Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias Part 25

'How?' Sooal eyed her suspiciously.

'Because I've spent an hour in here already before I rescued the Doctor from your machine. I suppose I should thank your psycho sidekick for telling me what was happening to him.'

'Megan?' He stared at her, curious. 'Yes, what did happen to her?'

'Well, about now,' Ace glanced at her watch, frowned and shook her head, 'she's probably spreadeagled on the rocks waiting for the sea to drag her body away.'

'Where?'

'In the Orkneys, pig-eyes where you sent her to finish me off.'

'Ace, Ace!' The Doctor's voice drifted over the shelves. She could see his hat above a drum of cooking oil. 'We should be concentrating on getting out of here.'

'Don't you go backing him up,' she called back. 'After what he's done '

'That's the whole point.' The Doctor suddenly appeared, his hat in his hand. 'I'd really like to know more about what he's actually done.' His eyes narrowed and he tipped his head back, staring at Sooal. 'And why.'

'We know what he's done. What does it matter why?'

The Doctor raised a finger to his lips and Ace grunted.

'So?' The Doctor stared at Sooal. 'Now that the Annarene have foiled your plan, why not let us in on the big secret?'

'And what big secret is that?'

'Well, cruel and psychotic as you are, I find it hard to believe that you've done all this just to get hold of some big guns. Let me throw some ideas at you, and you tell me if I'm getting warm.'

Sooal c.o.c.ked his head on one side, and Ace had to try really, really hard to stop herself from punching the smug little monster. She wished Michael were here now. 'Go on then, Doctor. I'm intrigued to hear how such a great, deductive mind currently locked in a storeroom works.'

The Doctor gripped his lapels. 'The Alzheimer's treatments are obviously a side-effect of your attempts to remove the memory blocks on the Tulks and a lucrative one, too. Funding for all of this, no doubt. And the multiple processor array down in the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p was just a bit of insurance in case some of the Tulks died before you got the codes from them and, I imagine, in case they proved less tractable than you'd hoped.'

'But we know all that,' Ace interjected with forced calmness.

'Patience, Ace. Patience.' He turned back to Sooal. 'An awful lot of trouble to go to for weapons especially weapons that you may never get a chance to use. Not when you consider that you've probably got, oh, about five years of life left. Maybe ten.

Am I right?'

Ace frowned, puzzled, but Sooal's wide eyes showed that the Doctor had hit the nail on the head. Five years left?

'What's wrong with him?'

'Ever heard of progeria?'

Ace shook her head as Sooal hissed. 'How much do you know?' he asked with a sneer.

'Not much more than anyone with good eyesight could have known, really and a knowledge of congenital neuroendocrinological disorders, obviously. The first time I saw you I realised it. And your reaction to La Traviata La Traviata gave me a clue: poor Violetta, dying of consumption. Full of self-pity, a life cut short.' He turned to Ace, almost as an afterthought, his eyes still on Sooal. 'Progeria, Ace, is premature ageing. Sooal here is much, much younger than he looks and, judging by his appearance, probably won't live to be much older. So I take it there's something in that stasis sphere that you think will help you.' 'A metabolic stabilizer,' he said softly. 'The Tulks were working on one, hoping it would extend their lives indefinitely, when the war came to an end. Unlike the Milks, I'm not convinced of the merits of immortality: all I want is my normal lifespan. The stabilizer was designed to counter the effects of the changes they've engineered in my people a sop to some of their favourite collaborators. Maybe I'm just not as trusting as I once was, but I'm not prepared to take a chance on their refusing me the stabilisation.' gave me a clue: poor Violetta, dying of consumption. Full of self-pity, a life cut short.' He turned to Ace, almost as an afterthought, his eyes still on Sooal. 'Progeria, Ace, is premature ageing. Sooal here is much, much younger than he looks and, judging by his appearance, probably won't live to be much older. So I take it there's something in that stasis sphere that you think will help you.' 'A metabolic stabilizer,' he said softly. 'The Tulks were working on one, hoping it would extend their lives indefinitely, when the war came to an end. Unlike the Milks, I'm not convinced of the merits of immortality: all I want is my normal lifespan. The stabilizer was designed to counter the effects of the changes they've engineered in my people a sop to some of their favourite collaborators. Maybe I'm just not as trusting as I once was, but I'm not prepared to take a chance on their refusing me the stabilisation.'

The Doctor nodded. 'As motives go, it's a good one. It must be galling to see it all s.n.a.t.c.hed away from you by the Annarene, though.'

Sooal bared his teeth and, not for the first time, Ace was reminded of a cornered cat.

Maybe he had better hearing than his mum; maybe his years on the front line of UNIT had developed some sort of sixth sense when it came to strange happenings. Whatever, as the black, diamond shape slid through the night sky over the B&B, Michael found himself at the window, staring up at it. It was almost noiseless, just a low rumble and a gentle breeze announcing its arrival.

'What is it?' asked Joyce, seeing him standing there, gazing up into the sky. Gran slept soundly, oblivious to the nightmare that was unfolding around her. Clutched tightly in her hands was a silver fobwatch.

'Some sort of plane maybe a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p.' He grinned, hardly believing that he was saying it. She came over to join him at the window, but it had pa.s.sed out of sight in the direction of Graystairs. She grabbed his arm as he moved towards the door, her eyes silently pleading.

'Come on, Mum this is what we UNIT people do,' he said.

'You're not a UNIT person anymore,' she replied levelly, challenging him. 'or have you changed your mind again?'

'Maybe old habits die hard. Stay here with Gran.' He grabbed his jacket from the back of the door, gave his mum a quick hug, and was gone.

He reckoned it was heading for Graystairs. Where else?

Pausing in the darkened hallway, he realised that, even at a steady jog, it would take half an hour to get to Graystairs. With a wry grin he reached under the reception desk for the keys to Angus's motorbike. With luck, he'd have it back before Angus ever knew it was missing.

Outside, it was cold and crisp, a frosting of ice making the path glimmer and sparkle. He ran round the side of the house to where Angus's pride and joy was standing; and, as quietly as he could, he pushed it from its stand and wheeled it out onto the road. Jumping aboard, he let it coast fifty yards down the hill before he fired up the engine, hoping that Angus wasn't so tuned in to the sound of his baby that, even in his sleep, he'd hear it.

The last thing Michael needed now was the police chasing after him if they weren't already.

Joyce leaned out of the window, narrowing her eyes in the hope of seeing Michael. Her room was around the back of the hotel, so it wasn't until she heard the faraway, guttural roar of Angus's motorbike and saw its dim lights flare into life like distant coals, that she spotted him. For one silly moment, she wondered if she should call UNIT HQ and tell them what was happening. This is This is what we UNIT people do. what we UNIT people do.

Right now, though, she wasn't a UNIT person. Just a mother and a daughter.

Less than fifty yards away from him, vague wisps of steam rising from the thawing gra.s.s, Michael could see the craft: low, sleek and utterly black. It had landed in the field at the back of Graystairs. Michael had left the bike at the front and sprinted to the hedge from where he now watched. An arc of soft yellow light, like a rip in the night, curved across the front, illuminating a figure, silent and unmoving. The light pushed out a long, skeletal shadow across the gra.s.s a shadow that fell on another figure, coming from the direction of the house.

But where the first was just a middle-aged woman, the newcomer from Graystairs was nothing so prosaic. The height of a man, it was all stick-thin limbs and joints, elbows and knees.

Like a skeleton painted in washed-out blood, it advanced, and then inclined its ridged head sharply. The woman did likewise.

Michael heard a muttered exchange, the wind and the distance rendering the words incomprehensible; the woman reached into a bag slung over her shoulder and produced something, offering it to the twig-thing. It touched it, almost tenderly, with slender fingers; then the woman returned it to the bag and the two of them headed for the house. Silently, Michael followed.

'Can we go yet?' asked Connie, her voice full of trepidation, unsure as to whether she really wanted the answer. Jessie shook her head and pulled back from the window, letting the flowery curtain fall back into place.

'Not just yet,' Jessie said. Connie nodded, blankly. She'd always deferred to her older sister: Jessie was the sensible, practical one, the one who paid the bills, sorted out their savings, dealt with salesmen; Connie was, by her own admission, the scatty one the arty, creative one who tended the garden, did the decorating and sewed garish cus.h.i.+on covers. She let her hand rest on a gold brocade one that she'd made in the last few days, taking comfort in the texture of the fabric, the warm familiarity of it. The two of them had been in the room for what seemed like days. After that Joyce woman had disappeared, they'd wandered around the house, avoiding the other residents, avoiding talking about what had happened to them. Although they both knew what had happened, there was a shared, sneaking suspicion that they might have imagined it: that the whole thing, perhaps, had just been a horrid dream or the sc.r.a.ps of something they'd seen on the TV. But as the night had drawn on and they'd realised that half the residents didn't seem to be around, they'd got more scared and had gone to Jessie's room.

For the fifth time, Jessie set about rearranging her ornaments and china knick-knacks on the dressing table, moved her slippers a few inches to the left and then pushed them under the bed completely. Her sister sat, looking at the cover of a magazine that she'd read at least three times, wondering if there was anything to be gained from reading it a fourth. Connie had suggested that she went downstairs and tried to phone their sister, to get her to come and take them away; but Jessie had vetoed it, clutching her sister's arm until Connie had agreed not to go.

Connie's need for the toilet was becoming unbearable. She wished she'd had a commode in her room some of the residents did but as she'd explained when they'd arrived, both she and Jessie were perfectly fine in that that department thank you very much. How she regretted it now. department thank you very much. How she regretted it now.

'It's no use, Jessie,' she said after a few minutes of jiggling on the bed. 'I've got to go.'

Jessie was staring into the dressing table mirror.

'Jessie, did you hear me? I've got to '

'Ss.h.!.+' said Jessie. 'Can't you hear it?'

'Hear what? Oh, please Jessie. I have have to...' to...'

Her voice tailed away as she heard a faint, thin sound coming from far away. Someone calling her name.

'Who is it?' she asked Jessie. 'They're calling me.'

'No they're not; they're calling me.'

Connie listened harder. No; it was definitely her her name they were calling. name they were calling.

Connie... Connie, can you hear me?

'Yes,' she answered out loud, cautiously 'Yes I can.' Jessie turned to her, a puzzled frown on her face.

'He asked me the same thing,' she said, almost in awe.

Jessie, heard Jessie.

Connie, her sister heard.

They looked at each other, an expression of fear and wonderment pa.s.sing between them.

Help me, the voice said, wavering in and out like a bad wireless signal. Please... I need your help. Please... I need your help.

The Doctor sat on a large drum of cooking oil, toying with but, thankfully, not actually playing his spoons. He tumbled them absently over and over the backs of his fingers until Ace s.n.a.t.c.hed them from him and shoved them in her pocket. She tried to engage him in conversation, but he seemed distracted, almost pained, waving away her concerns with his hand and pulling his hat down over his eyes as if shutting her out. It seemed very unlike him, and it disturbed her. She was poking around in the boxes and cartons on the shelves, realising that they'd actually only been locked in for less than an hour, wondering what kind of meal she could cook up with salad cream and instant potato, when she heard a noise outside, a heavy thump.

Michael smiled when he found himself looking round for backup: it was frightening how automatic the reaction was, checking over his shoulder, expecting to see rea.s.suring blurs of dark movement, the rest of the team. But there was only blackness and silence, wrapping around him like the smells of pine and boiled cabbage. He moved to the top of the cellar steps, the fluting voices of the aliens receding into the background.

He'd followed them in through the kitchen door and when they'd paused in the dining room, he'd taken his chance. He didn't know what their next move would be, and he didn't know where the Doctor and Ace were if they were still alive but from what Mum had said, most of the action seemed to be concentrated in the cellar. It was as good a place to start as anywhere.

He clasped his hand to his mouth. What was that smell? What was that smell? It was... he hardly wanted to think about it. Burned, charred meat. It was... he hardly wanted to think about it. Burned, charred meat.

Flesh. He'd almost forgotten what his mother had told him of what Sooal had done to those aliens. A thin, yellowish haze of grease hung in the air, made even more visceral by the orange-tinted lights overhead. He stepped quietly into the laboratory and paused, holding his breath as he listened.

Through the open doorway at the far corner of the lab, he could hear a gentle crunching noise, like a dog with a bone. He needed a weapon. Stacked on one of the s.h.i.+ny steel workbenches was a pile of huge pans, each big enough to boil a small child in. The grim humour in the thought made him shudder, as, wincing at the inevitable noise it made, he lifted the topmost pan. The chomping sound from the other room ceased abruptly, and Michael backed away from the door, holding the pan like a club.

He almost laughed when, with a strange insouciance, a little black dog trotted around the corner and looked up at him. The fact that, smeared around its mouth, was something dark and glistening almost didn't register until it reared up, impossibly, on its back legs and began to change shape. Like a blob of oil it began to flow, forepaws extending into long, ridged claws, spines extending back from its wrists. Its perky ears were subsumed back into its body as its fur smoothed over, as if it couldn't be bothered keeping up the pretence that it was just a terrier any more.

The thing sprang on powerful, muscled legs, leaping through the air as if drawn magnetically towards him. Without thinking, Michael swung the pan, clumsily. It connected with a dull clang, sending the thing spinning across the room. It hit the edge of the bench and dropped to the floor, its limbs all over the place. But within seconds it began to move again, pulling itself back together and raising itself up. It kept itself low to the floor, scuttling sideways like a glossy black crab; and its icy blue eyes glistened as it prepared to spring again.

Chapter Twenty.

The creature which had, not a few seconds ago, been a fluffy, black Scottie dog growled and spat like sizzling bacon. Its short, powerful legs tensed as it fixed Michael with its eyes.

But before it could launch itself at him again, Michael leaped forwards and dropped the pan over it, the noise ringing in his ears.Without a moment's hesitation, he stepped up onto it, feeling it banging against the metal, s.h.i.+fting under his feet. He knew that the moment he stepped down, the creature would be free. But then he noticed that the lowest shelf under the workbenches was almost exactly the same height as the pan.

Putting one foot back on the floor, he slid the pan and its captive under the shelf where it rattled and clattered, trapped and angry. Michael felt a cold sweat break out across his body as he stepped away from it, only then noticing a shadow falling across him from the doorway.

He turned to see another of the k.n.o.bbly orange creatures, a gun in its slender fingers.

Reflexively he stepped to the side and chopped downwards and away from him, feeling the thin arm crack under the blow.

The creature squealed a high, shrill squeal and the gun dropped to the floor, skittering away across the tiles. For a moment, Michael saw pure, unadulterated outrage in the creature's much-too-human eyes before he launched an uppercut that threw the thing into the doorframe.

With nothing more than a thin moan, it slid to the floor and lay still, ungainly limbs splayed out like a broken scarecrow.

'Ace!'

The voice was low and urgent and right outside the door.

'Michael!' Ace rushed to the door, pus.h.i.+ng Sooal out of the way. She slammed her palms against it. 'Michael, we're in here!'

Moments later they heard the sound of the old, rusted key turning in the lock and the door opened Michael was standing there, the Annarene's gun in his hand. His face was pale, and it took Ace a few moments to realise that he was trying not to look down at the blackened bodies around his feet. Sooal stepped forwards but Michael waved him back with the gun.

'Come on Ace,' he said darkly and paused. 'Where's the Doctor?'

Ace turned to find the Doctor right behind her, his eyes oddly unfocussed, staring straight past her and Michael. He seemed to be muttering to himself. She followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. Oh no Oh no, she thought. He's having a relapse. He's having a relapse.

'The transmat,' he said distantly. 'We have to get to it.'

Ace nodded, frowning at Michael, as the Doctor stepped past her and headed into the laboratory.

Cautiously, Michael waved Sooal through: he'd rather have the slimy little creep where he could see him. They followed the Doctor. Through the high windows, Michael could see the cool blue light of dawn.

In the Orkneys, Ace stood on the beach, trying to keep the weight off her damaged knee. She fished in her jacket pocket, pulled out her torch, and squinted out to sea. She wanted some warmth, a cup of tea. But most of all, she just wanted a hug.

'What are you doing?' hissed Ace as the Doctor swung aside the block of Bakelite switches that covered the transmat controls.

Was he planning on them all going through the transmat and switching it off from the other side, leaving the Annarene trapped here? Good idea only then they'd they'd be trapped on the other side. The Doctor ignored her, his lips still moving. It looked like he was repeating a number a long number over and over again. be trapped on the other side. The Doctor ignored her, his lips still moving. It looked like he was repeating a number a long number over and over again.

'Drop the weapon,' came a musical voice from the foot of the stairs. Ace spun around to see the other Annarene and the tweedy woman, with a bag over her shoulder, aiming a gun at them. 'And distance yourself from the controls,' it added, jerking the gun at the Doctor.