Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [72]
‘Is there none to challenge Gilgamesh?’ wailed the chorus again.
Kane stood up, ground his cigarette out, and vaulted on to the stage. He staggered slightly as he moved forward. He could see the amazement on the face of Enkidu as the actor waddled on stage. He could see the horror on Simon’s as his old enemy bore down on him.
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but his lips merely flapped pitifully. His callow cheeks whitened. The village hall was silent, silent as a funeral home. Kane seized ‘the king’ by his toga and spun him round so that his back was to the audience. Blank-faced, he gave Simon a massive shove that sent him flailing off the stage and into the audience, just missing his stunned sister who let out a little shriek of alarm.
Kane stood there for a moment in the spotlight, unshaven, shabby, drunk. His eyes were locked and strange.
‘He’s coming,’ was all he said. Then he jumped down from the stage and strode out of the auditorium as the villagers erupted into excited chatter.
‘Stonehenge, Prime Minister,’ the Brigadier said into his RT as the jeep crawled several hundred yards behind the last vehicle in the convoy. It’s the only logical destination for them, considering we’re now travelling through Wiltshire. Mystical home for travellers, and all that.
A chalk white horse was visible on the hillside to their right.
The Brigadier glared at it disapprovingly. ‘Yes, sir. We can throw a cordon around the monument, but wouldn’t it be better to contain them within the circle? I see...’ He frowned at his staff 172
sergeant who was steering the jeep. ‘Public outrage about the possibility of the stones being defaced? But sir, what about public outrage at what has already taken place? Surely -’ The Brigadier sighed. ‘We’ll keep them out of the stone circle. Yes, sir.’ He broke the connection and stared ahead thoughtfully.
‘Trouble, sir?’ asked the staff, braving the Brigadier’s obvious bad mood.
‘Hmm?’ The Brigadier gazed blankly at his sergeant for a moment. One of the hippies in the back of a filthy Renault was making lewd hand gestures at him. He watched the offender with a weary expression. ‘Trouble, Staff,’ he confirmed. ‘We’ve been ordered to protect a bunch of stones. It seems the powers that be cannot take any more assaults on the public domain. Elections are In the air, I’m afraid, and our English Heritage being damaged really would be the final straw.’
He sighed again and pressed a button on his RT. ‘Sergeant Benton,’ he barked as soon as a connection was made. ‘Deploy every UNIT vehicle towards Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge, to be precise, Sergeant; and we’ve got to get there before the convoy.’
He signed off, and turned to the staff. ‘Right, let’s find a short cut, and fast.’ He cocked an eye at the white horse. Its wide mouth seemed to be braying with laughter.
At the head of the convoy, the chief roadie led the way on a battered Vincent. Directly behind him, the cattle truck growled through the country lanes like a grimy dinosaur searching for prey. The windscreen was practically opaque with dried mud. The roadie pulled up at a crossroads where a signpost pointed schizophrenically in three directions. Without hesitation, the roadie steered his motorcycle along the road leading towards Salisbury, then pulled into a lay-by. The cattle truck swung slowly In another direction, exhaust blatting out clouds of black fumes.
Then something very odd and very precise occurred: the first half of the convoy followed the cattle truck; the latter half peeled off after the roadie, who veered his bike on to the road again and 173
roared off into the gathering dusk as his obedient portion of vehicles crossed the junction.
Not a word had been spoken