Part 8 (2/2)

There followed a lengthy silence until Hatch let out a bellow of laughter, slapping his thigh theatrically.

'What are we going to do?' asked Trevor as he slowed the car into a lay-by.

'Looks like a nice spot for a quiet execution,' said the Doctor ruefully. His own stupidity had led him to a shallow grave in a field in Wilts.h.i.+re. The only consolation would be the surprise on the faces of the three men when a man with a completely different face would sit up after the shooting, asking where he was, what was going on, and could they possibly direct him to his TARDIS? 'May I ask you one question?' said the Doctor.

'Certainly,' agreed Hatch.

'Why?' asked the Doctor.

'Why what?'

'The gunrunning?' The Doctor paused. 'You're all intelligent men, surely you could find something better to do with your time than peddle weapons of destruction?'

'You have an alternative?' asked Hatch, amused.

'Many people on Earth are starving,' said the Doctor.

'Food makes you fat,' said Hatch cynically. 'Weapons make you strong.'

'Goering said something similar.'

'One of my heroes,' noted Hatch before turning to Shanks.

'Aren't you going to add anything into this conversation? He's your friend, after all.'

'Nope,' said Shanks.

'Well,' said Trevor Winstone. 'Guns mean jobs in this country, which means food on the table and less men on the dole. If we don't supply arms, some other country will.' The words flowed out like a well-rehea.r.s.ed mantra. 'Things aren't as black and white as you think.'

'Few things in life are,' said the Doctor, sadly. 'Except Laurel and Hardy films.'

'A philosopher, too?' asked Hatch.

'Don't start any of that pyschobabble with me, pal,' Shanks said, turning on the Doctor angrily. 'A whole city cacks itself every time I get mad.'

'Remarkable,' said the Doctor. 'When I first met you, you couldn't even control your own bladder.'

Anger flared across Shanks's face. 'Can you sew?' he snarled.

'A little,' said the Doctor, surprised by the question. Well, st.i.tch this, then,' said Shanks, head-b.u.t.ting him just above the nose.

CHAPTER 3.

THE V1LLAGE GREEN PRESERVATION SOCIETY.

The door exploded inward, and the masked men rushed into the house. 'Bring him out!' they shouted. 'He belongs to us now!'

A light came on somewhere, and a prematurely aged couple appeared at the top of the stairs, nervously pulling on thick dressing gowns despite the thunderously oppressive midnight air. 'What the h.e.l.l is going on?' shouted the man.

But there was a quaver in his voice, as if a terrifying realisation were was.h.i.+ng over him.

'You know why we're here,' said the leader of the group. His voice was m.u.f.fled through the rough sackcloth mask that had been pulled over his face, his thin lips just visible behind a ragged slit. Like his companions, he wore a long, dark cloak over black jeans. He held a scythe in his hands, the blade orange with rust.

'You have no right,' said the man, coming down the stairs.

His wife seemed rooted to the spot.

'Don't be a fool,' snapped the leader. Then, in a calmer voice: 'We all know how we live, Don. And the punishments that await us if we stray.' A weather-beaten hand gestured towards those grouped behind him, and a number of them ran up the stairs two at a time, pus.h.i.+ng past the man, who steadied himself uncertainly, his bony hands pale against the mahogany banister. He made his way to the bottom, a tiny figure before the might of the masked intruders.

'Please,' said the man. 'It'll kill 'er.'

'This is the way of things,' replied the leader, his dark clothing incongruous against the wallpaper of irises. 'Your son has been chosen.' He angled his face back towards the stairs.

All the doors on the landing had been thrown open, and a boy, still weak with sleep, was dragged out of one room. The elastic in his pyjamas had gone, a safety pin holding them around his skinny hips. His feet barely touched the ground.

The old woman fell to the floor, her lips moving soundlessly. One of the dark figures bent down to help her to her feet, but was pushed away by the others.

'William Tyley,' said the leader in a strong, clear voice. 'You have been chosen.'

Billy Tyley tried to say something, but he was pushed forcefully down the stairs. He stumbled over his feet towards the bottom and landed in a heap on the floor. He was grabbed by the group of black-clad men, who carried him swiftly through the still-open door, and out towards the village green. They lifted him high above their heads, Billy screaming at the stars above him.

The remaining men swept out of the house. Soon only the leader and the old couple remained. It was impossible to tell what thoughts crossed the mind of the cloaked man, but he did not move for some time, seeming to listen intently to the woman's sobs.

Then he turned, and ducked out through the doorway.

Out on the green, torches were being lit.

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