DISCLAIMER – Not mine.
A/N – OK, possibly the last chapter for a few days, depending on how well or badly my essay goes. So that's fair warning – I hope you enjoy the sixth instalment of The Brecombe Beast...
The last time he had felt this uncomfortable, he had been sitting next to his ex-girlfriend at Sunday lunch with her parents, who were having an almighty row. Foster resisted the temptation to disappear into his seat. The poor soldier who had crashed the transport vehicle was talking to – well, remonstrating with – the policemen who had refused to allow them to leave. Lewis was furious.
Foster took great pride in leading his men with honour and bravery. However, there was nothing in the code about leading them against a livid PR woman with fire for blood. It was within his rights to insist that the unfortunate Lance Corporal deal with the situation. Fortunately. Dealing with the police meant dealing with Jenny Lewis; he could do it, but he didn't want to. Foster straightened his hat guiltily. He risked a glance at the rest of his men. They seemed to be taking rather too much pleasure in the Lance Corporal's hopeless efforts. He rolled his eyes. Time to take charge, after all.
"Plunkett, go and check the supplies." he said.
The young man failed to disguise a look of abject relief. "Sir."
"Look, Mr..." the older policeman snarled.
"Captain Foster. We have a dangerous escaped animal that needs to be hunted down. It has already killed one person, and has another cornered. Would you like to be held personally responsible for that young woman's life?"
That stopped his opponent in his tracks. He gaped like a fish for a few seconds, before collecting himself. Foster changed tack. There was no point in needlessly antagonising the police – particularly if they ever crossed paths again. He handed over contact information, in order that the necessary paperwork could be filled out. The transport wasn't theirs, so Foster had no security concerns. At least, none that he felt could be attributed to these two officers.
With that down, and feeling even more guilty that he hadn't stepped in before, Foster gathered the men into a coherent group. He stood reluctantly alongside Jenny Lewis.
"Right. Take a look at the central reservation. Not clever." he barked. "Let's get our new transport and get to Brecombe. They need our help." He paused. "Plunkett – don't do that again." Of all things, the young man had swerved to avoid hitting a rabbit.
"Sorry sir."
Lewis took over. She had already called Lester several times. Her boss was not amused by this situation – had vowed, actually, to cause the unfortunate Plunkett untold misery and suffering. It was probably an empty threat. Lewis had nearly made the poor man speak to Lester, but pangs of conscience had stopped her. More's the pity, she thought, with a wicked smile, as the first drops of rain started to fall.
They hadn't been able to fit into the tiny police station – not all at once, anyway – so an apologetic Sergeant Franklin had offered up his living room as a place to regroup. He had made tea and coffee, and found a tin of biscuits Rachel swore were a Christmas present from her mother. There was something else in the atmosphere. She sat on the comfortable chair, feet tucked underneath her body, and glanced suspiciously at her older cousin. They had always been open with each other, but now he refused to meet her eye.
Looking at the rest of the motley group, Rachel caught a detail that had escaped her in the rush to flee from certain death. One of them – the Scottish one, whose name she couldn't remember – had a nasty bruise on the side of his head. She glared at her cousin. He caught the look, and had the good grace to be embarrassed. Franklin scuttled from the room, back to the relative safety of the kitchen.
After a moment's rest and recuperation, the Scottish man - Nick! her brain cried triumphantly – started to talk. He told a brief story that sounded more science fiction than fact. Anomalies. The past and the future, bleeding into the present. Dinosaurs and other prehistoric creatures. It sounded so ridiculous, so over-the-top, that Rachel found herself believing every word. Robert would love all this – well, apart from the killer dinosaur part, she thought. For a vicar, he was a worryingly enthusiastic conspiracy theorist.
"You're havin' a laugh." Lucas said. He was pacing up and down, looking tense and nervous. Rachel couldn't blame him.
"I wish I was." Nick said. "But it's all true, and we need to get that dinosaur back to its own time." He looked sideways, at the man Rachel vaguely recalled flinging herself at. Stephen, her brain supplied helpfully. "Or take it down. A Special Forces team will be here within the hour."
Franklin's head appeared in the doorway. "A what?"
"Did we not mention that?" Connor said. "Yeah, a load of soldiers come in and if we can't get rid of it, they sort of take over." He glanced sideways, at his – boss, Rachel, supposed. "Sort of."
Nick caught her eye, just as she was trying not to giggle at the young man's slip. He looked away immediately, failing to suppress a smile. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek, and coughed awkwardly.
"They're very good at what they do, and that's what this village needs right now." Nick continued, studiously avoiding looking in her direction.
"Why did I ever take this job, Rach?" Franklin complained. He slumped into the spare armchair, looking utterly exhausted. "One minute you're telling the village drunk that Mrs Garney really will not appreciate him doing that in her prize flowers – next you're chasing around after bloody dinosaurs." He picked up his tea, and took a long, mournful sip.