Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [48]
They coasted to a halt and got out, all of them looking up at the helicopter. They were about the size of dolls. Justine, Cynthia and Eve.
Ricky wasn’t there but Creed had the distinct impression that he was in the station-wagon. Sitting sulkily, having been dragged here by his mother.
Creed saw his wife turn to look at Amy, and Amy return the look.
But then the helicopter accelerated and speed and distance erased all detail from the scene as they banked and flew away, heading into the rising sun.
Chapter 19
Roz looked out of the window and was surprised to see that the stewardess’s body was gone.
It had evidently been dragged away from the pavement outside by the dogs. Roz wondered how many dogs it had taken to do that. A lot.
But then, there was no shortage of them. They were all around the small house, their shadows writhing in the dark gardens of the estate nearby.
‘Redmond, can you hear me?’ Roz whispered urgently into the helmet mike.
‘You don’t have to whisper, dear. I think they know we’re in here.’ Mrs Woodcott was peering out from the lace curtains that covered the kitchen window.
There was no reply from the armoured car. Roz left the kitchen, stepping over the body of the stewardess’s boyfriend. Mrs Woodcott let the curtains drop and followed her.
They went into the small hallway and checked on the front door. Despite having been kicked in by Roz earlier, the latch seemed to be solid and intact. The door was securely shut.
They walked into the sitting room where the corpse of the dog lay, its broken body sprawled heavily on a dark stain which had spread across the pastel carpet. Roz couldn’t help glancing at her bayonet with a certain measure of martial pride.
Mrs Woodcott settled herself on a fat floral sofa. She picked up a frilled cushion and inspected it. ‘I always imagined the House of the Dead as having nicer furniture.’
She sighed and opened her handbag.
Roz saw bullets glitter in the moonlight. The rings on Mrs Woodcott’s knuckly old hands glittered above them as she reloaded her revolver. The old silver gun was heavy and solid looking. Reassuring.
It was ridiculous, but Roz standing there with her state of the art Styer AUG slung over her shoulder found Mrs Woodcott’s antique six-shot pistol reassuring.
‘What are you doing over there?’ enquired the old woman, as she clicked the pistol shut again.
Roz was standing by the window at the far end of the sitting room. The wall behind her was virtually all glass.
French windows ran for two-thirds of its length. The rest was waist-high windows and Roz was carefully sliding one of these open.
Outside, the moonlit garden was silent except for the sound of the armoured car engine. The rattling echo was coming from the concrete podium beyond the garden wall.
‘I was listening for that. The armoured car,’ said Roz.
‘Listening for Redmond. He-’
Roz stopped talking. Suddenly there was a shape in the window. A long black dog was surging in from the night outside, moving with unbelievable swiftness. It was coming through the window in such utter silence that its presence seemed unreal to Roz.
Equally unreal was the way in which Mrs Woodcott simply looked up from the sofa, raised her revolver, and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the dog bluntly and squarely in the middle of its skull and it toppled back out of the window with almost comical promptness.
Roz quickly slammed the window shut.
The whole incident had lasted a fraction of a second. It had been like a well-rehearsed comedy act. For one surreal second Roz imagined herself touring the country. Playing the role of the magician’s beautiful assistant. Standing on stage opening a window so a superbly rehearsed dog could promptly leap through it, and Mrs Woodcott could shoot it in the head. The dog would topple back out and Roz would neatly shut the window to thunderous applause.
She snapped out of the thought as another dark shape bounced up in the garden and slammed against the window.
It hit the pane of reinforced glass hard