Doctor Who_ The Hollow Men Part 4

'That's terrible,' said Ace, angry and shocked. 'Why don't the police do anything about it?'

'This town has one police officer, miss,' said Chen pa.s.sively. 'Like most other people in this village, he is related to almost everyone.'

'They all marry each other, Ace,' explained the Doctor.

'Everybody is everyone else's cousin.'

Isn't that illegal?'

'No,' said the Doctor, 'but it's not healthy.'

'The policeman is a good man,' said Chen, 'but he is also loyal to family ties, yes? In my culture the family is more important than anything else, so I can understand his reluctance to do anything. And people do not want to involve him in family disputes.' Chen clapped his hands together eagerly. 'But this is no time for such morbid talk. You are here to sample our cuisine. My hope, as always, is that it will take you somewhere better.'

'I am sure it will, Chen,' noted the Doctor.

'Excellent.' Chen motioned to a young man in a white s.h.i.+rt and bow tie across the room. 'Most of our children have gone now,' said Chen, 'but my youngest son, Steven, will be glad to take your order.'

'Well, you can start with a lager,' said Ace cheerfully. 'And two portions of prawn crackers.'

It was a 1980s-style wine bar, hopelessly out of time.

Everything spoke of a bygone era, from the songs on the jukebox and the pictures on the wall, to the plastic decor and the overpriced c.o.c.ktails.

'Trevor!' A female voice cut through the murmur of conversation and the chiming guitars of a Stone Roses song.

The man in his late thirties snapped his head up from his vodka and orange, and their eyes met. Instantly he was sixteen again. And she was fifteen, and the most beautiful girl in the world.

'I...' He stammered briefly, like a nervous schoolboy. He shook his head, feeling stupid. Get a grip. 'Hi, Rebecca.'

'Am I late?'

'Yes, as usual,' he smiled. She moved gracefully through the bar, her black dress clinging to her hips. She swept a fringe of auburn hair out of her eyes and widened her arms as he stood to greet her. They kissed, at first clanging teeth with the clumsiness of unfamiliarity, then with the pa.s.sion that time cannot dull.

Trevor released his grip and stood back. He tried to think of something witty or urbane to say, but that would have cheapened the moment. They had never been scared of silence.

'You look fabulous,' fabulous,' he said eventually. And he meant it. he said eventually. And he meant it.

'You don't look too bad yourself,' she said with a silly smile that left him wondering whether she had meant it, too.

They moved to a corner table with two seats and ignored the faintly patronising looks from the other people in the bar.

'We have something they'll never have,' she said, reading his mind in that annoying way of hers. Just as she had in the days when they used to sit by the riverbank in Hexen Bridge and recite Keats, Sh.e.l.ley, Wilde and Morrissey to each other.

'You needn't have come,' he said simply. 'We could have met later. At the reunion.'

'I wanted a few hours of you to myself, Trevor Winstone,'

she said. Her eyes were wide, and sparkled in the dull light of the bar. Trevor realised, as he had done three months ago when they had met for the first time in ten years, that she was no longer the most beautiful girl in the world, and his. his.

She was the most beautiful woman woman in the world, but she didn't belong to him any more. Or to anyone. He had learnt that hard, cruel lesson outside a grubby Iranian bed-and-breakfast in Victoria, and it hurt him badly. 'I love you,' he had told her. 'Grow up,' she had replied, and he'd spent the last few weeks trying. in the world, but she didn't belong to him any more. Or to anyone. He had learnt that hard, cruel lesson outside a grubby Iranian bed-and-breakfast in Victoria, and it hurt him badly. 'I love you,' he had told her. 'Grow up,' she had replied, and he'd spent the last few weeks trying.

Rebecca's voice, rich with laughter, brought him back to the present. 'This reunion, Trev. Is it business or pleasure?'

'Both,' he smiled. 'You know, the usual. Deals to be done...'

'Keep greasing those wheels,' advised Rebecca.

'Matt Hatch told me he's keen to get away from that wife of his,' said Trevor. 'I've heard she's desperate for kids, but Matt's not. I reckon he's got a bit on the side.'

Rebecca started making pointless small talk about who was married to whom, or divorced from whom, or s.h.a.gging whom, in Hexen Bridge. You mistake me for someone who's interested, thought Trevor as he cleared his throat, waiting for her litany of 'hatched, matched and dispatched' to end.

'Rebecca, we really need to talk.'

He had been looking at the table when he said this, and when he raised his eyes to meet hers he found that she was staring out of the window at the street outside. A boy and a girl, no older than sixteen, were holding hands and skipping across the road, high on love. It was a magical sight. After a moment she looked back at him, smiling.

'I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.'

Trevor shook his head. 'It doesn't matter. Small talk.'

Just then 'There is a Light that Never Goes Out' came on the CD jukebox, and they grinned at each other.

'Remember when this was our our song?' she asked, as if he could ever forget. They waited until the song finished, without saying anything, just looking at each other and mouthing the words. When it ended, Rebecca stood up and straightened her dress. 'Come on,' she said, simply. 'Let's go home.' song?' she asked, as if he could ever forget. They waited until the song finished, without saying anything, just looking at each other and mouthing the words. When it ended, Rebecca stood up and straightened her dress. 'Come on,' she said, simply. 'Let's go home.'

'London's my home,' said Trevor with a wicked grin. 'Hexen Bridge'll always be thy home, boy,' she replied, mocking the local accent. 'Till Jack i' the Green lets 'ee go.'

Ace scooped the last of the Beef Szechwan into her mouth and belched contentedly. 'You're right, Professor, this is serious nosh.'

The Doctor smiled warmly. 'You make it sound like I'm in the habit of not telling you the truth.'

'You have your moments,' said Ace. 'And this is one of the better ones. Even if you didn't didn't let me have that lager.' let me have that lager.'

'You should treasure your youth, Ace, not fight against it all the time.'

'That's easy for you to say.'

The Doctor poked at his food. By his own standards, he had eaten heartily, but Ace couldn't help but notice that most of his food remained untouched. It probably hadn't helped that he seemed to have chosen his food by the quality of the name alone: Seven Stars Around the Moon, Wandering Dragon, Happy Family...

'Shall I help you with some of yours, Professor?' Ace asked.

'By all means,' said the Doctor, sliding his bowl away from him.

Steven Chen returned to their table. 'Everything is OK?'

'It's fine, Steven,' said the Doctor.

'More than fine,' agreed Ace.

'My father has told you what we have to put up with?'

Steven asked while clearing away the empty bowls.

'Indeed. I'm very sorry,' said the Doctor.

'The attacks have become more frequent.' Steven stopped and checked that no one else in the restaurant was looking at them. He leaned forward, conspiratorially, and dropped a piece of paper on to the table. 'My father considers you a friend, Doctor. May I ask a favour of you?'

'Certainly.'

'You will be staying at the Green Man, I take it?'

'The Green Man?'

Steven smiled. 'The pub on the green. It changed its name recently.'

'I have stayed there in the past,' confirmed the Doctor.

'Then could I ask you to deliver this note to Mrs Joanna Matson, the publican's wife?' He again glanced around like a frightened animal. 'I would take the message myself but Mr Matson and I... do not get along.'

'I'll deliver it,' said Ace, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the note and giving Steven a wink of encouragement.

'I am very grateful, miss,' said Steven Chen, before turning away for the kitchens.

The Doctor gave Ace a curious sideways glance. 'He was asking me. Why involve yourself?'

'I felt for him. He's obviously having a bad time with the fascists. And I hate fascists as much as I hate clowns.'

'That much?' asked the Doctor, amused.

'You bet!'

'Come on, Ace,' said the Doctor, getting to his feet. 'We'd better be going. I have a reunion to prepare for.'

CHAPTER 2.

THE b.u.t.tERFLY COLLECTOR.

Billy Tyley was smashed out of his skull, as usual.

He took another long swig from the two-litre bottle of cider.

The drink was horribly warm and flat, but it had a hint of apple about it, and was perfect in the summer sun. Billy pulled the sleeve of his T-s.h.i.+rt up to his lips to wipe them dry, swinging his legs against the wall. Then he stopped, deciding that it probably made him look like a kid.

Billy Tyley certainly wasn't a child any more. And he'd smash the nose of any sc.u.mbag that said he was. Soon school would be over for ever and an adult life of doing nothing all day and getting paid for it would be waiting for him. The teachers knew about his bunking off, but they let him get on with it because he was a disruptive influence on everyone else. Outside the school gates he was, essentially, someone else's problem, so it was a pretty cool arrangement all round.

Billy glanced at his digital watch and smiled. He should be in an exam, but he didn't give a monkey's. Better just to sit here and enjoy the sun.

'Oi, Billy!'

Billy Tyley turned, and saw a gaggle of younger children approaching him from the direction of school. He recognised most of them - dirty, freckled kids much like himself. 'Yeah?

What do you want?'

'Thought we'd hang out with you,' said one lad through teeth clogged with metal braces. 'We're skiving off PE. We thought, sod that for a lark.'

Billy grunted and jumped down from the wall and screwed the cap back on to the bottle.

'Aw, Billy, can't we have some?' whined one of the others.

Billy shook his head. 'No, it's mine.' His eyes - slowly - lit up with an idea. 'We could nick some. That'd be a laugh.' He trudged towards the post office with the chuckling youngsters in his wake.

Decades ago, the living room of one of the terraced cottages had been transformed into a shop with the addition of bigger windows and a counter. In the 1950s it became a post office, and a decade later Mrs Cluett took over the day-to-day running of the shop. Now, some forty years later, she was still in charge, and her shop was packed to the rafters with ice creams, toilet rolls and bunion ointments.

As soon as Mrs Cluett saw Billy Tyley's bulky frame in the jangling doorway, she knew there'd be trouble. Trouble followed that boy like a bad shadow. A troop of little Tyley clones came into the shop after him.

'Afternoon, Mrs Cluett,' said Billy. 'I'd like a quarter of midget gems, please.'