Doctor Who: Rags (20 page)

Damn him.

Maybe this time he would have been wise to let the Brigadier have his way. Maybe this time he had let things go on too long before making a direct move, and maybe he had endangered Jo in the process.

He swept over the brow of a hill and the Avon valley lay spread before him in the exuberance of dawn. Bristol waited for him near the horizon, gateway city to the Southwest, and beyond was the lazy twist of the River Severn, all but lost in morning haze. The Doctor rammed the roadster into top gear and sped down the hill towards whatever might await him.

He hadn’t contacted the Brigadier with the information he had regarding the origin of the second pulse, or indeed to find out the latest news on the convoy. But of course he had the daily papers to tell him everything he needed to know on that score; and of course they were still picking over the bones of the tour and anything insidious they could connect to it. And then there were the politicians, both incumbent and hopeful, growling at each other and biting each other’s flanks in their desire to come out on top and smelling of roses.

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The Ragman.

The Doctor slammed on the brakes and Bessie jerked to a stop beside a black-and-white timbered tavern. He had been looking at the pub sign, and his shock at seeing it depict a gaunt figure dressed in tatters with slowworms rearing from its scalp had caused him to stamp his heel down automatically.

The name of the pub was the Ragged Fellow, and it crested the top of a hill on one of the last stretches of countryside before the cancerous suburbs of the city began eating into the greenery.

The Doctor climbed out of the car, black cloak swirling behind him. The figure on the pub sign was without a doubt the same as the one he had seen in the lane, and also the same as the one he’d seen on the cover of the book Kane had been reading in the library at Cirbury. The name Ragman had spun into his mind on the instant of seeing the pub, a prompt from nowhere.

It was probably too early in the morning for the pub to be open, but he tried the door anyway.

It was unlocked. The Doctor stepped inside and found himself in a bar with flagstones on the floor, barrels against the wall and wooden tables. Pictures of country scenes on the walls, red-jacketed riders hunting foxes on the hand pulls (oddly, it appeared to him that the hunters’ faces looked drawn and terrified while the foxes were smiling), fruit machine in the corner.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary (except those hand pulls...) Had he expected anything otherwise, really?

He leant against the bar counter and shouted.

‘Hello, landlord!’

He repeated the call before someone eventually appeared: a stout woman with red hair, and enormous breasts barely covered by the red dress she was wearing. It was an evening dress and absolutely unsuited to the time of day, but that didn’t deter the Doctor in the slightest. What did was the fact that she was glowering at him with obvious irritation at having been summoned from whatever early morning duties she had been performing.

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‘I think you mean landlady,’ she corrected him acidly, her overly rouged cheeks burning still brighter with resentment.

‘Er, quite,’ conceded the Doctor rather sheepishly. ‘I was, ahh...

actually wondering if -’

‘Of course we’re not serving,’ interrupted the fierce landlady.

‘What kind of place do you think this is? I only opened the door to collect the milk.’

‘Naturally. Actually it wasn’t alcohol I was interested in.’

‘And if you’re expecting breakfast you can carry on doing just that: expecting. You won’t get it, that’s for damn sure. This surely ain’tno transport café. Does it look like one?’

The Doctor was becoming a little irritated himself now ‘No, madam, and I wasn’t suggesting for a moment that it was one.

Now, would you be kind enough to allow me to make a simple inquiry?’

‘You want to ask me directions!’ the harridan thundered. ‘Now you’re thinking this is a tourist information bureau!’

‘No, madam, I was thinking nothing of the sort!’ He glowered right back at her, bullying her into silence with his imposing stature and indomitable gaze. When he was sure she was not going to open her mouth again, he allowed her a charming beam.

‘Now, if you’ve quite finished making assumptions, what I was going to ask you was simply if you knew the origin of the name of your establishment.’

She gaped at him blankly.

‘Where did you get the unusual name of your pub?’ he elaborated patiently.

‘What, the Ragged Staff?’ the landlady said, obviously perplexed. ‘What on earth’s so unusual about that? Why there’s at least three of ‘em in Bristol alone, never mind Bath.’

The Doctor blinked at her, momentarily lost for words. The hand pulls caught his eye, and of course the foxes were not grinning at all. He spun on his heel and left the pub.

Outside, the full blaze of a midsummer’s day was engulfing the countryside and gilding the black-and-white exterior of the inn, 147

including the wooden sign which, quite unequivocally, bore the name the Ragged Staff as well as a prosaic depiction of a bearded but blatantly benign shepherd clutching a gnarled old stick and nothing more.

He sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition angrily.

Now it was no longer just himself that was causing him to procrastinate. Someone, or something, else was playing little mind games with him.

One hour later he pulled up in front of the police cordon that blocked all traffic from entering the road leading to Amos Vale cemetery.

He patiently explained exactly who he was to the officer in charge, and waited with a little less patience while the policeman ducked inside his car to contact UNIT and check the credentials of what he obviously believed to be a flaky eccentric wanting to spy on the hippies from hell.

The officer came back a moment later with a rather politer attitude and waved him through. The Doctor drove past more police cars and then UNIT trucks and jeeps, all parked alongside the high cemetery walls. He stopped directly outside the imposing spiked gates and leapt out of the roadster. He spotted Benton immediately and strode over to him.

‘Doctor!’ the sergeant greeted him with the unconstrained relief he always displayed whenever UNIT’s scientific adviser popped up in the middle of a crisis.

‘Good morning, sergeant. How is everything? Any news from Jo?’

‘The convoy situation’s entirely under control, Doctor, but we’ve heard no reports from Jo. But then we don’t need to’

‘Oh, and why is that?’

Benton jerked his head towards the encampment beyond the gates. ‘Because we can see her most of the time, that’s why.’ Then his broad face cracked into a cheeky grin. ‘And we can see Captain Yates rather more often than I’m sure he’d like, as well.’

The Doctor let that pass. ‘Right, well you’d better let me in.’

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Benton looked unhappy at the idea. ‘You want to go in there? Is that wise?’

‘Whether it’s wise or not is no longer the issue. It’s become a necessity, and one I’ve put off for far too long already.’ The Doctor ignored Benton’s misgivings and appeals for him to alert the Brigadier first, and waited for one of the soldiers to unlock the padlocks strung round the metal bars.

The huge gate swung open, complaining all the way, and he was in the hippie encampment.

Jeers greeted him. Punks spat near his feet. Someone tossed a joint in front of him inviting him to ‘Toke on that, ya old queer,’

but he ignored all of this. He was looking for Jo, but not in an obvious way. It was becoming increasingly apparent that if she was still with the convoy she must be deeply undercover by now, and it could be very compromising for her - let alone dangerous -

should he approach her too openly. Mike Yates was obviously unconcerned about any danger to himself: after the Doctor had made his way through several groups of travellers sitting round burnt-out fires and enjoying the first beers and joints of the day, his attention was drawn to a gesticulating figure dressed in a ridiculous attempt at hipness standing beneath some trees quite apart from anyone else.

The Doctor still hadn’t spotted Jo, but no doubt the undercover captain would be able to give him the lowdown on her wellbeing.

And then, of course, there was the main reason for his return to the convoy: the cattle truck and whatever awaited him inside it.

He looked over his shoulder, not wishing to blow the captain’s cover. None of the travellers seemed to be paying them any overt attention, so he strolled beneath the trees and around some headstones to where Yates was lurking beside a weather-gnawed obelisk.

The Doctor looked the captain up and down quizzically. ‘Yee-es,’

he said after a pause, with a smirk most unbecoming to a Time Lord. ‘Well, I must say you don’t look out of place at all, Mike.

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Peace and love, man, is I believe the appropriate greeting.’

‘Anarchy and chaos seems to be more the order of the day, Doctor. And you can spare me the witticisms.’ Yates looked strained and uncomfortable. The Doctor lost his smile immediately.

‘Jo?’

Yates glanced away momentarily, then his usual earnestness forced him to meet the Doctor’s gaze.’She’s been acting strangely.’

The Doctor frowned. ‘What do you mean, strangely?’

Yates sighed. ‘I’m convinced she’s under some influence. she’s displaying a rather disturbing herd mentality.’

‘Are you sure she’s not just acting in case someone should overhear you talking to her?’

Yates paused, then his jaw tightened. ‘No, it’s more serious than that, I’m afraid. She’s definitely not herself. She seems to have swallowed the whole convoy idea hook, line and sinker.’

‘Then you’re going to have to watch over her very carefully indeed, Mike,’ the Doctor said gravely. ‘And make sure you keep her away from the cattle truck.’ He turned away as rain began to patter on the leaves.

‘So where are you going?’

To the cattle truck of course. And this time I’m not going to let anyone stop me.’

He left the captain lurking under the trees in his ‘disguise’ and made his way along the paved lane past the crematorium to the collection of vehicles that surrounded the truck like a bunch of disciples hovering round their guru. Some hippies glanced curiously at him as he slipped around a double-decker bus with the roof torn off, but nobody challenged him.

If possible the truck was even filthier than it had been at the start of the tour, but this time there was no sign of the giant roadie, or any of his pals. Rain tapped on the metal roof and tickled the Doctor’s face as he stood with his back against the metal flank, making a last check that the coast was clear. Then he swung round to the double doors and, whipping out his sonic 150

screwdriver, positioned its nozzle directly over the padlock. There was a whine of power and the lock fell away sweetly, clumping to the ground.

The left-hand door eased open with a guttural croak, and the smell and the darkness rolled out at him. The Doctor didn’t hesitate, vaulting nimbly up to the step and easing the door softly shut behind him.

‘Pig.’

The word was spoken not as a shouted insult but as a quiet confirmation of suspicion. Yates turned and the Chinese girl was emerging from the shrubbery in front of him. She was followed by several punks and hippies, and Jo. Yates determined not to look at his friend, but faced the cold-eyed Chinese instead. As suddenly as it had started, the rain ceased to fall. The glade was quiet.

‘Why pig?’ he asked carefully, reaching for the packet of cigarettes he only smoked when he was being observed.

The Chinese girl knocked them out of his hand. She turned to a tall punk next to her who wore dark eyeliner and an earring in the form of an upside-down crucifix bearing a snake.

‘You saw him; he was talking to a member of the Establishment, thinking we couldn’t see him. Conspiring to betray us. He’s a police spy.’ She turned towards Jo who was staring at Mike without any expression. ‘And he’s your friend.’

The punks and hippies standing in the little clearing swivelled towards Jo.

Sin’s face was a thing of hate as she pointed at Jo. ‘Pigs!’ she spat. The tall punk beside her took up the chant and soon the others were joining in, vicious glee making them ugly.

‘Pigs! Pigs! PIGS!’

The first thing the Doctor noticed in the darkness of the truck was just exactly how dark it was. His questing hand found the slim pencil torch inside his cloak pocket and he directed it ahead of him, thumbing the button.

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He expected to see a confined corrugated iron space, jumbled with musical equipment.

What the torch beam revealed, however, was entirely different.

There were no walls or floor, but an endless dreary tract of black weeds. The beam faltered a good fifty yards away, only hinting at the twisted landscape of despair. Trees were black bones that teetered into dust as he watched; hillocks bore sculptures that might have been the mutated remains of buildings fused and tormented by horrible forces. Nature had been raped. He could taste the death of the world: a slight breeze left its sick flavour on his tongue like the kiss of a decomposing lover. No more cities, no cathedrals, no palaces, no temples. All the petty vanities and sophistication swept away like dust.