Doctor Who_ Rags - Mick Lewis [87]
Charmagne moved wraith-like behind the band and took up her position in front of the restored stone, arms at her side, beautiful and calm in the moonlight.
And now someone else was descending from the truck. The back doors swung closed behind him.
The mummer. Colourful paper streamers stirring in the night breeze, leather-mittened hands outstretched as if he were some all-healing Messiah spreading benedictions amongst the chosen, eyes fixed ahead - on Charmagne Peters, on the stone behind her.
Cracked leather boots carried him slowly through the dandelions.
Ley lines. The mummer could feel their power ripping through the earth, the primal violence of them, pouring into the willing crowd around the stones and amplified beautifully by the band’s psyche-moulding music. The violence was escalating, and upon hitting orgasm the forces at his control would be staggering; morphic forces forged beyond the other side of the cosmos, married to the convulsive energies beneath the stones of Cirbury. The result: a widespread tidal wave of volatile negativity. Pure antipathy.
The summer of hate was just beginning.
207
Enjoy, my children...
On his way to join Charmagne, the mummer passed Jimmy.
Jimmy found himself staring into those depthless eyes - I can see for miles and miles he was thinking helplessly, so terrified he almost pissed his jeans and so excited he wanted to laugh and shout and...
Without a word, Jimmy peeled away from the crowd congregating around the band and headed off towards the car park. Neither sin nor Jo noticed him leave.
‘Riot shields?’ the Brigadier repeated in outraged disbelief upon hearing Yates’ suggestion. ‘Good heavens, man! We’re an intelligence task force - we’re the army, dammit, not a bunch of rural bobbies.’ He enunciated the last word with heartfelt contempt.Yates flinched as if he’d been slapped. Such an outburst was incredible. The UNIT troops were virtually defenceless against the stones and bottles that were beginning to fly thick and fast now; protective gear was essential. The rage in the Brigadier’s eyes was completely uncharacteristic - his lack of reason too. But he was Yates’s commanding officer and, like all good soldiers, the captain was trained never to directly challenge a superior. He glanced over at the ring of UNIT men guarding the sarsons. He could tell they were itching to unsling their rifles and blast away at the shouting, screaming mob of hippies and punks surrounding them.
He decided to drop the subject of riot shields for now, vital as he was convinced they were. Something else was worrying him almost as much.
‘Sir… I was wondering if we shouldn’t deploy a squad to Cirbury,’ he announced in the most diplomatic tone he could manage. The Brigadier glared at him, but said nothing.
Encouraged, Yates forged ahead: ‘It’s just that the band is at Cirbury, and they’ve always been the figurehead for the convoy.
Every time the band plays there’s hell to pay. Can I suggest we send a squad there just to keep an eye on things?’ He waited 208
nervously for a reply. Nervously? This was the officer he’d followed blindly and devotedly through all sorts of bizarre and horrific conflicts and eventualities; this was the man whose judgement and command he had never before even thought to question. He would have trusted him with his life, so strong was his confidence in him. But now? What the hell was happening to him, to... everyone?
He thought of Jo: the blind, manic fervour that had been in her eyes at Amos Vale. And now he looked at the Brigadier and saw -
‘How dare you question my authority,Yates? Are you trying to suggest I’m not in control of events? The bloody police can deal with the few troublemakers at Cirbury. The real situation is here!
The bloody hippies are here - can’t you see them? The enemy’s here, man!’
Yates backed away, stupefied by the violence in his superior officer’s voice. A bottle exploded against the jeep parked beside them. The Brigadier turned, whipping out his pistol, eyes sparking with fury. Yates could feel