by Mark Gatiss
It was dangerous, of course, to give in to a blackmailer, but the alternative was too frightful to contemplate. Anyway, there was something else inside the bag, in addition to ten thousand pounds in cash. His father’s revolver. Just in case these crooks had anything nasty in mind.
Cochrane got off the tube at a dingy, decrepit station which he’d never even heard of. It still had wooden escalators, the corner of each stair packed with paper and old cigarette butts. As he sailed towards ground level, Cochrane made a mental note to do something about such firetraps if he became Home Secretary.
‘When I become Home Secretary,’ he muttered aloud.
He would hand over the money and they would give him the negatives. Then he could go back to doing his job. And he’d never stray again. Ever.
The address he’d been given turned out to be a warehouse of some kind. Gantries crisscrossed the buildings above him and there were huge iron hooks projecting from the brickwork.
He walked down a dark, narrow alley. A drain was overflowing, pooling filthy water on to the cobbles.
Cochrane found a narrow door painted in peeling green and pushed at it. The door opened soundlessly, as though freshly oiled. He stepped through.
The room beyond was clearly vast. Despite the darkness, Cochrane could make out rafters high up, fitfully illuminated by dirty skylights. The whole place stank of turpentine.
He lifted the bag up to chest height. ‘I’ve brought the money,’ he said in as clear and steady a voice as he could muster. There was no response.
Somewhere a tap was dripping.
Cochrane lowered the bag and placed it carefully on the floor in front of him. He unzipped it and felt inside until he found the butt of the gun.
‘And I’ve ordered the Culverton aerodrome out of bounds. Just as you ordered.’
He lifted the gun clear of the wads of bank notes and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers.
‘So…’
He held up one hand in what he hoped was a conciliatory fashion.
‘Do we have a deal?’
Something moved far back in the shadows.
Cochrane steadied himself. His hand moved to touch the gun. The tap dripped steadily in the silence.
Then there was a deafening noise, somewhere between a scream and a howl of rage, and whatever was in the room with Cochrane came powering through the pitch darkness and overwhelmed him.
He scrabbled for the gun but it fell down the inside of his baggy trousers and clattered to the floor.
And when he tried to yell, something slithered inside his mouth.
CHAPTER NINE
THE CONTROL ROOM
She felt its agony as though it were her own.
Out there, out of sight, it lay. Blood thumping through its massive body, bringing life and energy to the great sinews and muscles. But the brain… the mind…
She felt it reaching out to her and a wave of terrible regret flooded through her body.
She had been lucky. The other had not, succumbing to the instabilities of their passage through the darkness. And now he was lost, an insensible, monstrous thing.
Almost insensible.
Somewhere in the dark pit of his brain, he knew. He knew what he had become and he screamed his pain and resentment into her mind.
She sank back into her chair and closed her huge, dark eyes. Blood dripped from her palms where she had sunk her fingernails into the flesh.
Wing Commander Whistler crouched down behind an oil drum and rubbed his tired eyes.
Just ahead of him, the gates of the aerodrome had been opened and pushed back as far as they would go. The familiar convoy of lorries was rattling through and, from his hiding place, Whistler could see they all had the same tightly covered black tarpaulins over their hidden cargo.
As the latest lorry roared past in a cloud of dust, he looked over to where Noah Bishop had concealed himself. The boy held up his hand, signalling for Whistler to wait, as two Legion International troopers pulled the aerodrome gates closed behind them.
When all was clear, Noah slipped out from behind a pile of packing crates and joined Whistler.
‘Did you get a closer look?’ asked the old man.
Noah shook his head. ‘They’re not going to make another mistake like that.’
Whistler pulled a small pair of binoculars from his jacket and squinted through them. ‘Might get a better view – ah!’
‘What is it?’ Noah sprang up, peering into the distance.
Whistler handed him the binoculars. ‘They’re starting to unload. Can you see?’
Noah fiddled with the focus. ‘Yes. They’ve pulled up… about… three hundred yards down the airstrip.’
Whistler shielded his eyes. ‘Can you see what they’re unloading?’
Noah nodded slowly. He handed the binoculars back to the old man. Through a shimmering heat haze, Whistler could make out the shapes of a dozen or so men hauling bulky equipment and crates on to the concrete.
He let his hands flop to his waist. ‘Hmm. Not what you saw before?’
‘No,’ muttered Noah. ‘Concrete-mixers or something.’
Whistler shook his head. ‘Whereas…?’
‘They were more like coffins.’ Noah looked him in the eye and then his head snapped up suddenly. ‘Look.’
Whistler followed the line of his outstretched finger. There was a freshly painted sign attached to the gates, announcing that the aerodrome was closed. It hung loose now, swinging from one corner.
‘Oh yes,’ muttered Whistler. ‘Old Jobey was talking about that in the pub. He’s been contracted to paint a few of them…’
He tailed off, frowning.
‘What is it?’ said Noah.
Whistler shrugged. ‘It may be nothing. But I haven’t seen Jobey in days. He’s always in his usual place in the pub. I’ve never known him miss a night.’
Noah looked steadily at Whistler. ‘But he wasn’t there last night?’
Whistler shook his head. Jobey’s sign creaked gently in the breeze. ‘Question is, why would anyone bother to announce the closure of the aerodrome if they were about to flog it to a private airline?’
Noah wiped the palm of his hand over his face and sighed. ‘I’d better be getting back. Uncle Max’s got me working this afternoon.’
Whistler smiled. ‘Me too. Mrs Toovey’s been on at me to get my act together for the fête. She treats me like a little boy most of the time.’
He smiled, then glanced back towards the aerodrome. ‘Perhaps we should come back tonight.’
Noah nodded. ‘Yeah. Let’s do that. I’m sure between us we can find out what’s going on.’
‘I might have some news from my friend,’ said Whistler. ‘He’s promised to do some poking about at the MOD. Find out what they know about these Legion International beggars.’
‘Cool.’
‘Eh? Oh yes.’ Whistler held out his hand and Noah took it, his grip warm and firm. ‘Until tonight, then.’
Noah grinned. ‘Until tonight, Wing Commander.’
A tall, rather florid-faced man stood just inside the closed gates of the aerodrome, hot and uncomfortable in the uniform of a police constable.
John Trickett pulled a clean white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and rubbed it around the inside of the collar of his short-sleeved blue shirt. Then he dabbed his forehead and moustache and blew air noisily from his mouth. His thick woollen trousers were clinging to his legs, annoying him as much as the heavy helmet he cradled under one arm.
He thought back to his holiday in Rome and the cool, light wearable summer clobber he’d seen the Italian police wearing. Luxury. ‘Sensible fellas,’ he’d said to his wife. ‘They may not know how to run a country but they don’t force their coppers to wear winter woollies in the middle of July.’
A black-uniformed guard appeared, obviously senior in rank to the one who had admitted Trickett to the aerodrome. To Trickett’s annoyance, and in spite of the newcomer’s heavy black uniform,
he didn’t seem uncomfortable in the slightest. In fact, he was smiling broadly, his smooth face untroubled by perspiration.
‘Yes?’ The man’s voice was even and relaxed. ‘My name is Captain McGarrigle.’
Trickett cleared his throat. ‘I’m here to see your Mrs Bliss.’ He glanced down at his notebook. ‘Is it Mrs or Miss? I don’t think anyone’s said.’
The captain didn’t reply directly. ‘Is she expecting you?’
Trickett nodded.
‘I’ll just confirm that if I may.’ The broad smile didn’t falter.
‘By all means.’
McGarrigle turned away. Trickett expected him to walk back to one of the outbuildings but he just stood there with his back to the constable, for several seconds. Then he swung back, the sun glinting off his black glasses.
‘I’ll show you up,’ said the captain, extending a hand towards the centre of the aerodrome.
Trickett looked to see where the man concealed the radio he must have used to receive his instructions, but didn’t see anything. He gave a mental shrug. Probably miniaturised like everything else these days. Discrete technology, they were starting to call it.
He raised his fingers almost unconsciously to a glinting chain tucked into his shirt pocket. He knew that when the chips were down he could still put his faith in a tin whistle and a good pair of lungs.
Puffing slightly, he followed McGarrigle up a flight of metal steps to what used to be the old control tower. The steps clanged beneath their boots.
The captain pressed a button, which turned green beneath his thumb, and ushered Trickett inside.
The room beyond still resembled the interior of the control tower the constable sergeant remembered from his childhood. There had been grey metal consoles and primitive radar equipment then, but now the antiquated machinery had been gutted to leave a huge, circular, white-walled room with a continuous window stretching all the way around. It had been freshly reglazed and the room was flooded with light.
Outside, Trickett could see that work was well under way on the new airport. There were lorries and uniformed men scattered all over the airstrip, assembling what looked like concrete-mixers. The slamming racket of a pneumatic drill occasionally broke the stillness.
There was little else in the room except for posters advertising the coming of Legion International and two tall rectangular boxes, with spinning spools of magnetic tape inside them, which Trickett assumed to be some kind of computer.
Behind a huge, oak desk shaped like a half-moon sat the tall, fat figure of Bliss, already smiling in greeting and holding out a pudgy hand for Trickett to shake. He took it and couldn’t help but notice what looked like tiny, semicircular cuts in the palm.
‘My dear Constable,’ cried Bliss. ‘How nice, how nice. Can I offer you some tea?’
Trickett took a seat across from her.
‘No tea, thank you, ma’am. Although they do say it’s the best thing on a hot day.’
Bliss frowned. ‘Hot? Oh… yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’
Her smile reasserted itself. ‘Now you said something on the telephone about complaints?’
Trickett nodded and pulled his notebook from his trouser pocket. It was damp with sweat. ‘That’s right, ma’am. Various parties aren’t taking too kindly to these convoys driving all through the night.’
Bliss shook her head. ‘Oh dear.’
Trickett smiled kindly. ‘You see, ma’am, you mustn’t think that we aren’t happy for your company… for…’ He glanced down at his notes again.
‘Legion International,’ said Bliss with a flourish.
Trickett nodded. ‘We’re very happy to have you move in. It’s grand to think the old aerodrome will be up and running again. It’s just the speed of it all has got some of the more… shall we say, set in their ways, among us a little rattled.’
Bliss held out her flipper-like hands, palms upwards. ‘I quite understand. Progress is a bitter pill for some. But I’m afraid the conditions on which we purchased this place from the Ministry of Defence were quite specific. We need to get Legion International up and running immediately. We must. It’s our…’ She looked to the ceiling, her dark eyes glinting, ‘…priority.’
Trickett gave a tight smile. ‘It’s a funny thing, ma’am. But Commander Tyrell never told us anything about your coming.’
Bliss’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Commander…?’
‘Tyrell, ma’am. Surely you dealt with him? He was in charge of the aerodrome right to the end.’
Bliss shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we dealt directly with the MOD.’
Trickett glanced down at his notebook again, refraining from mentioning that no one had seen Harold Tyrell for quite a while.
‘Is there someone at the ministry I could speak to?’ asked the constable at last. ‘I’m sure a proper statement would set everyone’s mind at rest. There are enough rumours going round as it is.’
‘Are there now?’ Bliss’s smile broadened even further. There were little spots of foamy saliva gathering at the corners of her lips.
Trickett gave a little chuckle. ‘Well, yes. Mystery men turning up out of nowhere. One minute the aerodrome’s closed down, the next we’re the new Heathrow!’
Bliss laughed too, a small, harsh, dry chuckle. ‘Quite.’
She got up and walked to the window, quite impressive in her dark suit despite her bulk. Her big dark eyes scanned the activity below with interest. ‘As a matter of fact, Constable, there is someone you can speak to.’
Trickett produced a pencil and licked the end. ‘Excellent, ma’am. If I could just take his name and telephone number…’
Bliss turned back. For a moment, as a long shaft of dusty sunlight poured through the window into his eyes, Trickett couldn’t see her face. ‘Oh there’s no need. He’s coming to Culverton. Coming very soon.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘FOR GOD’S SAKE GET AWAY FROM HERE!’
And now night comes to this place of almost perpetual darkness.
The ground boils like molten tar; an impossibly bleak landscape, pitted by great bluffs of volcanic rock. Pools of seething, viscous liquid belch and ripple over the steaming soil. Night smothers all; a sky of thunder-black cloud, lowering over the desolation.
But something is alive out here. Something is crawling across the ground towards a huge steel structure; as incongruous as a cathedral in a desert, this great shimmering building. Its once-fine lines are scarred and bent, the metal pocked by the impacts of a million million meteorite strikes.
Inside there is still warmth. There is safety.
The thing moving painfully over the black dirt knows this. It claws its way forward. There must be a way in. Must be.
Yet it knows it has not been selected. It is not one of the chosen.
It remembers a better time, a sweeter time when the darkness was pleasant and comforting, not this nightmare of storms and destruction.
A convulsive shudder rumbles through the ground, spewing volcanic dust high into the air and shaking the structure of the building. The huge glass frontage rattles and threatens to splinter. Within, a cyan-blue light throbs gently like a beacon.
The thing moves forward on its claws.
Lightning splits the sky open like a fissure in rock. The thing looks up, its round, black eyes swivelling in their sockets. Then it moves on, slowly, desperately, towards the steel palace…
‘Now don’t you worry, my dear,’ said Alec Whistler soothingly. ‘We shan’t be gone more than a couple of hours.’
Mrs Toovey’s face was creased with worry. ‘But I still don’t see why you think you’ve got to go up there in the first place. If this UNIT man’s coming down… ’
Whistler nodded. ‘Yes, yes. But if young Noah and me can find out as much as possible, we’ll make this Doctor’s job all the easier won’t we? Now do stop clucking over me, Mrs T. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’
The housekeeper gave a little shrug, tears springing to her eyes.
‘And we’re to expect the Doctor tonight?’
Whistler nodded. ‘Lethbridge-Stewart says so. Make him comfortable and I’ll be along as soon as I can.’
He turned to go, but Mrs Toovey laid a hand on his arm.
‘What do you think’s going on up there, sir?’
Whistler blinked slowly. ‘Haven’t a clue, dear lady. But there’s something not quite right. You don’t get through the Battle of Britain without scenting evil, and there’s evil abroad up at that aerodrome, I’m certain of it.’
Mrs Toovey looked even more anxious. Whistler patted her hand. ‘Not to worry,’ he muttered.
It was only when the Wing Commander was long gone that Mrs Toovey saw something glinting on the table by the fire. It was the little tin case in which Whistler kept his good-luck charm. The old woman sighed, crossed herself, picked up the tin and made her way out into the garden. She knew a safe place to put it.
High, wispy red clouds like splayed fingers echoed the dying rays of the sun as the sky bruised into darkness. Whistler made his way swiftly along the old road to the aerodrome, his shoes scuffing on the dusty track. There was little other sound save for the familiar chittering chorus of insects.
Ahead, he could see the silhouette of the tall perimeter fence. Legion International had made no effort to set up security lights or alarms. All the better for he and Noah.
He slipped silently up to the fence and crouched down behind the oil drum he’d used earlier that day. Quickly, he scanned the area surrounding him, his breath coming out as a short, excited pant. No convoys tonight, he noted with disappointment. It would have been so simple to slip through the gate while one of the big vehicles was lumbering through. He pressed his face to the mesh of the fence and peered through. The aerodrome was shrouded in shadow yet he was sure he could detect movement. Figures seemed to be moving about, working noiselessly, silhouetted against the deeper black of the buildings.
Whistler’s ears pricked up as he heard what he was sure was a police whistle, sounding feebly from somewhere inside.