Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men Part 10

Ace's trips to her local cemetery in Perivale had normally been at the dead of night, on a dare to do something outrageous like spray 'Satan Lives!' on a gravestone. She'd got out of that phase by the time she was thirteen, although Midge and Jay had carried on doing it for a while. Prats.

They were cool places, though, in every sense of the word.

And she stood beside one now, wondering what to do next.

She had got dressed as quickly as she could, but there had been no sign of the scarecrow by the time she came out of the Green Man. There were half-formed boot prints in the scuffed-up earth towards the centre of the green, but nothing more. She had returned to her room again, just in case the Doctor had magicked himself into existence with a puff of sulphur, but his room was as he had left it. So, he wasn't coming back in a hurry, and the only course of action was to do what he had wanted her to, and carry on looking... for something. But since she didn't have the faintest idea of what that something was, Rebecca Baber - clearly the only civilised and vaguely intelligent person in Hicksville - seemed a good place to start.

Ace stood, distracted by a large stone cross just outside the churchyard. It was a memorial for the thirteen men of the village killed while serving in Prince Albert's (Somerset Light Infantry) Regiment during the First World War.

Pte Daniel Burridge: Killed defending the lines, Ypres, 31st October 1914 lines, Ypres, 31st October 1914 Sgt Thomas Baber: Ga.s.sed, 24th April 1915 Major Nicholas Hatch: Died of shrapnel wounds, the Somme, 8th July 1916 wounds, the Somme, 8th July 1916 Pte Walter Smith: Killed, saving his officer's life, Pa.s.schendaele, 20th September 1917 Pa.s.schendaele, 20th September 1917 L/Cpl Edward l.u.s.ton: Shot, Marne, 19th March 1918 March 1918

Ace felt a terrible p.r.i.c.kling sensation behind her eyes and cursed openly. It was stupid. stupid. Why was she upset by the fate of men who'd been dead for over fifty years by the time she was born? She Why was she upset by the fate of men who'd been dead for over fifty years by the time she was born? She hated hated that side of her nature, and had spent months on Iceworld trying to pummel her sentimentality out of her. There were times when she so wanted to be hardened to the cruelties of the universe, to just let the sickness wash over her. that side of her nature, and had spent months on Iceworld trying to pummel her sentimentality out of her. There were times when she so wanted to be hardened to the cruelties of the universe, to just let the sickness wash over her.

She reached out and touched the memorial, and said something under her breath. Then, like a rabbit caught in the lights of oncoming traffic, she stepped back, bewildered and lost.

'Bye, lads,' she said, glancing around in case anyone was watching. Then she turned her back on the plain stone memorial and the ghosts of the past.

A black metal fence ran along the graveyard boundary, pointing the way to the vicarage. It was a lovely old thatched cottage that backed on to the church. It reminded Ace of picture postcards from the 1950s.

Ace found the back door open and saw a harsh-looking man in his early fifties sitting at the kitchen table. His brow was creased in concentration as he wrote in a scuffed leather-bound journal with a fountain pen. Presumably this was Rebecca's father, the vicar. Ace thought she could smell fire and brimstone from where she stood.

Most churchmen in Ace's experience - even the doddery old simpletons - had an agenda more sinister than the Cybermen. Despite this, she decided to be pleasant, and see how far it got her. After all, the man's daughter did seem to be a fully fledged member of the human race.

Ace coughed and tapped lightly on the door, smiling as the man's head slowly raised from his book.

Instantly, Ace knew what sort of person the Reverend Baber was, and that her initial suspicions had been correct.

It was in the eyes. She really was was in a Hammer film, and this was the local Peter Cus.h.i.+ng. in a Hammer film, and this was the local Peter Cus.h.i.+ng.

'Yes?' he asked in a haughty tone that put Ace's back up straight away.

'Morning,' she said. 'I'm here to see Rebecca.'

'Are you indeed?' The vicar stood, and moved his gla.s.ses to the edge of his nose, peering at Ace the way she would have scrutinised a slug. She thought him tall, for a vicar, with a thin, pinched face. 'May I ask why a young girl like yourself isn't on her way to church?' His tone was brusque, but with a hidden menace. Ace was really annoyed now.

'First off, right...' she began, about to give him her considered opinion that she wasn't a 'girl', and how she spent her time was her own business, and why didn't he go off and perform an exorcism or something? Fortunately, she was interrupted by Rebecca bursting into the kitchen behind her father.

'I thought I heard voices,' she said in a bubbly voice. She wore a pretty floral summer dress that made her look much more countrified and less sophisticated than the previous day. Rebecca gave Ace a wink and said, 'Hi, come in.' She turned to her father. 'I trust you've been making our guest at home?'

Baber said nothing, but Ace could see the aggression draining from his features, replaced with something akin to embarra.s.sment.

'Thanks very much for your help,' said Ace as she walked past the man, following Rebecca up the stairs and into her bedroom. It was a large, pleasant room that faced south, and a huge bay window allowed the sunlight to flood in. It afforded a magnificent view of the village and the scattered fields beyond. The rest of the room was s.p.a.cious and uncluttered, nothing like her own bedroom either in the TARDIS or back in Perivale. There was a desk with a touchscreen computer on it, and hundreds of books dotted across every possible surface and shelf.

Rebecca flopped on to the bed, and giggled as if at some private joke.

'What's so funny?'

'Oh.' Rebecca sat up. 'Daddy. He's always like that with new people. Very stuck in his ways.'

'Why isn't he he at church, then?' at church, then?'

'He's finis.h.i.+ng his sermon, I think. He'll be gone soon.'

'Good.' Ace glanced out of the window again. 'Great view you've got here.'

'Awesome, isn't it?' asked Rebecca. 'In the summer, when I was a kid, I used to sit out on the ledge, and dangle my legs over. It was so so thrilling. It's only twenty feet to the ground but when you're ten, that's like being on top of the world. All the boys used to come by on their way to play football and I'd flirt with them. It was great.' thrilling. It's only twenty feet to the ground but when you're ten, that's like being on top of the world. All the boys used to come by on their way to play football and I'd flirt with them. It was great.'

Ace was surprised. The old man didn't look the sort to allow his daughter to get away with flas.h.i.+ng her pants at the first, second and third eleven. 'Didn't your dad have something to say about that?' she asked.

'Oh yes, but Daddy's always been tolerant of my excesses.

He says we are what we are.'

This didn't sound at all like the Reverend Baber that Ace had just met. She sat down on the swivel chair next to the computer, picking up one of a stack of orangy-red school exercise books in a pile on the table.

'Just marking my year-eleven general studies cla.s.s,'

Rebecca explained. 'Essays on the social effects of the Great Drought of '02.'

Ace had loathed history at school. She picked up an exercise book, glancing at the beautifully looped handwriting.

'What're they like, your kids?' she asked.

'Oh, they're little horrors. The girls are the worst actually, really b.i.t.c.hy and obsessed with s.e.x. Just like I was!'

Ace smiled.

'The lads are more difficult to teach because their minds are always on other things,' continued Rebecca. 'Usually football. But they're bright enough. Which one have you got there?'

'Gail Burridge.'

Rebecca made a pained face. 'One of the great trials of my life. Really clever girl, her potential is enormous, but she wastes it by acting the fool. Her family environment probably doesn't help. Her father, Phil, is the local thug. Always seems to have loads of money, though n.o.body's ever seen him do an honest day's work in his life, unless you count brown-nosing around Matt Hatch. And he's always down the Jack... er, sorry, the Green Man. And he gets violent when he's drunk.'

'To his family?' asked Ace.

'To everybody, everybody, ' replied Rebecca. 'But yes, his wife's been seen around the village with a few black eyes in her time. I'm pretty certain he gives Gail a slap every now and then, too.' ' replied Rebecca. 'But yes, his wife's been seen around the village with a few black eyes in her time. I'm pretty certain he gives Gail a slap every now and then, too.'

'Why doesn't anybody do do anything about it?' asked Ace, plaintively. anything about it?' asked Ace, plaintively.

'Why?' Rebecca paused. 'Because he's our cousin,' she said, as if that answered everything. 'Who's next?'

Ace picked up the next book. 'Zoe l.u.s.ton,' said Ace.

'Zoe's a little tease,' said Rebecca with a smile. 'But a bright la.s.s.'

But Ace wasn't listening, she was looking at the handwriting. She glanced back at the book belonging to Gail.

It was the same. She picked up another, this time one of the boys'. Again, the familiar effortlessly beautiful handwriting.

She remembered her own at their age, which Miss Birkett in computer studies had once compared to 'a spider on drugs trying to get home from the disco'. The next exercise book was the same.

'Have you seen this?' she asked Rebecca. 'The handwriting.'

'Shocking, isn't it?'

'No, it's all the same.' She pa.s.sed the books over to Rebecca, who glanced at them dismissively.

'Yes, I suppose they are a bit similar. Never really noticed it before. From an early age they're taught to write in a certain way, that's all. I don't think they've been cheating, if that's what you mean.'

Ace wasn't sure exactly what she did mean, but when she opened the next book something caught her eye. At the bottom of a previous essay was a small note in red, again in an almost identical hand to that of the student to whom the book belonged: 'Paul, this is an excellent piece of work, a huge improvement. Congratulations.' Ace looked up at Rebecca, who moved away from the bed to pull down a reference book. As she did so a cloud pa.s.sed across the sun, cutting the stream of light through the bay window. improvement. Congratulations.' Ace looked up at Rebecca, who moved away from the bed to pull down a reference book. As she did so a cloud pa.s.sed across the sun, cutting the stream of light through the bay window.

CHAPTER 4.

I BETRAY MY FRIENDS.

Matthew Hatch walked towards his old school with a spring in his step. The bright sun made his back p.r.i.c.kle, reminding him of Rebecca Baber's fingernails as they clawed at his shoulders. However, there were conflicting emotions to consider and control. A return to Hexen Bridge should be a source of triumph for its most famous son, but, more than most, Hatch was aware of the suffocating pressure of heritage.

It had been that way since his youth, when, day by day, the Hexen culture had been drummed into him. His fierce intelligence, which even his critics now conceded, had been recognised by his parents, who had indulged his precocious eccentricities, turning a blind eye to the succession of loud, common common friends. Others might have been upset by the thought of their son mixing with the likes of Kenneth Shanks and Philip Burridge, but the Hatch family had a long history of using those from the lower cla.s.ses to do their dirty work. friends. Others might have been upset by the thought of their son mixing with the likes of Kenneth Shanks and Philip Burridge, but the Hatch family had a long history of using those from the lower cla.s.ses to do their dirty work.

At university, freed from the ominous expectations of everyone in Hexen Bridge, Matthew was magnificent. magnificent. It was inevitable that he would go into politics - with his ruthless intellect and ability to manipulate even the largest crowds, he was a natural. It was inevitable that he would go into politics - with his ruthless intellect and ability to manipulate even the largest crowds, he was a natural.

It was then, however, that Matthew Hatch made the first big mistake of his life. He picked the wrong side. The losing side. It took Hatch five years of grovelling and the dedicated support of the back benches, but at the previous election he had been given what he had always craved: a safe government const.i.tuency, and a job in the Cabinet.

'Pleased to see you, Matthew,' the Prime Minister had said, standing as Hatch entered his office with a handsome smile.

'Prime Minister,' said Hatch respectfully as they shook hands.

They sat, and talked about the election, and the implementation of manifesto commitments.

'There is a feeling in the party, is there not, that you can't entirely be trusted?' the Prime Minister had said suddenly.

'That there is something of the night about you.'

'I think that's a little harsh,' countered Hatch. He'd had this discussion many times on doorsteps and in television studios. 'I felt strongly I had to follow my convictions when it would, perhaps, have been easier to have remained silent.'

'Of course,' the Prime Minister had noted. 'A new beginning. I share your hopes, Matthew. That is why I fought to have you in the parliamentary party when others would have cast you to the wolves. But I admired your stand. We believe in similar things.

Education.

Opportunity.

Community Spirit. Choice. We're two of a kind...'

'Indeed.' And, in that moment, Matthew Hatch knew that he had achieved everything. everything.

'How do you feel about defence?' the Prime Minister had asked.

Hatch had smiled, nodding slowly. 'I have always been interested in defence...'

Hatch shook the memories from his head as he made his way into the school's plush reception area.

Hatch had rather enjoyed his time here. He was King of the World inside these walls, a modern-day Flashman. He didn't bully people - he got others, chiefly Phil Burridge, to do that - and the teachers were in awe of him. Some were plain terrified.

'Morning, cousin Matthew,' came a woman's voice, and Hatch turned to find himself looking at a girl in her early twenties in a bright summer dress.

'Which one are you?' he asked with a handsome-devil smile, and she t.i.ttered coyly behind her hand.

'Belinda.'

'Ah, Josie and Michael's girl.' Hatch nodded. Like most of this village, she was distantly related to him. It took a bewildering form of mental dexterity to keep tabs on the entire family tree, but it did make business easier. Trevor Winstone, for instance, wasn't just his business partner, but was also his second (or was it third?) cousin. And, in Hexen Bridge, business and family most certainly mixed.