Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  Alex Kingston with Jacqueline Rayner

  * * *

  DOCTOR WHO: THE RUBY’S CURSE

  A RIVER SONG | MELODY MALONE MYSTERY

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Here Be Spoilers …

  Chapter One Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Two New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Three Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Four New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Five Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Six Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Seven New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Eight Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Nine New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Ten Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Eleven New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Twelve Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Thirteen Stormcage, AD 5147

  Chapter Fourteen Space, AD 5147

  Chapter Fifteen New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Sixteen Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Seventeen New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Eighteen Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Nineteen Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty New York, AD 1939

  Chapter Twenty-One Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Two Cisalpine Gaul, 49 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Three Rome, 44 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Four Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Five Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Six Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, AD 1939

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, AD 1939

  Chapter Thirty Egypt, AD 1939

  Chapter Thirty-One Egypt, 30 BCE

  Chapter Thirty-Two New York, AD 1939

  Epilogue New York, AD 1939

  Postscript New York, AD 1939

  Acknowledgments

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Alex Kingston is TV royalty, celebrating 40 years in the business. From her debut in Grange Hill in 1980 to the title role (and BAFTA nomination) in The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders, starring in over 150 ER episodes and becoming part of Doctor Who folklore as River Song. Her appearance in Doctor Who was meant to be a one-off but she became a regular and remains a fan favourite.

  For Salomé

  HERE BE SPOILERS …

  Dramatis Personae

  River Song: adventurous Child of Time, occasional psychopath

  Ventrian: cursed C52nd archaeologist

  Deff: modified space Mafioso

  Cleopatra: ancient queen

  Caesarion: her son

  Charmian / Iras: her handmaidens

  Julius Caesar: Roman warlord

  Cat: a cat

  Tomas/Ezra: doomed Stormcage guards

  Sukri: prisoner allied with Deff

  Nebi / Oba / Djal / Seti: Egyptian boat owners

  Shenti: Another Egyptian boat owner

  Imi: his daughter

  Amy and Rory Pond: newly immigrant parents

  Captain Jack Harkness: flirtatious time-traveller

  The Doctor: long-distance spouse

  Plus assorted goons, delivery persons, Egyptians and Romans

  Melodramatis Personae

  Melody Malone: private detective in old New York Town

  Horace P. Wallace: millionaire collector

  Harry Durkin: hunk employed by Wallace

  Phil the Kid: loyal assistant to Melody Malone

  Calvin Cuttling: rival collector

  Susan Peterson-Lee: eccentric reincarnationist

  Dolores Jones: employee of Cuttling’s

  The Badgers: a cursed family

  George Senior (father)

  Mrs Badger (mother)

  George Junior (son)

  Ruby (daughter)

  Edwin Wivenhoe: archaeologist, deceased

  Marvin Motson: Wallace’s courier

  Floyd: Wallace’s agent in England

  Jerry / Spats: plug-uglies employed by Wallace

  Lenny: Pink Tiger Club barman

  Masuda: an Egyptian worker

  Dalilah: his wife

  Plus assorted Pink Tiger employees, boat / flying boat personnel and hotel staff

  CHAPTER ONE

  STORMCAGE, AD 5147

  One minute

  I run along the ceiling. Upside down, back to front. Suddenly back where I started. But I keep running.

  Their aim is to disorientate me, I know that. Mustn’t let them. Must keep going.

  Close my eyes. Feel my way. Feet on floor, no turning, no spinning, no falling. Just running. Ignore all other signals. Just feet on floor, running. Running. Running. Don’t stop. Onwards. Onwards.

  Split-second timing. Must be near the end. Can’t stop until I’m there. Can’t carry on or I’ll die.

  Should I pray to a god right now?

  All I can do is run. All I can do is hope. All I can do is trust myself.

  Nearly there.

  Don’t stop.

  Must stop.

  One second, two seconds. Step, step, step – freeze.

  40 seconds

  I opened my eyes again, and tried not to feel too smug at my perfect landing – feet poised on the very edge of the next zone. But the danger wasn’t over. This was the Stormcage Containment Facility, the most secure prison this side of the universe, not Blackpool pleasure beach. I reached into my backpack, trying not to wobble as my brain started to take in all that contradictory sensory input again, tried to tell me I was on the ceiling, or going backwards, or falling endlessly. Whoever designed these defences had done a very good job, and they must have been pretty cold-blooded and cunning.

  Hmm. Wonder if they have any job vacancies?

  35 seconds

  If I’d gone too far – if even a toe landed on the floor beyond – the bots would have swarmed. I’d seen it happen before. Nanobots so tiny, so copious, that it looks like you’re being smothered in treacle. Once they’re in your nose and mouth you’re quickly suffocated, which at least stops you feeling it when they dismantle you cell by cell. I’d had to rely on my memory and sense of time to make that perfect landing with my eyes shut. But guess what. I’m half human, on my mother and father’s side. The rest of me is a child of the Time Vortex. Time is in my blood. Time is my blood.

  I’d come prepared for the next stage. I fumbled in my bag – damn! There went my lipstick. For a split second I considered trying to retrieve it, but it was already buried in bots. No time to reproach myself, I had to keep going. I went back into my bag and brought out a self-inflating crocodile. This might well tarnish my reputation as a sophisticated psychopath, but I’d needed something that packed down small and they were on sale.

  Open. Inflate. Throw. Jump.

  30 seconds

  The crocodile gave a loud, unexpected squeak as I landed awkwardly on its back. The half a second I took to stabilise almost cost me my life; the treacle-wave of bots was fast consuming my blow-up stepping stone as I reached for a second inflatable.

  29 seconds

  Open. Inflate. Throw. Jump. Repeat.

  I made it to the end. On turning back, all I could see was the sharp-toothed, air-filled mouth of the final crocodile as the bots overwhelmed it. All the others were already consumed.

  20 seconds

  The next obstacle was my favourite. I’ve never quite understood why a laser maze is considered a top-tier deterrent when a laser wall would be much more effective. But I’m not complaining. I’ve never felt more like a superhero than when I danced across the floor, deflecting each incoming beam with a hand mirror. Up above! Down low! Never too slow!

  … and rest.

  10 seconds

  Two directions. The first leading straight to the staff area. Everything’s r
un from there. I’ve considered making a detour before – turn off the defences, make a few discreet alterations to my file, maybe schedule myself a mani-pedi – but it’s difficult, even for me, to get in without loss of life, and that could make a gal unpopular around here. I’d have to take the other direction.

  There’s a children’s game in which you need to drop marbles through holes. The aim is to line up different holes to create an unobstructed path downwards, and bye-bye marble. Stormcage has something similar. The doors all need to align to enable you to get to your chosen location. Each corridor is accessible once a day only. Trouble is, you can only see the first door. If you mistime, if one of the others is out of place … well, absolute best outcome is you arrive on the wrong floor. You really don’t want to hear what happens if you’re not lucky. But did I mention? Child of Time here. I could tell the second everything fell into place.

  5 seconds

  Deep breath.

  4 seconds

  On your mark.

  3 seconds

  Get set.

  2 seconds

  Go!

  1 second

  I ran. I dived. I flew through the first door …

  … and I landed on the other side. Both feet together, don’t stumble, arms up! I’d make any gymnastics teacher proud.

  0 seconds

  I still had the labyrinth to go, but I’d been through that so many times I could find my way even without a handy ball of string.

  Achievement unlocked!

  I let myself into Cell 426, and pulled the door closed behind me. How lovely, someone changed my sheets while I was gone. I must be sure to thank the guards.

  I sat down on my bunk and pulled the typewriter out of my backpack.

  What bliss. I’d finally found somewhere with the peace and quiet I needed to write my book.

  I started to type:

  Come through the doors of the Angel Detective Agency Inc., Floor 33, RCA Building, Manhattan, and maybe you’re expecting just another private eye …

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEW YORK, AD 1939

  Come through the doors of the Angel Detective Agency Inc., Floor 33, RCA Building, Manhattan, and maybe you’re expecting just another private eye. I’ve got the trench coat. I’ve got the fedora. I’ve got the hip flask. I’ve got a .357 Magnum in my drawer and a .380 ACP in my boot. But I’ve got a couple more things you might not be expecting, if you know what I mean. (I’m talking a slash of ruby-red lipstick and a splash of Chanel No.5, what did you think I was talking about?)

  Horace P. Wallace’s goons weren’t expecting them, that’s for sure. In they come, not even bothering to knock, and demand to speak to ‘my boss’. Oh joy. I was going to have some fun here.

  ‘There’s only one boss here, and you’re looking at her,’ I tell them.

  They guffaw. I thought ‘guffaw’ was just one of those book words, not something people did, but there’s no other way of describing it. ‘Haw haw haw,’ that’s what it sounds like. Like they’ve read a description of how to laugh and are trying to follow the instructions.

  ‘Stop kidding around, sweetheart,’ says one of them.

  He was about five two and as wide as he was tall, and I later learned he went by the name of Jerry. His partner – revelling in the moniker ‘Spats’ – was the worst-dressed man I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a man in yellow pinstriped trousers, patchwork coat and turquoise polka-dot cravat. Spats here went one up with his pink waistcoat and wide orange tie – not that I’m knocking the tie. It came in pretty handy for me a few minutes later.

  ‘Who’s kidding?’ I say. ‘If you want the best PI in the city, you’ve come to the right place. If, on the other hand, you want a PI with a Y chromosome, get the hell out of my office.’

  Sad to report, Jerry and Spats think I’m joking, and if I’m not gonna fetch my boss they’ll have to go through me to reach him. For some reason they assume Mr Imaginary Bossman is located through one of the doors on the other side of the room. One leads to my bedroom and the other’s actually a storage closet, but hey, it’s not surprising that neither of them had the nickname ‘Brains’. I’m still trying to figure out why they decided that a secretary would want to keep potential paying clients away from her PI boss anyway; it wouldn’t exactly be the best way to run a business. I guess they just enjoy shoving their weight around.

  I sure enjoyed shoving their weight around too. As they advance on me, guns out, trying to get at those oh-so-tempting inner doors, I grab Spats’s handy orange tie and swing on it, launching myself up so my feet whip into Jerry’s face and his nose goes splat. I land as delicately as a butterfly and stand over them while Spats chokes and tries to loosen his noose and Jerry’s trying to stop the blood streaming from his broken hooter with a hankie the size of a pillowcase. Somehow during all of this my Magnum has managed to make its way out of the drawer and into my hand, and now I’m pointing it at both of them, back and forth from one to the other like the ticking of a clock.

  I take a few steps backwards, not taking my eyes off them, and use my free hand to open first the closet door, then the bedroom. Wouldn’t normally let a coupla boobs like them see inside my boudoir, but I need to get my point across. I can see their eyes widening as they realise that there’s no big boy boss on the other side of those doors and the only person in this office is me, just like I’ve been telling them this whole time.

  ‘Listen, fellas,’ I say. ‘You can either tell me your business or you can stop messing up my office, and the way I’m feeling right now the latter’s probably the safest course of action for you. Now do you want to take yourselves out like the trash you are, or do I have to clean up after you?’ And I grabbed a mop out of the closet to make my point, smiling to see them give a little jump like I was going to whack them with it. Which, to be fair, was another option I’d been considering.

  Anyway, it doesn’t take them more than a second to decide, and there they go, scuttling out the door like a pair of cowardly crabs. Yeah, I might be turning work away, and god knows I need it, but a girl’s got her dignity to consider.

  Shame you can’t eat dignity.

  I sat around for the rest of the day until it became clear that no paying work was gonna materialise, then made my way down to the Cotton Club on Broadway and 48th. A gal in the right outfit there can get free drinks all night long. So I’m wearing a scarlet dress that could have been sprayed on – we’re talking The Bride Wore Red territory, and I’m out-Crawfording Joan herself – and I’m on my fourth Manhattan of the night (red’s my colour in drinks as well as frocks), when in walks Mr Horace P. Wallace.

  He comes straight up to my table. ‘Miss Malone?’ he says.

  ‘Depends on who’s asking,’ I say, even though I know exactly who he is. Everyone does. Horace P. Wallace made his millions during Prohibition, with bootlegging being one of the lesser charges on his rap sheet. He’s legit now, though – well, as far as anyone knows. He’s gone in for collecting in a big way, jewels and art and historical artefacts, and you can get pretty close to crossing the line in that kind of business.

  ‘You’d know already if you’d listened to my associates earlier today,’ he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. I’m real good at raising an eyebrow just the right amount, and I add a little twist to my smile too. You can get away with just about anything with a flick of an eyebrow and a crooked smile if he’s a guy and you’re a doll. ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘Can’t be those two goons that bust into my office this afternoon. You’re a classy man, you wouldn’t have dimwits like that on your payroll.’

  He sits down without even a by-your-leave and calls for an Old Fashioned for himself and another Manhattan for me. ‘Tell me what happened,’ he says, and I oblige. I’m betting my story’s a bit different to the one his goons reported back, and the way he’s frowning makes me pretty sure I’d win my bet. ‘I’m after a good private dick,’ he says, ‘and I don’t care if you are a chick. In fact, that coul
d be a good thing.’

  ‘I’m so glad it meets with your approval,’ I say sweetly.

  ‘Don’t get uptight, girlie. I’m offering good money for an easy job.’

  He tells me how much. Any thought of dignity goes straight out the window. Heck, for 50 bucks an hour I’d let people call me ‘chick’ and ‘girlie’ and not hit them even a tiny little bit.

  We shake on the deal and have a couple more drinks to seal it properly. But this new job starts in the morning, so I decide an early night’s needed and make my excuses by just gone two; I’m tucked up in my own little bed by half past.

  Eight the next morning sees me in a hash house with coffee and frozen orange juice alongside a mushroom omelette, slices of ham and a pile of toast higher than the Empire State Building, all courtesy of Horace P. Wallace’s advance on payment.

  Once all that’s inside of me, I wander on down to the docks. There’s already a crowd, although the boat that we’re all waiting for won’t be in for another hour. I can see young men in their Sunday best suits clinging to posies of carnations and roses, waiting no doubt for sweethearts to return and rush into their arms. Anxious moms and pops praying their wanderlusting offspring will be safely back in Liberty’s arms soon. Kids in shiny shoes being reminded by their mother what their father looks like so they’ll recognise him coming down the gangplank.

  And then there’s Horace P. himself, bookended by a wary-looking Spats, Jerry (whose nose is the size and colour of a beefsteak tomato), and a couple of other muscle-a-likes. Useless as I know them to be, I wouldn’t want to be walking into their outstretched arms, and there’s a little circle clear around them, as the sweethearts and parents and little kids decide not to stand so close. I keep my distance too. After the first glance, I don’t even look at them. It’s all part of the deal.

  Wallace was quite right when he said my gender could be an advantage. I’d left the trench coat and fedora at home and was done up as a good little homegirl: pinched-in waist and pleated skirt with white cartwheel hat and gloves and matching low-heeled sandals. I’d even put a ring on the appropriate finger – not a real rock, but it added to the picture of a lovesick Juliet waiting for her returning Romeo, which was the role I’d decided to play.