by Mark Gatiss
Handsome devil, he thought.
‘Clever devil,’ he said aloud.
He swung back round and turned his attention to his morning mail.
Cochrane was, by general agreement, one of the government’s brightest stars. A high-flyer who had risen from Chief Secretary to the Treasury to Secretary of Defence in little more than eighteen months. Well bred, well educated and with a beautiful wife, he was still only forty-one years old and the way he had forced unpopular defence cuts on to the Chief of Staff had hugely impressed the Prime Minister. The Home Office beckoned, he was sure of it.
He was still smiling to himself when he opened an envelope and three freshly printed photographs spilled out on to the desk.
He could smell the fresh developer on them.
Despite the fact that they appeared to have been taken through a hotel window, they were staggeringly clear. Cochrane appeared in all three. He wasn’t alone. And he wasn’t wearing his three-piece pinstripe suit.
Cochrane felt a wave of fear wash over him like cold water. When he finally pulled himself together, he opened the envelope wide and checked it for further contents. A tiny slip of paper fell out. On it was printed a phone number. Cochrane rubbed his eyes and then, with shaking hands, picked up the phone and dialled the number. There was a click at the other end but no one spoke. Not at first.
Cochrane swallowed. ‘This is Charles Cochrane.’
He turned the photographs over one by one so they were face down on the desk.
‘What… what do you want?’
Whistler tipped a pinch of snuff on to the back of his hand and raised it to his bulbous nose. He inhaled briskly and then sneezed, causing more than one of the villagers gathered in the church hall to shoot him reproving glances. He glared back at them and blew his nose loudly, oblivious to the speckles of brown dust which now peppered his face like liver spots.
Sitting back in a rather uncomfortable chair, he looked around with a bored sigh.
The long, rectangular room was hung with gaily embroidered Bible scenes; woollen shepherds visited a woollen manger, a risen Christ gazing down on an earthly kingdom made of silver paper.
Since Max Bishop’s abortive meeting earlier in the day, trestle tables piled with slim, leatherbound hymn books had been pushed back against the walls to provide more space. Wide-hipped, middle-aged ladies clustered around in little groups, like dodgem cars in flowery frocks, chatting and laughing.
Whistler gave a little wave to Miss Plowman but she didn’t see him as she was too busy talking to Mrs Toovey. She, at least, glanced over at him and smiled. Next to them was the lean, rather sallow-faced Max Bishop from the post office complete with his bow tie and baggy cardigan. He was sipping from a cup of weak tea and talking to his pale, wiry brother Ted who, as usual, looked in fear of his wrath. Ted was standing in front of a scene from the Crucifixion, looking very sorry for himself. Whistler smiled. He didn’t know who looked the more worse for wear: Ted Bishop or the Son of Man.
Ted’s son Noah was close by. Whistler had arranged to meet him, keen to bring him up to date with the results of his call to his old friend Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.
Whistler sneezed again but it could have been because of the musty dampness of the unheated church hall as much as the snuff.
Shuffling from group to group was the vicar, Mr Darnell, a tall, young man with a pleasant, rather bland face. He exuded a permanent smell of dust and spice. Only in the village a month or so, he had lost no time in bounding up to Whistler’s front door, all open-toed sandals and neckerchief.
‘Oh, hello, Vicar,’ Whistler had said.
‘Call me Steve!’ trilled the newcomer.
‘No,’ muttered Whistler, slamming the door in his face.
Now Darnell was orbiting those silly women, dressed in open-neck shirt, jeans and gym shoes – if you please – and not acting very much like a vicar at all.
Whistler pulled a sour face.
‘What price the dog collar, eh, Wing Commander?’
Whistler turned round. To his surprise, Noah Bishop was sitting next to him, smiling broadly. He was dressed in bell-bottom corduroys and tight T-shirt and his snub nose creased up as he smiled. Max Bishop was always complaining that the lad was a bit of a troublemaker but Whistler had been fond of Noah since he was a child.
‘What’s that?’
Noah shrugged. ‘The vicar. I get the feeling you disapprove of him.’
Whistler grunted. ‘Well, naturally. Dispensing with all the “thees” and “thous”. It’s what church is all about. Used to be anyway. Take the wedding service. Used to be “with my body I thee worship”. What a wonderful phrase.’
He stared into space for a long moment. ‘All gone now.’
He cleared his throat. ‘But that’s neither here nor there. Are you all right, lad?’
Noah nodded. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
Whistler shrugged. ‘Well, after this morning’s shenanigans.’
‘I’m fine. Really. It takes more than a bully in sunglasses to put the wind up me.’
Whistler grinned. ‘Good lad.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, if those were our mysterious visitors, then you and I have got a handle on them already, Noah, wouldn’t you say?’
Noah nodded. ‘Didn’t take to them at all.’
‘I got through to my old chum Lethbridge-Stewart. He says he knows just the fella to look into it. Sending him down forthwith.’
Noah nodded. ‘Cool.’
Whistler glanced round. ‘Well, these aerodrome johnnies are going to be late if they don’t show soon.’
Noah nodded. ‘Well, I make it just ten, they should be…’
He stopped speaking abruptly as a flash of light illuminated the room. A murmur of surprise ran through the assembled villagers but, before anyone could comment, the main doors to the hall swung open.
A breeze rushed through the long room, making the parish notices pinned to the wall flutter like butterflies testing their wings.
Three figures were framed in the doorway.
For a moment they stood in silence, as though pausing for dramatic effect, the morning sky forming a burnished blue canopy at their backs.
Two of them were athletic-looking men in neat black uniforms. Noah and Whistler recognised one of them as Captain McGarrigle, still sporting the same sunglasses.
The two men flanked a tall, rather fat woman, in a neat black trouser suit and white blouse. She had large, dark eyes which stood out from her pale face with the clarity of ink spots on blotting paper. An oily comma of black hair was slapped flat across her forehead.
She looked about at the assembled villagers and swept her intense gaze across them. Then she broke into a huge grin, exposing teeth that were small, even and perfectly white, like those in the head of a ventriloquist’s dummy.
‘Good morning, my friends,’ she said. Her voice was rich, deep and soothing.
For no reason he could fathom, Noah shivered.
‘I apologise for the abruptness of this meeting,’ continued the newcomer.
She crossed the room in a few swift strides, the two black-uniformed men keeping perfectly in step with her, and took her place at a lectern made of pale, blond wood. She smiled again and Whistler noticed how many of the villagers were responding to her evident cheerfulness.
‘My name is Bliss,’ said the newcomer, flattening down still further the black fringe which hung like a silky curtain across her forehead. ‘And I bring great news for you all!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEW ORDER
‘My dear Brigadier,’ said the Doctor, stretching back in a chair and folding his hands behind his head. ‘Running errands is not my forte. If you want someone to pop round to see your old friends, I suggest you try the Women’s Institute.’ He put his feet up on the Brigadier’s desk, the corners of his mouth turning up into a small smile. ‘I believe they make excellent jam.’
The Brigadier raised an eyebrow and shot a venomous look at
the Doctor who had now closed his eyes, completing the picture of indifference.
He was glad the Doctor had returned, of course, and he was certainly looking back to his usual dapper self in emerald-green smoking jacket, narrow black trousers and bow tie. However, he was displaying his familiar contempt for the Brigadier’s methods and seemed damnedly disinclined to get back to work. Or, at least what the Brigadier regarded as work.
‘Perhaps if you could explain a little more, sir,’ said Jo helpfully.
‘Oh very well,’ sighed Lethbridge-Stewart. He sat down and leant forward over the desk, crossing his hands in front of him. ‘Alec Whistler is an old friend. He was a pilot during the war –’
‘Which war?’ said the Doctor, still with eyes closed.
‘Well, the last one, of course,’ cried the Brigadier in exasperation.
‘Oh, yes. I lose track. You have so many.’ The Doctor settled himself further into the chair.
The Brigadier cleared his throat. ‘Whistler flew Spitfires out of a base in East Anglia. A village called Culverton. He liked the place so much he decided to stay on there. It’s a lovely spot. Been down there myself more than once.’
The Doctor sighed theatrically.
The Brigadier pressed on. ‘Well, anyway, as I thought I’d explained, the old aerodrome closed down recently. Defence cuts and all that…’
‘And then these new people bought the place up? asked Jo.
The Brigadier nodded. ‘That’s right, Miss Grant.’
The Doctor spoke without opening his eyes. ‘And what has that got to do with us?’
The Brigadier looked down at his hands, a troubled expression flitting over his features.
‘Well?’ demanded the Doctor.
‘It may be nothing. But Alec Whistler says these new people are acting rather strangely. Convoys of lorries going up to the old aerodrome. Acting rather… officiously.’
The Doctor’s eyes opened and he nodded towards the armed guard at the door. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’
He sat up at last, a flicker of interest in his eyes. ‘Go on, Brigadier.’
‘Whistler asked me if I could do a bit of digging. I like the old boy, so I said I’d do what I could.’
‘And you dug?’ said Jo brightly.
‘I did. Or at least I tried to. It should have been fairly routine. The MOD is always selling off redundant property. But I can’t seem to get a straight answer out of anyone.’
The Doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘And it feels like more than just the usual bureaucracy?’
The Brigadier nodded. ‘These new people seem to have friends in high places. The order comes from the top. Leave well alone.’
Jo chewed thoughtfully at her lower lip. ‘And what are they called?’
The Brigadier glanced down at a sheaf of notes. ‘Legion International.’
The Doctor looked up. ‘What did you say?’
‘Legion International,’ repeated the Brigadier. ‘A new outfit apparently. Lot of foreign investors. And that’s about all I could find out.’
The Doctor seemed lost in thought. Jo looked at him. ‘What is it, Doctor?’
He continued to think in silence for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Nothing, nothing.’ Jumping to his feet, he crossed straight to the door and pulled it open.
‘Where are you going?’ cried the Brigadier in surprise.
The Doctor looked puzzled. ‘Culverton, of course. Isn’t that where you wanted me to go?’
He strode out, his cloak flapping behind him.
The church hall was buzzing with chatter. Bliss held up her hands for silence. Whistler and Noah had folded their arms simultaneously, unconsciously mirroring each other’s scepticism.
‘My friends,’ continued Bliss in her syrupy voice. ‘I can understand your concern. The news of the aerodrome’s closure must have come as a shock. Who can forget the heroic exploits of its fighter squadrons during the last war?’
Whistler cleared his throat. ‘Plenty by the sound of it. Otherwise, why close the place down?’
Bliss eyed Whistler carefully and flashed her huge smile. ‘Time marches on, sir. The old order passes away.’
Whistler harrumphed. ‘And what, pray, are we to expect in its place?’
Bliss nodded to the black-uniformed Captain McGarrigle at her side. The muscular man crossed swiftly to a slide projector which had been set up at the back of the hall and switched it on. The machine was of a dull, grey, planished metal and hummed with power.
McGarrigle slotted a slide into place and suddenly Bliss’s face was bathed in coloured light. A huge image was projected across the room on to the white plaster of the far wall. Bliss stepped aside so the assembled villagers could take it in.
The image was an artist’s impression of the aerodrome, but in a very different state to the neglected, weed-strewn place that everyone knew.
The parabolic prefabs had been replaced by tall steel and glass towers. Sleek passenger aircraft, even the odd jumbo jet, were dotted around the broad black band of a new runway, disgorging hundreds of happy, tanned passengers. Everywhere, airline crew in black uniforms and peaked caps were smiling and waving. A flag flew boldly from the top of the highest tower.
‘What the hell do you call that?’ cried Whistler from his seat.
Bliss’s smile grew even broader. ‘The future, my friend.’
She stepped back into the projector’s beam and an aeroplane was instantly superimposed across her pale, fat features. ‘I give you Legion International.’
There was an audible gasp from the assembled villagers, then a smattering of clapping.
Bliss accepted the applause like a soprano during a curtain-call, bowing slightly and plucking unconsciously at her blouse. She looked up, her huge black eyes glittering, and gave a little nod.
McGarrigle and the other uniformed man moved swiftly and silently to the doors of the hall and opened them wide.
At once, a dozen or so similarly dressed men marched inside, tall, handsome and immaculate in their uniforms. They split into two columns and moved to flank the figure of Bliss who stood at their head like the general of an army.
Jo had never seen a sky like it. Not on Earth anyway. The Doctor had driven his little yellow Edwardian car, Bessie, at a frantic pace out into the Essex countryside and, hugging the coast, up towards East Anglia.
The land had quickly flattened out and it was possible to see for miles and miles with only the occasional church spire to break up the horizon.
At first Jo had found the journey monotonous, but as the hot summer afternoon wore on she came to relish the wind rushing through her hair and the glorious colour of the sky which dominated the landscape: a kind of deep, burnished blue like a fresh coat of paint.
The Doctor pressed his foot down and Bessie put on a turn of speed, taking on the narrow corner of a lane with amazing dexterity. Jo gripped the car door to steady herself and turned to the Doctor, her sunglasses glinting.
‘We all missed you, Doctor,’ she cried above the roar of the little car’s engine.
The Doctor nodded absently. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course. The Brig was in quite a state. I don’t think he’d quite know what to do with himself if you weren’t there.’
The Doctor gazed ahead, his eyes disappearing into a mass of lines as he squinted into the sun. ‘Well, he’ll have to get used to it, Jo. I can’t hang around here for ever, you know.’
Jo nodded a little sadly. ‘I know.’
The Doctor changed gear. ‘I mean, there’s little point in having my exile lifted if I choose to stay put on twentieth-century Earth, now is there? I have my reputation to think of. People will go around saying I’ve become institutionalised.’
Jo’s puzzled look was visible through her large sunglasses. ‘Pardon?’
‘Institutionalised. An old lag. Someone who comes to depend on their imprisonment.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Oh, I’d never think that. But you must… yo
u must…’
The Doctor looked quickly across at her before refocusing on the road ahead. ‘Must what?’
Jo shrugged. ‘Well, I mean, it must mean something to you. UNIT, the Brigadier… me, or else why are we going to East Anglia instead of Metebelis whatever?’
‘Three, Jo,’ said the Doctor levelly. ‘Famous blue planet of the Acteon galaxy.’
‘I know,’ smiled Jo. ‘Well?’
‘Well?’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’ Jo looked hard at the Doctor.
He was silent.
Charles Cochrane MP wasn’t used to travelling by the tube. Even during the thankfully brief period he’d spent as a member of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, he’d managed to use his family connections to wangle a car with a driver. He was very careful never to use it when travelling around his grim little Northern constituency, of course, but then politics was chiefly about the art of concealment.
He walked swiftly down the escalator at Tottenham Court Road station, uncomfortable in the shabby clothes he’d adopted as a disguise. The jacket was too small and horribly constrictive in this hot weather and the trousers were far too big, forcing him to keep them pulled together at the waist. Despite the rush and his worry about the whole situation he was still feeling rather pleased at the neatness of his ruse.
The voice on the phone had told him to come to an address in the East End, without his usual round-the-clock security guard. It had been difficult to convince the officer but, in the end, Cochrane had succeeded.
‘I’m going undercover,’ he had said. ‘It’s a way to connect with the voters again and find out what people are really thinking.’
What concerned him most, naturally, was what the voters would really think if they saw those photographs splashed across the Sunday papers…
He changed trains at Liverpool Street, threading his way through the commuting crowds, and made his way east, shrugging a bulky holdall over one shoulder. Tired of standing, he finally found a seat on the packed, oppressively hot vehicle but an old man, head lolling, kept falling asleep on his shoulder. Cochrane grimaced and wiped some of the man’s drool from his cheap suit, then adjusted the sunglasses which disguised most of his face. He hugged the holdall to him.