Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men Part 7

'I'm surprised that Steven Chen hasn't left, though.'

Rebecca leaned forward conspiratorially. 'I'm told he's bonking Bob Matson's wife.'

'Blimey,' said Ace. 'So Matson is is painting that filth on the restaurant.' painting that filth on the restaurant.'

'You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out,' said Rebecca.

'I've got a message from Steven,' said Ace. 'He wanted me to pa.s.s it to Matson's wife.'

'Well, you'd better be careful. Poor Joanna is long-suffering personified, but I doubt if their marriage could take another major confrontation.'

'It's under pressure, then?' said Ace.

'An understatement. Bob Matson plays away from home more often than the local football team. I'm amazed she's stayed with that slob for as long as she has.' Rebecca nodded to her right. 'Don't look now, but she's over there, picking up empties.'

Ace glanced up, and saw a comfortably attractive woman in a dishwater-grey-coloured sweater and tight blue jeans wiping down one of the tables. 'I'll give it to her when she comes over here.'

'Just be careful, that's all.' Rebecca got to her feet, swapping the empty pint gla.s.s round with the slim tumbler of c.o.ke. 'I've got to go now. The reunion.'

Ace nodded. 'The Doctor's already there.'

Rebecca smiled. 'I remember him from way back. A very tall gentleman, as I recall.'

Ace cleared her throat. 'Well, it's funny how your memory can play tricks on you sometimes, isn't it?'

'I'll see you tomorrow?'

Ace nodded.

'Any time in the morning,' continued Rebecca. 'The vicarage. You can't miss it.'

'See you,' said Ace, watching the schoolteacher head off for the distant outline of the school. When she turned back to the pub, she saw Bob Matson framed in the Tudor window, impa.s.sive and solid, and she wondered how long he'd been watching them.

Before reaching the great hall, the Doctor found the visitors'

book and briefly scanned the pages, before signing it himself.

All of the names he had followed through the years were present: Hatch, Burridge, Winstone, l.u.s.ton, Shanks, Bingham and Price. Only Baber was missing and, as a teacher, she would surely make an appearance before the evening was done.

The Doctor entered the great hall. It was an imposing room, full of the extravagant trappings of history and wealth. The walls were adorned with numerous paintings, but he was especially pleased to see the epic Turner cricketing landscape Hambledon versus All England (1796) still hanging above the door. The Doctor had presented it to the school upon his acceptance to the board of governors, and it had been there ever since. Dear Joseph, he'd had a dreadful cold when he painted it. 'As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,' said the Doctor brightly, remembering an afternoon at Lord's with Francis Thompson long, long ago. still hanging above the door. The Doctor had presented it to the school upon his acceptance to the board of governors, and it had been there ever since. Dear Joseph, he'd had a dreadful cold when he painted it. 'As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,' said the Doctor brightly, remembering an afternoon at Lord's with Francis Thompson long, long ago.

He absent-mindedly took a gla.s.s of chilled white wine from a pa.s.sing waiter, his eyes still fixed on the groups of people who circled the room. He recognised many of them. Some he had observed for years, following their lives with the intensity of a stalker; others were window-dressing to the main event.

'We're all Thatcher's children now,' said a man at the Doctor's side.

'Pardon?'

The man pointed to a series of prime-ministerial portraits that dominated one wall. 'I'm Timothy Carlton. I teach history.'

'Pleased to meet you,' said the Doctor.

'You see, I think we're reaping what the 1980s sowed,'

continued the man. 'All the current staff feel it. Self, self, self.

No time for others, individuality is G.o.d.'

The Doctor nodded, but found himself only half listening.

His attention was elsewhere, diverted by the recent arrival of someone he recognised. An immaculately dressed man in his late thirties had just entered and was walking towards a small knot of men in the middle of the room. As he strode through the crowd, it seemed to part for him. There was something almost mythical about the entrance, and the Doctor watched the man with catlike curiosity. The newcomer nodded his recognition to several in the room but didn't stop until he had reached the three similarly dressed men, whereupon he shook hands with each, and manfully slapped the back of one. They shared a brief joke, and then took their gla.s.ses to a quieter corner of the room.

Carlton followed the Doctor's gaze and sniffed, haughtily.

'Matthew Hatch,' he said. 'Our guest of honour.'

'The Minister of State for Defence in His Majesty's Government,' noted the Doctor.

'Is that what he is this week?'

'Do I detect a hint of malice towards our honoured Old Boy?' asked the Doctor, amused.

Carlton paused, aware that he may well be speaking to one of Hatch's oldest friends, but he ploughed on anyway. 'I don't trust the man,' he said bravely. 'I dislike anyone who crosses the floor for political expediency rather than conscience.' The Doctor nodded, encouraging the man to continue. 'His extremist past is well enough doc.u.mented.'

'We all do stupid things when we're young,' noted the Doctor. 'I expect he would argue that people can change.'

'Maybe,' continued Carlton. 'But every time I see that man on television, I get the feeling that one day he's going to be in a position of ultimate power, and then, G.o.d help us all.'

Ace glanced down at the note Steven Chen had given her.

She wondered what it said, but resisted the temptation to open it.

She looked up guiltily as Joanna Matson collected the empty gla.s.ses from her table. Ace glanced back towards the pub, but couldn't see Bob Matson.

'Don't say anything,' whispered Ace, sliding the piece of paper towards Joanna. 'Just pick it up.'

Joanna looked confused, but did as she was instructed, pushing the note into the pocket of her jeans. She moved away without a word, but kept looking back at Ace, her eyes cold and suspicious.

Rebecca wasn't enjoying the reunion. Her fellow teachers were a dull, n.i.g.g.ardly bunch: they just about tolerated each other in a professional environment, but strip that away and all that remained was a clumsy, patronising embarra.s.sment.

Worse still were the former pupils, many of whom seemed to have had one drink too many and were now intent on telling her how much they'd fancied her when she was teaching Romeo and Juliet.

She scanned the room for a saviour, and found him in the unlikely form of the large bearded man towards the edge of the room who wore his casual suit as neatly as he would his uniform. He was clearly even more lost in this ocean of inconsequential niceties than she was.

'It's Sergeant Denman, isn't it?' she said, tapping the man on the shoulder. In feet, Rebecca knew only too well what the man's real rank was. It wasn't just the people of Hexen Bridge who kept an eye on Denman.

'Chief Constable,' said Denman automatically. He'd been watching a small group of men on the edge of the hall, and he switched his attention to her with apparent irritation. 'No one's called me that for more years than I care to remember, young lady,' he said at last, looking her up and down.

'Well, you were were a sergeant when I knew you,' said Rebecca, returning the smile. 'It was the week before you left for Liverpool. You caught me and Trevor Winstone in the Hatch orchard scrumping for apples. You said eight was old enough to know right from wrong and took me back to the vicarage where, I'd like you to know, I got the hiding of my life!' a sergeant when I knew you,' said Rebecca, returning the smile. 'It was the week before you left for Liverpool. You caught me and Trevor Winstone in the Hatch orchard scrumping for apples. You said eight was old enough to know right from wrong and took me back to the vicarage where, I'd like you to know, I got the hiding of my life!'

'Rebecca?' asked an astonished Denman. 'My stars, but you've grown.'

'But of course,' said Rebecca with a grin. 'Twenty years is a long time in anybody's book.'

'The last time your father wrote to me, you were about to go to university. Then your ma died. I was sorry about that.'

Rebecca took a sip from her Malibu and orange and patted the policeman's arm. 'It's OK.'

'Is your father well?' asked Denman.

Rebecca hedged her bets. 'Much the same as ever.'

'I must call in and see him before I return,' said Denman.

'I'm sure he'd like that. Have you been back long?'

'We arrived today.'

'We? Is Nicola here?'

'No,' said Denman forcefully.

'That's a shame,' said Rebecca.

'She never went to school here,' explained Denman.

'I didn't know the invitation was as strict as that,' said Rebecca.

'I'm sure you could have -'

'She's staying with a friend in Bristol,' interrupted Denman.

'They've not seen each other in a while. I'm picking her up on my way back tomorrow.' The disappointment in Rebecca's face must have been obvious. 'I'm surprised you even remember Nicola. She was only two when we left.'

'I used to play with her in your front garden, don't you remember?'

'Well, yes,' said Denman, 'but there's quite a difference in age between you...'

'It would have been nice to have seen her, that's all,' said Rebecca. 'Anyway, the bonds of Hexen Bridge are hard to break. You of all people should know that. I mean, here you are.'

'Seemed rude not to come,' said Denman bluntly. He quickly glanced over to the other side of the room, and Rebecca followed his gaze. 'Your boyfriend seems to be moving in exalted circles these days,' he continued.

'Oh, Trevor's not my boyfriend any more,' said Rebecca hurriedly. 'Not since he went off to Oxford when I was seventeen. We lost touch for a long time. And, a lot of things can happen to two people in "a long time", can't they?'

Denman nodded, and Rebecca found herself staring across the room at Trevor. He'd seemed so like his old self when they'd met earlier, but she knew that, paradoxically, he was a quite different man now. There was a deeper melancholy that she couldn't quite fathom. Of course, those summer days down by the river had been laced with their own teenage sadnesses, but nothing like this.

She remembered the little wicker basket that her mother dutifully packed for them, full of cheese sandwiches, fairy cakes, and strawberry lemonade. With a shiver she recalled Trevor letting her hair down and clumsily unb.u.t.toning her blouse. Then there was the time Trevor had tried to climb the old wooden bridge and ended up falling into the river, and he'd had to wear her sweater to cover his dignity while the soaked clothes dried on the riverbank. They had been two poets, inspired by the beauty all around them. And now...

Now, he was a man who worked with dangerous people, and she... She was talking to a policeman.

Rebecca glanced at Denman, but his eyes hadn't moved from the group. His expression had darkened, like a black thundercloud on a summer's day.

'You must excuse me,' Denman said. 'I think it's time I...'

One of the men glanced around, and appeared to notice Denman for the first time. He seemed amused, made a brief apology to Trevor and the swaggering Hatch, and strolled towards Rebecca and Denman.

'What brings you down to these parts, Sergeant?' asked the man in a thick Liverpudlian accent. He looked about forty and was beginning to lose some of his blond hair. He was thin, almost gaunt in appearance, wearing a collarless white shirt and a waistcoat from which clanked a chain containing his car keys. The impression was that of extreme wealth but a complete lack of social grace. A rich vulgarian.

Denman didn't even attempt to correct him, clearly used to the insult. '"Down" is about right,' he snapped.

'I didn't think you'd be caught dead in Hexen Bridge again.'

'But here I am.'

The man from Liverpool nodded, and looked at Rebecca.

'Aye, it's the vicar's daughter, innit? Trevor's bird?'

Rebecca returned her attention to her drink. Her mother had always said that if you ignore people like that then they might just go away.

'I see your taste in friends hasn't changed,' said Denman, nodding towards the group.

'Matty Hatch and Phil Burridge were the only friends I had when I was in this c.r.a.p-hole,' said the man angrily. 'And you spent all your time trying to stop us breathing.'

'Just doing my job,' replied Denman.