Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [8]
Whistler straightened up and made a conscious effort to throw off his melancholy mood. He took a deep breath of the flower-scented air and folded his hands behind his back. His posture was ramrod straight, his walk brisk. He began to whistle, softly and rather tunelessly and, at last, he began to feel a little better.
It made him smile to think it, but his whistling hadn’t improved. The fact was it had always been his hope that the men under his command would dub him with some affectionate nickname and ‘Whistling’ Whistler had been the one he’d naturally favoured. Yet, despite the many hours he spent deliberately plugging away at popular wartime tunes, the men had resolutely failed to catch on. ‘Stubby’ Parkinson had a nickname, of course, and ‘Beaver’ Kirk, Whistler’s old commander. But, as the war years had progressed, Whistler had found himself depressingly without a moniker of his own.
He was beginning to think that even something like ‘Stinker’
would be appropriate when he’d accidentally discovered the truth. The memory made him chuckle, even after all these years.
Suddenly, with a roar of protesting engine, a lorry thundered past, its brakes hissing explosively, its wing mirror slicing through the darkness just inches from Whistler’s face.
He pulled up sharp and jumped back from the road a little shocked, feeling cold sweat spring to his skin. Mrs Toovey would not have been pleased. He had been wandering through the dark, lost in remembrance and quite forgetting the great dangerous things that were throttling through the village.
Whistler stood on the kerb and watched three or four of the vehicles disappearing into the night, their cargo invisible beneath heavy black tarpaulins. What on earth was going on?
If they were doing something to the old aerodrome, surely the villagers should have been consulted. Unless, he thought, tapping his lip with a finger, unless it was very hush-hush.
Now there was a thought. He might ring some of his old contacts at the MOD in the morning. See if there was something brewing. You could never really rest easy. Not with the Russians and the Chinese sitting on all those missiles...
He waited till the road was clear and the warm, silent blanket of night was restored and then set off for the pub. Just as he began to move, however, he heard the sound of approaching feet. It was a very particular sound, and familiar to him.
Troops. Marching.
Without quite knowing why, Whistler ducked down into a narrow alley between two thatched cottages. He pressed himself close to the damp plaster walls and bent down, his old knees cracking noisily. The footsteps came closer.
Whistler peered out at the road, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed, every sense alert. Then he saw them.
A group of perhaps a dozen black-uniformed men marched into view. Their handsome faces seemed to glow in the soft moonlight, as did the buckles on their black shirts.
Whistler felt himself go cold all over.
He felt in his pocket and rubbed his lucky charm until it felt warm beneath his fingertips. Then, as stealthily as he could, he ran towards the pub.
Chapter Four
Cargo
When Max Bishop was a very small boy his parents had taken him to the theatre. It wasn’t a very impressive place, its red walls scuffed and peeling, the photographs of old music-hall turns sun-faded and falling out of their frames.
Max, though, in his grey school blazer and neatly polished shoes had been immediately entranced. He had taken his seat in the stalls, wedged between his ample mother and skinny father, a bag of sherbet on his lap and a bubbling surge of excitement in his tummy. A fanfare of music had sounded, the threadbare velvet curtains had swung back and the stage was suddenly full of wonders. Jugglers, people