Downtime - Marc Platt [47]
He headed down towards the sea and gazed out across the breakers as they thundered out on the open water. By the time they reached the shore, they had turned to submissive little ripples at his feet. A lone seabird, its head capped with blue, was wheeling and swooping above the tumult. Its cry was a lonely protest against the blustering wind. The UNIT symbol was emblazoned on its khaki wings.
Distant thunder again. A tiny spark of light flickered repeatedly on the horizon. A lighthouse or lightship or guttering star, he decided. He turned and began to walk back inland.
There was a dark figure on the dunes, too far away to be clearly defined. It seemed to change shape, expanding and shrinking without altering position. Even at this distance, he could sense its fierce scrutiny. He headed towards it.
‘Sir? Please, sir?’ said a voice at his shoulder. A moon-faced young man in his mid to late teens was watching him intently. He was dressed in a scruffy Brendon blazer. The Brigadier grappled for a name.
‘Hinton? Good Lord. What are you doing here?’
The boy had sand in his gelled hair. ‘Hinton, D. A., sir.
School House ‘91.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The Brigadier glanced back at the dunes, but the figure had vanished. He studied the boy instead, trawling his mind for memories. ‘It must be a good three years since you got yourself expelled.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hinton admitted sheepishly. ‘But I need to talk to you now, sir. It’s important.’
The Brigadier sighed – a reflex reaction. Whenever boys wanted advice, he was always in the thick of marking or writing reports. ‘Well, make it snappy then.’ He was relieved to find that they were already sitting in deckchairs. He sipped his tea while Hinton looked awkward and ummed and ahed round the point. The way the wretched boy always behaved when he was in trouble. It had been exactly the same three years ago. It took him back.
‘Frankly, Hinton, I don’t know how you could throw it all away. You excel at maths and computer work.’
The boy pulled a long face. ‘The headmaster says I’m “a disruptive influence”, but it wasn’t deliberate, sir.’
‘No more than losing your CCF kit or skiving off games,’
observed the Brigadier. ‘This occult nonsense. Dabbling in black magic is a dangerous business.’
‘It was a seance, sir. Not black magic, or drugs.’
‘No?’
‘I’ve done it loads of times. I suppose it’s a gift.’
‘You have no idea what you’re playing with.’
Hinton grinned. ‘No, sir. Not natural, is it?’ As if realizing his impertinence, he gazed wistfully out to sea. ‘Do you have family, sir?’
Lethbridge-Stewart gave him a weary and withering look.
Somewhere he thought he heard a phone trilling. He glanced round at the beach. The shape on the dunes had reappeared. It was closer and he could see that its undefined form was caused by a dark cloak that billowed in the wind around the hooded figure.
‘You realize we’re under surveillance,’ he said, but the wretched boy’s deckchair was empty. He stood to face the distant figure and once again felt a power emanating from its presence. It was a challenge, he was certain of that. He stood firm and defied it.
The figure did not move. Two tiny figures on an empty beach, buffeted by a wind that blew in from a sea, carrying memories from the past or dreams of the future. Two defiant wills locking horns in a vying for power.
The Brigadier was listening to words torn by the wind.
‘ Where is the Locus? ’ The whispering of a woman or siren.
‘Who are you?’ he barked.
The surge of power from the figure grew in strength.
Bracing himself, he heard the roar of a wild beast again. The figure seemed to split as a second massive shape rose and strode out of the first.
‘Yeti,’ he muttered and reached again into his military tunic for