Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [12]
She hadn’t said a word to the Doctor since the murders. She looked at him now, and he was still watching the truck. He turned to her suddenly, as if she’d spoken.
Are you all right, Jo?’ He put a hand on her arm.
‘I’d like a drink.’ It came out abruptly, making her sound like a spoilt child.
‘Of course. Go on inside, I’ll join you shortly.’
‘Why, what are you going to do?’
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He was ushering her towards the pub, deliberately not answering her question. ‘Be careful who you mix with,’ he said.
‘There are some decidedly odd people about!’
She was about to walk away, then stopped. She felt drugged.
The whole situation was surreal. The Doctor hadn’t mentioned the murders either. She could see the barman serving drinks through the open pub door, business as usual. Had the whole world tipped upside down? Had she slipped a sanity gear?
‘Doctor, those prison officers - they’ve just been murdered.
Horribly. And no one really seems to have noticed!’
The Doctor looked at her closely, the cracks around his eyes deepening as he frowned. ‘You took your time, too, Jo.’
What the hell did he mean by that? She felt indignant and annoyed and was about to give him a curt answer, when he smiled compassionately at her.
‘Go and have that drink, Jo.’ He waited, hands on hips; a dramatic figure, cloak blowing slightly in the late afternoon breeze from the moors. She nodded and left him.
‘You’re that newswoman, aren’t you?
Charmagne looked up from her glass of red wine. The hippie she’d been interviewing at the pub table looked up too. For a bizarre second, she thought she had found fame and fortune at last. Of course, though, the biker who had asked the question wasn’t directing it at her, but rather at the BBC anchor girl who had just entered the pub along with a rotund cameraman. She felt an irrational jealousy prick her. This was her story. They had no right.
She frowned at herself. What the hell did she mean by that? An hour and a half ago she’d been in Plymouth, writing reports on neighbour from hell feuds and parrots sucked up by vacuum cleaners. This wasn’t her usual sort of scoop. And why did she have such a personal interest in it? Her editor hadn’t been convinced she should cover it, but she had practically hauled him up against the wall. She remembered the startled expression in the
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tubby little prat’s eyes. I’m doing this, her tight lips and narrowed eyes had told him, without her having to say another word.
Of course he’d let her. She’d have bloody gutted him if he hadn’t.
She turned back to the hippie opposite. He was scanning the TV
girl’s arse with more than casual interest.
‘You were saying about the band?’ she prompted with some impatience.
‘Uh?’ The hippie dragged his gaze away from the glamour girl and blinked at Charmagne. ‘Any chance of another of these, love?’
he held up his near-empty pint and dragged on his cigarette, squinting at her.
‘You said you saw them arrive?’ she insisted. He’d get another pint, but only after she’d got the whole gruesome story out of him.
‘Never seen nuthin’ like it. Thought this lot were crazy bastards...’ He gestured at the jukebox. What is this that stands before me? Figure in black which points at me, the singer was droning. ‘But this bunch just... ‘ Yeah, you’re lost for words, aren’t you mate, Charmagne thought. Full of admiration: I can see it in your eyes. They just instigated a mini-massacre and you’re proud of them.
‘S’ like all this punk shit, that’s coming out now. I expect you’ve
‘eard it. I mean, it was like them, but it wasn’t. Know what I’m sayin’?’
Actually, no. That’s why I’m buying you a drink, so you can tell me. She bit back her frustration. She concentrated on scribbling down some of his words, vague as they were. But there was something else fuelling her frustration - the biggest burst of excitement she had felt for a long time. This was big. Not just the murders, but something else behind them; maybe something to do with this band that played a gig, watched people die to their music and then simply strolled away. That was what