Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [0]
ANDREW CARTMEL
First published in Great Britain in 1996 by Doctor Who Books
an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd
332 Ladbroke Grove
London W10 5AH
Copyright © Andrew Cartmel 1996
'The right of Andrew Cartmel to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Doctor Who' series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1996
Cover illustration by Jeff Cummins
ISBN 0 426 20464 6
Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Mackays of Chatham PLC
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any Resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
For Chuck Cartmel
Chapter 1
Creed was rising up towards the light.
His head broke the surface and instantly noise rushed in at him from all sides. The sound of splashing water and the clamour and laughter of children echoed loudly off tiled surfaces. It was a hot day and the swimming pool was full.
Creed slipped onto his back and paddled slowly past the tall windows. The bored lifeguards sat in their high-chairs in day-glo shorts, occasionally shrilling their whistles at the antics of the kids.
Above them fibre optic image systems prowled like angular insects on the ceiling and, elsewhere in the sports centre, smart software watched for the pattern of images which would signal a swimmer in distress.
Creed swam placidly through panel after bright panel of sunshine. The daylight shone through the big windows and heaved and gleamed on the gently moving water. He rolled over onto his chest and began a slow crawl. Where was Eve?
He turned lazily in the water and saw her.
‘Stay close, Eve,’ he called.
‘Yes, daddy,’ piped Eve shrilly. His four-year-old daughter was paddling determinedly across the pool, her bright yellow inflatable armbands keeping her afloat. She was wearing a pair of blue rubber goggles that made her look like a miniature version of a 1930s aviation heroine.
As older kids swept past Eve their turbulence caused her to bob up and down momentarily, but she doggedly retrieved her course.
Creed rolled over and floated on his back so he could keep an eye on her. When he was sure she wasn’t about to drift into any kind of trouble he turned away and swam another length.
He’d been in the pool long enough but he knew better than to try to hurry Eve when she was set on a course of action. She had inherited his stubbornness, along with a good measure of her mother’s.
In the crowded men’s changing-room he stood Eve on a bench and towelled her down, dressed her, then dressed himself. She took Creed’s hand and followed him out, a tiny girl navigating through a forest of hairy, male legs.
They went up the stairs together, holding hands and out into the long branching corridors of the gym complex. Creed felt good after the swim, limber and fit.
Just past the restaurant and bar he bumped into his teenage son Ricky and a group of his friends.
‘Hi, Mr McIlveen,’ said the boys. Ricky muttered a greeting, not meeting his father’s eye.
‘What are you guys doing here?’ Creed grinned at them.
‘I can’t imagine a bunch of losers like you indulging in a programme of physical fitness.’
The boys smiled back. ‘You’re right there, Mr McIlveen,’
said one.
‘We’re only here for the girl-watching.’ Another boy slapped Ricky on the back. For some reason this ugly bastard has a knack for attracting girls. It’s like a magic trick.
You go anywhere with him and he can find them.’
‘It’s not like he finds them. It’s like he draws them to him.’
‘It’s no challenge in here,’ said another boy, trying not to stare as a couple of lycra-clad gymnasts