Part 16 (1/2)

The Brigadier floated by the ceiling watching himself slumped asleep in his armchair in front of the television. He looked a world-weary and lonely figure, a saucer and overturned teacup balanced on top of his pullover. His appearance was dishevelled with several days' stubble on his chin. His moustache needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. He snored and twitched. A bad show all round. He was letting things slip.

There were cobwebs up by the cornice. Somewhere he was aware of a phone trilling.

A voice clunked in, a tinny, formal imitation of himself that he should have renewed some time ago. Abrupt, martial, no nonsense, and still thoroughly uncomfortable with these blasted machines.

' This is Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart at School House, This is Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart at School House, Brendon. Leave your name, number and message after the Brendon. Leave your name, number and message after the tone and I'll call you back as soon as possible. tone and I'll call you back as soon as possible. ' '

A series of pips followed. Then a woman's voice on a very crackly line said, 'Oh h.e.l.lo, Brigadier. This is Celia.'

As if yanked by a winding cord, the floating Brigadier rushed down into his prostrate body with a snap. His eyes came open and blinked several times. He stared up at the ceiling, which seemed considerably more familiar than usual.

The voice of the school secretary still clucked out of the answerphone. 'The headmaster was very concerned that you missed the meeting about your retirement party this morning.

We've also had several rather strange phone enquiries about you. Could you get in touch ASAP? Thank you.'

There was a short burst of tone which mingled with the other continuous note from the staring television. The Brigadier swallowed. His mouth tasted like dry cardboard. He sighed. For some reason, he had been certain he was in Cromer. He rubbed his grizzled face and looked at his watch.

It was just past thirteen hundred hours on Tuesday.

Tuesday?

'Nonsense.' The curtains were still drawn, but light was seeping in from outside. 'You stupid machine,' he muttered to the watch and hauled himself out of the armchair. He had never really got the hang of setting the thing. Always the wrong date or wrong time or the alarm going off in the middle of the school concert.

His joints were stiff and creaky. He switched off the irritating television and pulled back the curtains. The sun was very high in the blue sky. The wallflowers in his window box were wilting. Ridiculous, he had only watered them yesterday.

It couldn't have been that hot.

He peered across the avenue. There was a gas van parked a short way along. Odd. He had somehow known it would be there, as if he had already seen it. The image of the van in his mind was from above as if he had flown over it. The man who should have been sitting in the driver's seat was gone at any rate.

He pressed playback on the answerphone and pottered into the kitchen while the tape wound back and back. The milk in the fridge looked a bit suspect. He sniffed it and grimaced. It was cheesy, but the fridge was quite cold. He looked at his watch again and tapped at the dial in annoyance. From the kitchen he could see the front door. On the mat sat a handful of letters and at least three newspapers.

Another voice came from the answerphone. A much younger woman who sounded awkward and distraught. 'Look, erm... it's me... Dad.'

That stopped him in his tracks. He stared at the phone and the framed picture beside it. A girl of about twenty with shoulder-length blonde hair and giggling eyes. 'Kate?' he said.

'I'm sorry... I know that it's been a long time. This'll be a shock and all that...' She swallowed. This was plainly an agony for her, and that was an unforgivable and unnecessary suffering. She was pacing the words slowly and deliberately....

but can I see you? Soon please, Dad. Sorry. It's 0122 69046.

Erm... thanks.'

The Brigadier was immobile for a moment, going back.

How long? Five? Six years?

' Sat.u.r.day. Threefortyfour p.m., Sat.u.r.day. Threefortyfour p.m., ' said the answerphone. ' said the answerphone.

'Stupid machine. Can't have been asleep that long.' He could not take it in. He could deal with aliens, dinosaurs, even the British public schoolboy, but this left him in total puzzlement. He pushed the newspapers aside and opened the front door. There were five full milk bottles on the step. This was absurd.

A clipped voice with a public-school swagger was next to emerge from the answerphone. Officer material, he thought instantly.

'Greyhound is asked to call Trap Six. I repeat, Greyhound to call Trap Six.'

It was the UNIT emergency call sign. In a reflex movement, his hand went to check for his gun, a movement for which he immediately reprimanded himself. He hadn't worn a gun since he left the UN.

' Monday. Tenofive a.m. Monday. Tenofive a.m. ' '

'Monday? What happened to Sunday?'

The answerphone clicked again.

' No further messages. No further messages. ' '

He reached out to a door frame for support. Nonsense. No one slept for three days. Something was up. Something serious if UNIT were calling him in. He was still standing in the open front door. Along the avenue sat the empty Gas Board van.

They were always digging up the pavement out there.

Replacing faulty pipes or laying cables. He flexed the fingers on his other hand. They itched as if something had caught on them. He studied them with a suspicion that this had happened before.

The phone trilled again.

Nov what? He was reluctant to answer. Suddenly he was under fire. A bombardment of things from the past. It would be easier to ignore them all and stay put in his comfortable rut.

Why did they need an old fuddy-duddy on the verge of retirement? He hadn't seen active service for almost twenty years. He was a schoolmaster now, so why didn't they just leave him alone?

The phone kept trilling. He had switched the answerphone off. He looked the length of the hall at the host of army photographs and his displayed collection of medals. It was no good. He knew he was talking out of his hat. He wasn't half as old as he felt... yet. He picked up the phone.

'School House, Brendon,' he said, carefully avoiding his name. There was a slight burr on the line. 'Who is this?'

As soon as Sarah Jane reached her car, she checked the ca.s.sette in the hidden recorder. About forty minutes of tape had been used. On the campus, the alarms were still ringing.

Several groups of Chillys ran from one of the main blocks, heading along the walkways out towards buildings close to the university's perimeter.

Sarah was torn between instincts: either to find out what was going on or to get the h.e.l.l out of the place. Forcing herself to think rationally, she picked up the car phone and called home. Predictably, it was scarcely a second before the call was answered. There was a slight electronic burr on the line.

'Mistress?' said the tinny, slightly precious voice.

The instant recognition always disconcerted her, but of course the receiver had monitored the incoming number. It was part of one of his innumerable programs.