Doctor Who - Downtime Part 16

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.

'h.e.l.lo K9, I need a telephone number.'

'Yes, mistress. I have one hundred and ninety-six thousand, seven hundred and thirty-nine numbers available.'

'Oh, good. It's the Brigadier's number. Brigadier Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart. His home number. He's teaching at a school somewhere, but I can't remember which one.'

'Checking files.' There was a whirring noise, which meant that K9 Mark III's electronic ears were waggling. Sarah glanced out of her window. The campus was suddenly deserted, but the alarms continued.

A signboard she had only just noticed pointed the way to the Charles Bryce Memorial Gallery. Her heart always sank when she saw Charlie's name. The circ.u.mstances of his death had been hushed up, but people whispered. Even so, to see his name here was so much at odds with the coldness of the place.

To Sarah, he was always laughing, even if at times that laughter was desperate. Why was it always the least deserving and most alive who were carried off? Her hand reached for the ignition.

'No number available, mistress.'

Sarah smacked her hand on the steering-wheel in frustration. 'K9, are you logged into the Internet?'

'Affirmative, mistress.'

'Could you access ex-directory numbers?'

Another brief pause. 'Affirmative, mistress. Number located. School House at Brendon College in Hertfords.h.i.+re.'

'Oh K9, you're a retriever in a million. Can you put me through?'

'Affir..' The line whooshed as if the wavelength was changing. Music began to pump in. Sarah recognized the mindnumbing beat immediately.

' You're listening to New World FM. Your daily curriculum You're listening to New World FM. Your daily curriculum of fun and food for thought. of fun and food for thought. ' '

Sarah started to shake the phone. 'K9? K9, are you still there?' The beat was mingled with hissing and burbling through which she could hear her faithful computerized hound calling for her. 'Mistress? Mistress? Please respond.'

' This is the station that beats time. A New World coming This is the station that beats time. A New World coming soon. soon. ' '

'Mistress..

' New World has the solution. New World has the solution. ' '

The two voices were becoming interchangeable. K9 was fading. Sarah found herself incapable of tearing the phone from her ear. The beat was losing all its ba.s.s and accompanying jangle, paring down to a single repeating high note that began jabbing into Sarah's thoughts. She felt sick and gasped for breath. Her shaking hand grabbed out, knocking the contents of her case over the car floor.

There was another whoosh and the line cleared again.

'Mistress? Mistress?' she heard K9 saying.

'K9. Thank heavens.' Her heart was racing. She wound down the window and took a deep gulp of air. The alarms on the campus had stopped.

'Interference on line dispersed, mistress.'

'Don't get me that number yet,' she said. 'I want to get out of here first.'

'Number already ringing.'

She heard the line trilling and glanced warily round. The area was still deserted.

'School House, Brendon,' barked a familiar voice. 'Who is this?'

'h.e.l.lo? Brigadier? This is Sarah Jane Smith.'

'Good Lord. Miss Smith?'

Her mouth had dried. She gulped at the air again and said urgently, 'Yes. Look, just please listen. You could be in danger. I'm at the New World University.'

A grating blare of tone cut across the line.

'h.e.l.lo? Brigadier?' There was no answer. A shadow fell across the side window. A Chilly was staring intently in from only a foot away. She heard the tinny beat from his headphones.

She grabbed for the key and turned the ignition. The engine fired into instant life. She put her foot down, took the corner far too fast and sped out of New World on scorched and screeching tyres.

'h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Miss Smith?'

The voice cut out into the gloom of the silent office. Blinds had been drawn across the windows. The hard light from the monitor turned Victoria into a statue, silver reflecting as her unblinking eyes returned the stare.

'Miss Smith? Sarah? Are you there?'

A strand of web from the shrouded monitor drifted across her face.

'We have him,' she whispered, her voice as cold as s.p.a.ce.

11.

Neighbourhood Watch e ignored the ringing of the doorbell. He was about to get Hinto the bath when it started, closely followed by a rapping at one of the downstairs windows.

'Brigadier,' called the letterbox, which had a redoubtable female voice. 'Brigadier? Try to call out if you can't move.'

No blasted peace for the wicked! He pulled on his well-worn dressing gown and stumped downstairs. The headmaster's secretary, known as Twickers by the boys, was standing agog on the front doorstep surrounded by milk bottles.

'Celia,' said the Brigadier flatly, his usual charm wearing even thinner than his dressing gown. 'What can I do for you?'