Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [52]
‘Jo grinned. ‘My lips are sealed.’
A knob of rapidly melting butter slid along the length of one of Helen Trickett’s best knives. She watched it in silence as it crept across the polished Sheffield steel, pooling over the plate on which the knife lay, finally drip-drip-dripping to the tiled floor.
She stood behind the kitchen table, her eyes twitching, a pile of unbuttered bread before her.
She had things to do. A hundred sandwiches to prepare.
Miss Plowman at the WI was absolutely counting on her.
There was the tombola store to be organised and all the presents for the lucky dip to be wrapped in newspaper. Her daughter Nichola was twirling the baton at the head of the Culverton jazz band and her blue and silver costume still wasn’t ready. Helen Trickett had so many things to do, but she stood and watched the butter slide off the knife and fall to the kitchen floor.
John Trickett came in. He was the picture of contentment in pale green shirt, beige summer trousers and open-toed sandals with socks.
‘Lovely day, Helen,’ he cried, smiling. His wife didn’t reply. She dragged her gaze back to the piles of unbuttered bread.
‘Haven’t you got those sandwiches done yet?’ he chided gently. ‘Come on, love! Chop, chop!’
He flashed her his benevolent smile. Helen noticed that there were flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth. She picked up the knife and plunged it back into the runny butter.
John grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the worktop and bent to peck her on the cheek.
‘Well, I’ve got to pick up our guest of honour. I’ll see you later, then. Bye.’
He winked and went out through the back door.
Helen raised her hand to her cheek where John had kissed her. Her fingers trembled as she touched her skin.
There was a noise behind her and she swung to her left, dropping the knife to the floor. It clattered and span round and round like the needle on a compass.
Nichola was standing in the doorway, half in and half out of her majorette’s uniform. She was holding her tall hat in both hands and her lip was trembling. With a sudden, ragged sob, she ran to Helen and threw her arms around her mother.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ she cried, her little chest heaving with sobs. ‘That... that’s not daddy... is it?’
Helen felt herself crying too and she stroked Nichola’s hair rapidly back and forth, rocking the child gently.
Whistler had no idea that his old friend Lethbridge-Stewart was so close by. The old man was inside the hangar the Doctor had visited the previous night, his back to the thin wall, his knees tucked up under his chin. Outside, about a dozen Legion troopers were at work around the lorries.
He looked around. The hangar was familiar to him from the war and hadn’t really changed that much. The skylight roof was filthy, allowing only a little of the summer sunshine through, and the concrete floor was stained with old engine oil. Benches and chairs remained much as they had in his day.
There was even the remains of an old calendar on the far wall.
Betty Grable peered through the accumulated grime of thirty-odd years. Smashing legs, thought Whistler absently.
He cast a puzzled look at the row of black tables, but decided his priority was to get out of the aerodrome.
Rising to a crouching position, he managed to shoot a quick glance through one of the small, broken windows that were at eye level. He quickly pushed a section of glass out of the way.
The troopers seemed completely occupied, unloading yet more of the black containers from the backs of the lorries.
Overseeing them was the tall, blond man whom Whistler and Noah had encountered. How was the boy? Did he get away?
Or did Bliss have him imprisoned too...?
Whistler dropped to the floor as one of the troopers walked right past the window. He bit his lip, thinking hard. He could stay where he was, of course, but the alarm was bound to be raised soon. He had to take his chance to get out of the aerodrome because he was unlikely to survive another session with Bliss. His face darkened as he thought about what she