Chapter Six
Billy Coote was snoring loudly, an old grey army blanket slung over his skinny form. The monk's cell in which he lay was bare and functional, although someone had once had the presence of mind to install a radiator in the far corner: a fussy thirties thing convoluted like intestines and painted a depressing cream colour.
Billy snorted and coughed loudly in a hacking spasm, what his dad always called 'the workhouse cough'. Too many Woodbines and draughty bus shelters, some doctor had once told him. But never mind that, he'd had some good times on the road. No responsibilities, nobody trying to tie him down. It hadn't been so bad...
That morning, he had run down into Crook Marsham full of tales about a funny police box - tales that had been greeted with the usual mixture of scepticism and amusement. Somewhat forlornly, he had wandered over to the monastery where he knew he was guaranteed a bed and a free meal once or twice a month, sometimes more if he pushed his luck.
The Abbot always treated him kindly but didn't like to see him hanging around. Not very Christian of him in Billy's opinion. No, his true friend there was Brother Alec, a former soldier who had spent a good while sleeping rough in his time.
He understood Billy's way of life, letting him stay in the monastery and doling out some of the monks' leftovers.
'As long as you don't make a habit of it,' he would always say, laughing at his feeble joke.
Tonight, Alec couldn't really turn him down. It was freezing cold (Billy had chuckled at the conspicuous corduroys showing beneath Alec's robes) and looked like it might snow. He could hear the wind from the moor now as he drifted in and out of sleep, the thin, arrow-slit window rattling in its frame.
There had been a time when his opinion counted for something in Crook Marsham and the surrounding districts. Right up until the War he had been a bit of a local celebrity, consulted on all manner of things from the possibility of a dry summer to the sex of unborn children. After all, he was the seventh son of a seventh son. More or less.
Well, he had the 'gift' certainly, even though it was a bit erratic at times. His weather forecasts in particular brought down the wrath of local farmers and, after predicting a mild winter in '63, his services had been spurned in favour of the BBC's.
Sometimes, though, an image so pure and unsullied would spring into his mind that he could announce with certainty its coming to pass. It had been that way over the Abdication crisis (Billy had heard the King's departing speech in his mind a whole year before its broadcast), Churchill's death, and even the date of the last election (which had won him ten bob).
In the village, however, he was relegated to the position of local idiot: someone with whom to pass the time of day, buy a drink for at Christmas and use as a bogeyman to frighten errant children. Get to bed now, or Billy will come and get you!
He was happy, though, happy enough. If it wasn't for the headaches.
They'd first appeared some months previously: sick, dull, thumping pains at the base of his skull, sometimes accompanied by blinding lights.
He was seeing things too. Nothing he could get a grip on. Colours and places, lit up like Christmas trees, that swam and shuddered in his mind.
After the attacks he would feel hollow and utterly miserable, a profound, stomach-deep depression which took days to lift. It was all very worrying. He would talk to Brother Alec about it in the morning.
Abbot Winstanley heard it first, a low, low moan, drifting down the corridors of the monastery. He opened his eyes and listened intently. The sound came again, haltingly - a desperate, shuddering wail like the cry of a lost soul or the mournful song of a whale.
Winstanley remembered childhood stories about - what were they called? - yes, the Gabriel Ratchets. A celestial horde of wretched spirits forever doomed to walk the earth. This was how they might sound, he thought. Desperate, hopeless, forgotten.
He got up and padded to the door of his cell, pressing his hand against the dark wood.
It came again, more substantial this time, like a breath of wind blowing suddenly fierce. Winstanley slipped on his shoes and opened the door. The corridor beyond was completely empty.
He looked up the passageway towards the Great Hall and then down towards the kitchens. Nothing. Only a hollow, silent darkness.
He caught his breath sharply as the moan sounded right by him, fluttering the hem of his habit and creeping down the back of his neck. He shivered, wishing he were not alone in that sad corridor. If only the Doctor had returned. Winstanley had derived great comfort from the newcomer's arrival.
Somewhere, deep in the monastery, a heavy door creaked and slammed shut. Winstanley jumped out of his skin and ducked back into his room, shutting his own door with sweaty hands.
Billy Coote's door swung shut of its own accord and the old man's face jerked in response. The air about his sleeping body seemed curiously stirred, whispering around the grizzled locks of hair, teasing at the wide-open, staring eyes which had turned as black and opaque as coal in a snowman's face.
Holly felt herself falling. The man's grip on her arm had become intense, painful; his hand felt hot and searing as if it were burning into her skin. His face seemed to balloon before her heavy eyes, the mouth expanding into a gaping hole.
Holly could see things in his opaque eyes and felt strangely comfortable. It would be so easy just to let go. So easy...
The man's shape seemed to shift and change, his skin blurring and glittering like burnished metal. Light began to trail from his hands and eyes.
Holly turned leaden eyes to gaze into his face. The mouth was huge now, red lips and teeth glistening with spit.
'Holly!'
She turned. Vijay had strolled into the room and was staring in disbelief at the miasmic cloud into which Holly seemed to be sinking.
'Holly!' he called again, desperately thrashing his arms at the insubstantial entity. There was a crackle of energy and Vijay was tossed across the room, hitting the wall with tremendous force. He picked himself up, clutching his bruised chest, and stumbled towards Holly. He called her name again and again, his voice rasping with despair.
Eventually she turned her sleepy head.
'Vijay?'
The cloud seemed to retreat; its staggering brightness dimming like a sputtering candle.
Holly forced herself to think of Vijay, their first meeting, their first kiss. He was solid, concrete, substantial. Her wavering consciousness strained to lock on to his image as he swam at the edge of her vision. She was suddenly paralysed with fear, her eyes bulging.
Vijay waded across the room, the pulsing cloud wrapping diminishing tendrils around him. A thick, viscous fluid settled on his skin, running in rivulets into his nose and mouth. He spat disgustedly and wiped at his coated eyes.
Holly could feel a dull pulsing in her head and pressure on her skull as if an unseen hand were forcing her down.
It was too late, she told herself. She was lost.
Vijay's face rose before her like a painted mask, furrowed with concern and anxiety.
Too late.
She was suddenly alert and gulping air with pistol-shot clarity. Vijay was holding her tightly in his arms and she blinked over his shoulder at the room, now partially lit by the corridor lamps. The man was gone.
'Are you OK? Holly? What happened?'
She shook her head. Slowly at first and then with unnatural speed, she began gabbling a stream of incomprehensible words.
Vijay's hand cracked across her face and she fell, sobbing, into his embrace.
Vijay picked her up bodily, forced her into some clothes and managed to struggle out into the corridor. He threw her over his shoulder and began to walk back to the control room. But Holly pulled away and slid to the floor.
'All right, Hol. It's OK now,' said Vijay soothingly.
She raised bloodshot eyes to him.
'It was James! It was him!'
'James?'
She grabbed Vijay's hand.
'My fiancé. You remember?'
Vijay nodded dumbly.
'He died. He's dead,' Holly cried, her voice hoarse. 'But he was there in the room. And he wanted me. I could feel it!'
Vijay sighed heavily and folded her into his arms, cooing softly.
'All right, Hol. Don't talk now.'
She flashed angry eyes. 'I want to! I want to talk! James is dead. How could he be here? How could he?'
Hot tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her flushed face. 'I love you,' she said simply. 'But he meant so much to me. You must understand.'
'I do,' said Vijay, stroking her hair. 'I do.'
Whatever he had seen in the room was certainly unearthly. A cloud of light and energy, like a delicate sea creature, trailing crackling fronds. It had terrified and astonished him. And, just for a moment, he'd made out a human face, its features writhing and twisting in fury.
Vijay put his arm around Holly and together they shambled down the corridor.
The gaudy wallpaper in the TV room was, Ace surmised, an attempt to bring a touch of homeliness to the otherwise sterile station. There were a few cheap prints pinned to the walls and a dog-eared poster of Che Guevara. Skinny Christmas streamers pocked with drawing-pin holes were ranged haphazardly across the ceiling.
After the crisis in the control room, Ace and Robin had been allocated the TV room as their billet for the night. Vijay had been very kind, helping with bedding and refreshment, although he still seemed a little embarrassed in Ace's company. She thought of that old gag, 'I didn't recognise you with your clothes on'.
For a while, she and Robin had watched TV, or rather, Robin had watched TV and she had watched him. Blue light from the screen bounced across his features as he sat entranced by a programme bravely entitled Colour me Pop!.
Ace liked the curve of his jaw in the moody light and the way his Brian Jones fringe hung untidily in his eyes.
A youthful strutting figure had popped on to the screen and Ace laughed out loud.
'What is it?' asked Robin, smiling.
'Is that who I think it is?'
Robin frowned. 'Mick Jagger? Yeah.'
'You should see him now. He's well past it.'
'What do you mean?'
Ace bit her tongue. She had forgotten where she was. And when.
'Nothing,' she said quietly.
Sometime after eleven, they had settled down for the night, their beds separated by a pile of coats, boots and Ace's rucksack. Robin clicked off the light.
Ace heard him undressing in the darkness and grinned to herself. His teeth chattered as he plunged beneath the thick blankets.
Ace was dog tired but her brain refused to quieten down. An image of that vile corpse out on the moor sprang into her mind and she shook her head to get rid of it. She didn't want to think about that.
Instead, she thought about the nameless excitement she was experiencing. The gentle sound of Robin's breathing sent a tingle of pleasure coursing through her. She could hear the ticking of his eyelashes and knew that he was as wide awake as she.
'I know this sounds a terrible cliche...' Robin announced suddenly.
Ace put her hands behind her head. 'Try me.'
'You're not like any other girl I know.'
Ace barked a laugh.
'Sorry,' he grinned.
'No. Don't apologise. I like you too.' There was a deep and satisfying silence.
A thick mist hung about the base of the Minster, gathering in eddies inside the crumbling yellow niches.
Tim Medway strolled to his car, rubbing his hands together to keep warm and looking around him at the awakening city. He smiled.
Daylight was bleeding through the dark blue of night and milk bottles greeted the morning with a chorus of chinking.
Coloured bulbs hung across the street like strings of paste jewellery, swaying slightly in the cold wind.
This was Medway's first time in York. Arriving mid-afternoon the previous day, he'd found himself so enchanted by the labyrinth of winding streets and tea shops that he'd decided to postpone his appearance in Crook Marsham. Old Trevithick could wait for his interview. Probably had nothing better to do anyway.
Instead, Medway had buttoned up his overcoat and thrown a long scarf around his neck, enjoying the undercurrent of Christmas which bubbled within him.
Bay-windowed shops glittered with antiques and wooden toys, motley collections of old ship's instruments, Victorian dolls, angels, rocking horses and merry-go-rounds.
It was like some childhood ideal, he thought to himself, grinning in excitement: a composite of Dickens, John Masefield and C. S. Lewis, resonant of a kind of Christmas he had never known yet seemed to remember all the same.
His reflection, tall, tanned and good-looking, stared back at him from every window.
He'd eaten well, drunk just a little too much and stumbled to his hotel through streets bunched so close together the buildings on either side almost touched. There was a frost ring sparkling around the moon and the distant, brassy music of a Salvation Army band drifted towards him. He had wished everyone and anyone a very merry Christmas.
Now it was Christmas Eve and he had woken early, crisscrossing his hands behind his head and listening intently to the peal of bells.
When he found the car, it was rimed with frost and he had scraped away at the windscreen with a little plastic spade until it was clear.
He let the car tick over for a while, warm air blasting through the interior, and took out a brand-new map from the glove compartment.
Crook Marsham was six miles to the west. Shouldn't take him long. Time for a nice leisurely breakfast in the village before he made his way to the - what was it called? - the Dalesview Residential Home.
Medway switched on the windscreen wiper and pulled out Trevithick's file from his briefcase.
'Edmund Trevithick,' he announced to himself. 'Born 12 May 1898. Educated Repton School, blah, blah...'
He turned a page and pulled out a couple of photographs of the young Trevithick.
'No formal training. Joined Acton Rep. 1923. Went to Hollywood in the thirties. Came back for WWII. Distinguished Service Medal.' Medway pulled a face, surprised.
'Films include: Flames of Passion (1946), Sword of Araby (1949), The Man from the Ministry (1951), There's Someone in My Trousers! (1965). Best known for his TV work in the last years of his career, especially the popular Nightshade serials (1953-58). Retired in 1966. Family: Married Margaret (d. 1956), one daughter Paula (d. 1967) and granddaughter.'
Medway closed the file, put the car into gear and reversed into the misty street.
When the confirmation had come from Jill Mason he'd watched some of the old man's work. Nightshade he remembered well, of course, but he was most impressed by Trevithick's tremendous output of television plays and his delightful sparring with Gilbert Harding on What's My Line?
All in all, he was rather looking forward to the interview. It would certainly bring a touch of excitement into the old boy's retirement.
Edmund Trevithick picked up his umpteenth glass of whiskey with a shaky hand. Early light blotched the taproom carpet in pools of milky blue.
Lowcock and Lawrence Yeadon lay sleeping in the positions they had assumed upon entering The Shepherd's Cross the previous night. Both had collapsed as if utterly exhausted, causing grave concern amongst the remaining customers. They had fallen into a deep sleep, resisting all attempts to get them to bed. Trevithick had taken charge, bringing blankets and pillows from the airing cupboard and sending the old man with the arthritic hands to check on Betty. He had returned, saying her door was locked and it seemed wise not to disturb her.
Trevithick himself, however, had not slept well. His mind fizzed with unanswered questions. Events had been curious enough before but now! That creature... It was fantastic.
He heard a mumbling groan behind him and turned to see Lowcock stirring in his blanket-covered chair. The policeman's lively, humorous face now seemed heavily jowled and tired. He rubbed his eyes and looked blearily about him.
Trevithick pushed a whiskey into his hand and he drank it gratefully.
'What happened out there?' said Trevithick, immediately pouring another drink.
Lowcock gulped it down and waved his hand about. 'Don't know. How long have we been out?'
Trevithick looked at his watch. 'It's a quarter past eight. You got back about half past ten last night and you've been asleep ever since. We couldn't wake you.'
Lowcock shook his head and rubbed his face, his cheeks making a slapping sound like wet liver. 'We got as far as the moor road,' he said at last, cradling the whiskey glass in his hands, 'and we were just talking about who we should contact in York. Then...'
Trevithick looked up expectantly.
'Then?'
'I felt it first. Sickness. Nausea. Waves of it. Like we were on a rolling ship in a storm. I felt awful. And I could see Lawrence did too. He almost lost control of the car. We stopped for a bit and then tried to carry on but it was no good. It was like a physical barrier stopping us getting out. We were both sick in the car.'
Trevithick frowned. 'Anything else?'
Lowcock nodded slowly. 'Oh aye. Plenty. That's why we came tearing back here like a couple of nutters. We both felt this... terror.' He threw up his hands hopelessly. 'That's the only way I can describe it. Overwhelming terror. Hysterical we were. As if something was coming over the moor to get us. I've never been so scared in my whole bloody life.'
He finished off the whiskey.
'George.' Trevithick put a hand on the policeman's arm. "There's something happening in this village. I think it's beyond any of our understanding, but we've got to do something. Pool our resources. Get all the facts together.'
Lowcock grimaced. 'What facts? What do you think is happening?'
'I don't know. Listen. I know this is going to sound incredible, but, last night, when I was walking home...'
'How's Betty?' said Lowcock suddenly. 'Christ, I forgot all about her. How is she?'
Trevithick put up his hands. 'It's all right. I sent someone up to relieve young Robin but he'd locked the door. We didn't want to disturb her. She's fine, I'm sure. But listen, last night...'
Lawrence sat bolt upright in his chair, blinking his eyes in confusion. He looked at Lowcock and Trevithick with a puzzled frown as if unsure of who they were. Then he threw aside his blanket and clattered across the room to the stairs.
'Lol, it's all right!' called Lowcock, getting to his feet.
There was grim determination in Lawrence's tired face as he sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom. He glanced down absently at the carpet which seemed to be wet through.
'Betty?' He hammered on the door. 'Betty? Are you all right, love?'
He tried the door. It was locked.
'Robin?'
His shoes squelched on the sodden carpet.
'Betty? Robin? Come on, son. Open the door.'
He could hear the alarm clock's muffled ticking. Lowcock and Trevithick appeared behind him. 'Betty?'
His voice was tinged with panic. He put his shoulder to the door and the frame cracked, sending paint flakes to the floor.
Lowcock leant his shoulder against the panels and the two men slammed against the woodwork with all their strength. The door split from the hinges outwards and they almost fell into the room.
Trevithick hovered in the doorway and stumbled as Lowcock backed into him, pressing his sleeve to his mouth. The room smelled rank. Furniture and clothes lay scattered and the window was missing entirely, as if punched out cleanly by an unseen hand.
In the centre of the devastation stood the double bed, tilted slightly towards the wall. The thick eiderdown was pulled up to the pillows, completely covering the shape underneath. A wide green stain like fruit mould was spreading across the embroidery.
Trevithick held his breath and crossed the threshold. He noticed at once that the door had not been locked; rather the woodwork seemed to have expanded, sealing the door like the entrance to a tomb.
Lawrence sat down calmly on his side of the bed and folded back the eiderdown. Betty Yeadon glared back at him, her features horribly contorted and stretched back like perished rubber. Broken capillaries zig-zagged across her flattened face.
Lawrence let out a howl of grief and made to grab his wife's shoulders. He jerked back in abject horror as her body shattered in his hands, the skin falling away in brittle shards. For one awful moment he could feel the bones in her wasted arms but then they too shuddered into nothingness beneath his fingers.
Lowcock and Trevithick pulled him off the bed and stared in revulsion as the sheets stirred before them. There was a brief, shocking crack and then the body disappeared in a cloud of noxious vapour.
Lowcock took charge. 'Get him out! Edmund! Out! Quick!'
Trevithick dragged Lawrence from the room whilst the policeman managed to pull shut the remains of the shattered door. Kicking open the door of Robin's room, Trevithick laid the sobbing man on the unmade bed.
Lowcock scrambled across the landing, picked up the phone, dropped it and then clapped the receiver to his ear. There was complete silence. He swore loudly and threw the phone aside.
'I'm going to the station. Look after him. I won't be five minutes.'
Trevithick nodded quickly. 'Righto.' He put a comforting arm around the weeping man beneath him. Posters of unfamiliar footballers and pop stars grinned in innocence at him from the walls. Trevithick felt his breath coming in painful gasps.
What the hell was going on? And what should he do now?
Events seemed to slipping out of everyone's control. He looked down at Lawrence and suddenly decided he should pay a little visit to the Dalesview Home. If he could find the fella with the arthritic hands and leave Lawrence in his care for a while...
There was something in the top drawer of his dressing table which just might prove useful...
The tracking station control room was silent save for the occasional oath of exasperation as the Doctor attempted to repair the radio.
Beside him sat Holly, now dressed in ski pants and one of Vijay's crewneck sweaters. Her eyes were wide and red with crying.
Vijay had tried to persuade her to return to her bed but she wouldn't hear of it, preferring to sit awake and aware through the long night.
'Blast!' cried the Doctor, throwing aside a delicate arrangement of wires.
Cooper was blearily contemplating her first coffee of the morning. 'What d'you reckon then, Doctor?'
The Doctor sighed and sat down on the end of the bench.
'It's useless. Blown out.'
'Then we're cut off,' said Hawthorne flatly as he strode into the room.
'Don't be so melodramatic, Tom,' said Cooper. 'Vijay can drive over to York and even if the phones aren't working there, we can get through to Cambridge somehow.'
Hawthorne shrugged.
The Doctor glanced across at Holly and then walked over to her. He sat down on his hands and smiled. 'How are you feeling now?'
Holly nodded as though shaking a loose thought. 'OK. I'm OK, thanks.'
The Doctor chose his next words carefully. 'Vijay said... Vijay said you'd seen something in your room. What, exactly?'
Holly looked down and sighed. 'I know it sounds silly, impossible...'
'Never mind how it sounds.' The Doctor put his hand on hers. Holly took a deep breath.
'I saw my fiancé. He died six years ago. I saw his ghost.'
The Doctor considered this. 'How did he appear?'
'What do you mean?'
'Was he as you remembered him?'
'Oh yes! Very much. He was so alive. I could feel it. It was like he was drawing me into him. It would've been so easy...'
The Doctor looked straight at her. 'But you didn't?'
'There was something wrong. I felt him beginning to change. I went all sleepy. I could see Vijay coming into the room and I knew I had to get back to him. It was like one of those nightmares where you're running through treacle.'
Vijay came in with some freshly made toast and tea. He put his arm round Holly.
'And what did you see?' asked the Doctor.
'I don't know,' said Vijay. 'Not a person really. A sort of cloud. Colours. Trails in the air. Like I was tripping.'
'Tripping?' The Doctor raised his eyebrows.
Vijay cleared his throat. 'Drugs. You know. Acid. It was like that.'
'I see,' said the Doctor with mock gravity. He smiled warmly and left them together. Vijay lifted up Holly's face to kiss her but she pulled away.
'Don't,' she said simply. Vijay sighed heavily and looked glumly at the floor.
The Doctor checked the correlation receivers and turned to address Hawthorne. 'What's the tolerance of your safety cutouts?'
Hawthorne sniffed. 'That's what's very odd. They should've cut out way before the levels they reached. Luckily, we've sustained no damage so far.'
'Hmm,' the Doctor mused. He looked around the room. 'Where's Ace?'
It had been a long night. Ace had finally managed to cool down her excitement sufficiently to get some sleep, although she'd been aware of raised voices in the corridor at some point. A woman's voice (hysterical) and what sounded like Vijay's (placating). Ace had been awoken by the tuneless squawking of a rook somewhere outside. The sound made her think of bleak, frosty Sundays in the park as a child; bare, black trees against a snow-filled sky.
She became suddenly aware of Robin watching her and inclined her head on the pile of stuff which had served as her pillow.
'Morning,' she said softly.
'Morning.' Robin smiled his cheeky smile.
Ace ran her tongue around her mouth and silently wished she had a bottle of mouthwash. It tasted like the bottom of a birdcage in there.
Robin reached out his hand and softly touched her face. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation, and then delicately took his hand in hers. His gentle breathing sounded closer as he moved his head towards her face.
'Come along, Ace. We have to be going!' The Doctor's voice carried down the corridor from the control room. Ace opened her eyes sharply. Robin pulled away.
'Ace!'
'All right!' she bellowed.
She looked fondly into Robin's eyes and then gave him a light peck on the cheek. 'Come on, sunshine. Plenty of time. Let's see what the Doctor's got planned for us.'
He smiled contentedly. Ace bounded from beneath her blankets, unconcerned by her seminakedness. Robin blushed in spite of himself.
'Oi,' Ace warned, laughing. 'Close your eyes.'
'If you insist.'
'All I'm saying,' whispered Hawthorne, 'is that the girl is obviously unstable.'
Cooper stared at him. 'What d'you mean, unstable?'
'I need hardly remind you that she has been seeing things. And that wog boyfriend of hers..."
'I've told you before. I won't have that kind of abuse in my station!' barked Cooper.
The Doctor looked across to where the two scientists were sitting and raised his eyebrows. Hawthorne was keen to keep this conversation quiet.
'All right, all right. I'm sorry. But the boy freely admits to taking hallucinogenics. You heard him. Whatever Miss Kidd saw was obviously some drug-induced fantasy...'
Cooper ruffled her grizzled hair. 'I'm not so sure.'
'Well, whatever the reason, do you really think we should have such people working here?'
'Tom!' Cooper slammed her fists down on to a bench. 'If ever any of my staff sufficiently compromise themselves so as to prove unreliable I'll take direct action. Until then, we have a bit of an emergency on our hands so can we please get on?'
Ace and Robin walked into the room grinning. The Doctor looked at them almost coldly. 'Ah, there you are. I need to see the Abbot again up at the monastery, if you'd care to accompany me?'
Robin looked at Ace. 'I really should be getting back.'
'Oh.' Her face fell.
'It's my mum.'
Ace nodded. 'They can be a pain in the arse, can't they?'
'Look, if you're going to the monastery, I can meet you there. I'll only be a couple of hours.'
The smile returned to her face. 'All right then. It's a date.'
Robin grinned and shrugged. 'Yeah. I suppose it is.'
He kissed her quickly on the cheek and, waving goodbye to the rest, left the room.
'Ready?' said the Doctor.
Cooper began to fumble under a bench. 'Hang on a tick, Doctor. I'll need to get in touch with you if there's another energy surge.' She popped up again. 'Here.'
She tossed a small black box across the room to the Doctor, which he caught nimbly.
'Walkie-talkie,' she said. 'Not much of a range but that might work in our favour. It may have survived the blowout. Anyway, if you hear from me, then we'll know.'
'Thank you.' The Doctor slipped the device into his already bulging pockets. 'Au revoir.' He marched out. Ace gave a general smile to the room and dashed after him.
'What a funny little man,' said Cooper.
Outside, the day was fine and cold. The Doctor yawned and strode on, Ace struggling to keep up.
'Doctor! Hang on!'
The Doctor didn't stop.
Who rattled his cage? thought Ace.
She sighed. He was keeping something from her as usual. Why did she always let him treat her like this? She thought of the feel of Robin's hand against her face, his lips on her cheek. He was real, uncomplicated, human. Until then, she hadn't realised just how much she'd missed that quality.
On the radio, The Move were urging everyone to call the fire brigade. Medway hummed along tunelessly until static crackled across the frequency.
With one hand still on the steering wheel, he fiddled with the dial and cursed as the reception broke up completely. He clicked the dial to "off" and the car was silent except for the gentle hum of the heating.
The road ahead emerged on to the moor and he pulled up the car a moment to check his bearings. The windscreen wipers thrummed repeatedly as a fine drizzle swept across the land.
Medway craned his neck and saw the old bus shelter with the road sign by it.
'Crook Marsham. One mile.' He smiled to himself, pressing down on the accelerator.
The road across the moor was narrow and black, rain glistening on its old surface. Black and white posts studded with hexagonal reflectors appeared every few yards. They were quite tall, in order to project, Medway assumed, above the deep snow which doubtless struck the area.
He fumbled in the glove compartment and pulled a succession of keys, loose change and chocolate wrappers on to his lap before finding a crumpled packet of Camels. He clamped his lips around a cigarette and struck a match off the dashboard, drinking in the smoke hungrily.
Shame he wouldn't be in London for Christmas. It was always the best time to be there. Anyway, what did he have to go back to now? Since Julia left him he'd spent two Christmases alone with the dog, falling asleep in front of Alastair Sim on the box and a bottle of whiskey on the table.
It was a terrible time to be alone. And no one, he thought, ever thinks it can happen to them. He certainly didn't, not after the Christmases he used to have.
Relatives crowding the kitchen which steamed with pudding smells. His father, breath reeking of booze, becoming overly affectionate and shaking him by the hand as though he were grown up. Then out would come the beer and attempts would be made to introduce Tim to the serious business of alcohol.
When Christmas Day dawned, young Tim and his brother and sisters would wake ridiculously early, creeping into their parents' room and jumping on the bed. Then there were rituals to be observed. First, the Christmas morning cup of tea (an annual treat this; probably the only time the kids made their parents one). They would stand on the freezing kitchen lino in their pyjamas, hopping from foot to foot and willing the old kettle to boil. Pans of vegetables, sliced and put in water the night before, already crowded the cooker.
Tim would peek through the closed doors of the living room where the piles of presents had magically appeared. Even the skinny, tinselly artificial tree, normally a poor relation of other families' real ones, was imbued with the special aura of the morning, glowingly lit by the light filtering through heavy, gold-coloured curtains.
At last, the tea would be ready and presented, with some gravitas, to his parents.
After deliberately stalling, Medway's mother would say 'All right then' and they would line up at the top of the stairs, squealing with excitement.
'Go!'
And, in a flurry of loosening pyjamas, the two girls and boys would hurtle down the stairs, fling open the living-room door and fall upon the mountain of parcels like vultures.
Medway smiled to himself. He always meant to get back home for Christmas but somehow never got round to it. Only one of his sisters still lived near to his parents and she would dutifully stay over on Christmas Eve, even obeying the old tea-making ritual. But he imagined it a lonely Christmas now, the echoes of then-frantic race to the presents replaced by a grown-up shamble downstairs at ten or eleven o'clock. Slippers and hankies instead of toys and magic.
Of course, when Julia came into his life, all the old joys returned. He found himself staying up late on Christmas Eve, wrapping tiny presents in expensive paper. Buying a huge, fragrant tree as a deliberate antidote to the pallid one of yesteryear.
Then he and Julia would stroll along the banks of the Thames, hugging each other in affection as lights shimmered on the water.
Once, they'd made love during the Queen's speech, giggling and grinning the whole time, ignoring the pine needles which insinuated themselves into their buttocks. He'd never quite been able to take Her Majesty seriously again.
Medway glanced in his rearview mirror and caught sight of the monastery for the first time. Grim-looking place, he thought to himself.
The car crunched over broken glass and he slammed on the brakes as a coach loomed into view. It had swung diagonally across the road, its smashed front end jammed into a dry-stone wall. Clouds of steam billowed from the engine. Medway's blood ran cold as he saw the limp body of the driver hanging through the shattered windscreen.
He pulled the car on to the side of the road and jumped slightly as bewildered figures began to emerge from the steam. They were old, staggering from the shelter of the bus like desperate ghouls.
He was relieved to see a young woman running towards him. She was attractive but in some distress, locks of her lacquered hair falling into her eyes.
'Thank God,' Jill Mason gushed, putting a protective arm around Mrs Holland who was wailing softly in a fractured voice.
'It's awful. Awful,' intoned Mr Messingham, his thick round glasses hanging off his nose.
Jill managed to steer her charges away from the sight of the dead driver.
'What happened?' said Medway, opening the boot of his car and producing a blanket.
Jill shook her head. 'We were heading for York. They're all going home for Christmas. Were going home.' She sighed. 'Some of them said they felt queasy. I thought it must be travel sickness but then I felt it too. And the driver.'
Medway wrapped the blanket around Mrs Holland. There were now about fifteen old people grouped around his car.
'It was this awful sickliness,' Jill continued. 'Got worse the further we went. They got hysterical. Then the driver just let go of the wheel..." She looked over at the driver. 'Poor sod.'
Medway regarded the shivering group before him. 'Well, you can't stay here. I can drive you down to the village in shifts.'
'No. I've got a better idea. The monastery's closer. They're all in shock. I'm sure the monks will help. You could take the frailest in the car. I'll walk the rest. It's not far.'
'Right.'
'Thanks, er...?'
'Tim Medway.' He offered his hand. Jill reacted.
'From the BBC?'
He nodded. 'You're not...?'
'Jill Mason. It's my Mr Trevithick you've come to see.'
'Is he...?'
Jill shook her head. 'No. Stubborn old goat refuses to go anywhere for Christmas. Probably very wise in the circumstances.'
Medway helped four old people into his car. 'Are you sure you can manage?'
Jill nodded. Medway got into the driving seat. Mrs Holland sobbed quietly in the back.
'Can I call the police from the monastery?' Medway asked through the window.
'I doubt it. All the phones are out of order.' Jill stopped as if struck by a thought. 'Mr Medway?'
'Yes?'
'Did you feel anything? When you were coming here?'
Medway shook his head. 'No. Nothing.'
Jill waved him off and the car moved slowly on to the rough track to the monastery which branched off the main road.
She gave one last look at the dead driver and then set off in the same direction, herding the old people before her like wayward sheep.
Abbot Winstanley was glad the morning had come. He had lain awake half the night anticipating the return of that mournful wail, eventually succumbing to sleep in the early hours.
Now, despite his exhaustion, he was up and about. He had already observed the usual patterns of prayer, spoken at length to Brother Alec about letting that awful old tramp into the monastery again and outlined his plans for the Christmas Day menu to old Minnie the cook.
He was supposed to be finding a relevant biblical passage to read for his fellow monks but instead was sitting in his study, staring at the previous night's fire.
Terrible doubts gnawed away at his mind. How long had he been in this wretched place? Twenty years? From novice monk to Abbot. Twenty years of kneeling and praying and abstaining in the service of his faith. He laughed a little to himself. Faith in what? An increasingly godless generation locked on a course of self-destruction? A youth culture which worshipped sexual ambiguity and promiscuity? Or was it faith in the God who had created them all?
Well, that was the problem, he thought to himself. He didn't really have faith at all. Not any more. He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. Faith like the burning sense of right and fulfilment he had once possessed, the faith which had sustained him through a turbulent youth.
What was left now? He was as old and hollow as the monastery itself, running a cottage industry that saved money, not souls.
He glanced through the latticed study window and saw the Doctor and Ace heading towards the entrance. His heart leapt. If anyone could help him with his crisis of faith it was the Doctor. He seemed so wise, so much older than he appeared. Like a man standing on the bank of time, unconcerned by the furious flow of the years.
A few moments later, Ace and the Doctor were shown in.
'How do you do,' said Winstanley warmly as the Doctor introduced Ace. 'Your friend and I have been having some very interesting chats.'
'I bet,' said Ace, glancing round the room at the bookshelves. 'Quite a library you've got here, vicar.'
'Er. Abbot. Yes, yes, it's a bit of a hobby of mine.'
The Doctor spread his hands on the desk before him. 'I won't beat about the bush, Abbot. There are some very curious things happening here. I'd like to see some more of your history books, if I may?'
Winstanley clapped his hands together delightedly. 'Of course, of course.'
He pulled out an elegant mahogany stepladder from a niche in the wall and bustled up to the top shelf. 'Particular period?'
'Any,' said the Doctor airily. 'As far back as you can go.'
Within minutes, Winstanley was handing down volume after volume - pamphlets, guide books and hefty histories.
'Ace. Get looking,' the Doctor instructed, throwing half a dozen books over the desk.
'What for?'
'Anything unusual.' The Doctor's head disappeared into a pile of papers.
Ace signed. This wasn't her idea of a fun morning. Sorting through historical junk was too like a school lesson. She'd seen history, real history, past and future; and academic substitutes were bound to pale beside that.
She glanced at her watch. 11:30. Still a good hour and a half before Robin would get there.
Ace let his image swim into her mind as she carelessly leafed through the documents on her knee. She saw him on his bike, just as he had been when she'd first seen him. That smile had said everything...
'If you're not going to concentrate then you're no use to me.'
Ace looked up, stung. The Doctor was regarding her with inky eyes.
'Sorry.' She looked down at the papers and books, dense with old print. One book, far more modern than the rest, caught her eye at once.
'Doctor?'
He raised his eyes from the book in his hands.
'Is this any good?' she said.
The Doctor moved around the side of the desk and peered over her shoulder.
'What is it?' called Winstanley, still perched up his ladder.
The Doctor took the slim volume from Ace's hands and scanned a few pages. 'It's an archaeological work. It seems there was an expedition here in 1919. A dig. They found remnants of Palaeolithic quarrying.' He cast his eyes over the dust jacket. 'Seems it was abandoned. Under mysterious circumstances.'
'Where was this, then?' said Ace.
The Doctor looked at her steadily. Ace nodded. She knew where.
Nightshade TV Theme