Doctor Who: Rags by Mick Lewis Page A

both constables for the rest of their lives. From the moment they left Glastonbury, picking up their own cars from the station, to the time they were led from their homes sleeved in blood a mere two hours later, they uttered not a single word. In PC Williams’ bedroom the words ARE WE FORGIVEN? were written in his wife’s blood in big spiky letters on the wall.
     
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Chapter Nine
    ‘I’ve got just the man for you, Doctor.’
    The Doctor looked up from his interminable study of the sensor probe. It was now lashed to a device resembling a dentist’s drill which the Brigadier was sure could serve no earthly purpose whatsoever apart from being there just to baffle him... like just about everything else in the Doctor’s lab, come to that.
    ‘Oh, really?’ The Doctor looked drawn and tired. His investigations must be leading him up a blind alley then, the Brigadier thought with a mixture of smugness and impatience.
    Couldn’t the damned fellow do something more positive instead of continually poking at that infernal object? Five days he’d been buried in his lab now Maybe this news would spur him on to some action.
    ‘And who might that be?’ the Doctor asked, blinking sleepily.
    Obviously been tinkering around the clock, to boot, by the look of him. Wouldn’t he ever learn that a disciplined mind resulted from a disciplined lifestyle? A good night’s sleep was essential for rational thought and decision. The Doctor looked crabby and haggard.
    The Brigadier told him the name of the agent he was sending in and the Doctor looked suitably relieved, as well he might. Then he told him about the Prime Minister’s decision to replace the police with UNIT as the force to shadow the convoy and, as he had expected, this item of news was not received quite as well as the first one.
    ‘What the devil does he want to go and do a foolhardy thing like that for?’ The Doctor was blustering with righteous rage. The whole point of letting the tour go ahead is so that we can monitor it covertly and hopefully discover what their intention is. ‘We’re not going to be able to do that with your clodhopping army boys stepping on their heels! Not only will it stop whatever is behind this endeavour from showing its hand, it might even exacerbate 85
     
    the situation and cause more trouble. Has your blessed Prime Minister stopped to consider that? Well, has he?’
    The Brigadier braved this storm without batting a military eyelid, and then replied calmly: ‘The Prime Minister is in an untenable situation; he is being forced to bow to pressure from the Opposition. The tabloids are baying for blood.’
    ‘Not a very apposite choice of words, I would think in this situation, eh, Lethbridge-Stewart?’
    The Brigadier’s voice increased in volume as he let his irritation slip free. ‘The papers are linking the horrific actions of the two constables in Wells to the tour. And for once I think they have a point.’
    ‘Do you?’ The Doctor stepped nearer, his hand caressing his chin, and scrutinised the Brigadier with a quizzical look in his eyes. ‘Do you...?’ he repeated more pensively. ‘Do you know, Lethbridge-Stewart, you constantly surprise me.’
    The Brigadier tilted his head back. Meaning?’
    ‘Meaning there’s hope for you yet. You just take a little longer getting there than everyone else. Now if you don’t mind, I do have rather a lot to do.’
    He’d been dismissed - like a blasted schoolboy! The Brigadier opened his mouth to bark a riposte, but the Doctor had already turned his back. Lethbridge-Stewart closed his mouth, his face prickly with humiliation and anger, and strode from the room.
     
    ‘Bristol,’ the voice said in Willis’s ear: They’re heading for Bristol.’
    ‘How extraordinarily convenient. For both of us,’ Willis replied, leaning back in his leather armchair and watching the sun plunge bloodily into the woods beyond his picture window. ‘I should think this tour - what’s it called?...