Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [22]
‘I can’t believe we’ve wasted the whole day in here,’ she said with a sigh.
Ben let out a short chuckle and patted her hand affectionately. ‘Don’t fuss, Pol.’
She glanced over his shoulder and out of the mullioned window. She could see little in the darkness, just a few cold citizens struggling home. ‘It’s not everyone who gets a chance to walk around their own history. And what do we do? Spend the afternoon in the pub!’
Examining his empty glass, Ben shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a little bit of normality, innit, Duchess? You have to admit, it’s not often we get to do something like this.’
Polly smiled. ‘No. No, I suppose not. Anyway, drink up, you. It’s time we were on our way.’
Ben nodded and sat up, disguising a burp with the back of his hand. He tossed a few coins on to the table and looked up at Polly. ‘D’you reckon that’s enough?’
‘Probably the heaviest tip they’ve ever had,’ said Polly, edging around the table and heading for the door.
Ben pulled on his cloak. ‘I’ve always fancied running a pub.’
Polly opened the door of the inn and stepped out into the wintry darkness. Ben stopped her on the threshold. ‘’Ere!’ he cried happily. ‘Maybe I could buy this one now and pick up the deeds when we get back to 1966.’
Laughing, Polly wagged her finger at him. ‘I’m sure the Doctor would have something to say about that!’
They stepped outside. The narrow street seemed almost unnaturally peaceful under its thick blanket of snow. It was unlit save for the light spilling through the door of the inn and, with its pools of blue shadow under the drifts, it looked more like a pathway through a dark wood than a main thoroughfare.
Ben pointed along the street. ‘That way, innit?’
As they moved off, one of the shadows on the wall of the inn detached itself and stood, breathing quietly, nearby. It was the same leathery-faced individual who had followed them earlier.
He watched as the couple began to make their way up the street. In his hand he carried a heavy cosh, a kind of cloth bag packed tight with hard sand. He tested its weight and slapped it against his palm, then cursed as it stung his skin.
Just as he was about to follow Ben and Polly, three other men appeared from around the comer. All were burly and dressed in heavy winter coats which muffled their faces.
Ben and Polly stopped in their tracks, warily eyeing the strangers. Ben glanced quickly around and indicated that Polly should move behind him.
‘All right, Pol,’ he muttered out of the side of his mouth,
‘don’t panic. Let’s see if we can make it back to the pub.’
The three men began to approach them and Ben immediately positioned himself in front of his friend. Polly let out a little shriek as the first of the men revealed a vicious-looking club from inside his coat, which he proceeded to swing to and fro like a pendulum.
Ben looked behind him and was just working out the odds of reaching the tantalisingly close door of Kemp’s inn when the man with the club rushed at him.
Ben neatly sidestepped and tripped him up, sending him crashing into the snow. The second man ran across, threw himself at Ben, and landed a solid punch on his jaw. Ben staggered and fell to his knees.
‘Run, Pol!’ he gasped, as the first man came at him again, spitting snow and mud from his mouth and swinging the club high above his head.
‘Not likely!’ shouted Polly, hurling herself at Ben’s attacker. She leapt on to his back and tried to wrestle the club from his hand but the third man dragged her off and pinioned her arms behind her back.
She called out for help just as the first man cracked Ben behind the ear with his club.
Ben felt a painful nausea rise in his belly and a white flash, like distant summer lightning, dazzle his eyes.
Just then, the leathery-faced man ran out from his hiding place, waving his own cosh and shouting for help.
Sensing that their game was up, the three attackers began to withdraw, dragging Polly with them. She tried to cry out but a big, dirty hand was clamped over her mouth.
Ben struggled to his feet and then collapsed