Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [79]
Stonehenge was a symbol of old and arcane things; it was a natural magnet to social outcasts and hippie types. Cirbury, while
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just as old and equally as mystic, had for some reason never entered into the public consciousness to the same degree as the Salisbury Plain monument. If anything bad were to happen, it would happen there; and the soldiers also believed this -
television newscasts showed the UNIT forces protecting the stone circle in an impressive display of armed doggedness.
If a few of the villagers were troubled by passing thoughts about the apparent short-sightedness of not deploying at least a token force to supervise the Cirbury part of the convoy, their thoughts were just that - passing - and immediately left those who had entertained them with a dull feeling of curious tolerance towards the colourful invaders of their historic community.
The general consensus was that nothing bad could happen here. UNIT would protect them if there was anything to worry about and, besides, they had a handful of local bobbies keeping a pragmatic eye on things.
Yes, a curious complacency was the order of the day amongst the villagers of Cirbury. Except in the case of one young man.
Becoming more dishevelled and wild-eyed with each passing day, Kane was also in a permanent state of drunkenness. The villagers referred to him as an alcoholic now, adding to his long list of socially undesirable epithets, and he was roundly shunned.
The sunny morning of 20 June found him waking beside one of the standing stones out in the field, his body stiff with cold, his hair wet with dew.
He rolled over in the grass and sat up, his bones aching, his head competing with them. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s lay three-quarters empty beside him. He pounced on it like a bird spotting a worm and, twisting off the cap, thrust the neck to his lips.
He took a long pull, and only then took time to look around him.
Travellers everywhere, camping in the field of stones. Some in tattered tents, others rolled in sleeping bags out in the open. A few tottered around the ashy ruins of fires provoking them into some semblance of life. Kane belched. Not far from where he sat 190
a figure was slumped against another stone, the remains of a fire next to him. Kane remembered that the night before, when he’d staggered drunkenly among the hippies and punks, accosting any who’d listen with urgent and oft-repeated warnings that were met universally with derision and insults, the young man had been in exactly the same position. He remembered that he’d tried to wake the bastard, but with no response. And here the young man was still, head slumped on his knees.
Kane walked over to him and nudged him with his boot. ‘He’s coming,’ he croaked. The young man remained unmoving, so Kane left him and shuffled over the field towards the village, and specifically the pub.
Cassandra intercepted him on the way. She was sitting on the stile that led from the field. she was dressed in a soft leather jacket and a green dress patterned with black shapes. Her dark, softly spiked hair framed her ascetic cheekbones and her sea-green eyes were clear with bright intelligence. Kane stood before her, stained T-shirt hanging out over filthy, urine-soaked jeans, face haggard and scurfed by stubble, hair lank with grease and littered with grass. He smiled vacantly at her and belched.
‘He’s coming, Cass,’ he said by way of greeting, and held the bottle out to her. She refused it with a gesture, soft eyes watching him closely.
‘Who’s coming, Kane?’ she asked in the manner of a nurse addressing a mental patient.
Kane laughed and lugged the bottle to his lips again, draining it with one gulp. ‘Raggers, of course’ He spun and hurled the empty bottle against the nearest of the crusty stones.
‘Raggers?’
‘The Ragman to you. He’s come back to Cirbury, and he’s mightily pissed off. Heads are gonna roll, Cass.’
Cassandra shook her head confusedly, warding off his ramblings. ‘You’re in a bad way, Kane.’
Kane giggled, and searched the pockets of his leather