第 3 页

For a top-secret organization, Liz thought wryly, there's a lot of gossip about UNIT going on in the regular army. Still, UNIT probably wasn't considered the greatest of postings, and the rumours of danger and high casualty rates must far outweigh the truth.

On the other hand, UNIT's mortality rate was the highest of any section of the British Army, and some information about that was definitely in circulation - Liz knew of at least three privates who had requested duty in Northern Ireland rather than serve in UNIT. And Liz had to acknowledge that, to Lethbridge-Stewart's credit, he never attempted to strong-arm any of the soldiers who had made that decision; he simply accepted their refusal and moved on to the next potential recruit.

And now UNIT was being investigated financially. Liz had been aware from the day she had joined that UNIT was not as well funded as it ought to be. Special weaponry and the latest electronic gadgets, most classified as top- secret, were the staple diet of Mister Campbell and his stores. Designing and prototyping these items cost what UNIT's opposite numbers in the CIA referred to as 'the big bucks'. The British branch of UNIT didn't have big bucks or even medium bucks, and while its equipment might be decades ahead of state-of-the-art commercial technology, it was lagging behind its rivals.

'Good morning, Miss Shaw,' said Mike Yates, carrying an armful of rifles.

She nodded back at the handsome sergeant, thinking not for the first time how his rather public-school good looks reminded her of some hero of a boy's comic from the fifties, or an Eileen Soper illustration of one of Enid Blyton's intrepid child adventurers. Mike and Liz had shared a couple of tense situations, and while Liz would never claim they were close friends, she did feel a certain bond with the young sergeant.

She remembered that the Brigadier had already asked for her opinion on Yates as possible captain material. If honesty, integrity and reliability were essential requirements for a military promotion, then Mike Yates fitted the bill perfectly.

'Where are you off to with that lot?' she asked, nodding at the armaments.

'Stores. Being put away for a rainy day.'

Liz frowned.

'Well.' Mike shrugged his shoulders. 'If we're on an economy drive to get more funding for UNIT, it struck Benton and me that the less hardware there is lying around and looking surplus to requirements, the better our chances of more dosh.'

'Hmmm. As a taxpayer, I'm not sure I approve.' Liz tapped his hand playfully. 'But as a poor overworked and underpaid lab rat, I appreciate it enormously.'

Smiling, Mike wandered off in the general direction of the Armoury. Liz watched him go for a moment and then continued on her own tour of the building, making her way to the Brigadier's office. She wanted a quick natter with him about the correct protocol in dealing with Sir John Sudbury - she'd never met the man, and a few pointers on what she should or shouldn't say to him could be useful.

After all, it was always best to keep on the right side of C19.

March 27th

I am so bored. This place is about the dumpiest dump Dad could find. I've been here two days now, and they've been two of the crappiest days I've known.

It's been a while since I wrote anything in this diary and I really ought to as my early memoirs are going to be a best-seller when I'm a famous politician and world statesman.

At least, that's what Dad always says. I'd rather be a singer or an actor or something exciting, but he says there's no money in it. Isn't there more to life than money? Mum always says that I shouldn't be asking things like that at my age, whatever that's supposed to mean. Mrs Petter says we're never too young to think about money and the good and evil it causes. Dad says she must be a 'bloody commie', but I think she's making sense. It's all very well to be loaded like Dad and the others in Parliament, but there are lots of people who aren't and Dad doesn't know what to do with half of his cash. Just before they sent me here, he bought a boat. I know he'll never use it. Steve Merrett called it a status symbol. I asked Dad on the phone last night what that meant, and he said Steve and his father were just jealous, and that next-door neighbours were scum. Which means Steve was obviously right.

'The Memoirs of Sir Marc Marshall OBE. Volume 2: Formative Years of Teenage Angst'. I wouldn't bet on it. But I've got going now, and there's nothing else to do here, so...

Why am I here? Bloody good question, Marc, I must say. Officially 'the sea air will do you good and Aunty Eve has been wanting you to visit ever since you were old enough to be on your own.' Yeah. Right. Truth is, Mum and Dad are having a month of be-nice-to-the-constituents, and every night it's barbecues, folding newsletters and postings, or endless meetings with various local groups. And I, of course, would get in the way.

Mrs Petter said that I should be proud that my Dad does something for the community but I think she was being sarcastic. Maybe that's what a bloody commie is - a teacher who thinks parents are one thing but tells their children the opposite. I'll ask Aunty Eve.

Anyway, this place is called Smallmarshes and it's in Kent. Apparently it's not far from Hastings, which Aunty Eve says is good for shopping, and Dungeness, which Aunty Eve says is good for nuclear radiation. I don't think she likes it. Come to think of it, I remember her and Dad arguing about nuclear reactors once. She's Mum's sister, and he's never liked her. He doesn't like me much either. Probably explains why he sent me here for the school holidays.

Steve Merrett's dad runs a newsagents down on Deansgate. His mum works in that big office block above the car park next to the Arndale Centre. She's a secretary or something. Why can't my parents be normal? Why does Dad have to be an MP? Why doesn't Mum go to work like everyone else's mum?

This afternoon I'm going to Dungeness to stand next to that nuclear reactor and get radiation poisoning and then all my hair will fall out and my skin will go green and I'll die and it'll be in all the papers.

Why?

Because it'll really piss Dad off.

Yeah.

All right, working on the assumption that the average fourteen-year-old doesn't die from standing next to nuclear reactors - Aunty Eve's still alive and she said she tied herself to the gates of Dungeness once - I'll write about it later. Let's face it, there's nothing else to do here.

'Marcus?'

Don't call me Marcus. It's Marc.

'Yes, Aunty Eve?'

'Lunch's ready.'

Toad in the hole? Fish Fingers? Not Spaghetti Hoops on brown toast, please? Something with a bit of meat in it, or I'll die.

'You'll like this. Potato skins filled with cream cheese and red kidney beans. Get it while it's hot.'

Oh. Fab. Just what I wanted.

'Doctor Shaw, always a pleasure to see you, m'dear. How are things? Stewart looking after you properly, is he?'

Liz smiled at Major-General Scobie. 'Everything is fine, thank you, General.' She adored the way that the weasel-featured old general always called the Brigadier 'Stewart', as if refusing to acknowledge the UNIT CO'S English heritage, purely because he knew it annoyed the younger man.

Scobie, Liz had decided on her first meeting with him some months before, possessed all the looks that casting directors would kill for whenever they wanted an ageing military officer. A tiny snow-white moustache gripped his upper lip, beneath a beaky nose that protruded from a thin face with cheek bones upon which you could rest teacups. Excursions to Burma during the war and a long posting with his late wife in Singapore during the fifties had left him with a permanent suntan that unfortunately looked as if it had come straight out of a bottle. But the best thing about him, Liz thought, was his steel-grey eyes that could reduce a new private to jelly with one glance. Experience would teach them that beneath the gruff exterior lived a virtual pussy-cat of a man; yet one who was fiercely loyal and dependable. A top-rate commander, Jimmy Munro had once called him, and Liz had learnt how right that assessment was.

Scobie and the Brigadier had some sort of love/hate relationship. Being a regular army liaison officer, it was Scobie's job to challenge and investigate LethbridgeStewart's every move, but Liz frequently felt sorry for the Brigadier. Old Scobie often seemed to play devil's advocate to the point of ridiculousness. Still, if it made UNIT more efficient and saved a few lives now and again, it was worth it. Deep down, Liz knew, the Brigadier agreed. But such was his character that he'd never let anyone know that - least of all Scobie.

Army men, Liz had decided long ago, were just overgrown schoolboys who had exchanged their catapults and stink bombs for mortars and guided missiles.

As she popped a cheese vol-au-vent into her mouth, she spared a glance at a newcomer, who was escorted in by Private Boyle. This was obviously Sir John Sudbury, a rather chubby man who had 'Minister for reducing cashflow' written all over him. Almost bald, except for tufts of hair around his ears, he had the ruddy complexion of a man whose liver wasn't likely to last another five years. His dull, red-rimmed eyes suggested long exposure to too much cigar smoke, probably wafting around whatever ridiculous gentlemen's club he and his friends frequented near St James's Street, SWI.

This rather grim impression was offset by a beaming smile that creased his heavily jowled face into something Liz could only picture as the face of a sea-lion on LSD. He almost hopped across the Brigadier's office, arm outstretched, and gripped Scobie's hand. He began to pump it furiously.

'Scobie old man, how the ruddy devil are you, eh? And Lethbridge-Stewart,' he continued without a pause, leaving Scobie silently mouthing a riposte. 'Good to see you again, old chap.' He swivelled around, waving to Boyle as he left, shutting the door. 'Splendid young man that, Brigadier. Polite, pleasant, chatty. Good to see your troops are up to their usual standards.' He swiped a vol au-vent off the desk and swallowed it whole, pausing only to take a proffered glass of mineral water from Carol Bell as she offered it to him. 'Thank you, Corporal,' he mumbled, nodding at her as she smiled back. 'Splendid set up, Brigadier, quite splendid.' His eyes rested on Liz. 'Ah, and who is this young charmer, eh? Didn't tell me you had even more young ladies around the place. Corporal Bell not enough for you, what?'

Liz knew she would normally be steaming at such sexism, but Sir John's manner was so buffoonish and inoffensive that she knew getting annoyed would be pointless. The old man hadn't a clue how sexist he was being. From the corner of her eye, however, she could see the Brigadier beginning to panic. Good, Liz decided. At least she'd got him trained.

'Sir John Sudbury, I presume?' Liz shook his hand firmly. 'My name is Elizabeth Shaw. I'm one of UNIT's scientific corps.'

'Of course you are, m'dear. Doctor Shaw isn't it, from Cambridge? Doctorates in chemistry and medicine, honorary doctorate in metaphysics and humanities. Plus assorted qualifications in economics, history and Latin. Have I missed anything?'

'Apart from my sixteen-plus in metalwork, probably not. I'm flattered.' Liz found herself blushing. She coughed, trying to hide her embarrassment. 'That, and my research work into the paranormal.'

Sir John looked surprised. 'Really? I must have missed that. Been studying your file recently, have to confess. I've had to get genned up on all this space defence stuff ever since Jim Quinlan's death meant I had to take on his workload as well. Sorry, but it takes time.'

Liz nodded. 'Of course. Well, that last interest has only started since I began working here. I found I needed to... broaden my horizons somewhat.'

Sir John Sudbury scooped up another vol-au-vent and flopped into a convenient swivel chair. It creaked dangerously under his weight as he swivelled to face her. 'The Doctor's influence, no doubt. Marvellous chap.'

The Brigadier looked astonished. He shot a puzzled look at Liz but she had to shrug back - she had no idea that the Doctor had met Sir John.

'At the Pemburton club, Brigadier. Lord Rowlands' Gang of Four, you know. Excellent bridge player, your Doctor. We partner-up a lot.'

The Brigadier nodded dumbly while Liz tried to picture the Doctor, the great anti-establishment provocateur, sitting in a gentlemen's club in London, playing cards. The image was too horrible to cope with, so she just smiled at Sir John. 'Does he cheat?'

Sir John stared back in mock horror. 'Cheat? Young lady, are you suggesting that an honorary member of the Pemburton, and a guest of Lord Rowlands to boot, would cheat? Heaven forbid, he'd be expelled on the spot if anything like that occurred.' He finished off his mineral water with a grimace. 'Foul new stuff. Bloody French rubbish.' He looked back at Liz. 'D'you like it, Doctor Shaw?'

'Call me Liz, please.'

'Thank you, Liz. Can you drink this imported donkey's -?'

The Brigadier harrumphed loudly. 'Gentlemen, to business?'

'Of course, Stewart,' concurred Scobie, pulling his tie a bit tighter. 'We should be discussing UNIT's funding. That is, after all, why we're here.'

'Hence the mineral water rather than a decent Bolly, eh Brigadier?' Sir John winked at Corporal Bell, who nodded discreetly and left. Liz smiled, knowing exactly what Bell was up to. She waited a few seconds herself and then quietly exited the room, shutting the door behind her. The three men had already sat around the Brigadier's desk and were shuffling their papers, eager to start the meeting. She wondered if they'd even noticed her leaving.

Standing in the outer office, Liz paused for a moment. She'd been hoping to talk to Major-General Scobie for a while longer. Since the Doctor did not seem to need her at the moment, there seemed no harm in waiting here until the meeting finished, and having another few words with the Brigadier's visitors. She settled herself into a large and well-worn armchair upholstered in red-leather, which sat beside the secretary's desk.