POLICE BOX FOUND ON MOON

by Anthony Keetch

(a short story submitted to the BBC Online competition)

Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart sat down to his Sunday breakfast with unsuppressed glee. Doris had done him proud as always. A vat of porridge (salt, no sugar), followed by an English breakfast which consisted of enough variety of meat to start a small zoo, albeit a dead one. Plus several cups of Darjeeling tea and, best of all, the paper.

He picked up the newspaper and read the headline. WAS THE ABOMINABLE SNOWMAN A ROBOT? 'That's not the Sunday Telegraph,' he muttered to himself. He glanced at the paper's name. The Sunday Inquirer!

'DORIS!' he yelled. His wife, potato and peeler in hand, came scurrying into the room. 'What's happened to my Telegraph?'

'Has the boy delivered the wrong paper again, Alistair?' she asked. 'Never mind, it's all the same news.'

Grumbling under his breath, Lethbridge-Stewart flicked through the pages. Tabloid nonsense, written by the pushy, illiterate oiks who had constantly phoned him up in the old days, demanding quotes or explanations. Another headline caught his eye. MY SON WAS KILLED BY A PLASTIC DAFFODIL! A chill ran down Lethbridge Stewart's spine. This was all getting a bit familiar. Another story distracted him. MAGGOTS THE SIZE OF POODLES ATE MY SHEEP! Then yet another. THE LOCH NESS MONSTER MILKED BY ALIENS!

The Brigadier (as he was still known to all, even his beloved wife, but only at their more private moments) snapped the newspaper shut, and distractedly wiped the newsprint from his fingers onto his linen napkin. He stared worriedly at his now unwanted breakfast. Two fried eggs leered at him, yellow tears congealing on the plate.

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First thing next morning, Lethbridge-Stewart sat on the 8.47 am train to Paddington, surrounded by identikit commuters. Inside his briefcase was yesterday's copy of The Sunday Inquirer. He wanted to know who was publishing this stuff. Of course, it may all be coincidence, but highly unlikely, he thought.

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The editorial address for the newspaper was a small industrial estate in beautiful downtown Acton. Lethbridge-Stewart paid his taxi, driven by a charming man with interesting views on immigration, and entered a pre-fabricated building identical to the nineteen others around. A receptionist, blonde, dead of eye and with more make-upon her face than a freshly-embalmed corpse, had a telephone clamped to her ear, and she wasn't best pleased to see Lethbridge-Stewart. 'I'll a've to go, someone's 'ere,' she said , just loudly enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear, popped another stick of Wrigley's Sugar Free in her mouth, and stared at Lethbridge-Stewart with an expression which, a few years ago, would have earned her the firing squad at the very least. Had she been in the army, that is.

'Yes?' she said, in his general direction, imbuing the word with insolence and indifference to a mutual degree.

Lethbridge-Stewart employed the tone of voice he'd practised on politicians, UN officials and alien megalomaniacs. 'I wish to see the editor,' he growled.

'He's not here.'

'It's extremely important,' Lethbridge-Stewart continued, wishing he had his baton.

'He's in New York.'

Blast! Why hadn't he rung and made an appointment?

'When will he be back?'

'Wednesday.'

'Ah! Could I...'

'Or Thursday.'

Lethbridge-Stewart realised that he was wasting his time. With a brisk about step, he turned to go, then stopped and rummaged in his wallet.

'My card.' The secretary took it and glanced at it without enthusiasm. 'Please inform the editor that I will be in touch.'

Lethbridge-Stewart left the building, an unwelcome sense of powerlessness which he hadn't felt since... since... well, since every time he had tried to convince a bureaucrat that the world really was at stake and, no, he didn't have the time to fill out in triplicate, buff forms in order to get an extra Bren gun. For God's sake, he rarely had more than six men under his command, was it really too much to ask for an extra....

Calm down, Lethbridge-Stewart, he told himself. He tried to remember the exercises from that infernal tape Doris had bought him from the hippy shop when the quack had warned about high blood pressure. Something about counting down from eight and stop breathing, wasn't it? Or was it keep breathing and count up to eight?

Lethbridge-Stewart, stood still, gulped in a lung-ful of air and took stock. This was potential threat to UNIT, - and therefore, world security. Just like the old days, this sense of impotence collided with a tricky situation which needed immediate action. And immediate action was what he was good at. But what?

As the Brigadier contemplated his next move, a gleaming red Alfa Romeo pulled purringly up in to the Inquirer's car park. Even in his anxious state, Lethbridge Stewart couldn't help admiring the vehicle. A veritable pulling wagon, as Mike Yates would have called it before he went all Buddhist and P.C. The driver's door opened and a very familiar figure leapt out of the car and approached the entrance to the Inquirer office.

'Benton!' Lethbridge-Stewart roared. Benton automatically stood to attention, then remembered that he hadn't been in the army for several years. He surveyed the area angrily, and his startled gaze fell on Lethbridge-Stewart.

'Sir?' he gulped. 'I mean...Alastair.'

'I prefer 'Sir,' I think,' replied Lethbridge-Stewart. 'What are you doing here, Benton?'

'Um...' said Benton.

The euro dropped with an almighty clang. Lethbridge-Stewart raised an accusing eyebrow at Benton.

'It's you, isn't it? You're selling those stories to this wretched rag!'

Benton looked awkwardly around as if searching for an escape route. 'No!' he denied emphatically. 'Well, yes.'

Lethbridge-Stewart's moustache shook with a fury which reminded Benton of Zebedee in The Magic Roundabout.

'Benton, may I remind you that you signed the Official Secrets Act. How dare you break that trust. Why did you do it?'

'Two grand a story, Sir. That's why.'

Lethbridge-Stewart boggled at Benton. 'Two thousand pounds!'

'Yes, Sir. And let's face it, no-one believes the stories. I didn't think it would do any harm. And I never mention UNIT. Or the Doctor.'

Lethbridge-Stewart was silent for a moment, scrutinising his former sergeant. Finally, he twitched his moustache. 'Have you considered this one?' he asked. 'DINOSAUR DROPPINGS FOUND IN TUBE TUNNEL?'

Benton grinned. 'Actually, my latest was I SAW THE DEVIL AND LIVED, SAYS WITCH! Fancy a drink, Sir?'

'Don't mind if I do, Benton! And how about WAS BUDDHIST MONK AN ALIEN HOLOGRAM?'

A red Alfa Romeo scooted off into the wilds of Acton, to the sound of lucrative laughter.

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