Doctor Who: Rags by Mick Lewis Page B
Authors: Mick Lewis
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, Doctor Who (Fictitious character), Punk rock musicians, Social conflict
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the Unwashed and Unforgiving tour? - would be rather a cause célèbre for your...
magazine.’ The last word was pronounced with poorly concealed contempt: he might just as well have included the word ‘odious’, as he had intended to do before surrendering to self-restraint just in time. It wouldn’t do to push the grubby little man too far.
86
‘They’re nothing to do with us!’ the voice bristled. ‘They’re peddling obscenity and butchery.’
‘And what on earth does Class Hate propagate? Peace and goodwill to all men?’
‘You know what we stand for Willis: don’t piss me around. I believe strongly in what I’m doing, which is something you could never say about yourself, so don’t get on your soddin’ high horse with me. Understand?’
Willis knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist rankling the man just a little more. ‘I know why the convoy is ruffling your feathers so much, my friend: might it not be to do with the fact that whoever is behind this magical mayhem tour is organising a protest that has gone so much further than anything you and your... organ... could ever initiate with regard to shaking up the establishment?’
The line went quiet for a moment. He’d certainly scored with that comment. He smiled as he imagined the man seething with fury and wishing all kinds of working-class violence on Willis’s upper-middle-class person. He enjoyed the moment, then gave in to practicalities; he did need this wretch on his side after all.
‘Your chance will come, Mr Pole. As I said, the convoy coming to Bristol couldn’t be more opportune. What superb camouflage it will provide for you to perpetrate your great act against the monarchy. That’s if these hippies - or whatever they are - stay in the city long enough for you to use them as scapegoats... and I believe I can put pressure on certain areas to ensure that. Well, goodbye, Mr Pole. A pleasure, as always.’ Willis replaced the receiver and his smirk grew. He reached for his glass of Bollinger on the coffee table, and took a very contented sip.
The convoy entered Bristol.
It had been tailed all the way from Glastonbury by two UNIT
trucks and a jeep, the Brigadier occupying the latter. However, the Brigadier, acting on his own innate good sense - nothing at all to do with the Doctor’s disapprobation - had issued strict orders 87
that his men should not engage with ‘the hippies’ in any shape or form, and that all provocation was to be ignored. Strangely enough, there hadn’t been too much of that, but perhaps that was down to the Brigadier’s other directive: that the UNIT force keep a discreet distance from the rear of the shambolic convoy.
The convoy entered Bristol, and brought the city centre to a standstill. Chaos ensued as local constabulary tried to herd the rusting collection of vehicles away from bottleneck situations and the Brigadier barked orders at them over his RT to let the travellers go where they willed, just as long as it wasn’t out of Bristol again - another expressed desire of the PM. Where they willed, apparently, was south of the river. Totterdown.
Totterdown was a district of Bristol that had been levelled by a Second World War blitzkrieg and never quite managed to heal its bomb-site scars; it was an eccentric wasteland bounded by brightly coloured houses tilted against the steep hill on which the district was built.
The convoy led UNIT up Bath Road, one of the main routes skirting Totterdown, and then, to the Brigadier’s delight, turned right into Amos Vale cemetery. There was only one way out of this immense Victorian burial ground, he was informed; and that was the gateway through which the travellers had entered. He promptly issued orders to the local constabulary to seal off Bath Road to civilian traffic, and the convoy was successfully contained. The PM, if maybe not the damned Doctor, would be suitably satisfied.
‘It’s funny,’ Nick said as they pulled
magazine.’ The last word was pronounced with poorly concealed contempt: he might just as well have included the word ‘odious’, as he had intended to do before surrendering to self-restraint just in time. It wouldn’t do to push the grubby little man too far.
86
‘They’re nothing to do with us!’ the voice bristled. ‘They’re peddling obscenity and butchery.’
‘And what on earth does Class Hate propagate? Peace and goodwill to all men?’
‘You know what we stand for Willis: don’t piss me around. I believe strongly in what I’m doing, which is something you could never say about yourself, so don’t get on your soddin’ high horse with me. Understand?’
Willis knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist rankling the man just a little more. ‘I know why the convoy is ruffling your feathers so much, my friend: might it not be to do with the fact that whoever is behind this magical mayhem tour is organising a protest that has gone so much further than anything you and your... organ... could ever initiate with regard to shaking up the establishment?’
The line went quiet for a moment. He’d certainly scored with that comment. He smiled as he imagined the man seething with fury and wishing all kinds of working-class violence on Willis’s upper-middle-class person. He enjoyed the moment, then gave in to practicalities; he did need this wretch on his side after all.
‘Your chance will come, Mr Pole. As I said, the convoy coming to Bristol couldn’t be more opportune. What superb camouflage it will provide for you to perpetrate your great act against the monarchy. That’s if these hippies - or whatever they are - stay in the city long enough for you to use them as scapegoats... and I believe I can put pressure on certain areas to ensure that. Well, goodbye, Mr Pole. A pleasure, as always.’ Willis replaced the receiver and his smirk grew. He reached for his glass of Bollinger on the coffee table, and took a very contented sip.
The convoy entered Bristol.
It had been tailed all the way from Glastonbury by two UNIT
trucks and a jeep, the Brigadier occupying the latter. However, the Brigadier, acting on his own innate good sense - nothing at all to do with the Doctor’s disapprobation - had issued strict orders 87
that his men should not engage with ‘the hippies’ in any shape or form, and that all provocation was to be ignored. Strangely enough, there hadn’t been too much of that, but perhaps that was down to the Brigadier’s other directive: that the UNIT force keep a discreet distance from the rear of the shambolic convoy.
The convoy entered Bristol, and brought the city centre to a standstill. Chaos ensued as local constabulary tried to herd the rusting collection of vehicles away from bottleneck situations and the Brigadier barked orders at them over his RT to let the travellers go where they willed, just as long as it wasn’t out of Bristol again - another expressed desire of the PM. Where they willed, apparently, was south of the river. Totterdown.
Totterdown was a district of Bristol that had been levelled by a Second World War blitzkrieg and never quite managed to heal its bomb-site scars; it was an eccentric wasteland bounded by brightly coloured houses tilted against the steep hill on which the district was built.
The convoy led UNIT up Bath Road, one of the main routes skirting Totterdown, and then, to the Brigadier’s delight, turned right into Amos Vale cemetery. There was only one way out of this immense Victorian burial ground, he was informed; and that was the gateway through which the travellers had entered. He promptly issued orders to the local constabulary to seal off Bath Road to civilian traffic, and the convoy was successfully contained. The PM, if maybe not the damned Doctor, would be suitably satisfied.
‘It’s funny,’ Nick said as they pulled
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