Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men - Keith Topping [8]
Perhaps they were on holiday. Whatever. That was their business. They were walking away from Hexen Bridge, and that was good enough for Russ Sloper.
You not from round here?‟ he asked, hoping to strike up a conversation to while away the journey back to the dairy.
„No,‟ said the man. „We‟ve only just arrived. We want to visit a library.‟
„Tourist brochures, a bit of local history, that sort of thing,‟
said the girl, piping up brightly. „Isn‟t that right, Professor?‟
„Professor, eh?‟ inquired Sloper. Writing a book or something?‟
„Perhaps,‟ said the little man. „I‟m usually known as the Doctor. “Professor” is just an irritating affectation my companion has picked up.‟
„Then you‟re not a professor?‟
„Yes and no,‟ said the man, as if that was answer enough.
„I‟m Ace,‟ said the girl.
„I bet you are,‟ said Sloper with a chuckle.
Ace glared at him. Her eyes spoke of things that Sloper could never imagine. Sloper shivered. It was his turn to avert his eyes.
Sloper suddenly remembered an Asian kid he‟d got to know at school. The boy had turned up one term, exotic and alien, and calm, despite the bullying. With his faraway look he made Sloper feel mundane and trivial. So did this girl.
„Are you all right?‟ asked the Doctor.
„Fine,‟ said Sloper. „Just glad to be away from Hexen Bridge.‟
„Ah,‟ said the Doctor. „Why am I not surprised to hear you say that?‟
Ace glanced at a passing road sign. „That village seems very isolated,‟ she announced. „Miles from anywhere.‟
„I‟ve often wondered about that,‟ said the Doctor.
„Don‟t wonder too hard,‟ said Sloper. „I‟ll happily drop you off at the library in town but, if you want my advice, you‟ll have a much nicer holiday if you stay there. Hexen‟s good for nothing.‟
And with that, and despite the sun rising into the azure sky, Sloper lapsed into brooding silence.
A magazine can tell the observant many things about the person who is reading it. This particular magazine was a music-and- fashion monthly, one of hundreds that cluttered the newsstands and kiosks of Britain. Its garish, brightly coloured cover was in stark contrast to the drab, grey formalism of the Daily Telegraph that lay on the plastic-topped table. Nails painted bright red grasped the pages of the magazine tightly.
The summer sun nervously pulled itself above the brow of a solitary hill, blinding the train passengers with its unexpected brilliance. The girl cursed under her breath, swayed slightly as the carriages clattered through a series of tightly positioned points, and lifted a pair of vampish plastic sunglasses from her handbag. She had put the bag on the aisle seat next to her to discourage anyone from sitting there.
Personal space is very important to the average train user, and it was particularly, obsessively, important to Nicola Denman.
She glanced back at the magazine, but she had lost the thread of the article on the Star Jumpers‟ comeback tour.
She picked up the bottle of mineral water, but the taste was bland and insipid. Then the sun lost itself in the clouds again, and Nicola removed her glasses, and shivered.
Anyone in the train compartment with an active imagination, and too much time on their hands, might have paused to wonder at the way in which the girl and her bearded companion seldom made eye contact. They talked to each other in snatched bursts of clumsy embarrassment.
„I still don‟t know why you made me come,‟ said Nicola, stopping abruptly as if the danger of initiating a proper conversation was too horrible to contemplate. Her voice was soft and singsong, cut through on occasions with a strong, nasal Scouse inflection.
„You‟re not staying in the Pool on your own,‟ said the man flatly. „If I‟ve told you once I‟ve told you a million times...‟ He paused, aware that he was raising his voice. Again.
„But, Dad...‟
Her voice faded away as the train entered a tunnel and the compartment was, momentarily, plunged into darkness.