Doctor Who - The Glamour Chase

by Doctor Who

  Nancy was smiling broadly now. 'Oh, I know things, you see. It's my job to know things. Like what you are thinking right now. And I'll tell you this.

  I knew Mrs Porter. We were at Roedean together.

  Grew up. Inseparable. Till she met Nathaniel Porter.'

  'You were at school with Enola Porter?' Rory thought that was unlikely - Nancy was 60 if she was a day.

  'Oh, not her,' Nancy snorted. 'Not that I had a problem with her. No I mean the real Mrs Porter.

  Who vanished.' Nancy turned and left, muttering 94

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  something about making fresh tea.

  Rory went back to his book, energised. So the first Mrs Porter hadn't just died, she'd actually vanished.

  Even her best friend didn't know what had really happened.

  'Bet you didn't know that, Doctor Smug-Pants,'

  he grunted as he turned the pages. His attention was no longer focused on Enola but on finding out about the other one. Whose name he'd forgotten to ask.

  Rory flicked through page after page, but slowly began to wonder if Nancy Thirman was a bit...

  mad. Because there were no references in anything he read that suggested the first Mrs Porter had vanished. In fact, disappointingly, there were no references to her at all.

  The wife of the local bigwig? Seemed unlikely.

  Even the wedding report on when Porter had married Enola Tucker made no reference to him being married before.

  Rory remembered the Doctor's request about Little Cadthorpe. He found a few references.

  Apparently, a fire at a flourmill had spread through the village one night. The reports weren't gruesome, but the details were certainly heartrending. Lists of names after a tragedy always upset Rory. So many names. Some were entire families, wiped out in one go. Always upsetting.

  A whole village, gone up in smoke overnight. No survivors.

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  Mind you, that was odd. Even in the worst disasters, it was pretty remarkable if no one survived. Someone would surely have escaped or gone to get help.

  Then Rory remembered: Oliver Marks had been there, and he had escaped. So why did none of the reports make mention of that? He closed the big book and carried it back to the shelf it had come from, glancing over at the library clock.

  Nancy Thirman had obviously given up on the tea — more than half an hour had passed since she'd wandered away.

  Oh well, he'd get a cuppa back at the Manse.

  He looked around the library. Nope, he was alone, no one else was there. Perhaps he ought to turn out the lights. This was 1936, and electricity was probably quite expensive.

  'Hullo,' he called out. 'Miss Thirman? Shall I, you know, the lights? Off I mean? As you do?'

  Nothing.

  With a shrug, Rory moved towards the light, then he felt his foot tap something. Looking down, he saw it was a ball of green wool. Where on earth had that come from?

  Rory was about to reach down when something stopped him. Just a feeling, a niggling thing at the back of his head, that same instinct you have not to touch a poisonous berry or a dog that might actually nip your ankles. He couldn't explain it, but he gently kicked the woollen ball away, watching it 96

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  roll under a desk.

  He wandered over to the lights and was reaching up when he felt something at his feet again.

  It was that ball of green wool. It was an odd colour. Sort of sick or dead colour, a mix of greens and yellows combined to make one very unattractive shade. No one would want a Christmas sweater created in that wool, Rory was sure.

  This time he gave it a hefty punt across the library, flicked off the lights and was gone.

  As he left the big room, he passed by a small office, its light still on.

  On the door was a name plaque: N THIRMAN, CUSTODIAN.

  He eased the door open.

  There was no sign of Nancy Thirman. What there was, however, was a massive hammock-like thing, suspended across the room. If that wasn't weird enough, it was made of wool. Like it was knitted.

  Knitted in the same sickly colour as the ball he'd seen in the library. Unlike a traditional hammock, Rory realised, this was solid - no way into it, so it looked more like a fat woollen runner bean pod.

  No wonder there were balls of wool lying around

  - this had to have taken Nancy Thirman months to knit.

  Oh well, each to their own.

  He was about to leave when the hammock-pod-woollen thing suddenly quivered, swaying from side to side on the two woollen strands which 97

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  connected it to the opposite walls. As Rory leaned in to stare, part of it seemed to grow, to move, like a woollen stump pushing out towards him. Then the end of it moved, like the wool was being knitted in front of his eyes, forming... . forming a face.

  A woman's face. Eyes, nose, mouth, hair - like some hideous unfinished woollen toy, the face suddenly flexed, the mouth, still just made of wool, seemed to weave itself open in an open-mouthed grimace.

  Rory recognised the face. He realised he was staring into a woollen facsimile of Nancy Thirman's face, twisted into tortured, silent fury.

  As slowly as it had emerged, the face-on-a-stump was reabsorbed into the pod. Then, after a final quiver, the knitted pod hung still and silent.

  Rory ran.

  The Doctor was sniffing a pink rose on a very lush bush attached to a trellis that ran up the side of the Manse, on the same side of the building as Oliver's room. It veered slightly at one point to the left then carried on straight, basically weaving its way, as much as a wooden trellis can be said to weave, around the bedroom window.

  'Odd place to put a trellis,' he said to Oliver. 'I mean, why not three foot thataway and then you wouldn't need to put a kink in it.'

  Oliver shrugged from his wheelchair and pulled his blanket closer to his waist but said nothing.

  THE GLAMOUR CHASE

  The Doctor carried on examining the plant architecture, wandering around the corner, carefully not treading on any of the flowerbeds, but counting bricks to himself.

  'What do you remember of that day, Oliver?' he called out after a few minutes.

  'What day?'

  'Oh, you know what day,' the Doctor replied.

  'Unless you don't want to talk about it.'

  'Not much.' Oliver tried to press himself further into the wheelchair, as if that would make him feel safe from the Doctor's sudden probing. 'I try not to think about it.' He gripped the blanket again, as if trying to stop it falling to the ground, even though there was little chance of that.

  'Fair enough. I understand completely. Not talking. Good move. Talking is so overrated.' The Doctor began tapping on the window to Oliver's bedroom. 'Dunno why people spend so much time talking. Communication. Pointless exercise, I always say. Well, I say "always"... I mean "sometimes".

  Well, no, actually I don't mean "sometimes", I actually mean never, cos communication is really important, and I like communicating with people.'

  He popped his head back around the corner and winked at Oliver. 'But no pressure,' he said and darted away again.

  Oliver sighed and was about to say something but stopped.

  Finally, he spoke. 'Gas. Petroleum. Fire.'

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  The Doctor's head bobbed back into view. 'What's up, 01ly? Oh.'

  The Doctor stopped for the same reason that Oliver had started.

  A woman was standing next to Oliver. Very close.

  Oliver Marks was staring at her in shock.

  The Doctor frowned, trying to work out what was wrong with this picture. But he couldn't figure it out so instead just said a simple 'Can we help you?' to the woman.

  She held herself well, very prim and proper, regarding the Doctor carefully, head slightly tilted to one side. She was dressed in a simple dress and coat, her hair bobbed slightly.

  'No,' she said.
<
br />   The Doctor smiled at her and walked forward, offering his hand. 'Hullo. I don't believe I've had the pleasure.'

  The woman ignored the hand.

  Oliver also tried to reach out to her, but she stepped behind his chair. In doing so, she drew the Doctor's gaze away from the building and back towards the long drive and the village beyond.

  The Doctor frowned — pelting down the driveway towards them was Rory. He slowed as he got closer, nodding an unreturned greeting to the new woman as he moved in front of her to address the Doctor.

  'Weird thing,' he panted, trying to catch his breath. 'Really, really weird.'

  THE GLAMOUR CHASE

  The Doctor reached out with both arms and eased Rory out of his line of vision, but there was now only Oliver Marks, slumped in his wheelchair, hugging his blanket to his chest, as if affected by a sudden, powerful chill, despite the warmth of the afternoon.

  The woman had gone. Completely. Presumably into the Manse - there was nowhere else for her to have gone so quickly.

  'I need to follow that woman,' the Doctor said to Rory and walked, very quickly, away, reaching out to casually pat Oliver's shoulder as he passed.

  'Rory, look after Oily, please,' he called back.

  'But what about...' Rory began. But it was no use; the Doctor was ignoring him. 'What about Nancy Thirman?' he finished rather lamely to himself.

  Then he felt a hand on his, gripping tightly -

  too tightly, in fact - and he knelt down and slowly unclasped Oliver's hand from his. 'It's all right, Mr Marks,' he said in his best nurse's tone. 'Everything's going to be fine. If it's the drugs that are making you feel woozy, that'll be why Nathaniel Porter needs to keep you in the chair.'

  'No it isn't,' Oliver snapped, still clutching the blanket. 'They're coming. I can feel it. Everywhere.'

  'I need you to try and tell me about it. As much as you can bear to,' Rory said.

  Oliver shook his head. 'Can't. Can't talk about it.' He looked Rory straight in the eyes. 'I'm very sorry.'

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  Rory didn't know what Oliver Marks was sorry for, but he could see he really meant it. He watched a single tear trickle down Oliver's face.

  Despite the warm summer afternoon air that had settled in a comfortable haze over the whole village and the nice glow of the sunshine, Rory suddenly felt bitterly cold. It was as if someone hadn't just walked over his grave this time; they'd driven a sixteen-tonne artic over it.

  'They're coming back, and this time they'll get me,' said Oliver.

  'Why d'you say that then?'

  'Because she's here. Again. She's back.'

  'Who? That lady the Doctor's gone to find?'

  Oliver nodded slowly.

  'Who is she?' asked Rory.

  Oliver was looking down now at his blanket, tracing its pattern with a trembling finger. 'My fiancée.'

  For a not especial y large house, the Manse was quite labyrinthine in its layout, the Doctor thought. He stood in the Manse hallway at the apex of the three inner corridors. Each led in a different direction, and the mysterious woman could have taken any of them.

  'Eeny meeny, miny, but no mo,' he muttered, ticking off each one. 'Or she could've taken the stairs,' the Doctor supposed looking up at the huge wooden staircase that led to the upper storey. 'Hey, 102

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  steps, you can be Mo if you want?'

  The staircase didn't answer.

  'Be like that then,' he muttered. 'I'm going with Eeny.'

  He headed towards Oliver's room at the back of the house, trying to ignore the creaky, noisy wooden flooring beneath his boots. Stealth wasn't exactly an option.

  '1936,' he murmured. 'You'd think it was 1836.

  Thomas Edison would be so disappointed that his discovery wasn't being used here.' He tapped a nearby light fitting that wasn't illuminated, and looked for a switch. Not finding one, he brought out his sonic screwdriver and zapped the light bulb. It glowed brightly, casting eerie shadows across the long wood-panelled corridor. Another light bulb, another zap, and the shadows melted away. 'That's more comfortable,' the Doctor said.

  'If it's light you require, Doctor, God's own light bulb is outside.'

  The Doctor turned to find Nathaniel Porter behind him. Quite how he'd got there without the Doctor hearing him was a mystery, but he was there.

  'I'm looking for a lady,' the Doctor explained, raising a hand. 'Yay high, nice coat, bit austere. I think she came in here.'

  'Into my house? Uninvited? That seems unlikely.'

  Nathaniel Porter smiled. 'I don't let any old riff-raff in here, do I, Doctor?'

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  The Doctor smiled at Porter's dig. 'I can't think where else she might have gone,' he said. 'Unless you can shed any light on it?'

  Nathaniel Porter glanced at the newly lit bulbs but resisted rising to the Doctor's pun. 'I seriously doubt any lady has come here, Doctor.'

  'She was outside. I spoke to her.' He stared closely at Nathaniel Porter. 'She was standing next to Mr Marks. He seemed rather... perturbed by this.' The Doctor saw a flicker of... doubt? Consternation?

  Certainly something crossed the man's face, but the Doctor couldn't quite read what.

  'I tell you, Doctor, no one has entered my house bar your good self. And I am not convinced that Mr Marks would be entirely comfortable with you...

  prowling around his rooms.'

  'Oh, are they down here? I had no idea. I was looking for the kitchen. Fancied a bit of food. A cake? Scone? Shortbread? Love shortbread. Why's it called shortbread, though? Neither short nor a bread.'

  Nathaniel Porter shrugged. 'I thought you were looking for a lady.' He pointed back along the passage to the main hall. 'The kitchen is that way.

  But I believe you know that already.'

  The Doctor looked hard at Nathaniel Porter.

  'Something strange is going on in Shalford Heights.

  I'm not sure if you're unaware of it, ignoring it, or right at the heart of it.' The Doctor adjusted his bow tie as if that was some recognisable gesture of THE GLAMOUR CHASE

  defiance. 'But I'm pretty sure that I'll find out over the next day or so.'

  Nathaniel Porter suddenly bellowed with laughter. 'What a funny young man you are,' he said.

  'In my house, in my village, and you are threatening me. I'm not sure whether to be flattered, amused or insulted. Right now, I choose to be amused.' And the laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  Nathaniel Porter, however, continued speaking. 'Be very sure, Doctor, that it does not turn to "insulted", because if it does you and your friends will no longer be welcome here. And Shalford Heights can be as unfriendly and uninviting as it needs to be.'

  'As it needs to be? Or as you need it to be?'

  Nathaniel Porter again pointed back to the main hallway. 'My dear Doctor,' he said quietly. 'As I'm sure you have realised, that is one and the same thing.'

  The Doctor sidled past Porter, zapped the light bulbs off, pocketed the sonic screwdriver and began walking back to the hallway, defeated in his investigations. For now.

  'Oh, Doctor, one last thing.'

  The Doctor threw him an enquiring look.

  'Tell me, where is your friend Amelia Pond? I haven't seen her in a while.' Nathaniel Porter smiled a smile that never reached his eyes. 'You don't want her wandering off again, do you?'

  The Doctor held his gaze for a second and then turned and left and walked slowly back up the 105

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  corridor till he got to a turn, then looked back, saying, 'That had better not be a threat...' He trailed off - the corridor behind him was empty. Like the mysterious woman that had brought him into the Manse in the first place, Nathaniel Porter had just melted into the shadows and vanished.

  Something told the Doctor that if he retraced his steps, Nathaniel Porter would just as mysteriously return and shoo him out of his home. So he went straight out o
f the front door and back round to the side garden to find Oliver Marks and Rory Williams.

  Who, of course, weren't there.

  'I hate this place,' the Doctor muttered.

  'I love this place,' said Tom Benson to Amy. 'I mean, who wouldn't. Sunshine, quiet, that smell of the countryside.'

  'Pooh,' said Amy, sniffing.

  'Sorry?'

  'That's pooh. The smell of the countryside.

  Horses, cows, sheep. All the same. Pooh.'

  Tom looked affronted and looked down at the small brook they were stood beside, which ran down one end of the village, the furthest from the Manse.

  Behind them, Shalford Heights was only a couple of minutes walk, but Amy could already tell the difference in atmosphere. Literally. The air was...

  different. It was as if she and Tom had walked out of a building and into the open air rather than just 106

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  crossing a few roads.

  And Amy had been travelling with the Doctor long enough now to trust her instincts - if something felt wrong, nine times out of ten, it was.

  So why did Shalford Heights make her feel...

  queasy?

  She hooked her arm around Tom's and smiled at him. 'Oh, sorry, I wasn't trying to upset you. I love the countryside. And I love it more now that you're showing it to me.'

  'What's Scotland like?' he asked.

  Amy shrugged. 'Been a long time since I was there. I think...' She was about to say something about Scotland but couldn't bring thoughts or words to her mind, so she changed the subject. 'I've been in England so long now, I think of it as home,' she lied. Truth was, she thought of the TARDIS as home more these days. Which wouldn't be a popular thought to vocalise in front of Rory, she decided.

  Then, knowing Rory, he'd have something to say about her being here with Tom. Poor Rory - thrust into the Doctor's mad life of universal criminals, alien vampires, strange nightmares and now this.