Part 18 (1/2)

Nicola Denman swore under her breath. 'If Daddy gets to hear about this...'

'Oh dear,' said the Doctor, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Four policeman blocked his way.

'Stay where you are, shorty,' said one, putting a hand on the Doctor's chest.

'No, you don't understand,' said the Doctor, pulling his jacket open. 'I have a bomb about my person. You must clear the area immediately.'

The policemen were looking at the packages and wires strapped to the Doctor's torso with a mixture of incredulity and terror. The Doctor supposed that none of them had seen a bomb before.

'Are you mental or something?' asked one angrily.

'I really am most desperately sorry about this,' said the Doctor, tugging at the wires attached to the plastic explosive.

'But I do suggest you clear the area. Now.' Now.' The Doctor concentrated on pulling the wires from the detonator, trying to remember what Ace had shown him. He expected at any moment to feel the searing heat of an explosion, but nothing happened. As he removed the final wire and breathed out slowly, he heard a faint chuckle in his head. The Doctor concentrated on pulling the wires from the detonator, trying to remember what Ace had shown him. He expected at any moment to feel the searing heat of an explosion, but nothing happened. As he removed the final wire and breathed out slowly, he heard a faint chuckle in his head.

The Doctor scooped the tiny transmitter from his ear, and looked at it closely. It was immediately knocked from his hands as he was grabbed by two of the police officers and bundled to the ground.

'You do not have to say anything,' stated someone standing over the Doctor as handcuffs locked around his wrists, 'but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court.

Anything you do say may be given in evidence.'

'You're making a terrible mistake,' he spluttered as he was dragged to his feet. Around him he could see other policemen questioning the young people in the club. He noticed the young woman he had spoken to earlier. An officer was pulling something from the girl's handbag, and a look of horror was spreading across her face.

'That shouldn't be there!' the Doctor shouted across the club just as someone pulled the plugs on the music. 'That woman is innocent.' The Doctor tried to reach into his jacket pocket, despite the cuffs that bit into his wrists. 'Look, I was given a -'

One of the constables punched the Doctor in the stomach.

'I am not resisting arrest,' the Doctor said through gritted teeth. 'Yes you are,' said the senior officer. 'Bring the girl.

And anyone else in possession.' The policeman's grip on the Doctor's arm tightened as he was propelled towards the club stairs.

CHAPTER 7.

DOWN IN THE POLICE STATION AT MIDNIGHT.

Phil Burridge left the vicarage as easily as he had entered, climbing down the tree and then heading for home. He stopped off at the Green Man on the way.

When finally he pushed open his front door he found the house in darkness. A lingering smell indicated that Cheryl had tried to keep a meal warm for him and then surrendered it to the flames. It was probably another lasagne. Phil Burridge hated foreign food. When would that stupid cow realise that you can't beat pork chop and chips?

A clock chiming the darkness of the sitting room reminded him of the time, and Burridge switched on his mobile phone, hoping to leave a message at Hatch's office.

'd.a.m.n and blast it,' he muttered. The signal was too weak, so he pushed his way towards the back of the house, wandering out on to the patio. The garden beyond was a tip, a rambling sprawl of rusted furniture and enthusiastic weeds. The clouds parted, allowing moonlight to splash down on to the path.

Burridge held the small phone to his ear, kicking aside an old wheelbarrow which hit the ground with a rending clatter.

The recorded announcement of an answering machine interrupted the ringing tone, and Burridge paused, waiting to leave his message.

'All right, Matt,' he said, opening the garden gate and walking through. 'I did what you asked me to, and, yes, she she is linked to is linked to you know what.' you know what.' A grin stretched across his broad features. 'I've got what you need - I'll fax it to you tomorrow. Just give me a bell.' A grin stretched across his broad features. 'I've got what you need - I'll fax it to you tomorrow. Just give me a bell.'

Burridge terminated the call, and folded the mobile into his pocket. He'd wandered a little way down the hill, close to where some straggling trees hid in a chalky hollow. The air was clean and fresh here, and Burridge breathed deeply, waiting for his head to clear. When he was younger he could have handled ten or more pints in an evening, no problem.

Now, it seemed, the merest sniff of alcohol made him muggy-headed.

For the first time Burridge noticed movement at the bottom of the hill. A bush was twitching frantically, as if an animal had become trapped. Burridge was not the sort of man to cringe at the thought of an animal suffering, but he was pragmatic: if a lamb was stuck there, well, he was just the man to put the creature out of its misery. And there was always plenty of mint sauce in the larder. He cautiously approached the twitching knot of thick brambles, but in the darkness it was difficult to see what was going on. Burridge reached out with his hands, gingerly parting the branches.

Without warning, something moved at his feet. Burridge glanced down, expecting to see a fox or a rabbit darting for cover.

The ground was moving.

Burridge leapt away in horror. A long strip of land, with the bush at its centre, was writhing. It was as if an enormous snake was struggling just below the dark soil.

His eyes now accustomed to the gloom, Burridge could see the true extent of the moving thing. thing. It stretched from back towards his house, down to the bottom of the hill, right across a flattish piece of scrub land, and then out over the fields beyond. And suddenly Burridge saw that other patches of ground, far off to his left and right, were twitching and shuddering. It stretched from back towards his house, down to the bottom of the hill, right across a flattish piece of scrub land, and then out over the fields beyond. And suddenly Burridge saw that other patches of ground, far off to his left and right, were twitching and shuddering.

Obeying some wordless instinct, Burridge found himself trudging alongside the s.h.i.+fting earth, following the trail of the movement.

He walked for a mile or more, coming finally to a small meadow overlooking Hexen Bridge. The moonlight seemed to cut the field in two: a darker area, towards the village, and lighter ground beyond. There was frenzied movement at the intersection between the two.

A ma.s.s of tentacles and ill-formed limbs reared up from the dark soil.

Burridge stumbled closer. He glimpsed plantlike fronds and dripping, insect legs, mottled by what seemed to be... faces?

And hands?

His stomach churning, he turned to run, and blundered straight into a human shape that smelled of straw and damp cloth. Phil Burridge let out a cry of surprise, staggering backward. Then he laughed.

It was just a motionless scarecrow, gaunt and impa.s.sive in the darkness. He must have become disorientated, and stumbled towards the edge of the field and into the shadowy manikin.

Phil Burridge turned away, and hands of straw and flesh flew towards his throat.