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

by Mark Gatiss

  Blood was weeping from open cuts on Whistler’s palms. His eyes flicked up as a dozen Legion troops formed a circle around him.

  Captain McGarrigle, however, seemed to be in trouble. He was breathing stertorously, his throat and chest juddering like those of an asthmatic. Saliva pumped from the corners of his wide mouth, trickling down his chin and spattering his neat black uniform.

  A strange, deep, belching noise came from inside him.

  He swung round to face Whistler, his dark eyes blazing like lava beneath the sea. Still clutching his throat, he advanced on the old man until he was astride him. Then, as Whistler watched, something inside the Captain began to move…

  It was only a small flicker at first, reminding Whistler of the way ticks shuffled beneath the skin of his hand when he was a boy. Soon, though, there was more definition; a chunky, segmented shape, just beneath McGarrigle’s rapidly tightening skin. Something was moving upwards through his throat.

  Whistler let out a shriek of disgust. The Captain staggered forward, foamy spittle dropping in clumps on to Whistler’s face. Then it came; brittle, transparent, spindly legs appearing around the sides of McGarrigle’s mouth. Clutching the flesh of his cheeks, it began to haul its way out, sliding over his gaping tongue, probing out into the air, a vile, hairless, carapaced thing somewhere between crab and worm.

  McGarrigle clutched the sides of his head as the creature extruded itself like paste from a tube.

  Whistler slid on his back towards the perimeter fence, gagging in horror. The thing swayed as it emerged and, for the first time, the old man saw that above its gaping maw were a pair of dark, dark, pitiless eyes.

  Helen Trickett was upstairs when she heard the car arrive. Nichola was sitting on the bed, fiddling anxiously with the dress of her favourite doll while her mother rapidly packed their suitcases. There would be no village fête today. They had to get away. Something was wrong with John, something Helen couldn’t rationally explain. All she knew was that he hadn’t been the same since he came back from that visit to the aerodrome.

  She clicked the lock on the cases and then froze as she heard one, no, two car doors slamming. Nichola looked up, her little eyes full of terror. Helen swept her up in her arms and raced to the window.

  Pushing back the curtains she could just see a large, black, well-polished car in the street below.

  She would have to sneak out the back, through the kitchen. There was no point in trying to reason with John. He was different. Changed. A crazy thought drifted into her mind.

  He’s not the man I married…

  That’s what they always said, wasn’t it? In this case, it was true. Helen knew. She knew from John’s voice, his manner, his touch. There was something terribly wrong. This man looked like her husband and sounded like him now, although at first he’d been horribly silent, just sitting there, smiling; his grin mad and wide like a cut in the taut skin of a melon.

  She’d go to her parents. They wouldn’t ask questions. They’d listen to her. Know what to do next.

  With Nichola in one arm and the suitcase in the other, Helen ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  She almost yelled when she saw John standing there, that terrible smile plastered over his face.

  ‘Hello, love,’ he said softly. ‘Not going anywhere are you?’ Helen swallowed and felt tears spring to her eyes. She held Nichola very tight.

  John took off his sunglasses and his eyes were very dark indeed.

  ‘You must meet our guest of honour, Helen. He’s come all the way up from Scotland Yard to open the fête. He’ll be in charge of things from now on.’

  There was a sound behind Helen. She turned on her heel.

  A middle-sized man with swarthy, saturnine features and a neat, pointed beard walked through from the hallway, looking immaculate in his braided inspector’s uniform.

  ‘Mrs Trickett,’ he said with what seemed genuine warmth. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Helen looked at her husband and then back to the newcomer. ‘Who… who are you?’

  The newcomer’s smile faded and his eyes, as fiery and brown as a dusty Andalusian desert, blazed with power.

  ‘I am the Master,’ he thundered. ‘And you will obey me!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DISPLAY OF POWER

  Bliss raised a fat hand, taking in the whole of the aerodrome with one sweeping gesture. She seemed unperturbed by the summer heat whereas Jo and the Brigadier were perspiring profusely.

  ‘As you can see,’ she purred, ‘it’s full steam ahead here. We aim to have a new airstrip laid within a fortnight and we have ambitions to rival the big airports for trade within the first few years. Once people see how competitive our rates are.’

  The Doctor was leafing through the glossy brochure Bliss had given him.

  ‘“Getting us where we want to go”,’ he quoted, looking up. ‘Unusual way of putting it.’

  Bliss let a little sigh escape from her. ‘I don’t follow.’

  The Doctor smiled back. ‘Nothing. Tell me, are you conducting any research here? Experimental aircraft, that sort of thing?’

  Bliss shrugged. ‘That would certainly be on our agenda for the future, Doctor. But for now we have to concentrate on the task in hand.’

  ‘So,’ said the Doctor. ‘No wind tunnels or anything like that?’

  Bliss looked him directly in the eye. The Doctor met her stare and cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘No,’ murmured Bliss at last. ‘Nothing like that.’

  The Brigadier looked rapidly around, as though hoping to find something incriminating. ‘Well, thank you for your help, ma’am. I’m sure our report will be most encouraging.’

  Bliss pressed her hands to her chest. ‘Not at all.’

  She inclined her head to one side. ‘Now, I really must be getting on. We’re organising a display for the village fête, you know. It wouldn’t do to be late.’

  The Doctor nodded. ‘Of course. Good afternoon.’

  Bliss smiled at them all and headed off back towards her office.

  The Doctor thrust his hands into his pockets.

  The Brigadier sighed. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Clean as a whistle,’ concurred Jo.

  ‘You think so?’ said the Doctor. ‘I had a little adventure here last night. In a wind tunnel. One of those Legion fellas didn’t come out of it too well. And she knew. She knew that I knew.’

  Jo glanced around. Benton had brought the car in through the gates. There was a strange patch of some kind of foam on the concrete by the fence. It reminded Jo of cuckoo-spit. She dismissed it and turned away.

  ‘But we still haven’t got any proof,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose it suddenly doesn’t seem to amount to much. Apart from the Wing Commander going missing, it’s all a bit flimsy.’

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘Well, we know one thing for sure.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Bliss isn’t who she says she is.’ He moved off towards the car.

  The Brigadier trotted behind him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The capital of the Transvaal,’ said the Doctor over his shoulder, ‘is Pretoria.’

  With the sun at its zenith, Culverton’s village green shimmered in a heat haze. Mr and Mrs Neesham’s little green sweet shop, tucked between two cottages like the filling in a sandwich, was doing a roaring trade. Children streamed in and out, clutching sherbet fountains or paper packets of midget gems.

  One boy, bigger than the rest and faintly absurd in his grey school shorts, was twisting another youngster’s arm behind his back in an attempt to steal his Action Transfer of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The other boy was putting up a good fight and had even sacrificed his bag of flying saucers which had fallen and split on the hot pavement. Sherbet blew from their hollow innards.

  Other boys ran around squealing excitedly, getting grass stains on their knees and letting ice lollies drip unnoticed over their clenched fists. Little
girls did handstands on the parched green, giggling and tumbling as their friends egged them on.

  Close by, Graham Allinson and Anthony Ayre stood side by side. The other children were surprised that they seemed to be friends, but had to admit they looked pretty good in their matching black sunglasses…

  The sound of kazoos and marching feet filled the air, accompanied by the strange, distant echoes of a public address system as the winners of the sack race were announced.

  The Reverend Darnell watched the proceedings with a slightly uneasy look on his bland features. Among the familiar stalls – pin the tail on the donkey, the tombola, win-a-goldfish – stood a huge and elaborate structure, tall and jet black like a mausoleum. Black curtains covered the entrance and the only clue to its function was the jolly, colourful placard standing on the grass just outside it. It showed happy, smiling children on the shoulders of Legion International personnel.

  Darnell thought of his recent encounter with the troopers and shuddered.

  Miss Plowman, who was standing next to him, set down a lemonade jug and frowned. ‘Something the matter, Vicar?’

  He managed a smile and shook his head.

  Ted Bishop leaned over his son and closed the window. Despite the heat, he didn’t want the booming sounds from the fête to disturb Noah who was now sleeping peacefully.

  Sighing, Ted rubbed his face and sipped at his tea. He’d had no luck with Max, who seemed determined not to explain himself.

  He’d gone over to take charge of the fête now, smiling happily as though nothing at all had happened.

  Ted’s ears pricked up as he heard activity downstairs. Swiftly, he crossed the room, closing Noah’s bedroom door behind him with a soft click. He was down the stairs in a few seconds and found the Doctor, Jo and the Brigadier coming inside.

  ‘Hello,’ said Jo, apologetically. ‘Sorry to barge in.’

  ‘All I’m saying Doctor,’ cried the Brigadier, ‘is that given the amount of top-level obfuscation regarding this matter, it’ll take a lot more than we’ve got to persuade the powers that be to act.’

  The Doctor threw himself down into an armchair.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bishop,’ he offered, before battle was rejoined.

  ‘May I remind you, Brigadier, that it was you who requested my involvement in this matter in the first place.’

  The Brigadier put a hand to his perspiring brow. ‘Of course. But if you yourself were to speak to the Defence Minister… ’ The Doctor’s cry of exasperation could have been heard outside, despite the marching of the Culverton majorettes.

  ‘Despite your best efforts, Lethbridge-Stewart, I have not yet succumbed to the level of petty bureaucracy in which you seem to revel. If there’s any toadying to be done, I suggest you do it yourself!’

  Jo slapped her hand down on to the table, rattling the uncleared breakfast cutlery and stopping the Doctor and the Brigadier in their tracks.

  ‘For goodness sake!’ she cried. ‘What’s got into you two?’ The Doctor looked a little shocked.

  Jo glared at him. ‘The Wing Commander is still missing, Noah’s upstairs in… a… a state of shock and Legion International are marching around this village like the SS. Surely we should be doing whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this, not arguing like kids!’

  The Brigadier looked at her.

  ‘Er… sir,’ she concluded lamely.

  The Doctor cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Well, you’re right, my dear. Of course you are.’

  He looked up at the Brigadier and gave a tight smile. ‘You said something about a telephone call, Brigadier?’

  Lethbridge-Stewart nodded. ‘Yes, Doctor. Charles Cochrane. Secretary of Defence.’

  ‘Right.’ The Doctor slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  The Brigadier seemed pleased. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’

  There was a heavy, banging sound from upstairs and Noah Bishop suddenly appeared, stumbling down the stairs. He fell heavily into his father’s arms.

  ‘Dad,’ he croaked, licking his dry lips. ‘Out there! It… it’s out there. On the marsh. I know where it is!’

  The Doctor nodded excitedly to himself. ‘Capital! I think I may have something to say to the Minister after all.’

  Out on the village green, the sun blazed down.

  A black-uniformed Legion trooper stood to attention outside the heavy black curtains of the fête exhibition. He stood stock-still and upright as an oak tree, his black sunglasses glinting.

  A little boy in sandals and shorts was plucking at the curtain, eager to see what might be inside. The trooper turned his head and faced the boy. His expressionless face didn’t alter but it was as though a statue had suddenly moved on its plinth. The boy felt his hair stand on end and, with a drawn-out wail, ran off to find his mother.

  The inside of the exhibition tent was a perfect reproduction of an aeroplane interior, decorated in the exquisite black and yellow colours of Legion International. Rows of comfortable-looking chairs were arranged throughout the cabin and small windows looked out on to a simulated blue sky.

  Bliss sat in one of the chairs, her fingers steepled together. Next to her, smoking a fat cigar, was the Master, his inspector’s cap on the arm of the chair.

  ‘It’s an excellent service,’ he said with a small smile. ‘I’m sure everyone will be all too eager to fly with you.’

  Bliss nodded, pleased.

  ‘There’s only one thing you’ve forgotten,’ said the Master.

  Bliss’s dark eyes blinked slowly.

  ‘My complimentary white wine,’ he said with a chuckle.

  Bliss chose to ignore him.

  ‘The simulation is many years ahead of the technology on Earth. We aim to have most of the village passing through the aeroplane by the end of the day.’

  She pressed a button on a small keypad at her side and the view outside changed into a spectacular night-time sky with twinkling lights below it.

  ‘Rome.’ She pressed again. The view changed to a pinky opalescence. Snow-capped mountains rose through fog. ‘Dawn over the Rockies.’

  The Master nodded. ‘A charming toy.’

  Bliss’s fat, chalky white face beamed. ‘More than that. There are some hidden extras on this particular flight.’

  She snapped the machine off and the windows were plunged into darkness. ‘But to business. The ninth key has still to be recovered.’

  The Master tutted. ‘Is that why you sent for me? You told me it had been traced.’

  Bliss clenched her fat fists. ‘There have been some - complications. The key registered on my monitors and then… disappeared.’

  She plucked at her blouse. ‘It appeared to be in the general area of the dwelling of a man called Whistler. By chance, he came snooping around the aerodrome but my… interrogation was unsuccessful.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the Master, greatly amused. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘My men have him. Unfortunately, there was an incident. He was… converted.’

  The Master clucked his tongue. ‘Thus rendering him useless for any further interrogation.’

  Bliss let a hiss of anger slip between her teeth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, once we have the village under our control, there’ll be no need for further secrecy,’ said the Master with a shrug. ‘We can tear the place apart if necessary.’

  Bliss’s dark eyes blinked slowly. ‘There have been developments. Some people came on an official inspection.’

  The Master frowned. ‘Official? I thought I’d blocked all avenues of inquiry.’

  It was Bliss’s turn to sound smug. ‘So did I. Apparently you either failed or these particular visitors are able to pull strings.’

  ‘I didn’t fail,’ said the Master with menace. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘A soldier of some sort,’ muttered Bliss. ‘A girl and a man they called…’

  ‘The Doctor,’ smiled the Master. ‘Naturally. He’s a wily old bird and no mista
ke. Well, well, well. It will be nice to renew our acquaintanceship.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ said Bliss evenly, ‘you will do your best to find the location of the key.’

  The Master’s eyes glowed like coals. ‘I am not accustomed to taking orders.’

  Bliss’s milky face suddenly clouded and, for an instant, something shifted beneath her skin, like an embryo stirring in the womb. ‘The Gaderene are taking this planet,’ she hissed. ‘Take care that you are not swept aside!’

  A wasp was buzzing around the eves of Whistler’s cottage in a state of some confusion. The familiar, papery nest it had left seemed to have vanished, along with all its comrades. It flew angrily at the stonework until Mrs Toovey’s rolled-up copy of Horse and Hound flattened it out of existence.

  She tutted to herself and threw the magazine into the incinerator to which the pest-control man had recently consigned the wasp nest and brushed herself down, all ready to go to the fête.

  She paused on the threshold of the cottage, resplendent in her summer frock and wide-brimmed hat.

  It didn’t seem right to be going when the Wing Commander was still missing. But what good would she be moping around the house all day? He’d have wanted her to go.

  She mentally admonished herself for already acting as though he were dead. She might find out something that would be useful to the Doctor and Jo, after all.

  Nodding to herself, she cradled a basket filled with jars of jam under her arm and was just closing the door when a familiar figure stepped on to the path next to her.

  Mrs Toovey dropped the basket. ‘Oh! Sir!’ she cried, doctor who her hand flying to her mouth. ‘Wing Commander, thank God. Where’ve you been?’

  Whistler walked a little closer but didn’t speak.

  ‘What’s happened to you, you poor love? Look at the state of your face.’

  She reached out a hand to touch the bruises and cuts that covered the old man’s skin. Whistler grabbed her wrist.

  ‘What are you –? You’re hurting me!’

  He pulled Mrs Toovey close to him and she could feel his breath washing over her. He smiled.

  On the pavement, jam oozed on to the hot flagstones. Wasps settled among the shards of shattered glass.