Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [19]
And with unpleasant synchronous precision, the noise began again.
It came vibrating through the antique leaded window panes of the library, rising in the night. Coming from every corner of the dark countryside.
‘Oh, that,’ said the Doctor.
Chapter 7
‘Watch out for the exit, daddy,’ said Eve.
‘Everything’s fine, dear,’ said Creed, frowning through the windscreen. It was true, though. He always missed the damned turning for the school. This time he was determined to anticipate it, getting across the traffic flow and into the exit lane without hurrying, as they turned into the road and drove up to the school.
Creed eased the car into a slot, parking with fatuous precision between painted lines in the wide, empty lot. Will you be OK in the car, baby?’
‘Yes, daddy. Can I play the radio?’
‘Sure,’ said Creed, adjusting the voice-actuated controls on the car so that they’d respond to Eve’s commands. ‘You know what to do if someone comes along and you don’t know them, and they maybe try to get in the car?’
‘Lock all the doors and call mummy on the car phone,’
Eve recited in a bored, singsong voice.
‘Good girl.’
Creed left the car and went up the steps into the school.
After the hammering heat of the car park the corridors were shadowy and cool. He felt a familiar, slightly guilty thrill of pleasure. It was nice knowing he never had to set foot inside this place if he didn’t want to. He’d grown up. Escaped. Left school behind. But even after all these years it still exerted a strange power over him. The smell of the long corridors brought back memories of his own high-school years. Like the time when —
‘Hey, dad.’
Cynthia was standing in the doorway of a classroom.
Actually, as he moved closer Creed saw that it wasn’t an ordinary classroom. Carpeted floor stretched away from the door in a gentle gradient; rows of empty seats were aimed up at a small open stage with a large, white screen. ‘Have you been watching movies?’
‘Sort of. Mr Retour was showing me some videos.’
‘Who’s Mr Retour?’ For some reason Creed was instantly suspicious of the foreign sounding name. ‘What sort of videos?’
‘Old newsreels. All black and white and 2-D, and the sound was real primitive, but they were great.’ Cynthia had that look of absorption she got when she found a book or a television show that captured her imagination. ‘Mr Retour is going to be teaching me history.’
‘What period?’
‘Twentieth century.’
‘That’s a pretty big subject.’
‘With a special focus on the role of charisma in the rise to power of Hitler and Mussolini,’ recited Cynthia.
‘Special focus, huh?’ said Creed, grinning.
Cynthia instantly went on the defensive. ‘Mr Retour says that the angle of Mussolini’s chin was responsible for the fascist dominance in Italy during World War Two.’
‘Well, I’m glad to know our tax-dollars are funding Mr Retour’s salary.’
Just then a tall young man came hurrying down the corridor, clutching a heavy armload of school books. He was dressed incongruously in a long orange robe, which flapped around his legs as he walked, and he wore a small knitted cap on his head. He tugged at the cap in greeting and smiled shyly as he hurried past Creed and Cynthia.
‘Was that Mr Retour?’
‘No,’ laughed his daughter. ‘Mr Retour wears a tweed jacket and has these incredible, mad-scientist eyebrows.
That’s just some Buddhist monk who teaches Comparative Anthropology.’
‘Tell you what, Cynthia. Why don’t you go out and wait in the car with your little sister?’
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘I just have one or two things to do in here first.’
‘Is this to do with Ricky’s problem?’ said Cynthia, her voice suddenly dropping low and her eyes hungrily open for scandal.
‘Just go wait in the car, Cynthia.’
‘You don’t have to get mad at me.’
‘I’m not getting mad. Go wait in the car.’
‘It’s not my fault my brother’s a spaz,’ muttered Cynthia, as she strode away down the corridor. Creed shook his head and stood, watching her for a moment. Cynthia had already acquired the liquid rolling stroll of her mother’s which had driven Creed crazy when they