Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [48]
The impassive one stared at her shrewdly. It was obvious he didn’t believe a word of it. His companion came to her rescue, winking at her patronisingly.
‘I’ll take her in to look for it, Geoff. She’ll be all right with me.’
‘I’ll need to contact the sarge,’ Geoff said, not looking as enthusiastic as his leering companion about the situation.
‘She’ll be all right. Trust me.’ The soldier was already swinging the gate open, and ushering her through. ‘Just keep right behind me miss; it’s so overgrown in there you could easily get lost. And there’s lots of weirdos about.’
115
Losing herself was so much easier than even the dim-witted squaddie could have realised, though of course it was entirely on purpose. She simply slipped behind an obelisk wrapped in ivy and hollyhocks and plunged down a bank into the depths of the wood, hopping over half-buried graves and dodging round headstones squeezed by python-like tree roots. She could hear his indignant shouts from above, but he would never find her in this thicket.
All she had to do was fight her way down to the bottom of the slope through the jungle of tombs, nettles and beeches, then locating the truck would be easy. Five minutes later, after sinking through a thin veil of undergrowth that covered the broken lid of a sunken vault, legs kicking frantically in space while she clung desperately to a network of roots, she realised she should have taken more care.
She managed to haul herself out, cutting her hands on the jagged edges of the sepulchre lid, and staggered to her feet. She could hear the anguished yelps of the soldier further away than ever now. She smiled ruefully as she imagined what the moustachioed officer with the swagger stick would do to him.
Serve the perv right. That reminded her to button herself up again; after all, like the man said - there were a lot of weirdos about.
She followed the overgrown footpath through nettles glinting with fine strands of web, then through a glade of garlic lilies and finally emerged from the wood into bright sunlight. The crematorium reared above her with Doric columns and tall, murky windows. The sweeping marble steps, split by weeds, were occupied by punks, hippies, bikers and skinheads. They watched her as she came out of the trees, but let her pass unmolested.
There was something about their eyes, all of their eyes.
Something... vacant. Nobody said a word.
It was a gauntlet. A crowd sitting on the steps to her right, a crowd squatting round camp fires and vehicles to her left. Nobody said anything to her, or to each other. Silence, except for 116
the eerie wailing of a lone cassette player. ‘Silver machine’ by Hawkwind.
All eyes upon her.
She knew she’d made the wrong decision. She should turn round, go back in search of the soldiers.
She turned round.
The gauntlet had closed.
Teenage punks of both sexes, rock chicks and bearded hippies on the wrong side of thirty, were closing the gap behind her. All staring impassively, vacantly.
‘I knew you’d seen something you liked.’
The voice was low, mocking. She didn’t need to turn to realise it was the giant roadie. Then his huge arms were closing around her, dragging her towards the cattle truck. The crowd watched as though they hadn’t registered what was happening, or simply didn’t care. She screamed at them to help her. The roadie laughed, slung her over one shoulder and opened the rear doors of the truck.
Darkness rushed at her as she was bundled inside.
117
Chapter Eleven
‘You’re the laziest bastard I’ve ever known.’
‘Good for nothing’s what my dear mama used to call me.’
Kane was stretched out on a tomb in Cirbury’s churchyard, enjoying the mid-June sun and a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale.
Cassandra was standing over him, carrying a wreath. He was sloppy in black T-shirt, ripped jeans and biker boots; she was elegant in pastel blouse, white slacks and Harmony hairspray.
She had ostensibly come to visit her mother’s grave; Kane was there because he had nothing better to do.
‘If the cats can sit around on graves all day, why