The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [6]
And just when he was managing to persuade himself that he hadn’t been seeing things, and that it was undoubtedly the right course to ring the Doctor at UNIT, he’d had that hallucination on the boat – the Smith girl –
and then again this morning… She’d seemed real enough.
But how could you tell? She’d hardly be carrying a banner –
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or wearing a T-shirt – with ‘Please note: I am not a figment of your imagination’ written on it; and even if she had, what was the guarantee that that wouldn’t have been a hallucination too?
The Brigadier gave up. He stopped for a breather and thankfully put down the ever heavier case. He’d never intended to stay at the castello. When his ninety-two‐year-old relative had appealed to him for help, he’d decided that noblesse oblige was all very well – blood thicker than water and all that – but it would be safer to stay on the mainland and just pay a visit. He’d got his own life to live.
With a sigh, he picked up the case in his other hand and resumed his unhappy progress towards the castle which crowned the hill – or mountain as the locals called it –
which dominated the little island, falling away to the sea in an unscaleable cliff on the north side.
He had to stay as long as it was necessary. After all, he could hardly leave the old fellow to face the unspeakable Max Vilmio all by himself.
The Brigadier’s pursuers had been quite glad of a chance to catch their breath themselves. He’d set a pretty steady pace, only stopping a couple of times, and their own progress had been complicated by the necessity for dodging behind every convenient outcrop or bush in case he turned round, though he never did; and now he disappeared 21
through the big Arabian Nights sort of archway that led through the perimeter wall of the castle on the southern corner.
Sarah nipped after him, stopping in the shelter of the gatehouse, staying close to the massive wooden gate that had clearly not been closed for an eon, and was just in time to see him vanish into the castle itself and close the heavy iron-bound door firmly behind him.
She moved into the big open courtyard – the bailey, they called it, didn’t they? she thought, digging into her own remote past; though the castle didn’t really match with what she’d been taught at primary school.
It was a bit of a mongrel, she decided. Its outer wall, which was in the form of a diamond, with a defensive tower on each of the east and west points, was definitely of Arab construction. It had different outbuildings all around, though quite a few were derelict. The stables, for example, clearly hadn’t had any occupants for years.
But the main building, which rose enormous and menacing into the stormy sky ahead of her, was plainly a Norman keep – even though larger windows had been installed to turn it into a house rather than a fortress, and a Renaissance campanile (or maybe clock tower) was sticking up incongruously from its rear.
What was the Brigadier doing in a place like this?
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‘So what do we do now?’
Sarah didn’t answer. It was a rhetorical question, designed to needle her, on a par with all the other whispered grumbles she’d been forced to listen to all the way up the steep pathway. In any case, she didn’t know the answer.
She was beginning to feel rather foolish. After all, what business had she to pry into the Brig’s private life?
Jeremy was no longer bothering to whisper. Apart from anything else, the wind was rapidly turning into a full gale.
‘I’m hungry and I’m cold – and if you ask me –’ he started to say in a petulant voice.
‘Okay, okay. You win! We’ll go back. Honestly, it’s like taking a three-year‐old out for a walk. We’ll catch the next boat. Right?’
This was easy to say, but when they had struggled through the buffeting wind back down to the village, the bleak information on the wall near the jetty was that the little ship visited only twice a day; and it was clear that none of the big tourist boats bothered to come out to the islands of San Stefano. They were stuck until the next morning.
‘Never mind,’ said Sarah,