Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [35]
‘Don’t get a lip-on with me, Mary Poppins,’ said Paynter. ‘We’re here to do a job.’
But as they travelled around in a group of thirty tourists with an official InterCom guide, Paynter couldn’t help thinking that maybe (just maybe) there was an element of validity in Barrington’s theory. The guide was using similar phrases to those Paynter had heard on the monorail train, and in a disquietingly monotone fashion, her voice never rising or falling below a certain pitch.
Soft. Calming.
‘See,’ whispered Barrington at one point, and Paynter nodded in agreement.
‘There’s a men’s room over there,’ he said. ‘Let’s make our excuses . . . ’
‘Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,’ said Paynter as he and Barrington stuck their heads out of the toilet window to see that their group had departed.
‘Told you,’ said Barrington, still obviously hurt.
‘No, not the prestidigitation. I mean the individual flushes on the urinals.
And that little plastic thing in the piss-pot with “Say No to Drugs” on it.’
‘Strangeness abounds in these parts,’ Barrington agreed. ‘I thought that a lot of the things they said at the acclimatisation centre were just urban legends, you know? But most of them are true.’
‘Always trust what UNIT tells you!’ Paynter noted ironically.
They set off in the opposite direction to the tourists through the now deserted amphitheatre and soon found themselves in an area well away from the public. Although their conversation continued, they were now constantly aware of their surroundings.
‘Do you see much of Richie Simcox?’ asked Barrington as they rounded a corner and then quickly ducked back behind it when they saw three Intercom security men talking at the far end of a narrow passage between outbuildings.
67
‘Nah, not for a good few months,’ whispered Paynter. ‘He had keyhole surgery after his wife shot him, but he never really recovered. Became a bit of a victim of dependency culture. Last I heard he sits around the house most of the day watching the State Secrets video on the Cyber invasion. Bit of an embarrassment really.’
‘There but for the grace of God . . . ’ noted Barrington.
‘Yeah,’ said Paynter, risking a nervous glance around the corner. The coast was clear. ‘But that’s the price you have to pay if you get caught playing away from home in the eternal triangle, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It was a bit drastic though,’ Barrington added, following Paynter. ‘I sympa-thise with her. It can’t be much fun finding your bloke in bed with a redhead from admin . . . But taking his Browning and giving him a kneecapping? That’s not cricket really, is it?’
‘She always was highly strung, that Celia. Fine-looking woman but, you know, a bit barmy.’ Paynter paused. ‘Someone’s coming, go left.’
He dived through a door, followed a second later by Barrington. They stood behind it, their backs pressed against the cold metal as the sound of boots crunching on gravel faded away from them.
Neither spoke for at least a minute until Barrington asked. ‘Where are we?’
‘Looks like a warehouse,’ said Paynter, noting the presence of numerous packing crates. And so it appeared. Or, at least, it had been once upon a time.
Now it was empty, smelling of dust. Of neglect and engine oil. A minimum of daylight streaming through a high window, dirty and stained with aeons of grime, allowed Paynter and Barrington to see a wooden staircase at the far end of the hangar.
Barrington looked towards the window but could see very little. Just a million tiny something or others, caught in the cross wires of the streaming sunlight and the drifting air. ‘Check the stairs, skipper.’
Paynter moved across the vast open space and then winced as he put his weight on the first step and the wood let out a groan of disapproval. ‘Not very user friendly,’ he noted.
‘Shhh,’ said Barrington, following him, gun in hand ready for action.
‘Really?’ whispered Paynter. ‘Thanks, mate, I’d never have thought of that!’
He climbed the stairs and, on reaching the top, tried to wipe the dirt from a window