Chapter Seven
Medway left the car in a side road adjoining the main street and walked towards the police station. He didn't notice the disturbed bushes growing by the pavement, nor the other faint traces of Trevithick's encounter the previous night. But he felt distinctly uneasy.
There was a chilling wind blowing off the moor, stirring bare branches and discarded newspapers. Telephone wires swung like slack skipping ropes against the white sky, sighing as the wind blew over them.
Jangling his keys in his pocket, Medway began to whistle 'We Three Kings' without much enthusiasm, glancing about nervously at the clusters of nineteenth-century cottages which dotted the road.
The local pub seemed a more enticing prospect and he could have done with a little something after his experiences that morning. Ferrying hysterical geriatrics was not his thing at all and his supply of small talk had run very low indeed. Still, the monks had been kindness itself, saying all the right soothing things in that pleasant, bland monotone beloved of men of the cloth.
Now he had to do his bit and report the accident.
Funny how such a big thing could go unnoticed. In fact, the whole village was terribly quiet. More like a wet Sunday in March than Christmas Eve. Already missing York's wonderful festive air, he made a mental note to spend some more time in York before returning to London.
Medway pushed his hands into his pockets, overcoat tails bunching behind him, and mounted the steps to the police station.
'Have you seen this man?' announced a poster by the entrance. Medway hadn't. He pushed open the door and was taken aback by the scene which met his eyes.
In contrast to the quiet of the village, the police station was in turmoil. The front desk was piled with papers. Uniformed men scurried to and fro. One man, at the back, a look of hopeless resignation on his face, was constantly dialling and redialling a heavy black telephone.
'Excuse me...' announced Medway.
The bustle continued. Medway rang the desk bell.
George Lowcock appeared from his office, jamming his hat on to his head. A smaller, rosy-cheeked man scurried behind him.
'Just try, Albert, that's all I ask. We've got to find a way out somehow.'
'Excuse me,' said Medway again. Lowcock looked at him briefly and then made for the door.
'Yes, sir?' sighed Albert wearily.
'I've come to report an accident. A coach... on the road out of the village.'
Lowcock turned in the doorway. 'Coach?'
'Yes. A party of old folks and a Miss Mason.'
Lowcock approached him. 'Any hurt?'
'The driver. Dead, I'm afraid.'
Albert licked a pencil and pulled out a note pad. 'And you are?'
Medway puffed out his cheeks. 'My name's Tim Medway. I'm a BBC reporter. I'm here to interview Mr Edmund Trevithick...'
Lowcock raised an eyebrow. 'Are you now? Well, laddie, you stick with me and I'll take you to him. Mind you, after what we've all been through I doubt he'll be in any state...'
Medway frowned. 'What d'you mean?'
'Never mind now. This coach...?'
Medway leaned against the desk and shrugged. 'They were heading for York. Miss Mason said they were overcome by some sort of sickness and the driver lost control.'
'Sickness,' said Lowcock thoughtfully.
'Think it's the same thing, George?' said Albert, pushing the pencil behind his ear.
Lowcock pouted his lower lip. 'Could be, could be.' He looked Albert in the eye. 'Do you remember that pollution scare a few years back?'
'Oh aye,' said Albert brightly.
Medway was getting interested, his journalistic nose sensing a story. 'Pollution?'
'Oh, nowt much,' said Lowcock dismissively. 'There was a fire at a chemical plant a few miles off. I was just wondering whether it could be something like that.'
'That doesn't explain Mrs Yeadon, George. And what about Jack Prudhoe and Dr Shearsmith?'
'Mmm. You're right. "It is fatal to theorise without facts", eh Watson?'
Lowcock turned to Medway. 'Come along then, I'll introduce you to Professor Nightshade.'
He took Medway by the arm and led him outside. Albert leaned over the desk towards one of the young constables. 'Peter, get over to the York road, will you? Report of an accident.'
The Doctor rubbed his fingers across weary eyes. The print on the books before him was beginning to swim and centuries of reading in diverse libraries across the galaxies told him it was time to call a halt. He slammed shut the massive tome before him.
'I think we've found out as much as we can from here,' he said, glancing over at Ace. She looked at her watch. Just after midday and still a while until Robin would arrive. She smiled at her companion.
'Look, Doctor. I'm sorry if I haven't been much help so far. What with everything we talked about before...'
The Doctor cast his eyes downwards. Ace continued, 'I had a pretty rough day yesterday. Finding that stiff...'
'I know,' said the Doctor. 'I'm sorry.'
'I just want you to know that even if I'm not with you, I am... in spirit.'
The Doctor gazed at her sadly. 'I understand. Thank you.'
How many times had he been here before? With Victoria on the gas platform. Jo in Llanfairfach. Tegan in London.
She'd grown up before his eyes; this funny misfit, changing from a little bundle of venom with more chips than a Monte Carlo casino into a confident, maturing adult. It had been a struggle though. He had hated the lies and the half-truths he'd felt compelled to create in order to protect her from the future. After Fenric and more recently their adventures battling the Timewyrm, he'd hoped to have put all that behind them. But now there were other considerations...
Ace jumped as the walkie-talkie in the Doctor's pocket squawked into life. He produced it with some relief.
'Doctor?' It was Cooper's voice, distorted by static.
'Yes, Dr Cooper? Over.'
'Bloody hell. It works! Erm... We're monitoring a slow build-up. I'd like you here. Over.'
'On my way. Over and out.'
He stuffed the black box into his coat and picked up a pile of selected books which he'd tied together with string. 'Coming?'
Ace shuffled uncomfortably. 'I thought I might hang around here for a bit. If that's OK with you?'
The Doctor nodded a little stiffly. 'Whatever,' he said and left the room.
Ace sat down in the Abbot's chair and chewed her lip. There was a funny sensation churning in her stomach, a kind of nervous anticipation mingled with sadness, like the first and last days of school combined.
The Doctor left the Abbot's study and traversed the narrow corridor which led to the open cloisters. He paused a moment, gazing at the hard white sky which was once more threatening snow, then he turned the corner towards the Great Hall.
He found the room buzzing with noise and confusion. A dozen or so monks were helping the coach party into hastily improvised beds, nursing sprains and applying poultices. Jill Mason stood to one side, banging the last dregs from an ancient tea urn. Mrs Holland was still moaning softly to herself in the corner.
'It's these blackie postmen,' announced Mr Peel to no one in particular.
The Doctor approached Jill. 'Hello again. What happened here?'
Jill sighed, pushing the annoying curl of hair from her eyes. 'We had an accident out on the moor. All very peculiar.'
The Doctor mumbled something sympathetic and then reeled as a small shambling figure almost knocked him off his feet. Billy Coote glanced at him for a moment, biscuit-brown teeth protruding aggressively, then shuffled towards the twisting stone steps which led to the tower.
Jill explained what had happened, proffering a mug of strong tea which the Doctor declined.
'Did you all feel this?'
'Yes. But Mr Medway, the one who helped us, must've been driving in the same conditions as us and he didn't feel a thing. I thought it might be something in the air...'
'Gas?'
'Something like that. But what Mr Medway says rather rules that out.'
'I'm not so sure,' said the Doctor darkly. 'He was coming into the village.'
'What d'you mean by that?'
'Where's Abbot Winstanley?'
Jill looked around at the chaos in the room. 'He was here. Can't see him now.'
The Doctor turned towards the door. 'Never mind. Just tell him I've gone back to the telescope, would you?'
He gave her a little smile and left the room through the big double doors.
Jill carried two mugs of steaming tea over to Mrs Holland. She sat down and sipped one herself, letting the old woman cradle hers like a security blanket. 'All right now, Esmé?'
Mrs Holland looked at her blankly, her toothless mouth champing in agitation.
'Wilfrid?' she called weakly. 'Oh, it's you. I was just recalling...'
She looked down and frowned. 'It's all changed now, you see. All changed. I used to have such lovely long hair. My mother used to sit and brush it by the fire. Like spun gold she always said.'
Mrs Holland put the mug on to the arm of her chair and held out her hands before her. The skin was tight and wrinkled like a chicken's, large liver spots speckling every finger. She turned to look at Jill, her eyes full of regret and what could only be bitterness.
Robin enjoyed the walk into the village, despite the cold. This wasn't his favourite time of year by any means. He was a summer boy, content to potter around in his T-shirt and shorts during the dog days of July and August, playing football with the lads from work well into the balmy night. Sometimes he would put in a few hours behind the bar at the pub and this, in addition to his wage from the newspaper office in York, usually meant he could save enough for a holiday. By the summer of 1969 he hoped to have enough to get to Italy. Or maybe Brazil for the World Cup the year after.
But now things had taken an unexpected turn. This girl, Ace, whom he'd only known a day or so, had totally floored him. And, wonderfully, she seemed to feel the same way too. It was early days, of course, and he wasn't getting his hopes up, but maybe he was on to something good here.
She had balls. Not real ones, of course (though he suspected a few of his previous girlfriends had). No, it was her zest he liked, her spontaneity and sparkle. That and her rather appealing face. He smiled. Maybe she could come to Italy with him. Maybe they could go away sooner...
Slow down. Slow down. You hardly know her yet.
He thought of Ace's words: 'Plenty of time, sunshine' and beamed.
Still beaming, he walked through the door of The Shepherd's Cross. Trevithick looked up from a table where Lawrence sat, head in hands.
'Robin! Oh, thank God!' cried Lawrence, springing to his feet and scooping up the boy in his arms.
'What's wrong, Dad?'
'Thank God. Thank God,' Lawrence muttered, burying his face in Robin's coat.
'Where's Betty?'
Lawrence drew back a little and Robin saw the puffy redness of his eyes for the first time.
'What happened up there? Did it get you too?' Lawrence said in a gabbled shriek.
'What?'
'How come you're all right and she's...'
Robin took him by the shoulders and shook him. 'Where's Mum?' He looked Lawrence straight in the eyes. 'She was sleeping when I left her.'
Lawrence's face fell. 'You left her?'
Robin licked his dry lips. 'I had to go. The Doctor...'
'You left her? How could you do that? How could you?'
Robin shook him desperately. 'What's wrong? Where is she?'
Lawrence turned on him. 'She's dead, you selfish little bastard!'
'What?' Robin's voice was leaden.
'I left you in charge. I thought I could trust you!'
'I've got to see her...'
Trevithick laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'No, son. It'll do no good. You'll only upset yourself.' Robin shrugged him off angrily. 'Get off me!'
Lawrence grabbed Robin by the shoulder, spun him round and cracked him across the face. A ribbon of blood trickled from his nose. He looked at Lawrence and then down at the floor.
'How could you?' hissed Lawrence. 'How could you?'
Robin marched towards the stairs.
Trevithick sat Lawrence down and pushed the inevitable glass of whiskey into his hand. He could hear Robin's footsteps above. There was a long, pregnant silence followed by a dreadful, hollow moan. Moments later, Robin clattered unsteadily down the stairs.
'Hardly anything left of her,' he croaked, running his hand over his face.
Trevithick nodded sadly. 'We don't know what happened, son, but the police are doing everything they can.'
Robin looked dazedly at the old man. 'I've seen it before.'
'What?'
'I've seen it before. Out on the moor. Me and the Doctor. We found Jack Prudhoe. He's dead. Same... same thing.'
Trevithick felt suddenly scared.
Lawrence looked at Robin. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean...'
Robin looked blank. 'I've got to go,' he stammered and ran from the room.
Lowcock and Medway stepped back as the pub door burst open and Robin dashed past them towards the moor path. Grimacing, Lowcock stepped inside.
'Everything all right?' he said quietly.
Trevithick shrugged helplessly. 'Listen, George, we have to talk...'
'Hang on a minute, Edmund.' Lowcock turned to Medway who was hovering by the door. 'Edmund Trevithick, this is Mr Medway of the BBC. Come to see you.'
Trevithick frowned, as though annoyed that something so trivial should get in his way now. 'Hmm? Oh, yes, yes. Pleased to meet you.'
Medway sat down, smiling in a baffled sort of way.
'Listen, George,' continued Trevithick. 'Robin says that he and that Doctor fellow found Jack Prudhoe's body out on the moor.'
'Good Lord.'
Trevithick moved closer to the policeman and whispered. 'Died the same way as Betty, it seems.'
Lowcock sat down heavily. 'Whatever next?' He took off his hat and laid it on the table before him. 'There have been... further developments, Edmund. Your Miss Mason and her coach party have had an accident.'
Trevithick gasped, his lopsided mouth falling open.
'It's all right. They're all fine except the driver, poor devil. Isn't that right, Mr Medway?'
'Yes. They're all up at the monastery.'
Lowcock puffed out his cheeks. 'It seems they experienced the same symptoms as you and I yesterday, Lol.'
Lawrence turned his head and raised raw, exhausted eyes.
'Sickness. Nausea,' continued Lowcock. 'Driver lost control.'
' "Like we couldn't get out of the village" ,' said Trevithick quietly.
Lowcock started. 'Eh?'
'Isn't that what you said this morning? About last night?'
Lowcock sat back, frowning, and then roused himself. 'Anyway, this won't get the washing done!' he said cheerily. 'Lol, I want you to come with me to Mrs Bass's B and B. No sense you staying here and upsetting yourself.'
Lawrence nodded dumbly and allowed himself to be led from his chair to the door. Lowcock turned to Medway and Trevithick. 'I'll leave you two to get acquainted.' He tipped his hat and helped Lawrence outside to the car.
Medway looked at Trevithick rather uncomfortably. 'I... er ... I seem to have come at a rather bad time.'
Trevithick chuckled. 'You can say that again.'
'Of course, I won't detain you any further. We'll arrange to meet some time in the New Year.'
Trevithick stood up and pushed the whiskey bottle towards the newcomer. 'Nonsense,' he cried, pulling two glasses from the bar. 'I won't hear of it.'
Medway looked at the bottle gingerly. The old boy was probably half cut already. 'Well, I'll help if I can.'
'That's it exactly,' said Trevithick, a little unsteadily. He felt in his pocket for the old army service revolver which he had retrieved from his room. He was rather glad, now, that he had bothered to keep it in good condition. That creature wouldn't catch him napping again.
'First of all,' he said to Medway, 'you can sit there and listen. I want to tell you what's been going on...'
Vijay was having trouble concentrating. Every few minutes he would cast an anxious glance across the control room to where Holly was sitting, seemingly absorbed in her work. Vijay suspected that she was just functioning automatically in order to blot out her recent experiences.
Cooper was running around the room like a thing possessed, ruffling her hair perplexedly as fresh data came through. Hawthorne was absent, something for which Vijay was hugely grateful.
The double doors opened and the Doctor strode into the room. He nodded to each of them and put down his pile of books on a bench.
'Ah, good,' cried Cooper, joining him.
'Steady signals,' said the Doctor, casting a glance at the console screens.
'Yes, but not from the nova. Something else.'
'A build-up of some kind. As if it were gaining strength.'
'As if what were gaining strength?' said Vijay, looking up.
'That's what we have to find out.'
He sat down in a swivel chair and cleared his throat. 'I think it's time we examined a few facts.'
Holly rose from her chair and sat next to Vijay, allowing his arm to snake around her shoulders.
'Go on,' said Cooper, folding her arms.
'Firstly, this station is not the only thing to occupy this site. There was quarry work here, thousands of years ago, and a twelfth-century castle too. The castle was unoccupied for most of its life because it was reputed to be haunted.'
'Oh come on, Doctor. We have enough problems in the material world ...' began Cooper.
The Doctor held up his hands. 'Bear with me, bear with me. During the English Civil Wars, the castle was occupied by a small troop of Cavaliers who saw something that terrified them. Afterwards, the castle was destroyed by fire.
'In 1919, an archaeological expedition was launched, ostensibly to dig up the ancient quarry. But it was abandoned after several prominent members disappeared.'
Cooper harrumphed. 'I still don't see what you're getting at.'
'I would've dismissed this stuff as superstition just as readily as you were it not for some striking parallels. Two people have died, that much we know. A third, Dr Shearsmith, is missing. Mrs Yeadon at The Shepherd's Cross has been confined to bed after claiming to see her brother's ghost. Miss Kidd's experience we all know about.'
Cooper turned to Holly kindly. 'Holly's been working very hard...'
'I know what I saw!'
'So do I,' said Vijay.
Cooper bit her lip and changed tack. 'You said parallels?'
The Doctor pulled at the string tying together his books. 'I didn't notice it at first. Ace found it.' He scanned the closing pages of the book which Ace had given him and gave a little cry of satisfaction.
' "Further investigation into the disappearances",' he read aloud, ' "was hampered by a breakdown in the telephone systems and a mysterious outbreak of sickness which afflicted any who strayed on to the moor. Although later attributed to a form of water poisoning, no concrete information has ever become available".'
He clapped the book shut and gazed at his little audience. 'I need hardly remind you of our communication difficulties. And, this morning, a coach party from the old people's home was unable to leave the village after the driver crashed the vehicle. They all complained of a terrible sickness.'
There was a slow handclap from the far wall. They all turned to see Hawthorne, a sour smile on his face. 'Very good, Doctor. Keep this up and you'll have them believing in Santa Claus.'
'All right, Tom,' said Cooper quietly.
'Well, what is he trying to suggest? That we're being plagued by demons?'
'Look, Tom, we've all been under a lot of stress...'
Hawthorne stalked across the room, eyes blazing. 'No! I'm sorry, Dr Cooper, but I think I've been quiet too long. We let this - this person and his freakish friend waltz in here without so much as a by-your-leave! Within five minutes he's telling us what to do...'
'Story of my life,' said the Doctor.
'And now,' roared Hawthorne, 'now you're sitting here listening to him tell ghost stories!'
'Dr Hawthorne...' put in Vijay.
'And as for you,' Hawthorne stepped back disgustedly, 'I'm going to make sure you're off this project by the New Year. I don't intend to have my work jeopardised by an hysterical girl and a stupid bloody n-----!'
Vijay shot to his feet and caught Hawthorne by the lapels of his lab coat. For several seconds they glared at each other. Then Vijay let go, a protracted, angry hiss escaping his nostrils.
'I believe I'm a Paki to you, Dr Hawthorne. You might at least get your terminology right.'
Hawthorne glared at them all in contempt, turned on his heel and disappeared into the interior.
'Tom!' called Cooper. 'Tom, for God's sake!'
She threw up her hands helplessly. 'I'm ... so sorry, Vijay.'
Vijay shrugged. Holly forgot her own troubles for a moment and kissed him fondly.
The Doctor looked down, a little embarrassed. 'Well, whatever Dr Hawthorne's opinion, I urge you to take this seriously. I can't explain what's happening but we must all be on our guard.'
'Hang on!' said Cooper suddenly, her eyes darting to the consoles. 'It's starting again!'
The afternoon was wearing on and there was still no sign of Robin. Ace had wandered around the monastery, trying to interest herself in the tapestries and carvings. She found a small, wizened gargoyle which reminded her a bit of the Doctor and laughed. But then she recalled their conversation in Mrs Crithin's cafe.
Retirement! He really seemed serious. And where did that leave her? She needed to convince him that he really had been doing good all these years, that the Universe needed him.
Ace sat down on the sill of a glassless window which looked out on to the cloisters. She had thought that their terrifying experiences inside the Doctor's own mind during the final battle with the Timewyrm had exorcised the Doctor's angst. Obviously she had been too optimistic. Although, she thought carefully, it didn't seem to be guilt over any past actions which was haunting the Doctor. His malaise seemed to run very deep, seemed to be a profound dissatisfaction and loneliness, a yearning to belong.
Ace thought of her Auntie Rose, always bemoaning the youth of today and saying how much nicer everything used to be. That was what was wrong with the Doctor. He was trapped in the past. Remembering happier times which probably weren't that much different to today.
She looked about at the crumbling stones.
How many lives had this place seen come and go? How many people who thought themselves so important?
Ace smiled to herself. And how many young women had sat here thinking exactly the same thing?
It was like the sixties, she thought. Everyone was always going on about how brilliant they were. Admittedly, she wasn't exactly in the best place to observe things. Crook Marsham wasn't Carnaby Street. But things probably weren't so different to her own time. People were a bit happier. There was more sex all of a sudden. Things were colourful and fun after the drabness and austerity of wartime. But it was more than likely that the decade was fondly remembered because everyone was so much more optimistic about the future. A summer of love that would go on forever. It they'd known what was coming, just how much fun would the sixties have been?
Ace had risen from her seat and looked up at the already darkening sky. She turned and caught sight of the cheerful glow coming from the windows of the Great Hall. Strolling up to the big wooden door, she heaved it open and stepped inside.
The room was a forest of candles. They protruded from every available surface: long, stout church specimens in waxy puddles spreading a cheerful and cosy yellow light around the place. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth.
Jill Mason was walking between the chairs like a miniskirted Florence Nightingale. Most of her charges had dropped off to sleep although the Rayner sisters and Mr Peel were mumbling quietly to themselves.
Three or four of the monks had lingered too, leaning against the walls or staring into the fire.
Ace felt a little thrill of pleasure run through her. It would be good to be here with Robin, somewhere so festive and cosy. She walked towards Jill, her shoes making a satisfying clop on the stone-flagged floor.
'Everything OK?'
Jill turned round. 'Er, yes. Do I...?'
'Ace.' She extended a hand. 'I'm a friend of the Doctor's.'
Jill smiled. 'Of course.'
Mrs Holland jerked into wakefulness, blinking about herself in confusion. Jill laid a soothing hand on her brow.
'It's all right, Esmé.'
'Wilfrid? Is that you?' The old woman grasped Jill's hand and touched it to her wrinkled cheek.
'It's Jill, Esmé.'
'Jill? Oh.' Mrs Holland frowned. 'Oh, yes. Of course. I was just thinking.. .Wilfrid. He's gone now, you know.'
Jill stroked Mrs Holland's hair affectionately. 'I know.'
'Nineteen-fifteen. I can remember the day. He was first in the queue at the recruiting office, you know. Oh yes. He used to parade up and down in front of that mirror with his big boots on and all his buttons shining. "I'll be back for Christmas," he said. But he wasn't. I knew there was something wrong but... but you were supposed to get a telegram. There was a bit of a mix-up. All I got was a brown-paper parcel. His uniform. His boots. And his little pocket book.'
She turned tear-misted eyes to Jill. 'There was a bayonet hole through it. The pages were all stuck together, all ... stiff with blood. I remember. I just stood on the step and cried.'
Mr Messingham shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. Then he began to sing in a high, tuneless voice.
'Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag...'
'And smile, smile...' joined in Mr Dutton.
'Smile...' finished Mrs Holland.
'While you've a lucifer to light your fag...'
'Smile boys, that's the style,' croaked Mr Bollard, grinning.
Jill and Ace began to join in as best they could. Mrs Holland looked around at her friends. Their expressions were strangely melancholy, betraying the wealth of emotion stirred up by the old song. Mr Peel rubbed a hand across his eyes. He seemed to be crying.
'What's the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile, so...!'
Ace began to gravitate away from the group, feeling a little uncomfortable. She'd always hated singsongs, right from school assemblies to New Year revelling. They smacked of people trying too hard to enjoy themselves.
'Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile!'
Ace stepped through the door of the Great Hall and found herself once again in the chilly cloisters. Evening had drawn about the monastery now. Where was Robin?
Mr Dutton raised his hand, a wicked smile cracking his face as he launched into a discordant rendition of 'We're Gonna Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line'. Jill looked on benevolently. This was just the thing to get their spirits up.
Later, she would reflect on the irony of that phrase.
She looked across at Mrs Holland and her smile froze. The old woman was sitting bolt upright, transfixed by something she had spotted in the corner.
'Esmé?' called Jill.
Mrs Holland peered into the candle-lit gloom, her mouth champing in agitation. Jill looked again. There was a man standing in the shadows by the fireplace. Even in the poor light, she could make out his khaki uniform and boots. He began to move swiftly across the room.
'Wilfrid!' Mrs Holland yelled, her voice trembling.
A little girl ran across the room and sat on Mr Peel's knee. She was wearing a long, Edwardian dress and carried an old spinning top.
'Come on, Reuben,' she trilled. 'Come and play!'
Mr Peel gawped at her and thrust her from his knee, a look of horrified revulsion on his face. 'No! No, not you!'
Jill looked about desperately. From every corner, dark figures were emerging, like bas-reliefs coming to life. Light trailed from their eyes and hands.
'Stella?' said Mr Peel in a disbelieving whisper as the little girl looked into his eyes. Jill knew about Stella. A little girl of eight or nine. Mr Peel's sister. She'd died after eating poisonous berries sometime during the First World War. Died.
The uniformed man blazed through the room towards Mrs Holland. Someone started screaming hysterically. 'Esmé,' said Wilfrid, his voice rustling like tissue paper. 'My darling.'
The old woman's jaw fell open. The figure stopped by her chair and opened its arms to embrace her.
Jill looked crazily about her. The old people were stumbling about in blind panic as shapes split off from the shadows and moved towards them. There was a thin woman in a black dress bearing down on Mr Messingham and a tiny baby crawling towards Mr Bollard. The old man's hoarse scream filled the air. Mrs Holland rose from her chair, her bent back straightening determinedly as she stepped into her husband's arms. He smiled, and her face suffused with joy. Fountains of radiant light shot between their hands, cocooning them in a web of energy.
Then Mrs Holland cried out, her voice choking as ectoplasmic fluid erupted from her throat. Before her, Wilfrid's face began to fall away, flesh dripping from the awful darkness beneath. His bony arms seared into her sides and she vanished into a ball of light.
The monks who had remained were running for the doors. Mr Peel's sister was creeping remorselessly towards him, smiling a chilling smile. The room began to blaze with white light.
Jill panicked suddenly, her whole body trembling. She ran to the door and threw herself out into the cloisters, slamming the door behind her.
Ace, who was standing some way off, was by her side in a moment.
'What is it?'
Jill gestured towards the door. Ace peered through the dusty window and gasped. All she could see were people bathed in light, roaring like columns of fire. She turned around, brimming with questions. Jill was gone.
Ace turned back to the window, her eyes widening in shock. Then she saw something which froze her blood. The main doors had opened and Robin had stepped into the room. He was knocked off his feet in an instant as a wave of light tore through the place, crashing shut the doors, which buckled and expanded. Ace ran inside.
'Robin!'
The boy was standing stock still, staring at the terrible beauty of the apparitions before him.
Ace dived for his legs and brought him down. He seemed to snap out of his trance and hugged her to him. 'Come on! Come on!' Ace cried, dragging him to his feet. She looked around the room. Ethereal energy lapped at the walls, rising towards the ceiling like liquid fire.
Robin spotted the stairway to the tower and pointed. 'There!'
They ducked and weaved through the columns of light. Like running through a forest fire, thought Ace, grabbing Robin's hand as he stumbled.
She pushed him into the well of the staircase and his knees connected with the steps. He howled in pain but didn't stop, dragging himself upwards. Ace cast an anxious look behind. The room was humming with light, spindly fronds crackling their way towards them.
Ace pushed at Robin's backside and he clambered up the steps, using his hands for purchase on the cold stone. They seemed to go around and around endlessly.
After several exhausting minutes, they emerged on to a narrow landing which led to a long, long corridor. From behind one of the doors came the sound of prayer.
'Shh!' hissed Ace. They listened intently. The voice was cracked, defeated, mumbling the prayers in a hopeless dirge.
'It's the Abbot,' said Ace. Robin looked back the way they had come. The dark walls were already brightening.
'It's coming after us!' he cried. Ace grabbed his collar and they clattered up the next flight of steps.
'I know we shouldn't keep going up,' she gasped, her lungs bursting. 'In movies, if people go up buildings you know they're going to fall off sooner or later!'
'No choice,' called Robin over his shoulder, feeling dizzy as he ran round and round the never-ending spiral.
Behind them, the tide of light reached the landing, throbbing with power. It paused as though listening, fronds of buzzing energy retracting a little. The Abbot stopped praying.
Medway wondered whether he had a lunatic in the car. He'd listened with patience to Trevithick's story and accepted the reality of the missing persons and the landlady's death. Now the old man had insisted they drive to the radio telescope to find someone called 'the Doctor'.
'It's not that I don't believe you, sir,' he said, turning the car on to the moor road once again. 'It's just a little hard to take in.'
'I know, I know,' said Trevithick, biting his finger nails. 'But there's more.'
'More?' Medway raised his eyebrows. The old man looked out of the car window into the night. The headlights lit up dark bushes and indiscernible structures. 'I told you I was attacked and that the... thing which attacked me was frightened off by Mr Yeadon's car.'
He nodded slowly. Trevithick took a deep breath. 'Mr Medway. It was a monster. Seven feet tall. Like a great insect.'
Medway opened his mouth but Trevithick pressed on. 'You came here to see me about Nightshade. Well, I can tell you for certain that the creature, that real creature, was the same thing which I used to fight on television!'
Medway didn't say anything. Trevithick rubbed his eyes. 'Not a man in a rubber suit. Not this time. A real thing. Trying to kill me. That's what I saw under the lamp last night and that's what smashed my window. They've come back to get me!'
'Right,' said Medway.
'Oh, I know you don't believe me. But it's true! I swear it! Look!'
He showed Medway the tear in his jacket and waistcoat where the creature's mandible had struck him. Medway was grateful for the distraction of arrival. The security gate was wide open, just as the Doctor had left it, and the telescope dish plunged into darkness.
'We're here,' said Medway quietly.
Hawthorne sat on his bed, hugging his knees to his chin.
Bastards.
Who did they think they were?
Well, he'd soon sort them out. One phone call to Cambridge and he'd have the pair of them off the project.
He sighed. That was if the bloody phones ever started working again.
Anyway, his superiors were bound to recognise the truth of his statements. It was all well and good paying lip service to these fashionable ideas on racial harmony but it obviously didn't work in practice. He could show them that. Vijay Degun had admitted to taking illegal substances, had risked the entire project!
Hawthorne was disappointed in Cooper. He'd expected more. Didn't she realise where it would all lead? Powell was right. 'Rivers of blood,' he'd promised. Rivers of blood.
What was he doing skulking in his room? Who were they to tell him how to behave? They weren't his teachers. They weren't his mother. Hawthorne wished she were here now so he could bury his head into the secure, perfumed folds of her dress. Perhaps she would read him a bedtime story. He stiffened. No. Not that. Not... now.
He could hear the frantic activity in the control room but didn't move from his bed. If they were so clever, they could manage without him. Couldn't they?
Medway and Trevithick opened the control room doors on to a scene of pandemonium. Cooper, Vijay and Holly were running about the place, trying desperately to fathom the explosion of data. The Doctor stood alone in the centre of everything, his eyes dark and fathomless.
'It's so strong!' cried Cooper.
'Doctor!' Trevithick called above the din.
'We've got to use the safety cutouts!' Vijay shouted. 'It's too big this time!'
Cooper nodded. 'See what you can do.'
Holly threw herself into a chair and began to hammer figures into a console. She frowned. 'It's no good. I can't stop it!'
'Doctor!' Trevithick advanced across the room and shook the Doctor's arm. 'I have things to tell you.' Medway jumped as a hideous wail began to assail his ears.
'Klaxon?' said Cooper.
'Fence breached again.' Holly looked up from her work.
The Doctor glanced at Trevithick. 'Not now, not now.' He ran to the window and peered out into the darkness. Light was pouring from the silhouetted monastery.
Cooper pulled on a parka. 'I'm going to check the fence. Won't be five minutes.'
'No!' cried Holly. 'It's not safe.'
'Be careful,' said Vijay.
Cooper threw a glance at the bewildered Trevithick and Medway, and then disappeared through the doors. 'There's something happening at the monastery!' cried the Doctor, covering his ears as the klaxon honked deafeningly.
Then the lights went out.
Hawthorne lay back on his bed, chuckling to himself. He could hear the klaxon wailing now. They had got themselves into a pickle.
Well, crisis or no crisis, he wasn't going to offer any advice. First thing in the morning he would take the Land Rover, drive to York and get the first train out of this rancid county. Then he would deliver his official letter of complaint and...
He turned over and pushed his hands under the pillow then jumped up in shock. There was a pool of sticky black liquid spreading across the sheet.
Surprised, he lifted his coated fingers to his face and sniffed. What was it? Pitch? Bitumen? No, it was... it was...
Tar.
Hawthorne's spine froze. For several long minutes he was quite unable to move. The harsh, unshaded light above his head flickered, brightened and died.
He listened to the sound of his own stertorous breathing and then swung his legs over the side of the bed.
He would get up. Run to the door. Down the corridor. To the control room. Everything would be all right. Everything...
Strangely, he wasn't at all surprised when the tacky black paw grasped his ankle.
Winstanley didn't move. There had been a voice in his head. No words. Just a voice. A presence. Answering his prayers. He glanced around his cell quickly. A corona of light sparkled round the door. With his heart in his mouth, he put a pudgy hand on the door and slowly opened it. He yelped in shock at the wall of energy which filled the corridor like sheet-lightning.
It was beautiful. Beautiful...
Backing into the room, he stumbled against a chair and fell to his knees.
Yes, that was only right. On your knees, he thought. He had doubted. His faith had been weak but now, oh now, his prayers had been answered. Winstanley prostrated himself before the light. Slowly, scarcely daring to breathe, he opened his eyes.
The energy before him had begun to assume a shape, pixels of delicate light swirling and swirling until a man stood before him, robed arms outstretched. The face was pale, bearded, ascetic. Light shivered over the shoulder-length hair.
'Oh my Christ!' sobbed Winstanley, reaching out trembling hands. 'Oh, Christ! Christ!'
He stumbled forwards on his knees. The man's face was kindly, the brown eyes warm and forgiving. He extended a hand: a long, finely boned hand in which a ragged hole had been torn. Blood oozed from the wound.
Winstanley took the man's hand and pressed it to his face.
'Blessed blood,' he wept. 'Sweet Jesus, forgive me.'
His eyes flicked upwards, catching a tiny change in the man's face. The brows drew together, eyes narrowing. The kindly smile creased into a mocking grin.
Winstanley felt the stigmatic hand close around his face, the bones of his jaw crumbling like powder. Then there was nothing but a searing pain: pain like a billion needles ripping through his mind as the apparition surged down his throat.
Winstanley's smile, so long forced and unreal, widened impossibly as energy roared into him. Then his broad head imploded with a vile clatter.
'You are forgiven,' chuckled the apparition as it closed around the Abbot's lifeless body.
Nightshade TV Theme