Doctor Who_ Prime Time - Mike Tucker [11]
‘Barrock!’
The creature spun around, snarling in irritation. Albee could see another of the cowled figures towering over them, teeth bared.
‘Barrock, he’s moving.’
The claws released him and Albee collapsed on the floor, wincing at the pain from his shoulder. The cowled creatures were loping across the street, pedestrians hurrying to get out of their way. Albee hauled himself to his feet, shaking. Blood was beginning to seep through his shirt and people were staring at him.
Clutching his arm, he staggered back into his shop.
Concerned customers scurried over, anxious to help. Albee gently ushered them out of the door. He was fine. Just ruffians.
Nothing to concern themselves over. He’d just shut up early and go home.
As the last customer hurried off into the darkening evening Albee locked up, pushed open the door of his office and slumped into the chair he had bought to help with his back.
Then he opened a bottle of Treeth and got very, very drunk.
The Doctor dodged out of the way as the cab took off in a cloud of spray. Shaking the water from his shoes, he huddled under a cluster of trees and stared up at the Channel 400
building.
The television studio clung to the mountain side like some enormous concrete fungus, offices and outbuildings sticking out from the rock at bizarre angles. The bottom half of the mountain had been quarried away, turned into a towering wall of granite, sheer and imposing, that stretched away into the distance. Balconies and terraces jutted from the smooth rock.
High overhead the transmitter mast pierced the clouds. The Doctor peered at the read-out on his pocket watch.
‘Yes. Yes, this is definitely the place.’
A wide concrete path wound its way from the road towards the studios, the ground dropping away sharply on either side. It was like walking over a drawbridge to some huge granite castle. A huge neon sign advertising Channel 400
as the home of Roderik Saarl’s Late Night Breakfast Show towered over the surrounding trees. Grimacing, the Doctor ducked under his umbrella, tucked himself into the shadow of the imposing wall, and headed for the main gate.
Commissionaire Reg Gurney smiled in satisfaction at his own face staring back at him from the gleaming black surface of his boot. Clean boots. The first sign of an efficient man. Thirty years in the space corps had taught him that. The rest of the security staff at Channel 400 thought that he was a relic of the war, a stickler for detail, but Reg knew he was right.
It didn’t matter whether he was leading a crack troop of commandos in an all-out assault on a Dalek stronghold or instructing a team of commissionaires on how to keep teenage fans from invading a Channel 400 music programme, the rules were the same.
Efficiency. Smartness. Discipline.
Reg stood up, staring at his reflection. He pulled in his stomach and thrust his shoulders back. He was still in good condition, and his aim was still good. If the reserves were ever called into action he could still fight with the rest of them.
He fingered the stun gun in its holster. Not a proper gun, but it did the job. One of his first acts when he had taken charge of Channel 400 security had been to organise a rigorous weapons check every morning. Stun guns stripped to their basic components, polished until you could eat off them and reassembled. Oh, the others had complained at that, at least at first. It had taken strong decisive action to make them see the errors of their ways. He didn’t like losing men, he had too few to start with, but Reg Gurney was in charge, and nothing and nobody challenged his authority.
A movement from the main entrance caught his attention.
A little man with a black umbrella was strolling towards the main gate. Reg’s jaw dropped as the man muttered something to the guard on duty, gave a cheery wave, then ducked under the barrier and started trotting up the steps towards the main building.
Reg punched at the intercom to the security box.
‘Briggs! Are you asleep man?’
There was a startled