, losing no time in beating him up.
The bully was careful, though, to ensure that all of Graham’s injuries looked like they could have been caused by falling from the old Raleigh.
The boy turned over to face the door of his room and groaned at the pain in his ribs. Hot tears began to well up in his exhausted eyes.
Why did he have to be so funny looking?