Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [70]
he said finally, as if to himself.
‘You what?’ shouted Jimmy over the riot of guitar.
‘The papers say she can’t remember what happened,’ Nick continued dreamily.
‘Conveniently lost her memory for five minutes, yeah right,’
scoffed Jimmy, sparking up a cigarette, his face a mass of bristles and sneers. He had always struck Nick as looking like someone 167
who had once had a violent past but had since become a reformed character. Lately, the reformation had been kicked out of him. Now he wanted bloodlust like all of them, Nick pondered bleakly, and then amended the thought: just like all of us.
Jo spoke up: ‘It says in the Communist Worker that the
‘possessed for five minutes’ statement is just an excuse, and that the princess was most definitely consciously acting out the royal family’s blatant disgust and hatred of the lower classes. Basically, that she let herself get a bit carried away with it all.’
‘And now she will be carried away for good,’ Jimmy bleated.
‘Lock the bitch up in Broadmoor, that’s what they should do.’
Nick said nothing. He was thinking about the Country Life demonstration and the almost complete lack of trouble on that day; and the subsequent events that had so massively eclipsed the protest. It troubled him. It was almost as if the spirit of mayhem had drifted away from the travellers for a fleeting moment and settled elsewhere. He caught Sin glaring at him and returned her cold stare with a growing disgust he could no longer hide. He was becoming as infected as all of them. He wanted blood too; but somehow he’d kept his conscience, even if he could do nothing about it. Every time he tried to speak out he quailed inside, as if something were reining him in. He could express himself only in passive loathing for what he had become and for those he had once loved.
He stared out of the window as the countryside opened up around them. He wondered if UNIT were still tailing them, and knew without needing to check that they were, and that they would be making no moves to interfere with the convoy’s progress; still following the same non-engagement rules they had been adhering to all along.
He knew that was the case, but what he didn’t understand was...
Why?
Kane bought his ticket and took his place in the village-hall stalls.
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In the first row of course. He was very drunk now. Had been pursuing the art all day. No one had attempted to prevent his entry into the hall, but that was understandable. He’d kill any sod who tried, and that readiness for violence showed in his wild and sleep-deprived appearance. His eyes were bloodshot, his long hair was a tangled mess. He hadn’t spoken a word to anybody in days. He gazed up at the curtain as the villagers settled themselves in their seats around him and waited to enjoy the show.
Kane shifted his bleary attention to the programme in his hands, as if it would make some sense out of his life. The Epic of Gilgamesh, the oldest recorded work of fiction, it said. The tale was originally carved on clay tablets in ancient Mesopotamia thousands of years ago. The programme gave a brief summation of the plot: the egocentric King Gilgamesh ruled his people with an arrogant will, dominating their lives and allowing none their individual liberties or freedom of expression. He was a lonely tyrant, however, and longed for a companion in arms.
Kane lit a cigarette.
‘Excuse me, it’s a no-smoking venue, I’m afraid.’
Kane turned slowly to face the speaker. It was a young man in a shirt and tie, balding prematurely, who was showing people to their seats. Kane stared at him, cigarette poised at his lips.
‘Sir?’ the man prompted again nervously.
Kane dragged slowly on the cigarette, not taking his eyes off him.
‘Please, we have to think of the fire regulations’ The man was beginning to sweat.
Kane turned back to face the stage and took another drag. ‘Let the show begin,’ he said in a strange voice. As if on cue, the lights dimmed.