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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forward on to the road and over the weed-pierced bridge, towards a mulberry-coloured VW Beetle parked carelessly on the other side. Penelope followed obediently, admiring the straight sweep of her lover’s back, cocksure in red. She would have followed him to hell and back, twice over, but then Penelope Fitzgerald was not the sharpest tool in the box; Edward had been cheating on her with her best friend Edith for the last six months, and had no intention of stopping. It was his sport, like shredding foxes.
As they approached the car, a gaunt-faced man wound down the window, his skull earring and menacing eyes not promising much of a welcome.
‘Fox?’ was all he said.
Edward nodded. The man, in his thirties, had pointed across the moor to a tor shaped like a witch’s profile on the horizon.
Edward had looked at the others, clearly not trusting the stranger. But what choice did they have? The hounds weren’t helping any.
So they had taken the trail, and of course it had been false.
After
53
an hour of fruitless searching, with tempers fraying by the minute, the hunt had dispersed leaving Edward, Penelope and Henry Patton-Wilde to ride alone in search of comfort.
The Oblong Box would provide it, only a mile away across the moor.
Nick, Sin, Jimmy and Rod were among a growing crowd of restless, curious spectators watching the roadies preparing the equipment in a grassy hollow in front of the Oblong Box.
Towering speakers, two guitars, mike stand and a gleaming drum kit contrasted oddly with the bleak sweep of the moor.
The nearest village was a good two miles south, invisible in the gathering dusk, trees hiding any lights that might be blooming.
Despite the seclusion of the pub, which looked defiant and entrenched as if from years of shrugging into itself against the loneliness of the spot, a sizeable audience had already gathered.
Nick estimated about 150, maybe double the number who had witnessed the Princetown gig. And still nobody knew the name of the band, or the purpose of their tour. No money had changed hands, no tickets were on sale.
Most of the crowd were young, and dishevelled. But there was also a healthy contingent of older, shabbier characters shuffling and scowling amongst the younger breed. Nick found it hard to believe they had come to watch a band. Their interests seemed to lie in other directions. Perhaps they hoped for an encore of the violence the first gig had brought.
He sincerely hoped they would be disappointed.
Some of
the
crowd
were
obviously
having
difficulty
understanding what they were doing there themselves; their frames twitched and shuddered with obvious cold turkey, their faces were sucked dry of vitality. Others sported countenances so ugly with misanthropic hate that Nick began to wonder if the riot at Dartmoor prison had not been more successful than had been reported. He took shameful satisfaction in the presence of a token police force positioned around the pub.
54
On the fringe of the crowd he could see the eccentric form of the white-headed man with his pretty companion, Jo. What had brought them back for more? He knew they had been staying at The Devil’s Elbow, but had not seen them since meeting them in the pub. They were an odd couple too, that was for sure. It was like the band attracted nature’s strange.
‘I’m surprised old Fossil Farris allowed this shenanigan outside his pub,’ Jimmy said, complacently sparking up a joint.
‘What, with the crock o’ gold he’ll get from all the ale sold tonight? He knows a good thing when he smells it,’ Rod said, eyeing the joint eagerly.
‘Well, he obviously didn’t smell this lot first, did he? He might have changed his mind.’ The dried blood on Jimmy’s grey Confederate cap reminded Nick of the Princetown gig and unease slipped into him, like a ghost. The blood had been there for over a year, from the time Jimmy was evicted from a Tavistock pub by a bouncer who objected to
As they approached the car, a gaunt-faced man wound down the window, his skull earring and menacing eyes not promising much of a welcome.
‘Fox?’ was all he said.
Edward nodded. The man, in his thirties, had pointed across the moor to a tor shaped like a witch’s profile on the horizon.
Edward had looked at the others, clearly not trusting the stranger. But what choice did they have? The hounds weren’t helping any.
So they had taken the trail, and of course it had been false.
After
53
an hour of fruitless searching, with tempers fraying by the minute, the hunt had dispersed leaving Edward, Penelope and Henry Patton-Wilde to ride alone in search of comfort.
The Oblong Box would provide it, only a mile away across the moor.
Nick, Sin, Jimmy and Rod were among a growing crowd of restless, curious spectators watching the roadies preparing the equipment in a grassy hollow in front of the Oblong Box.
Towering speakers, two guitars, mike stand and a gleaming drum kit contrasted oddly with the bleak sweep of the moor.
The nearest village was a good two miles south, invisible in the gathering dusk, trees hiding any lights that might be blooming.
Despite the seclusion of the pub, which looked defiant and entrenched as if from years of shrugging into itself against the loneliness of the spot, a sizeable audience had already gathered.
Nick estimated about 150, maybe double the number who had witnessed the Princetown gig. And still nobody knew the name of the band, or the purpose of their tour. No money had changed hands, no tickets were on sale.
Most of the crowd were young, and dishevelled. But there was also a healthy contingent of older, shabbier characters shuffling and scowling amongst the younger breed. Nick found it hard to believe they had come to watch a band. Their interests seemed to lie in other directions. Perhaps they hoped for an encore of the violence the first gig had brought.
He sincerely hoped they would be disappointed.
Some of
the
crowd
were
obviously
having
difficulty
understanding what they were doing there themselves; their frames twitched and shuddered with obvious cold turkey, their faces were sucked dry of vitality. Others sported countenances so ugly with misanthropic hate that Nick began to wonder if the riot at Dartmoor prison had not been more successful than had been reported. He took shameful satisfaction in the presence of a token police force positioned around the pub.
54
On the fringe of the crowd he could see the eccentric form of the white-headed man with his pretty companion, Jo. What had brought them back for more? He knew they had been staying at The Devil’s Elbow, but had not seen them since meeting them in the pub. They were an odd couple too, that was for sure. It was like the band attracted nature’s strange.
‘I’m surprised old Fossil Farris allowed this shenanigan outside his pub,’ Jimmy said, complacently sparking up a joint.
‘What, with the crock o’ gold he’ll get from all the ale sold tonight? He knows a good thing when he smells it,’ Rod said, eyeing the joint eagerly.
‘Well, he obviously didn’t smell this lot first, did he? He might have changed his mind.’ The dried blood on Jimmy’s grey Confederate cap reminded Nick of the Princetown gig and unease slipped into him, like a ghost. The blood had been there for over a year, from the time Jimmy was evicted from a Tavistock pub by a bouncer who objected to
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