Part 15 (2/2)

'Nick?' interjected Hatch. 'Do shut up.' He took another sip of whisky. 'How soon until we're ready to go? That's what I need to know.'

'Soon,' said Bevan.

'It's always ”soon”,'

'We've come a long way.'

Hatch snorted. 'I should think so: five years and getting on for two million quid.'

'Which reminds me...' said Bevan in a quiet voice.

Hatch stood, patting his pockets. He brought out a padded envelope, and tossed it on to Bevan's desk. 'There's eight thousand there,' he said. 'I can get more if you need it, but you'll have to give me a week or two. I've got a few monkeys on my back at the moment.'

'Yes,' said Bevan, 'I listened to the debate today. They're really after you this time, Matthew.'

'Well, I won't give them a chance to get me, will I? Anything else you need?'

'The usual,' said Bevan. 'Somebody from Hexen Bridge who's not sterile. Preferably female, because if the insemination technique works then it's safe to a.s.sume we can synthesise the actual sperm components. You got any strapping young Hexen la.s.ses hidden about your person?'

'What would you say if I were to tell you I could supply one?'

Bevan was taken aback. He'd been looking for a live donor for some months, but Hatch had always resisted, citing family and other ties to most of the suitable candidates. 'In the age range? Fifteen to twenty-nine?'

'Just,' said Hatch.

'Then, I'd ask if you consider her expendable. You know how risky this procedure is.'

'And how painful,' said Hatch, with the beginnings of a cruel smile playing on his lips. 'Yes,' he continued, 'she's expendable all right.'

By the time the effects of the drug began to wear off fully, the sun was setting in the west. Shanks untied his captive, his strong hands moving with surprising dexterity over the knots. 'Make yourself at home,' he said, turning to leave with his female companion. 'Don't try to escape, though. There's twenty stone of prime-cut thug outside the door, and he's got orders to snap your spine in two if you so much as think about it!'

'Where am I?' the Doctor asked, still confused.

'You're on my home turf now, la,' said Shanks with a cheerful grin. 'G.o.d's own country. There's drink in the cabinet, and the remote control for the telly's lying around somewhere. I've got to go and see a man about the considerable amount of money he owes me.'

'Drug money?' queried the Doctor darkly.

Shanks tugged at the cuff of his jacket. 'That's libellous! I'm a respected businessman. If I weren't so busy, I'd take you on a guided tour.'

'Perhaps some other time,' said the Doctor, watching as the door closed behind Shanks.

The Doctor sat alone, gratefully savouring the still quietness and his limited freedom. Then he got to his feet, walking through the sliding doors and on to the apartment veranda. He remembered having been in the city one Christmas with Stephen and Sara. It seemed so long ago.

He reached the wrought-iron railings and glanced over the edge, feeling a momentary sensation of vertigo as the ground, twenty storeys below, seemed to rush up towards him. The Doctor stepped back, almost tripping over his own feet.

'You've lost one life that way,' he muttered to himself, and sat down on one of the flimsy canvas-and-metal chairs. He closed his eyes, and let his thoughts a.s.semble.

The universe was an enormous jigsaw puzzle, with only the edges completed. Billions of other pieces sat in a huge pile, waiting to be sorted out. Order from chaos.

Hexen Bridge was at the centre of this part of the puzzle, but even the remaining pieces were out of reach.

The Doctor looked around the room. There had to be a connection between Shanks and Hexen Bridge, beyond the obvious fact that he had been educated there. He strolled over to the television, and noticed that what he had taken to be a video recorder beneath it was in fact a computer terminal. A cable extended from the back of the machine and towards a telephone socket in the wall.

'Ah, the wonders of modern technology,' said the Doctor, kneeling. He looked closely at the machine, wondering if Shanks were devious enough to b.o.o.by-trap the terminal, knowing that the Doctor would be drawn to it. He dismissed the thought with an irritated shake of the head. He was like a fish out of water, and it was making him paranoid.

Working as quietly as he could, the Doctor reconnected the computer, and switched it on. It wouldn't contain any information itself, but perhaps there was a way of looking at communications sent or received from within other rooms in the apartment, the electronic equivalent of picking up an extension phone to listen in on a private conversation.

The television's remote control would also operate the Internet terminal, but the Doctor couldn't find the device anywhere. A swift search of the cupboards revealed the computer's small keyboard, still in its original wrapping. The Doctor tore at the cellophane with his teeth, then plugged the device in.

He closed down the garish user interface and began tinkering with the underlying text-based operating system. In ten minutes he had written a stealth program from scratch. It was like using a clockwork toy to launch a s.p.a.ce shuttle, but he hoped it would work.

Data from a science lab somewhere in the building was flowing over the screen. A sequence of formulae, followed by a starburst of unintelligible information.

The Doctor was searching his pockets for his notebook when the elevator began its noisy climb up the building towards the penthouse. He hastily switched off the terminal, and pulled the lead from the telephone socket. He turned, expecting to see his host returning, but instead he found himself facing Trevor Winstone and six men carrying wooden crates.

'Put them down,' said Trevor to his companions. 'And be careful.' He turned to the Doctor, and inclined his head to one side, curiously. 'You really must must be his friend. Not many people hang around Kenny Shanks for long and live to tell the tale.' be his friend. Not many people hang around Kenny Shanks for long and live to tell the tale.'

'I obviously have a lucky face,' said the Doctor, sitting on the leather sofa, and then standing again quickly as something sharp stuck into his rump. 'Ah,' he said brightly.

'The remote control. We've been looking for that...'

'Great,' said Trevor sarcastically. 'If Match of the Day's Match of the Day's on later, I'll get the beers in. We'd better hang on for Kenny, though: his party trick is naming Holland's 1974 World Cup squad.' on later, I'll get the beers in. We'd better hang on for Kenny, though: his party trick is naming Holland's 1974 World Cup squad.'

The Doctor ignored Winstone and moved towards the pile of crates, now neatly stacked by the lift. 'A consignment of arms for Shanks's private army of thugs and drug-pushers, no doubt?'

'Hey, man, what can I say? It's my job.'

'He's a bully, and a rogue. A third-division crook with inflated ideas of his own importance.'

'Possibly,' replied Winstone, indicating that the men should leave. 'But in this life, it's sometimes difficult to choose your friends.'

'You're an intelligent man -' began the Doctor.

'd.a.m.n right I am!' exploded Winstone. 'And in Hexen Bridge that's a curse worse than meeting the hollow men.'

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