Downtime - Marc Platt [49]
‘I’m sorry... I know that it’s been a long time. This’ll be a shock and all that...’ She swallowed. This was plainly an agony for her, and that was an unforgivable and unnecessary suffering. She was pacing the words slowly and deliberately....
but can I see you? Soon please, Dad. Sorry. It’s 0122 69046.
Erm... thanks.’
The Brigadier was immobile for a moment, going back.
How long? Five? Six years?
‘ Saturday. Threefortyfour p.m., ’ said the answerphone.
‘Stupid machine. Can’t have been asleep that long.’ He could not take it in. He could deal with aliens, dinosaurs, even the British public schoolboy, but this left him in total puzzlement. He pushed the newspapers aside and opened the front door. There were five full milk bottles on the step. This was absurd.
A clipped voice with a public-school swagger was next to emerge from the answerphone. Officer material, he thought instantly.
‘Greyhound is asked to call Trap Six. I repeat, Greyhound to call Trap Six.’
It was the UNIT emergency call sign. In a reflex movement, his hand went to check for his gun, a movement for which he immediately reprimanded himself. He hadn’t worn a gun since he left the UN.
‘ Monday. Tenofive a.m. ’
‘Monday? What happened to Sunday?’
The answerphone clicked again.
‘ No further messages. ’
He reached out to a door frame for support. Nonsense. No one slept for three days. Something was up. Something serious if UNIT were calling him in. He was still standing in the open front door. Along the avenue sat the empty Gas Board van.
They were always digging up the pavement out there.
Replacing faulty pipes or laying cables. He flexed the fingers on his other hand. They itched as if something had caught on them. He studied them with a suspicion that this had happened before.
The phone trilled again.
Nov what? He was reluctant to answer. Suddenly he was under fire. A bombardment of things from the past. It would be easier to ignore them all and stay put in his comfortable rut.
Why did they need an old fuddy-duddy on the verge of retirement? He hadn’t seen active service for almost twenty years. He was a schoolmaster now, so why didn’t they just leave him alone?
The phone kept trilling. He had switched the answerphone off. He looked the length of the hall at the host of army photographs and his displayed collection of medals. It was no good. He knew he was talking out of his hat. He wasn’t half as old as he felt... yet. He picked up the phone.
‘School House, Brendon,’ he said, carefully avoiding his name. There was a slight burr on the line. ‘Who is this?’
As soon as Sarah Jane reached her car, she checked the cassette in the hidden recorder. About forty minutes of tape had been used. On the campus, the alarms were still ringing.
Several groups of Chillys ran from one of the main blocks, heading along the walkways out towards buildings close to the university’s perimeter.
Sarah was torn between instincts: either to find out what was going on or to get the hell out of the place. Forcing herself to think rationally, she picked up the car phone and called home. Predictably, it was scarcely a second before the call was answered. There was a slight electronic burr on the line.
‘Mistress?’ said the tinny, slightly precious voice.
The instant recognition always disconcerted her, but of course the receiver had monitored the incoming number. It was part of one of his innumerable programs.
‘Hello K9, I need a telephone number.’
‘Yes, mistress. I have one hundred and ninety-six thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine numbers available.’
‘Oh, good. It’s the Brigadier’s number. Brigadier Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart. His home number. He’s teaching at a school somewhere, but I can’t remember which one.’
‘Checking files.’ There was a whirring noise, which meant that K9 Mark III’s electronic ears were waggling. Sarah glanced out of her window. The campus was suddenly deserted, but the alarms continued.
A signboard