Chapter Three
The Doctor held his umbrella like a shield before him as a fresh squall of rain tore across the moor. His feet squelched into the deep tracks which already pocked the moor path, their muddy outlines pooling with glutinous brown water.
He paused briefly and fumbled in his pockets as the wind flapped his coat against him. Pushing the umbrella under one arm he pulled on a pair of thick woollen gloves and wrapped his paisley scarf tightly around his neck.
It was terribly, bitingly cold and the Doctor could feel an aching numbness spreading across his exposed cheeks. He screwed up his eyes and peered at the gaunt tower of the monastery, now less than half a mile away, silhouetted against the gun-metal sky. Sniffing as a drew-drop formed on the end of his nose, the Doctor clapped a hand on his hat to prevent the wind from whipping it away.
His mind buzzed with a million conflicting thoughts but, in a cocoon of coats, the Doctor resolved to think only of his pressing need for warmth, comfort and a strong cup of tea.
He marched on, unwittingly ghosting the large, Wellington-indented tracks of Jack Prudhoe.
Ace looked into her empty cup and then at her watch. It was past eleven and she was still Mrs Crithin's only customer of the day. The woman herself was engaged in a seemingly endless rota of table-mopping and washing up. She'd exchanged a few words with Ace, mostly about the 'shocking weather'. And wasn't it awful about Czechoslovakia? Ace had nodded with some gravity even though she hadn't a clue what Mrs Crithin was talking about.
Finally, the ever-smiling café owner had plonked her newspaper on to the table and Ace seized upon it, ravenous for distraction.
It was strangely fascinating to see what was to her old news presented on brand-new, creamy paper. Odd, she thought, that the reality of time travel with the Doctor really struck her only when she had a personal handle on it. Only a few hundred miles from where she now sat, her mum would be doing some of those things about which she was always reminiscing. Maybe planning which outfit she would wear and which of her fancy-men she would favour. Perhaps, on the dance floor of some sweaty, swinging nightclub, meeting the man with whom she would soon conceive little Dorothy. Little Dorothy felt herself shudder.
'You all right, love?' asked Mrs Crithin, leaning on her mop.
Ace nodded and smiled reassuringly. 'Someone just walked over my grave.' She turned a few more pages of the paper and paused at a picture which showed a small dark man and a leggy woman dancing at some delirious Californian festival.
'Lovely girl, isn't she?' said Mrs Crithin, looking over Ace's shoulder.
'Who?'
'That Sharon Tate,' trilled Mrs Crithin. 'I think she's ever so good. And it's nice to see them still as much in love.'
Sharon Tate? Ace's memory pulled up sharp at the naggingly familiar name. It was tied up somewhere in a kaleidoscope of images and half-recalled conversations. Then she had it. Sharon Tate: the beautiful wife of Roman Polanski, gruesomely murdered at the behest of Charles Manson and his 'family' of West Coast fanatics. Ace had read about it in one of her mum's grisly True Crime books. The title was something like The Day the Dream Died.
Ace looked into Mrs Crithin's eyes and felt suddenly uncomfortable with her knowledge of the future, like some ancient seer cursed with the gift of prophecy. She changed the subject with what she hoped was some nonchalance.
'What's your flying saucer thing up the road, then?'
Mrs Crithin stopped mopping and put her hand on her ample hip as if settling into a familiar routine. 'That's our telescope, love. Famous in the right circles. We have all sorts trooping up there. It picks up radio messages from outer space so I keep a table reserved in case we ever get any little green men.'
Ace grinned. 'And who was that bloke who came in a bit ago?'
'The darkie?'
Ace winced but sensed that Mrs Crithin's institutionalised racism wasn't intended to offend. She nodded.
'That's Mr Degun. Nice enough young man. Always got a word for you. He works up there at the telescope. Often comes in for his breakfast.'
Ace let her get back to her chores, folded the paper, thanked her for breakfast and paid with some uncertainty out of the heavy, predecimal coins the Doctor had left on the table. She stepped outside and was soaked in moments, her fringe hanging unpleasantly in her eyes as little drops of rain dribbled down her face.
Most of the shops had crawled into life and Ace hurried over to shelter under their dirty brown awnings.
A florid-faced man in a blood-stained white coat emerged into the dreary daylight, looked at the sky, grimaced and went back inside. There was a slightly sinister wooden sign in the shape of a smiling pig hanging on chains above the shop and it swung back and forth as the man slammed the door.
Ace dug her hands into her pockets, feeling her fingers numbing in spite of her gloves.
Rain bounced off the motley collection of boxlike cars, huddled against both kerbs like frightened sheep. Ace wondered how people could ever have fitted into such things, never mind think them classy. Most of them looked like old school radiators with pram wheels on each corner. She ran a finger across the shiny metallic paintwork of a Morris Oxford and gazed in at its snug interior. There was a pair of driving gloves on the dashboard and one of those wretched traffic-light air fresheners hanging from the mirror. Better than furry dice anyway, she thought.
Across the street stood Crook Marsham's little cinema, a tall, thin building sandwiched between a travel agent's and something which claimed to be a 'boutique'. A red-lettered ABC sign, fairly new, partially obscured the grimy shadows of the old name: The Plaza.
Ace laughed to herself. Old picture houses always had such exotic names in spite of their locations.
This one was showing You Only Live Twice and there, under a chipped plate of glass, was a poster of Sean Connery, surrounded by Oriental women, and clutching a space helmet in one hand and a gun in the other.
When she'd mentioned going to the pictures she hadn't meant it literally. She'd seen the film half a dozen times on TV anyway. But it might while away the afternoon pleasantly while she waited for the Doctor. And at least there would be no adverts to interrupt it.
She was about to check the programme times when she noticed Vijay's Land Rover parked opposite the café. Stealthily she looked around and then, hunching her shoulders against the blasting rain, she crossed the street and looked into the exposed rear of the vehicle.
Inside, there were a couple of tartan blankets, some walking boots and a lot of fairly antiquated-looking machinery. Ace decided to have a better look and, again looking about her furtively, clambered into the back.
There was a distant clatter and she snapped up her head to look out of the tarpaulin-covered tail section. Vijay was leaving The Shepherd's Cross, warmed, no doubt, by a glass or two of brandy.
Without thinking, Ace flung one of the blankets over her head and crouched low amongst the machinery. One of the walking boots was jammed against her face and smelt none too pleasant but she ignored it and kept very still. Vijay clambered on board and slammed the door. Ace heard him cough, sigh and then start the engine. In a moment, the Land Rover pulled away and they were on their way to the station. Ace suppressed a smile. This way she got to see the only vaguely interesting thing in the whole place and could easily be back for her appointment with the Doctor.
'Sorry, Mr Bond,' she whispered as the vehicle sailed past the cinema.
The Doctor scurried under the impressive granite archway of the monastery entrance, furling his umbrella with some relief. In the shadows, he pressed himself against a wall and watched the rain coming down in diagonal slants.
The monastery was solid, imposing and stained with age, great mossy outcrops uglifying its splendid tower and porticos. The Doctor's gaze ranged about the place and he rapidly determined the period, picturing the positions of the open-air cloisters and dormitories in his mind's eye. Perhaps there was even a library. The thought of a peaceful afternoon out of the rain amongst old books gave him a little thrill of pleasure.
He walked through a covered colonnade towards the rear of the building. A huge, blank stone wall dominated this eastern side and above it all loomed the spindly tower, jutting like a tobacco-stained tooth into the eternally grey clouds.
The Doctor strolled on, careful to stay within the shelter of the walls, and soon came upon a rather forlorn-looking vegetable garden, dotted with cracked flower pots and plot markers which projected in some unfathomable pattern from the drenched soil. Like a graveyard for tongue-depressors, thought the Doctor idly.
At the top of the garden, jammed against a stone wall, stood a decrepit greenhouse. Its elaborate roof and once-elegant doorway suggested more prosperous days. Now several panes were blacked out and the woodwork, soaked, stained and peeling, buckled away from the glass. Inside, a large, black-robed man was bent studiously over a bed of soil.
Abbot Winstanley was enjoying the warmth of his greenhouse and had cheerfully abandoned his Gannex mackintosh and sou'wester hat in favour of the apron and battered panama he normally reserved for summer. Despite the ramshackle insulation, the greenhouse was as warm as any July day and, if he blocked out the hiss of the rain, Winstanley could almost hear the drone of pollen-laden bees as they flopped from one colourful bloom to the next.
A light tapping at the pane broke his reverie and he turned to see a blurred, duffel-coated figure grinning hopefully at him from outside.
'Just a tick!' Winstanley called chirpily, putting down his trowel. In an instant, he had flung back the door and revealed the Doctor.
'Good morning. I'm the Doctor. I wonder if I might...'
'Come in, come in!' urged the Abbot, giggling unnecessarily. 'We can't let this horrid weather inside, now can we?'
The Doctor mumbled an apology and found himself steered across the greenhouse threshold. Winstanley slammed the door and sat the Doctor down in a striped deckchair which was as old and disreputable as the building itself.
Winstanley was a round-faced pudding of a man who cheerfully adhered to Friar Tuck clichés. His large shaved head was freckled and sunburnt and his grin split his face like a slice of overripe melon. The Doctor was struck, however, by the Abbot's watery blue eyes. Their melancholy aspect seemed at odds with his massive personality.
'Now then, my dear sir. Where were we? A doctor, are you? Well, well, we're all in good health here as far as I can recall.' He let out another peal of unnecessary giggles. The Doctor shrank back from the surfeit of good humour.
'I'm not here on medical matters,' he said soothingly, glancing about at the ripening tomato plants. 'I was wondering if you'd be willing to let me spend some time here. Away from it all. Time to think...'
'Sanctuary, eh?' cried the Abbot, rubbing his hands together. 'Capital idea. We often get people popping in. More often to get out of the rain, though, I must admit!' His capacious frame shook with laughter.
With surprising deftness, the Abbot slipped into his mackintosh and floppy hat, ushering the Doctor outside into what looked like, at last, diminishing rain.
'I'm Mervyn Winstanley, by the way.' He grasped the Doctor's hand with his own sunburnt flipper and pumped it until the Doctor's knuckles ached.
As they negotiated the Somme-like garden, Winstanley related in a high, enthusiastic voice something of the monastery's history. At one time, it seemed, there had been almost four hundred brothers there.
'No call for it now, of course. There's just me and, oh, forty others. We have to make honey and novelty mugs just to keep the wolf from the door.' He disappeared through a low archway. The Doctor hopped over one last muddy trench and then paused as he reached the archway, gazing back at the dish of the telescope which dominated the horizon. Something shivered up his back and the hairs on his neck rose in response. For a moment, he saw himself balanced on the slippery walkway of another telescope, the flat concrete hundreds of feet below. Saw himself falling, the world and his life rushing away from him.
He had come through that crisis, despite everything. Yet something of that fear and sense of doom seemed to hang about him now as he stared across the grey moor.
Rubbing his hand against the nape of his neck, the Doctor followed Abbot Winstanley through the alcove and was soon lost in the shadows.
Something cold pressed itself against Betty's cheek and her eyelids flickered. In the confusion of light and colour she picked out a dark shape bobbing about her face. Her eyes snapped open and she took in the terrible shape towering above her. A snow-cold, wasted hand held her chin so tightly that she could feel the skeletal fingers pressing into her flesh. She cried out and felt a wave of revulsion rising as her eyes flicked from detail to detail of the apparition before her.
Alfred Beadle's empty sockets gazed into Betty's red-rimmed eyes, his forced grin of decay seeming to grow even wider. He wagged a bony finger as if to admonish her and then let out a chuckle from between his teeth which blasted his sister full in the face. The vile head seemed to shudder its way towards her, black moisture and weed trickling from its hair.
There was a voice inside Betty's head and she shook herself to try to ignore it, to escape the awful pressure of his claws on her face, the proximity of his fleshless lips to her own mouth.
'What kind of a welcome's this?' the voice seemed to coo. 'Give your old brother a kiss...'
The face jutted forward. Closer. Rank, salty breath streamed across Betty's face. Closer...
She screamed so hard that she cracked her head against the side of the bath. For one long minute she lay panting and retching where she had fainted, glaring about the room as if the walls themselves were about to attack her. Then she felt the cold bath panel against her cheek and, in a rush of logic, connected it to the imagined icy grip of her late brother.
A deep, relieved sigh hissed from between her clenched teeth and she managed to haul herself into a sitting position against the bath. Blood roared in her ears. She glanced stiffly over her shoulder and realised the bathwater was about to overflow. Shakily, she got to her feet and turned off the juddering taps with some effort.
The rim of the bath was wet and warm. Betty sat down on it heavily, letting the edge of her dressing gown trail in the steaming water. Brushing a lock of damp hair from her eye she began to take long, grateful breaths. Then she glanced down at the carpet and started screaming.
She didn't stop, her throat and lungs aching with the strain, even when Lawrence came belting up the stairs, looking crazily about him as if trying to locate the problem.
'Betty! What is it? What's the matter?'
She flung herself, weeping, into his arms, her breath coming in huge, hysterical gulps.
'What is it? What is it?' Lawrence insisted, shielding his wife with burly arms.
But she was unable or unwilling to speak. Instead she allowed him to lead her from the bathroom and lay her down on the bed.
Lawrence looked down at her anxiously as she twisted and knotted the sheets between shaking hands. He stroked her forehead gently and made reassuring hushing sounds until she turned over on her side, eyes glaring fixedly at the wall.
After staying a few minutes, Lawrence decided it was time to call for help. Betty had coped with these nightmares long enough. He stood up and crossed the landing to the telephone.
'Dad?'
Robin's voice sailed up from the bar below. Lawrence paused with his finger on the dial and pressed the receiver to his chest.
'Up here, Robin!' he called over the bannister.
Robin was already on his way up, pulling off his coat and scarf in agitation. 'They said in the bar they heard...'
'It's all right, it's all right. It's Betty. Another of her bad dreams.'
Lawrence dialled a number, listened, frowned and then dialled again. A dull crackling sound came from the receiver.
'No answer. Funny.'
Robin was making his way towards the bedroom. Lawrence put a hand on his son's arm.
'She'll be all right with me, son. Could you go across and see if Dr Shearsmith's in? The phone seems to be playing up.'
Robin hesitated, glancing across the landing at the closed bedroom door. 'Well...'
'She'll be OK with me.'
'Yeah. Yeah, of course. Whatever you think's best.'
Robin clattered away down the stairs and out through the bar. Lawrence sighed heavily and padded across the landing towards the bedroom. Passing the open bathroom door he failed to notice the large, wet boot marks rapidly evaporating from the carpet.
MRS CARSON: He's changed. Different somehow!
NIGHTSHADE: All right, Barbara, don't get hysterical. (Nightshade sits her down next to her unconscious husband and beckons Dr Barclay.)
NIGHTSHADE: Any word on those meteorites, Barclay?
BARCLAY: Not yet, sir. But we've found traces of Enstatite.
NIGHTSHADE: Hmm. Normal enough. And the rocket crew?
BARCLAY: There's no trace of them. Anywhere. (The seated astronaut begins to moan, eyes staring ahead.)
CARSON: Help me! Help me!
MRS CARSON: What is it? Robert? Don't you know me? Can't you say just one word? (Nightshade takes her to one side.)
NIGHTSHADE: Leave him, Barbara. He'll come round. In time. (The telephone rings. Barclay answers.)
BARCLAY: Yes? Yes, of course. Right away.
NIGHTSHADE: What is it?
BARCLAY: They've found something, sir. Down at the crash site.
NIGHTSHADE: Come on! (They run from the room. Fade to black.)
Trevithick looked up from his perusal of the yellowing script on his knee. Jill stood by the window a few feet from him, letting the steam from her tea flood pleasantly into her face. She sniffed back shaky tears and looked at the bare brown poplars which lined the driveway. A fierce wind shivered through them.
'You know, I've always hated this time of year,' she said, without turning round. Trevithick merely grunted and toyed with his old script.
There was a car in the drive and Jill saw George Lowcock bending to retrieve something from the boot. He and the other policemen had been at the Home for several hours now. Hours, thought Jill, since she'd seen Edmund's shattered window and had, much to her own disgust, given in to her compulsion to vomit. The old man had been surprisingly tactful, considering the mess she'd made of his eiderdown, gently leading her to his chair next to the wardrobe with the broken door.
There was a short knock and Jill turned, smoothing the hair off her face in an effort to appear stoically calm.
George Lowcock, all overcoat, bulbous nose and whiskers, bustled into the room, flashing her one of his sweetest smiles.
'Well, love, nothing more we can do here.' He turned to Trevithick. 'You're sure there was nothing taken, sir?'
'Absolutely,' muttered the old man.
'Well, we know the glass was broken with some force. Apart from that, though...'
'Just kids, then?' offered Jill without much confidence.
'Probably. Yes.'
Trevithick, however, knew his Sherlock Holmes and was not to be put off. 'No clues? The soil outside the window must be saturated. There have to be footprints of some kind.' His bushy eyebrows lifted expectantly.
Lowcock sighed. 'No sir. No footprints. No traces. Nothing.'
Trevithick grunted again and jammed his pipe into his lopsided mouth. Jill began to usher the policeman out.
Lowcock put on his hat. 'Naturally, we'll investigate as far as possible, miss. If you like, I'll leave one of the lads on watch for the next few nights. Might make the old folks feel a bit more secure.'
'I haven't told them yet,' said Jill.
'Oh well.' Lowcock beamed again. 'Probably very wise.'
He touched his hat and then, as he turned to the door, fixed Trevithick with a quizzical grin. 'Excuse me, sir. Have we met before?'
Trevithick rolled his eyes and adjusted himself in his seat. 'I don't believe so.'
Jill decided to mediate. 'This is Edmund Trevithick, George, he used to be...'
'No! Don't tell me... Hang on... Nightshade! That's it! Professor Nightshade! Eeh, we used to love that. Shepherd's Cross used to empty when you were on. Especially that one where you found those things in the ground.'
Trevithick smiled as if humouring a child. Lowcock fumbled in his raincoat and produced a battered address book. 'Would you mind? It's not for me, you understand...'
Trevithick scribbled his name on the flyleaf and Jill once again ushered out the beaming policeman. 'Well, you certainly made his day,' she said, sitting down and smoothing her skirt.
'Keep the punters happy, I always say.'
Jill looked at him keenly. 'Now, Edmund. Are you sure you've told me everything?'
'Stop treating me like a bloody child.'
'I'm sorry. But have you? Is there anything else I should know?'
Trevithick avoided her glance and contemplated his shoes. 'I woke up and the window was smashed. I rang for you. That's all.'
Jill stood up. 'Right then. In that case I'd better get on. There's some workmen coming to fix your window. I've got to get everyone ready who is going home for Christmas.'
Trevithick eyed her cynically. 'Catching one last Yuletide frolic before the cemetery, eh?'
'That's not very nice, Edmund.'
'Who's going where, then?' he asked brightly.
Jill looked up at the ceiling as if to conjure up a list of figures. 'Erm... the Rayner sisters are going to their family in Birmingham. Mr Dutton, Mr Bollard and Mr Messingham...'
'The Unholy Three?'
Jill laughed. 'Yes. They're going to Blackpool...'
'God help Blackpool.'
'And Mrs Holland is going over to Leeds.'
Trevithick pulled a face. 'You don't mean they're having her back after last year?'
'That was an unfortunate mistake.'
'Unfortunate mistake?' Trevithick mocked. 'I don't call peeing on the Christmas tree an unfortunate mistake. More like malice aforethought!'
Jill suppressed a smile. 'She was overwrought, poor dear. Anyway, the others are off to a hotel in Ilkley for the duration. We're taking a coach to York Station.'
'All except me.'
'All except you. And because of your bloody-mindedness I've got to spend my Christmas in Crook Marsham.'
Trevithick harrumphed but, in truth, he was rather looking forward to it. Now that he had no family. He thought briefly of his daughter's inert body on that wretched autobahn. And his granddaughter. Run off to join some hippy cult or other.
No, now it would be just him and Jill. Probably pulling crackers over a tin of Spam. He laughed lightly to himself.
'Well, my dear. 'Tis the season to be jolly.'
Jill smiled and placed a cool hand on his. He watched her leave the room and then turned back to the window. His mind began to race. He had kept quiet about what had really happened in his room. But what had happened? What could he tell anyone? That some strange voice had whispered the name of his old character out of the darkness? That there was that dreadful smell? Like the mass grave he and his men had come across in Poland during the war. Morbid, rotten, evil. Yes, that was it. There was something terrible about that smell. Something long-buried that should never have seen daylight again.
There was a commotion in the corridor and Trevithick raised himself a little unsteadily to his feet. Robin was beyond the door, his face flushed and his breath coming in gasps.
'Miss Mason? Miss Mason?' he called. Jill came down the corridor, her head cocked to one side. Trevithick shut the door behind him and joined them.
'You're Lawrence Yeadon's son, aren't you?' said Jill. 'What's up?'
Robin ran a hand through rain-glistened hair. 'It's my mum. She's not well. I tried to get Dr Shearsmith but he's not there. Can you help? You are a nurse?'
Jill pulled a face. 'Well ... I'll do my best.' She took down a heavy sheepskin coat from its peg and went to tell Polly what had happened.
Trevithick walked up to Robin. 'You're from the pub aren't you, lad?' Robin nodded distractedly, glancing up the corridor. 'Hmm,' mused Trevithick. 'I think I might accompany you. We've had a bit of trouble of our own up here. I could murder a pint.'
Robin smiled thinly. Trevithick went to fetch his coat and hat. Realising that Jill would probably be some time, Robin slid down the wall and relaxed. He couldn't work out what had happened to Dr Shearsmith. He was always in before four and had told everyone he was staying in Crook Marsham for Christmas.
Added to that, Robin had found the front door wide open and the record player on, struggling scratchily through 'That's the way it is' by the Ink Spots. There was an old photograph album, too, lying on the hearthrug and open to show faded, white-bordered pictures of Dr Shearsmith and his late wife on some long-ago Christmas Day. Some time during the thirties to judge from their clothes. There was a funny smell too. Like milk turning sour.
Jill strode towards Robin, a reassuring smile on her face. Trevithick appeared simultaneously, jamming a tweedy hat on to his head. Opening the front door, the three of them set out together into the gathering dusk.
Ace gazed down forlornly at the mud which caked her shoes. She'd watched Vijay open the security fence with some sort of electronic key and then crouched under the blankets again as they drove through into the compound. After he'd disappeared inside she'd waited and then hauled herself out.
The radio telescope was certainly impressive, she conceded: an enormous dish which towered over the E-shaped concrete buildings beneath. But once she'd walked around the thing twice she found herself at a bit of a loose end. It was also getting dark and was still freezing cold.
She thought briefly of barging through the big double doors and announcing herself but didn't think this very wise. Finally, she decided to walk back to the village and set off for the perimeter fence, shivering as another blast of icy wind rippled over the moor. Little tufts of purple heather shuddered like dry-land anemones.
The fence still sparkled with recent rain. Ace jumped a little as three arc lamps burst into life with a staccato clatter. Obviously part of the security set-up, she thought. Mind you, there hadn't been much evidence of restriction or surveillance so far. No knuckle-heads in peaked caps at any rate and years of petty confrontations with school caretakers and bouncers made her grateful for that.
It was only when she had traipsed forlornly to the exit gate that she realised getting out would be rather more difficult than getting in. There were two rows of barbed-wire ranged across the top of the fence and the gate itself was solid steel mesh. The square grey box into which Mr Degun had inserted his key winked its red light at her tauntingly.
'Oh brilliant,' she muttered.
Vijay, looking out of the window, failed to see Ace. Dusk was creeping into the periphery of his vision like spots mottling the edges of a mirror. The rich navy-blue colour of the sky took him back to Saturdays at home as a child. His father hunched over a pools coupon as Peter Dimmock read out the football results on Sportsview.
Vijay would be outside, relishing the thrill which the wintry darkness gave to his games to hide and seek. He'd press himself into dark corners or against midnight-black trees, watching the wind stir skeletal branches above his head.
Then air would burn his lungs as he pelted out of the wood, his friends in excited pursuit. After another adrenaline-powered race they would collapse on top of each other, giggling and hooting with joy.
A sudden flare of yellow light in the porch would signal the appearance of his father, coupon dangling from his hand, as he peered out into the darkness.
'Vijay? Vijay? Time to come in, now.'
And Vijay would bid a sulky goodnight to his friends, dragging his heels in anticipation of the Saturday-night bath. He'd hug his knees to his chin, shrinking from the overly hot water which steamed around him and gaze at the black rectangle of night behind the flowery curtains.
He would hear his father pacing about downstairs, the television's sound an insulated mumble two floors below.
Occasionally, just occasionally, in those formative years, his father would pause after draping the big, rough towel around Vijay, look his son in the eye and say 'Bit of a treat tonight.' To Vijay that could mean only one tiling. A new Nightshade serial.
So they would sit together before the tiny, flickering screen, Vijay's eyes wide with terror, his father pretending indifference whilst clutching the chair till his knuckles whitened.
Later, despite the excitement, Vijay would quietly wish he hadn't stayed up; his imagination transformed bedroom furniture or crumpled clothes into the bulky, crablike creatures which the Professor had so recently encountered. One night they had seemed so real. So real. He could have sworn the thing was advancing across the room towards him, mandibles swaying and dripping with fluid, eyes ticking and twitching as it bore down...
'All of them?'
It was Dr Cooper. Vijay turned from the window, once more conscious of the hum of the machinery around him.
'As far as I can tell, yes,' he said. 'I tried the café, I tried the pub, I tried the callbox. I even tried the surgery...'
'No joy?'
'Dr Shearsmith wasn't there and the phone was definitely out of order.'
Cooper sat down heavily. 'Maybe it's the weather.'
Vijay looked at his watch. Nearly four. Nearly time for Hawthorne to begin his shift. He blew air out of his cheeks noisily.
'Oh, this is outrageous!' cried Cooper, getting to her feet and thumping the bench. 'The biggest input of data, however confusing, that we've ever had and we can't tell anyone about it! We'd be better off sending HQ a postcard.'
'What about the radio?' asked Vijay, nervously stroking his moustache.
'Hawthorne's fiddling with it. Looks like it's gone the same way as the phones.' She strode across the room and picked up a sheaf of papers which had fallen to the floor.
'Where's Holly?'
'Still sleeping,' said Vijay, and that was where he wanted to be right now. Or, at least, in Holly's embrace, resting his head on her breast as she soothed his fatigue away. Enjoying the sweet smoothness of her body against his. He blinked and realised Cooper was talking to him. 'Sorry, what?'
'I said it's past four. I'll cover for you tonight. Get some rest, you've done enough chasing around.' Vijay grinned and thanked her warmly. Perhaps his dream wasn't so far off...
He passed Hawthorne on the way to his room and the rat-faced man shot him an inquisitive look. Cooper answered the unasked question.
'I'm covering for Vijay tonight. He's been out all day trying to find a phone that works. How's the...?'
Hawthorne dropped a pile of electrical components on to the bench and several rolled to the floor. 'Buggered,' he said and sat down.
Ace had barked her knuckles for the fifth time trying to scale the perimeter fence when she noticed the hole. One of the arc lamps caught the outer edge of the torn mesh and she ran expectantly towards it, feeling the cold air rasping through her nose. The moor and sky, now just two broad strokes of darkness, bobbed around her as she jogged towards the fence. To her left, the parabolic dish blazed briefly as a circling lamp slid over its surface. Then she threw herself down by the hole.
The wire seemed to have been wrenched apart, razor-edges folded back towards the outside. She groped her way through, careful to avoid the edges, and felt her knees sinking into the peaty soil. Head through. She grasped a tuft of heather and pulled. Body through. Darkness pressed against her and she could feel hot, uncomfortable sweat patches spreading across her back and arms. Manoeuvring so that her feet wouldn't catch on the wire, Ace made a final effort and rolled through on to the moor beyond.
The black and purple landscape glowered at her like a bruised eye. She tried to ignore the mournful wind, stood up, put her hands in her pockets and started the long walk back to the village. Then she hit it.
Ace caught the thing with her foot and was flung headlong into the soil. She tasted mud and felt it soaking her clothes as she jumped back. The sweeping beam crept across the moor and Ace held her breath. The light came closer, suddenly illuminating the thing with horrible precision.
It was a uniformed man, his hands pulled back behind his head and broken at the wrists so that they hung grotesquely limp. He wore a black peaked cap above a face which might once have been youthful. But now it was foul.
The eyes were blank, sunk in their sockets and dulled to a strange grey colour above a mouth wrenched back in a snapshot of sheer fright. Livid purple weals and scratches crazed the pasty skin.
Ace cried out and stepped back, immediately feeling the treacherous mud slip beneath her. Before she knew what was happening, she was on top of it.
Howling in fear and nausea and disgust, she struggled to stand, to escape, but the thing seemed to erupt around her, belching out an unbelievable stink of corruption.
The station light swept back again and Ace saw the body expanding beneath her like a cast-off snakeskin, dark fluid draining away into the moor.
She threw herself clear and hugged herself. There was a rusty taste in her mouth and she realised she'd bitten her lip in agitation.
The beam came by again and this time there was no body. No uniform. Only a blackness like engine oil on summer grass and a lingering smell of decay.
Ace wasted no time. Urging herself to keep calm, keep calm, keep calm, she struggled back under the fence and sprinted the distance to the station entrance. Ignoring her earlier misgivings, she thrust out her hands and barged inside.
Cooper and Hawthorne looked up from their work and stared at her as if she were a gunslinger entering a saloon. Ace felt overwhelmed by the light and warmth, and staggered as coloured dots exploded before her eyes. She slid into a chair as a warm, thick comma of blood curled its way from her lips to her chin.
A man with arthritic hands, all bunched and knotted like rusty keys, was manning the bar of The Shepherd's Cross. Trevithick didn't know him but was enjoying the pint of stout he'd poured. Upstairs, Lawrence, Robin and Jill were ministering to Betty's needs.
Trevithick burped. It was getting on for seven o'clock and he would normally be settling down to watch television or read. He was halfway through Bleak House, always one of his favourites, loving the way Dickens drew him into that murky, fog-bound world.
Tonight, though, a long-forgotten excitement, something like the thrill of live performance, was flowing through his veins. There was the strange incident at the window, Mrs Yeadon's funny turn and his TV interview too. It was all very puzzling. And he liked a puzzle.
Lawrence Yeadon's jukebox was playing a particularly tacky version of 'White Christmas', all wispy soprano and electric piano, and the pub was crowded with ruddy-faced, laughing punters.
Trevithick finished his pint and looked up as the frosted-glass door opened. George Lowcock shuffled in, accompanied by a blast of cold wind and a little whirlpool of brown leaves. He rubbed his hands together rather theatrically and gave the pub one of his beaming smiles, nodding to all his old friends from the village. He spotted Trevithick at once.
'Hello, Professor!' he boomed, striding over to Trevithick's table. The old man flinched visibly and acknowledged the policeman with an embarrassed, lopsided smile.
'I gave your autograph to my wife. She was right pleased,' Locock enthused. 'Can I get you a pint?'
Trevithick perked up at this offer. 'Oh, that's very kind of you, Inspector.'
'Sergeant,' said Lowcock lightly. 'Call me George.'
'Er, thank you, George. A pint of Guinness, if you'd be so kind.'
Lowcock stood up and did an elaborate mime to the man behind the bar. This was evidently understood as the barman shortly pushed his way through the crowd, holding two pint glasses in his crooked hands.
'I had no idea we had a celebrity in the village,' said Lowcock, after paying the barman.
'Oh, hardly that, George. It was quite a while ago.'
Lowcock beamed at him. 'Aye, but we all loved it. We'd never go out when you were on. How'd you end up in Crook Marsham?'
Trevithick didn't like the use of the expression 'end up' but smiled back regardless. 'Believe it or not, I'd planned to retire up here. Live with my daughter and son-in-law. But they were killed in a car crash in Germany...'
'Oh, I am sorry.' Lowcock's heavy features fell sympathetically.
'Anyway, I'd moved all my stuff and couldn't really afford a place of my own. So the vultures got me.'
'Very pretty vultures if you ask me,' said Lowcock with a hearty laugh, 'if that Miss Mason is anything to go by.'
Trevithick laughed back. 'Hmm. Nice girl. Doesn't really belong with a load of old crocks though. She has ambition. I can see it in her eyes.'
They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks. A cheery hubbub of voices crowded around them and one or two couples began to exchange kisses under the mistletoe pinned above the bar. The red flocked wallpaper seemed to glow and blur as Trevithick gazed at it. He smiled, rather contentedly.
'So,' he said finally. 'How's business?'
Unexpectedly, Lowcock's face was rather solemn. 'Funniest thing really. I like to have a nice clean book at Christmas. Goodwill to all men and that. There's usually just a bit of rowdiness and the odd drunk.'
'But not this year?' asked Trevithick, eyebrows raised over the rim of his glass.
'Two missing persons,' said Lowcock gravely. 'Old bloke called Prudhoe been gone since yesterday afternoon and now Dr Shearsmith. His cleaning woman says he's vanished into thin air.'
'Yes, young Robin called to see him. Found the place empty and the door wide open, so he tells me.'
'Really?' Lowcock scratched his whiskers thoughtfully.
'And now the phones are out of order as well,' said Trevithick in the most mysterious voice he could muster. The one he'd used to great effect when he presented Tales of Terror for the BBC Light Programme.
'Yours too, eh? We've been trying to get the GPO in but...'
'The phones aren't working,' laughed Trevithick. 'Mmm, makes you realise how dependent we all are on our mod cons.'
They both jumped as a high-pitched scream rang out across the bar. The Christmas merriment froze like black ice. Lowcock was on his feet in an instant and Trevithick hobbled after him as he mounted the stairs.
They crossed the landing and threw open the bedroom door. Betty lay on the bed, struggling against the restraining arms of Lawrence and Robin.
Jill stood by the bed, a fearful look in her eye.
'Send him away!' wailed Betty, painful sobs breaking up her voice. 'Send him away!'
Robin managed to force her back on to the pillow and pressed a cold flannel to her forehead.
'What's the matter, Lol?' said Lowcock, furrowing his brow. Lawrence drew Lowcock to one side but Trevithick managed to overhear his desperate, unbelieving whisper.
'It's her brother.'
'Patrick?'
'No, Alf.'
'Alf?'
'Yes. She says... she says she's seen him again. She says he's come back for her.'
Trevithick frowned and looked down at Betty Yeadon, flailing and thrashing on the bed.
The Doctor was enjoying a simple meal of soup, bread and cheese in the Abbot's panelled study. Winstanley had made him extremely welcome, showing him around the well-preserved Norman cloisters and up the spindly black tower. The Doctor had been introduced to about ten of the monks, although he would have had difficulty telling them apart, so blandly unperturbed were their expressions. This, again, was in stark contrast to the Abbot, whose troubled eyes continued to undermine his determinedly cheery countenance.
Now the Doctor had been invited to a little late tea and had just finished the last of the soup when Winstanley came in.
'All done? Good. Excellent.'
'Delicious,' mumbled the Doctor, his mouth still stuffed with bread.
'I made the soup myself. Brother Jeremy made the bread. It's rather fine, isn't it?' Winstanley moved over towards the blazing fire and warmed his backside. 'Chilly places, I'm afraid.'
'I don't suppose they were built for comfort,' said the Doctor, settling into a studded leather chair. Winstanley poured two glasses of ruby port. The room glowed around them, a miasma of dancing shadows and reflected flame underscored by the reassuring tock of the Abbot's long-case clock.
The Doctor could see pictures in the fire. Shifting faces and events from long, long ago. Hadn't he once sat like this with... Who was it? Victoria. Of course, Victoria. Outside the Cybertombs on Telos. Talking about his family. Sleeping in his memory. Sleeping...
'Penny for them?' said the Abbot cheerfully.
The Doctor looked up, smiled. 'Hmm? Oh, just thoughts. Just thoughts.'
It was Winstanley's turn to look into the fire. 'You know, Doctor, I can't tell you how good it is to have a new face about the place. It can get awfully lonely up here. The moor... the wind. It's not the most beneficial of environments.'
The Doctor turned interested eyes on Winstanley who avoided his gaze.
'You seem like a good listener, Doctor. Tell me...' The Abbot rolled the stem of his glass between pudgy fingers. 'Tell me, do you have faith?'
'Faith?'
Winstanley nodded.
The Doctor inclined his head slightly, throwing his face into deep shadow.
'I used to think ... I used to think I had faith. Faith in what was right and wrong. What was just.'
'And now?'
'Now I'm not so sure.'
The Abbot turned towards the fire, his eyes glistening as though he were crying. 'Yes. I believe I know what you mean.'
The Doctor sat up sharply as if to break the mood of melancholy. 'Tell me about your radio telescope.'
'Oh, that's a recent addition, Doctor. Five or six years old. We're tuned in to messages from the stars.'
'Have they had any luck?'
Winstanley chuckled. 'Not to my knowledge. They seem a nice lot up there, though. I've met Dr Cooper and Miss Kidd. And Mr Degun often pops in. I believe he's fascinated by our way of life. We could go over there tomorrow, if you like?'
The Doctor considered this, already feeling his insatiable curiosity rising. But then he remembered why he'd come to the monastery and set his mouth determinedly.
'No. Thank you, but no. I'm not here to get involved.'
'As you wish,' said Winstanley, pouring another glass of port.
The Doctor sipped his drink and returned to his contemplation of the fire. Winstanley began to hunt amongst his bookshelves.
'Perhaps you'd be interested in this, Doctor?'
The Doctor glanced at his pocket watch. It was a little after seven. He mustn't forget his appointment with Ace.
A small, vellum-bound book, dwarfed by the Abbot's sausage-fingers, was pressed into his hand.
'Local history,' said Winstanley. 'And decidedly colourful too.'
The Doctor began to turn the brittle yellow pages which were crowded with crabbed print. Wide-bordered pictures appeared every once in a while, showing Saxon serfs labouring in the fields or building rudimentary houses on the moorland. The Doctor recognised the village church, without its later embellishments, and finally came upon a splendid print showing a large, heavily fortified Norman castle, narrow flags spiking its battlements.
'Marsham Castle,' said the Abbot over his shoulder. 'Built by Sir Brian de Fillis in - let me see now - 1156. Yes, 1156.' He ran a hand over his shaved head. 'Gone now, of course.'
'One of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit,' said the Doctor smiling.
'You're closer than you think. Read on.'
The Doctor settled back, holding the small volume between his hands.
This great victory upon the moor of Marston, given unto Parliament by the grace of our Lord Jesus, did result in the rout of Prince Rupert and his men. God did make them as stubble to Cromwell's sword. Brave Ironsides, notwithstanding a grave injury, beat the Prince's horsemen into retreat and sent Captain Phillip Jackson in pursuit.
Coming upon a troop of the Royalists in the castle of Marsham, in the county of York, Jackson reported that the King's Men did experience such ghastly terrors and phantoms that they cried aloud to heaven.
Upon surrendering themselves to Parliament's mercy, the castle was consumed by a strange fire and all were glad to return to their camp. This place has long been notorious for weird happenings...
The Doctor looked up from his book and chewed his lip thoughtfully.
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