Doctor Who: Last of the Gaderene: 50th Anniversary Edition (Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Collection)

by Mark Gatiss

  ‘Evening.’

  Whistler jumped as Noah’s whispered harshly in his ear.

  ‘Oh God!’ hissed the old man. ‘Don’t do that! I’m not as young as I was.’

  Even in the darkness he could see Noah grin. ‘Sorry.’

  Whistler nodded to himself. ‘I’d hate to see this campaign founder because I keel over with a dicky ticker. Now, let’s press on. Did you bring the cutters?’

  Noah bent down to a large canvas rucksack which he’d brought with him. There was a loose rattling sound and he pressed a pair of bulky wire-cutters into the Wing Commander’s outstretched hands. Swiftly and efficiently, Whistler snipped a large hole in the mesh and kicked it back until it was large enough to crawl through.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ said Noah admiringly.

  ‘Naturally.’

  Noah replaced the cutters in the rucksack and hauled the bag on to his shoulders. ‘Aren’t we supposed to blacken our faces with burnt cork or something?’

  Whistler tutted. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were taking the mickey, young man. Now, shut up and follow me.’

  With surprising alacrity, the old man slipped through the hole, his clothes catching briefly on the ragged wire. Noah followed, crouching so low that his face almost brushed the dry grass.

  When both were safely through, they kept low and sprinted to the nearest cover, a stack of cylinders partially covered by a thick grey tarpaulin. Closer now, they could see about two dozen Legion personnel unloading equipment from a line of lorries.

  ‘More of those cylinders,’ cried Noah excitedly.

  Whistler strained to see through the darkness. ‘Where are they taking them, I wonder? The control tower?’

  Noah shook his head. ‘Doesn’t look like it. I think they’re heading for the far side of the place.’

  Whistler tutted to himself.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Noah, looking round.

  ‘Extraordinary thing, don’t you think?’ said the old man, clucking his tongue.

  ‘What?’

  Whistler’s gaze swivelled round to Noah. ‘No lights.’

  Noah shrugged. ‘Well, they’re obviously up to something. Maybe something illegal. They don’t want to advertise it.’

  Whistler waved a hand. ‘No, no, no. I mean there’s not a light anywhere. Not in the control tower. The old barracks. Not even a torch to help them unload. Not one.’

  Noah nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean.’ He sucked on his lip. ‘That is strange.’

  ‘So,’ said Whistler, moving around the cylinder in front of him, ‘our mission is to find out what they’ve got in those containers and why they think they can go around like they own the village.’

  ‘Maybe they do,’ murmured Noah.

  ‘Hmmph. Not a pleasant thought, lad. A lot of my pals gave their lives to defeat this kind of behaviour. I’m not about to let another lot of blackshirts take up where the old ones left off.’

  Without another word, Whistler moved off into the night. Noah followed and they raced through the darkness towards the airstrip, then peeled off to one side, sliding down against the wall of one of the parabola-shaped buildings which made up the old barracks. Whistler caught his breath and bobbed his head around the corner. His eyes moved swiftly from side to side as though photographing what he saw, then he ducked back.

  ‘See anything?’ asked Noah.

  Whistler nodded. ‘They’re carrying those cylinders across the airstrip.’

  Noah frowned. ‘Where to?’

  Whistler tucked his knees up and rested his elbows on them. ‘There isn’t anything beyond that section of fence, is there?’

  Noah shook his head. ‘Just marshland.’

  Whistler thought for a moment. ‘That could explain why they haven’t driven down there. The lorries would be too heavy to drive over the ground.’

  Noah took his turn to glance around the side of the building. To his astonishment, he saw that the Legion guards had formed a long line and were carrying the cylinders bodily on their shoulders like a huge, bizarre funeral procession.

  ‘This gets weirder and weirder,’ he muttered. ‘What now?’

  Whistler rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, we could go back and wait for this UNIT fella to turn up.’

  ‘Or?’

  Whistler smiled. ‘Or we could carry on and see what turns up.’

  Noah clapped the old man on the shoulder. ‘I’m game.’

  Whistler was pleased. ‘Good lad. Right. Here’s what we’ll do. As soon as that lot are out of sight, you pop out and check the coast’s clear. Then we’ll get into a lorry and see if we can’t break open one of those containers – oh.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Whistler was tapping his waistcoat pocket. ‘My lucky charm.’

  Noah shrugged. ‘Never mind, sir. I’m sure we’ll be OK.’

  ‘It’s not that, son,’ said Whistler, a little sadly. ‘It’s just I’ve never been on a… a mission without it. Not since I found it. It got me through the war, you know.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Noah, clambering to his feet. ‘But we’ll have to trust to our own luck this time.’

  He slipped around the corner of the barracks and nodded. ‘OK. They’ve gone.’

  Whistler nipped out quickly and joined him, both pressing their backs flat against the cold grey wall, and peered through the darkness where he could just make out the last of the line of guards moving away in silent procession. Nodding to Noah, he raced across the road to where the lorries were parked.

  Noah crossed too and jumped up on to the back of the first lorry, immediately throwing back the tarpaulin that covered it. There was nothing beneath it. He cursed and let the canvas fall back, looking over towards the lorry with Whistler on board.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No,’ hissed Whistler. ‘Try the next.’

  They continued in this way for several minutes, finding every lorry clear of cargo, until they reached the last two in the line.

  ‘Ah!’ cried Whistler happily, as Noah pulled back the tarpaulin and revealed that the lorry was packed full of sleek, black cylinders, stacked like wet cigars.

  Noah felt all over one of them with the palms of his hands.

  ‘I can’t find an opening,’ he murmured.

  ‘There must be a way in,’ said Whistler. ‘Here, I’ll shed some light.’

  The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver matchcase attached to the fob chain of his watch. He struck a match on its serrated base and the back of the lorry was briefly illuminated. Both men looked the casket over hurriedly.

  There wasn’t a single flaw or crack on its smooth, ebony-black surface. Noah and Whistler exchanged glances just as the flaring light of the match snuffed out.

  There was a sudden explosion of noise. Noah’s heart began to thump. Behind them, he could hear booted feet on tarmac.

  ‘We’re rumbled!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’

  He jumped down on to the tarmac and set off at a run, jerking his head back to see Whistler struggling down from the lorry. He hesitated, then tore back across the airstrip and grabbed the old man by the arm. ‘Come on!’

  Once on terra firma, Whistler was a different proposition altogether. Tucking his elbows into his sides he careered across the airstrip like a man possessed. Noah was just ahead, looking round wildly for an escape route. Booted feet thundered behind them and, even as he panicked, Noah thought it strange that the Legion men still hadn’t turned a single searchlight on to them.

  Behind him, he could hear Whistler beginning to tire, his breath rasping. He gripped the old man by the sleeve and urged him forward.

  ‘Nearly there, sir. Hurry!’

  Whistler shook his head, sweat streaming down his ruddy face. ‘No. Can’t –’

  Noah pulled them both down to the ground. There, just visible in the gloom, was the hole they had cut in the mesh of the fence. Noah turned but found himself being pushed through.

/>   ‘Go! Go on, lad!’

  Noah’s forehead hit the sharp mesh and he winced in pain as it cut into his skin. He shook his head involuntarily.

  ‘It’s OK, Mr Whistler. We’ll just give ourselves up. Let the police sort it out. We’ve done nothing wrong.’

  Whistler thrust out both hands to propel Noah through the fence. ‘There’s more to this than breaking and entering, Noah. Those people mean business, now for God’s sake get away from here!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE BEAST

  Noah tumbled through on to the other side of the fence just as the Legion men caught up with Whistler.

  Through the gloom he could just make out the old man struggling to his feet and putting up his hands. A guard raised his gun and brought it down savagely on to the back of Whistler’s head.

  Noah felt anger rise like bile in his throat, and was on the point of trying to get back through the fence to help the old man when he pulled back. Better to get hold of Constable Trickett and sort out these bastards properly.

  A guard was already halfway through the fence, shoulders flat to the ground. Noah looked around, decided where to go and then, in one swift movement, brought his foot round and kicked the guard under the chin. The man crumpled to the earth with a satisfying thud. Noah took to his heels.

  Still there was no searchlight, no harsh klaxon breaking the silence of the warm night. Noah headed for the road back to the village and took the corner at such speed that he felt the ground give way beneath him. He hit the rough track chest first, knocking the wind out of himself.

  He flipped over on to his back and lay there for a long moment, staring up at the sky, struggling to breathe. His ribs felt like they had an anvil resting on them.

  As he recovered, he heard the Legion troops heading for the road and made a snap decision. They were bound to think he would head for Culverton. Instead, he would double back around the aerodrome, towards the marshland, and give them the slip.

  He struggled to his feet, hobbling a little and wincing at the friction burns he had sustained on his long legs. He ducked out of sight as half a dozen guards ran past him towards the village and, crouching down by the grassy verge, he made his way back towards the aerodrome. He thought about Whistler inside there and what they might be doing to the old man.

  Noah kept close to the fence and followed it all the way around for about a third of a mile until he could see the back entrance. The gates were open in order to allow egress from the base. A neat pile of the black cylinders stood just outside them.

  Noah caught his breath and bent down, watching to detect any movement. Only two or three troopers stood guard, as immobile as statues.

  He wracked his brain, unsure what to do for the best. Should he try and get past them and inside the aerodrome to rescue Whistler? Or scurry back to Culverton to raise the alarm?

  The decision was made for him as he leant forward, slipped and put out his hands to break his fall. Both palms connected with the mesh of the fence, sending a shuddering rattle through the structure. Noah tensed.

  As one, like identical weather vanes, the black-uniformed guards swung in his direction. None spoke. Noah could hear his breath streaming through his open mouth. Then they raised their guns and fired.

  Bullets thudded – one, two, three – into the wet ground at Noah’s feet. He flung himself down and rolled over as gobbets of soil spat out and covered his T-shirt. Without waiting for the guards to pursue him, he took off at a run heading blindly forward into the marshland.

  The marshes extended for some acres behind the aerodrome, hillocks of tufty grass interspersed with great ponds of dank water. Noah splashed his way through, oblivious to the jets of mud that rocketed out and soaked his trousers. He had to get help. Had to get back to the village. Although he didn’t stop running, he was vaguely aware that the guards hadn’t bothered to follow him.

  Noah pulled up sharp. Suddenly he didn’t much care if the guards were on his trail. A deafening, bubbling sound was emanating from the ground ahead, as though great pockets of gas were belching to the surface.

  He stepped back, feeling his heels sink slightly into the marsh. Despite the black night he could see that the wetland ahead was moving.

  A huge shape was rising out of the darkness, dripping with water, its vast jaws clicking open, its fetid breath blasting all over him.

  Noah opened his mouth to scream, but no scream came out.

  Bliss gripped the arms of her chair until her knuckles blanched. The mind of the other reached out again. It was wild with energy, pursuing, attacking, wanting to kill. Yet the dark intelligence that survived at its core seemed to hold it back. In the void, it felt her mind and pleaded with her to end its agony.

  Bliss shook her broad head. Shook it until flecks of spit flew from her mouth.

  ‘I cannot,’ she sobbed. ‘I cannot help you. Let me be…’

  The screeching in her mind abruptly ceased. Bliss put her head in her hands.

  The Doctor’s car approached Culverton a little after sunset. The dying rays of the sun set the flat landscape ablaze and he slowed down a little to enjoy the sight.

  He remembered another evening like this, sitting alone by the Thames, trying to come to terms with his exile.

  In his early days as UNIT’s scientific adviser, a long time before Axons, Daemons and Daleks had come to bother him, he’d put on a good show of ignoring the Time Lords’ sentence. But in truth, he’d found the routine unbearable. Stifling.

  To think that he, of all people, should be marooned on one tiny world, in one time period – a heartbeat in the great scheme of things.

  At first, he had thrown himself into his researches, working ridiculously long hours in the lab, trying desperately to work out a means of escape from the twentieth century.

  I am no ordinary man.

  The thought resounded again and again inside his head.

  I am no ordinary man.

  Yet how could he pretend to be otherwise when he was surrounded by the Brigadier’s personnel, clocking in and out, going back to their families at night?

  The winter evenings were the worst, the English night pressing against the laboratory windows, black as molasses while the room’s primitive yellow electrics blazed away.

  For a while, he’d taken to wandering through the TARDIS, as though its endless labyrinth of corridors would somehow lead back to the wandering life he had known. But this had grown too painful, the paraphernalia of previous adventures bringing him sharply, and literally, back down to Earth.

  After a time, though, something had changed inside the Doctor. He began to find the Brigadier’s blinkered military mind less objectionable and rather more endearing. He secretly looked forward to each new problem, relishing the dangers it might bring. On an evening like this one, by the Thames, with the insignificant sun setting over this insignificant but wonderful little planet, the Doctor had felt suddenly… happy.

  Then, out of nowhere, the Omega business had come up and, with its successful conclusion, release from his exile. The whole Universe was his to explore once again. He remembered the tiny twinge in his stomach as he stepped across the threshold of the TARDIS for the first time after his knowledge of the dematerialisation codes had been restored. What was it? Excitement? Adrenalin? Or was it just the slightest hint of fear?

  It was an uncomfortable fact to face but the Doctor knew that his first thought as he’d leant, exhausted, on the console after his escape from Xanthos had been… home.

  He glanced down at Jo, tucked up, fast asleep beneath her fur-collared coat, and brought Bessie in a large circle around the village green. He let Jo sleep on as he parked by an antiquated water pump, then swung his legs over the side of the car and stretched. It had been a long and rather tiring drive. Slipping into his emerald-green smoking jacket, the Doctor shot his ruffled cuffs and looked around.

  Post office, pub, shop. He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Green, pump, houses. Charming. Qui
te charming.

  He leant over into Bessie and shook Jo gently by the shoulder. She groaned and rubbed her eyes sleepily.

  ‘Come along, Jo,’ said the Doctor brightly. ‘We’ve arrived.’

  Jo yawned. ‘Culverton?’

  ‘Culverton.’ He glanced round again at the serene village, still bathed in the rosy glow of the sunset. ‘Seems quiet enough.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

  The Chief of Staff, who rejoiced in the name of Jocelyn Strangeways, slammed down the telephone with uncontained fury.

  A stout, ruddy-cheeked man, he was a soldier, like his father and grandfather before him and his father before that. He even sported the same enormous moustache that bristled so marvellously on the faces of his forebears.

  Their portraits bore down on him from the walls of his book-lined study, splendid in their old uniforms, against a backdrop of the Sudan or India or the Transvaal.

  Strangeways tried not to look at them. They seemed to have accusing expressions on their faces.

  Damn it all, he was supposed to be in charge! What was the Prime Minister thinking about, cutting the country’s defences back to the bone? A little friendly chitchat between the Yanks and the Chinese didn’t suddenly make the world a safe place. It was imperative that Britain maintain a strong armed response.

  Strangeways examined the tumbler of whisky in his hand then drained it in one go.

  It was bad enough having to swallow his pride about these defence cuts, but to have to answer to that arrogant puppy Cochrane! Now the beggar wasn’t even returning his phone calls.

  There was a soft click somewhere close by.

  Strangeways looked round but could see nothing unusual. Struggling to his feet, he reknotted the cord of his dressing gown and marched swiftly from the room, trying to shrug off the impression that his illustrious ancestors were laughing at him.

  The knocker on the old front door of Whistler’s cottage was matt black and shaped like a dolphin.

  The Doctor lifted it with one hand and rapped twice, firmly. He looked around, breathed deeply and smiled to himself, relishing the scents of the warm summer night.