Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men - Keith Topping [23]
„Yes,‟ nodded the Doctor sadly. „I remember.‟
And he did. He remembered the noise of the Glastonbury crowd as Comanche Bloodbath, resplendent against a painted backdrop of Apocalypse Now helicopters and Native American faces, finished their opening song in a squeal of feedback. And he remembered Michael Forster coming to the microphone and saying, „I am the Resurrection, and I am the Life!‟, and then pulling a combat knife from his jeans pocket, telling the one hundred thousand people in the audience that life was cheap and worthless and that the only answer was death, and plunging the blade into his chest.
Oh, yes. The Doctor remembered.
He was beginning to think that the entire reunion had been a waste of time, and that he should be getting back to Ace, and the TARDIS, when the mention of the proposed village memorial to Michael Forster brought him up short. It was as if he‟d forgotten for a moment what the point of it all was, and the mere mention of Forster‟s name had been enough to remind him.
The Doctor glanced around the room, and for an instant he saw the faces of the shocked band members, spotted with drops of sweat and blood. He shook his head, and the hideous image faded. And the Doctor noticed that Hatch and his friends were no longer in the room.
He apologised to the old headmaster, and made his way towards the door. He spotted a tall, well-built individual with a full beard looking similarly bewildered by the men‟s sudden disappearance. „Denman,‟ the Doctor muttered to himself.
„Another complication.‟
The Doctor walked down the grand staircase and out into the grounds, slipping past a burly man in a dark suit who was trying to light a cigarette.
It was dusk now. The sun, a huge orange fireball deep in the west, was almost gone and in its place came a clear midsummer night. The smell of freshly mown grass and the buzz of small insects almost overpowered the Doctor‟s senses. As he walked out towards the rugby fields, he felt a prickly sensation along his spine. Perhaps he should have heeded the premonition, but the Doctor‟s strength of purpose was absolute. The answers that he had sought for three hundred years and four of his lives were here somewhere.
Voices. Somewhere nearby. And a flashlight.
„...and that journalist woman...?‟
„Floating at the bottom of the Mersey, Matt. The lads tied her feet to a block of concrete and dumped her near the cast-iron shore. She‟ll never be found.‟
„Good. That‟s what I like, an absence of loose ends.‟
The Doctor strained his eyes in the gloom. It was the four men from the reunion: Matthew Hatch, Trevor Winstone, Kenneth Shanks, and Philip Burridge. They were standing around a four-by-four, and two of the men were busy pulling back a sheet of tarpaulin. The revealed metal glinted under a flashlight.
The Doctor crept as silently as he could towards the big Jeep. Suddenly one of the figures swivelled on the spot, and the Doctor was blinded by the torchlight.
„Stop where you are!‟
The Doctor obeyed without question. Although he couldn‟t see it, he sensed that there was a gun pointing at him.
„Who‟s this?‟ asked Hatch.
„Dunno, matey,‟ said Shanks. He advanced, cautiously, and a glimmer of recognition crossed his features. A moment later, it was gone, and Shanks was pressing the gun into the Doctor‟s chest. „A spy?‟
„Get him in the car,‟ said Hatch angrily. „If he moves, shoot him.‟
Ian Denman left the reunion as soon as he realised that his quarry was no longer in sight. He had allowed himself to be distracted, by an eighty-year-old woman governor extolling the virtues of his public stand on school discipline.
He moved out into the twilight, pushing impatiently past one of Shanks‟s goons who stood at the door. Denman scanned the school grounds for any sign of movement. The noise from the party above drifted down to him.
Nothing. Except, yes, there in the distance on the playing field. Movement in the gloom. Denman jogged a few paces, crouching as he