第 7 页

'But few of them come to you, eh? Well, that's going to change. Our ladies from Derbyshire suddenly became accomplished amateur artists overnight. Began drawing pictures on walls, doors, anything else they could get hold of.'

'Formal, abstract or symbolist?'

Sir Marmaduke chuckled. 'Oh, very symbolist. Ever been to Lascaux? No, neither have these two. But they've been doing passable imitations of those French cave-pictures ever since they had their "experiences". And' - Sir Marmaduke leant forward - 'you've just gained your first one this year. Our policewoman from Sussex is scribbling mammoths, sabre-toothed tigers and something far more interesting all over the inside of her secure unit in Hastings Hospital.' He withdrew one last envelope from his jacket and opened it, placing two photographs side by side. One was of a man-like figure, but reptilian, scaled and ridged. On its head were a series of bumps, and a third eye. Clawed hands and a large, round, stubby nostril were the other striking features. 'Seen one of these before?'

Morley shook his head.

'That's what was in the caves at Wenley Moor. That's what drove our ladies round the bend. That's what released a previously unknown plague into Britain, killing thirty-eight people. And' - Sir Marmaduke tapped the UNIT file - 'that's what cost the Research Centre and UNIT a combined total of twenty-nine lives.'

'What is it?'

Sir Marmaduke shrugged. 'A reptile-man. In his report, UNIT's SA referred to them as "homo reptilia", or "Silurians". Frankly, they're bug-eyed monsters as far as I'm concerned. UNIT did their job right for once and blew them all up. Or so we thought, until WPC Barbara Redworth began sketching this.' He tapped the second photo, which showed a scrappily drawn but recognizable illustration of a similar creature.

'They're back, Peter, and this time we don't want them blown up. This time we want them alive, and WPC Barbara Redworth is going to lead us to them. You, my boy, and your team are stopping whatever you're doing and taking this on right now. I want this woman probed, analysed, debriefed and pumped with truth-serum until she tells us everything we need to know. I want one of these creatures alive. Alive and well and prepared to blow this government and its cover-ups, top-secret UNITs and covert military missions apart.' Sir Marmaduke leant forward and tapped the photograph of the reptile-man. 'And if I can discredit that pompous ass Lethbridge-Stewart and the rest of his C19 cronies, so much the better.'

---

The 'pompous ass' at whom Sir Marmaduke Harrington-Smythe's invective had been directed was at that moment steering his Daimler into the drive of a box-shaped, two storey house: 6 Moor Drive, Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire.

Built about eight years previously in dark red brick transported down from the Lancashire hills, the home of Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart stood alongside four identical houses in a cul-de-sac; the small entrance from the main Slough-to-Amersham road was concealed between large evergreen trees.

Number Two housed the Pike family: all Alistair knew about them was that he was some sort of quantity surveyor with an American accent, and they had three boys who yelled a lot.

Number Four was occupied by the Pryses; a couple in their late fifties who lived alone. They had a voluminous family who descended upon the cul-de-sac every Sunday lunchtime and blocked everyone else's drives with their cars. Mr Prys was an advertising executive, while Mrs Prys was heavily involved with the local Women's Institute. Both were fond of rugby. Alistair could remember with a chill the day Mrs Prys presented their neighbours to the entire Welsh team on her patio, its pink and blue stone slabs clashing hideously with the players' red and white strip.

On the other side, at Number Eight, lived the retired Ince family who seemed to have come down from Southport alongside the red bricks used to build the five houses. A jolly couple, also retired, they were frequent hosts to bridge, backgammon and mah-jong evenings, some of which Alistair attended with his wife Fiona. Unlike the other three families, the Inces' garage was not full of motor vehicles; instead it seemed to be some sort of shrine to deceased greenery. No matter how often Mrs Ince planted and potted her shrubs and flowers, they withered up and died quicker than she could buy replacements from the Cadmore End Common nurseries.

As he stopped his engine, Alistair glanced towards Number Two, and noticed the addition of a basketball net over the garage door. How long had that been there? In any normal family he could have sauntered into the kitchen and asked his wife or daughter.

His family was anything but normal. 'Failing to communicate' was the current parlance. 'Falling apart at the seams' was his preferred description. Gritting his teeth in anticipation of the welcome that awaited him - he had no idea what form it would take, but he was sure it would leave him feeling drained and unhappy - he slid out of his seat, picked up his briefcase and scooped up the dark blue blazer which lay across the passenger seat.

Dropping the car keys into the pocket of his grey slacks, he dug inside the blazer for his house keys. He need not have bothered. The front door swung open and, with a delighted cry of 'Daddy's home!', Alistair's main reason for living rushed towards him, arms out-stretched, an ecstatic grin across her five-year-old face.

Slipping into 'hard-working father home from the office' mode and mood, Alistair dropped onto one knee and hugged Kate, his daughter. She hugged him back with the fierce joy that adults so rarely achieve. He stood up, swinging her around and she responded by gripping tighter and letting out a delighted whoop that momentarily deafened him.

'You, Tiger, are getting heavier every day. Or I'm getting older.'

'No, Daddy. Mummy says it's because you don't spend any of your time with us and I change and you never see it!' said Kate with a loud gurgle of pleasure.

Alistair remembered a magazine article he'd read once on child-rearing. 'Beware what you say around the young,' it had warned. 'Children will imitate and repeat all manner of things, often at inappropriate moments.'

How true. And to whom had Fiona offered that particular comment about his absence? Virginia? Doreen? Mrs Anderson the cleaner? Most likely she'd remarked it to her father - the interfering old fool who made mother-in-law jokes seem very wide of the mark.

Kate turned, her attention drawn away for a second, and Alistair looked up to see that Mrs Lethbridge-Stewart was standing in the front doorway, a towel in her hands. No welcoming smile there. No hug. No giggle of joy at seeing her husband for the first time in seventy-two hours.

Not unusual.

With a sigh born from eight years of sad familiarity, Alistair disentangled himself from Kate and walked resignedly towards his waiting wife. He knew that, for the sake of the neighbours and his daughter, there would be a pretence of happy families; a peck on the cheek and a token enquiry about the day's work.

He was wrong. Fiona Lethbridge-Stewart just turned and went back inside the house without saying a word.

As he stepped into the warm hallway, suppressing an urge to adjust the thermostat on the wall, he saw a flash of pastel-green nylon trousers as Fiona went back into the kitchen. The door closed behind her with a soft but definite thud.

'Daddy, look what Miss Marshall showed us how to make today.' Kate was waving a small cardboard sunflower at him, her eyes bright with joy at her father's return.

Pausing only to glance back at the kitchen door, Alistair dropped almost effortlessly into 'good father' mode again and knelt down, commenting on the brightly coloured fake flower. He pointed at the yellow petals, brown face and bright green stem. Kate nodded at his every word, smiling beautifully. Every inch a mirror image of her mother, he thought.

'I tried showing it to Mummy,' said Kate, staring for a moment at the closed kitchen door, 'but she said to show it to you. She said that if I did, you might remember we were here. Or something.' Kate pouted suddenly. 'What did she mean?'

Alistair rose and started to climb the stairs. Did she indeed? Listen, Tiger, I'm going to go upstairs to get changed out of my office clothes. Why don't you help Mummy get the dinner?'

'We had dinner.'

'Oh. When?'

'Ages ago.'

Alistair considered that, in the light of his daughter's ability to judge time. 'Ages ago' could be any time within the last hour, otherwise she'd be hungry again by now. It seemed that Fiona had given up even bothering to wait for his return.

He was aware that Kate was staring at him. Even behind her excitement over his return and that flower thing, he knew she could sense something was wrong between her parents. What could he say? Army life didn't teach you how to deal with five-year-old girls asking awkward questions. Hell, army life didn't teach you how to cope with thirty-five-year-old wives who didn't even know anything about your job. Not for the first time, he cursed the Official Secrets Act.

No wonder Fiona was getting edgy. It was something of a miracle she hadn't left him already. How many other wives had the problems she faced? He would bet Doreen Prys was able to phone her husband at work, got invited to office parties, and knew the names and wives of other people in her husband's social circle. Poor Fiona had to content herself with the neighbours, her parents and a few local women who ran Tupperware parties.

What kind of life had he offered her all those years ago? And what kind of life had he subsequently provided for her?

'Daddy? Daddy, are you all right?'

Alistair refocused his attention on his daughter at the foot of the stairs, half-smiling at her. 'Tell you what, Tiger. D'you remember that bear we won the other week at the Christmas fair?' The other week? Three, nearly four months ago at least.

'Aloysius?'

'That's the chap. How about you go and get him and we'll see if we can find some biscuits for him, eh?'

Without replying, Kate dashed past him up the stairs, and went into her bedroom.

'Give me five minutes, Tiger, and I'll come and find you both, all right?' he called after her.

There was no reply, which he took to be an affirmative, and returned to his own thoughts as he pushed open the bedroom door. Instantly, his UNIT-trained reflexes told him that something was wrong. It was nothing he could immediately put his finger on and yet...

There was no ticking. The alarm clock was gone. He looked down at his bedside cabinet. No clock. No moustache-trimmer. No creased paperback. Not even a box of tissues. He put his bag down and walked slowly to the wardrobe nearest his side of the bed. It was empty. He stood silently for a second, looking around him, then left the room and opened the next door along the hail, into the spare room which doubled as a guest bedroom.

The room was dark, with its curtains drawn, but even in the dim light he could tell that the bed had no linen on it. From the temperature, the radiators were not switched on either. He flicked the light switch and opened up the solitary cupboard. Sure enough, his suit jackets were hanging there, along with his trousers and his shirts. Underwear, socks and vests had been crammed into two small drawers, and a box of tissues lay on the floor next to a couple of pairs of casual shoes.

The alarm clock lay face down on an uncovered pillow, unwound and silent. Rather like his marriage.

'Daddy, are you sleeping in here tonight?'

Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, the Brigadier, could face Cybermen, Yetis and Autons. He could send soldiers to their deaths and he could shoot someone without a second's thought. He could chastise and manipulate staff and lead a top-secret paramilitary organization attached to a Government ministry.

What Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, the father, suddenly and sinkingly realized he couldn't do was to provide a stable home for his five-year-old daughter. He couldn't answer her questions. He couldn't tell her what he did for a living. He couldn't be around when she needed him. And as that thought sank in, he understood too that his wife must have realized the same thing, many times over. He would try harder to be a better father and husband. He would.

He was still hugging Kate tightly, desperate to hold back his more dramatic emotions when Fiona marched up the stairs to tell him frostily that someone called Mrs Hawke from the office was on the telephone.

---

Jana Kristan was already at Hastings General Hospital, pacing up and down in the reception area of the casualty department, when the two nurses - one male, one female - walked in.

It was the precision of their step, and the way they looked in unison at everyone and everything, that alerted her. Jana was aware of the receptionist and various patients staring after them as they wordlessly marched down the corridor leading to the hospital wards, having not said a word to anyone; not even each other. The receptionist shot a look at the security officer (probably hired from some local firm, paid by the hour and only waiting for his shift to end - pathetic) but he just shrugged and carried on inspecting his copy of the Daily Sketch.

As the receptionist returned to her papers and forms, Jana gave everyone in the area a final cursory glance and followed the mysterious nurses. There had been something compelling and almost unnatural about them. It had reminded her of over-wrought dancers, incapable of casual movement. A brother-and-sister double act, perhaps? Or twins?

Jana glanced at the various doors as she walked down the off-white corridor, seeing names of doctors and specialists. Cupboards, medical examination areas and even the occasional small toilet broke the monotony of wooden doors embedded in the sterile, flat walls. There were a couple of dimly lit sub-corridors which didn't seem to go anywhere interesting, two sets of lifts, and a fire escape from the basement area.

Before long, Jana realized that not only had she no idea where she was going, but that there was no sign of the mysterious nurses. She wasn't worried that someone might ask her why she was there; she had learnt long ago that if you walk around quietly but with just enough nonchalance, people assumed you had the same right to be there as they did, and they left you alone. just in case you were more important than they were.