And in those hundreds of sleeping minds, dreams sprang to the surface. Dreams of loss and being chased and swimming in vast oceans, dreams of landscapes that never were on earth, dreams of searching and loving, or of brave husbands and of beautiful children and of never being alone, of always having company and being safe inside forever – they all rolled through the city, from bedroom to bedroom and head to head.
In Montrose, a dream involving carnivorous trees was immensely widespread. Carnoustie dreamed of Spanish dogs, burning hats and a long journey across water. Broughty Ferry woke up briefly at around 2 a.m. with the taste of ice cream in its mouth. Dundee saw beasts with twining limbs and horns, talking bears and boars and horses and felt as if they were dancing inside fur – and also crouched like a hunter under a cloak, watching magical animals and waiting…
And above the Fetch Hotel and Spa, the moon was also shining and dreams were also being dreamed. The guests were dreaming peacefully and yet strangely: the Spencers, who were an older couple from Cardiff, were sharing room 45. They were also sharing a dream about David Cassidy which rightfully belonged to Karen Clough, a 14-year-old travelling with her parents from Newcastle – they were staying in room 21. Karen Clough was dreaming a little about David Cassidy, but mainly about emigrating to New Zealand and becoming a fish-eating bird – which was also the dream being enjoyed by Daniel Taylor of room 38 and the occupants of rooms 23, 27 and 43. Several guests also found that – the following morning – they had dreamed of green. Just this remarkably pleasant shade of green. It provoked a surge of happiness and a desire for fudge.
Over breakfast the following morning, far from feeling strange, all the guests trooped down to eat with jokes and smiles, little chats about the weather, handshakes and contented sighs.
Even Kevin Mangold felt incredibly well. The rash on his shins was fading and, after a frantic search for emergency staff, he’d had a cat nap and woken more utterly refreshed than he had ever known himself to be. Refreshed, in the mood for ice cream and with an oddly clinging memory of being a colourfully feathered dinosaur for a while and quite enjoying having a tail.
AND AT 9.18 A.M. on 3 June 1978, the world began to end.
The reason for this was as follows:
While the Doctor had stared at the pulsing shape of the Bah-Sokhar, deep in thought, Putta had felt able to sidle across and murmur to Bryony, ‘Are you all right?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean – are you all right?’
‘Yes, but you also meant a whole load of other stuff about the shape of my mouth and showing me somewhere with a greenish sky and thinking you ought to take off your other sock and…and…It’s just…it’s – please stop liking me quite so loudly.’
Putta swallowed audibly and tried to pack away as much of his thinking as he could, while repeating, ‘No but—’
Which Bryony interrupted: ‘Yes!’ And then she said more quietly, ‘Yes. I’m OK. I am. It’s all kind of wonderful…Not the horrible death parts, but the rest is…I would let you take me to a planet with a greenish sky any time you wanted.’
This produced such a torrent of thinking from Putta that Bryony flinched and the Doctor yelled, ‘Will you two keep your hormones under control. It’s like witnessing the Great Mating on Cyrus 12 – only I wouldn’t be standing this close. Really…telepathy is always so irritating…And intrusive.’
‘Yes.’ Bryony rubbed her temples. ‘No wonder the Bah-Sokhar chucked us out – maybe we were being too loud. We were probably the equivalent of a migraine.’
‘Nonsense,’ huffed the Doctor, like a highly experienced expert in all life forms. ‘The Bah-Sokhar incorporated me in a kind of cyst – it was going to keep me for ever and I’m very grateful that it changed its…Aah…It kept me in an insulated cyst…’ The Doctor batted himself on the forehead. ‘And I was complaining that it was too loud in my head…‘He strode back and forth, his arms wheeling. ‘That’s the trouble with the universe – it’s full of species I’ve never met before, I have to guess…and the volume was affecting my thinking and I’m tired…You slow down after the first few hundred years…Handsome and so forth but…I’m tired.’ He grinned, his eyes sparking and then glanced at the view screen without any trace of anxiety – or hardly any. ‘I’m tired and so I need to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream…’ His grin dialled up a few notches until it was almost audible. ‘Right you two. You’ve been through a lot – you need to sleep and so do I.’ He flopped himself down on what was – as Bryony’s and Putta’s thinking agreed – the hard, distractingly thrumming floor of the console room. ‘It’s fine. Lovely floor the TARDIS floor. I’ve slept in here often – nearer the instrument panels.’ And he snuggled his shoulders about a bit as if he was on a comfy mattress.
Bryony and Putta felt a small hint of the TARDIS’s presence for the first time since the Bah-Sokhar expelled them. Their spines were warmed by a gentle brush of comfort, watchful and nervous. And the lights softened to an orangey-golden glow, suitable for sleeping.
So the two sat themselves down and then lay as the Doctor instructed – ‘Heads together, and I think if we hold hands…’ They did the best they could to settle themselves. ‘And now we’ll do some top quality sleeping. How else would we knock very quietly on the Bah-Sokhar’s door and see how it’s feeling? It’s the easiest thing in the world – obvious really…’
The Doctor gave a mighty yawn and then Bryony and Putta were aware of him quickly falling still while his breathing settled. Like all beings used to arduous travel, risks and wonders, the Doctor could fall asleep pretty much at will.
And although they simultaneously thought it highly unlikely that they would get any sleep at all, Bryony and Putta did get the distinct impression that the tolling bell stopped tolling and found that the floor seemed to soften under them and warm and generally behave as if…
Neither of them knew as if what, because they went to sleep.
And in that sleep – they were still together but standing, hand-in-hand on a gently curved, opalescent surface which shimmered wonderfully. Overhead, a night sky hung beautifully clear and bright with marvellous constellations.
The Doctor whispered, ‘This is…I recognise this…I’ve dreamed this with the TARDIS before. Even she sleeps sometimes, in a way.’ Out of the distance came a shape which looked like a walking human as it approached, ambling slowly, even nervously. But when it was closer, they could see that it was, in fact a tall, glisteningly black horse. Its well-developed muscles ticked under its shining skin. Its hooves were huge, dark, perfect like oiled metal. And yet it didn’t fully resemble an Earth horse. Its head was very long and solid, the bone above its eyes especially substantial. And its mane writhed thickly between its pricked-forward ears and along its powerful neck, knotting and flowing into patterns, weaving, winding and shivering. It was both terrible and magnificent.
They understood it was the Bah-Sokhar in another form, one more fundamental and familiar to its identity. It was telling them that it had the strength of a beast, but also its nervousness.
The Bah-Sokhar tossed its head and pawed with one massive hoof at the milk-and-rainbow-light surface supporting them.
Bryony thought how amazing it would be to touch this incredible creature.
At once it wagged that massive head and sidestepped, uneasy.
Bryony heard herself thinking, ‘Sorrysorrysorry.’
The Bah-Sokhar stilled again. It swung its neck and – one by one – examined them with eyes which were not only black – they were also flecked with a moving fire, deep in their gaze.
All of them experienced Putta’s fear as his consciousness was peered into. And then they shared his sensations of guilt and shame. There was something about the great horse that was to do with justice, some kind of dreadful working out of justice and punishment which chilled him, chilled them all. But he came to no harm.
Bryony was next, forcing herself to stand still in her dream while she listened to the
loud, large breathing of the beast as it took one step closer, its big nostrils widening, puffing humid air on to her face. She smelled the smell of an animal, a wild thing. And the animal leaned forward and breathed her scent and let her understand that it found she was self-defeating and someone who made simple things complicated, someone who could be better and bigger, someone who should waste no more time, someone who should know when to let gifts in if they were offered. Very gently, it lowered its neck and paused. She almost didn’t dare – but then she did, she passed the test and reached out, placed her hand equally gently on the giant horse’s pelt – it was almost too hot to touch and yet also felt like velvet, like trust and agreement. Then the Bah-Sokhar swung away and faced the Doctor.
All at once, the horse-formed creature reared up, the dangerous curves of its wide hooves, flashing and threatening. The Doctor didn’t move. The Doctor, in fact – as the others could feel – admired how truly extraordinary the Bah-Sokhar was in this display of ancient majesty. The Bah-Sokhar’s mane lifted and flared like black flames, the red glow of its eyes woke fully and blazed. But the Doctor stood, appreciated, let it be. He even slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, tilted his head to the side and edged towards the start of a smile. The air grew hotter and hotter, became thick with that animal scent and a monumental rage that sung and prickled and clawed at them. The Doctor nodded, more thoughtful, but still calm as the sleepiest ocean on Earth or any other planet.
And then the horse quietened, panted, dropped its hooves, stood. It dropped its great skull. It was alone. It was more alone than any being in the universe. And it wanted to be at peace and fade away.
The Doctor gazed into one of its great eyes, now only dimly alight, and he nodded again. And he leaned his head forward and the Bah-Sokhar lowered its own head until the Doctor was resting his forehead against the beast’s.
Each being in the dream breathed.
There could be peace between mankind and the Bah-Sokhar, between the universe and the Bah-Sokhar.
Then Paul Cluny Jnr walked out of the former fisherman’s cottage which his parents were renting as a holiday home for the week. His mother was cooking breakfast and his father was trying to get the wireless aerial to work. They weren’t thinking about Paul Junior. They weren’t – being remarkably insensitive people in every way – aware of anything Paul Junior was thinking.
That didn’t matter.
At 9.17 a.m. on 3 June 1978, Paul Cluny Junior thought, ‘I wish to be the jewel at the heart of the universe.’
He paused while nothing in particular happened.
And then, at 9.18 a.m. – here came the end of the world.
IN THE NORTHERN ZONE Regional War Room that weird feeling was back. Personnel felt the hairs bristle on the backs of their necks and then found that their mouths tasted of metal. Then they got headaches and blurred vision. Several of them made it as far as the medic before their minds were filled completely and indelibly and triumphantly with one word.
ZANDOR
With perfect calm, their eyes like dark pebbles, the officers and men left their allotted tasks, set down their papers, left phone calls unfinished and marched peacefully up and out through the entrance of their bunker. They didn’t bother to close the airtight, radiation-proof doors. As they climbed the stairs to leave in a winding snake of uniforms, some of them collected weapons. Beneath their feet, the concrete shuddered, as if it were restless, or furious, or in pain.
Waiting for them outside the cottages which cunningly disguised the entrance to the War Room complex were two lovely children – twins with sun-kissed hair and agile limbs, their faces warmed by pleasant smiles. Only their eyes were disturbing – like chill fragments of an endless night. As each man and woman passed, the girl and the boy would intone together, ‘Ever so well done. Now you serve the mighty hatethinker Zandor. It will be lovely for you. All power to Zandor and his rage. Defend our border bravely while we feed and grow.’
Each of the uniformed figures nodded when they heard this and then headed off in pairs, either along the roads, or taking rough tracks, or even cutting across country. They marched with utter determination.
IN HER KITCHEN, MRS Julia Fetch had been taking a breakfast of porridge with brown sugar on top after an especially wonderful night’s sleep. But now she felt peculiar.
Not to put too fine a point on it – she had too many legs. And now that she’d admitted it, she also might have to accept that her number of arms wasn’t quite right, either. She had four of each. Four arms, four legs, a nasty tear in both of her nightgown’s sleeves and a slight difficulty in arranging where she should put all her knees – there wasn’t quite room in her nightie.
She knew that getting older had its troubles and difficulties, but she did feel that being expected to accept extra limbs with no warning at her age was unreasonable. Then again…
Julia reached out for more tea and poured it while buttering toast with remarkable speed and dexterity. This was quite fun. She stood up, munching her toast and trotted into her living room where she kept her lovely gramophone. She put on a 78 record of ‘Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do’ being sung by Bessie Smith. As the horns sloped in and then that gorgeous wailing voice opened up, Mrs Julia Fetch danced as she never had, shimmied slow and smooth, wagged her four hands up high, swayed her four feet sideways and sang along: ‘Some day when you grow lonely your heart will break like mine and you’ll want me only…’
She’d first danced to this in…oh, it would have to have been 1927…when everyone was still so happy and jolly after the terrible war, because they had to be happy and jolly – there were so few of the people they’d known left. And it had also been good to have the blues, to be sad in such a beautiful way when so many of the chaps had gone and Bernard among them.
She didn’t remember Bernard often – she didn’t seem able to.
So much had been lost.
And yet here she was – dancing better than she ever had and feeling so deliciously strong and lively. Really, she felt better than she had in years, decades.
Bessie Smith’s melodious heartbreak sang on around her and she danced and danced – her bare feet sliding and stepping, clever and dainty and deep in the beat.
WHILE PAUL CLUNY JUNIOR settled into his new High Throne, constructed from the intricately carved stones in the museum and set on the alter at St Vigeans church, the Doctor and his companions knew that something had gone disastrously wrong.
One moment the Bah-Sokhar’s horse form was peaceful and awe-inspiring – the next it had shuddered and reared, growing as it reared, its hooves shining balefully, its mane writhing, its muscles taught under skin that was rippling with red light.
‘No! No!’ The Doctor tried to calm it. ‘Whoever is talking to you, there’s no need to listen any more. Please!’
But the dream collapsed around Bryony, Putta and the Doctor and they all found themselves lying back on the TARDIS floor, the cloister bell tolling faster and louder than before. The last vision they saw was of a towering stallion, all aflame, its head fluxing between that of a horse, of a stag, of a wild boar and of a human face – the face of a petulant adolescent boy.
That same face was currently troubling the remaining undisappeared guests at the Fetch Hotel. Kevin Mangold had been forced by multiple disappearances to help out with serving breakfast – and a delayed breakfast at that – because only the chef and one housemaid had bothered to turn up for work. This had been the worst thing that had happened today – until the florid purple wallpaper had begun to swell and heave and had then, one might say, budded into multiple human forms.
Although they’re not human are they, I mean they can’t be, I mean I have no idea, I mean this isn’t happening anyway because it can’t be and I’m asleep and everything is…
There were a dozen new humans in the dining room now – all of them looking a bit too newly made to be entirely convincing and all of them reproducing the same lanky, slightly spotty, round-shouldered yout
h in sneakers, jeans and a yellow shirt. Mangold was extremely grateful that this couldn’t really be possible, because the chap looked like exactly the sort of demanding foreign oik that he couldn’t abide. (Mangold wasn’t exactly made for the hospitality industry.)
As soon as he thought badly of them, all of the youths turned to him with identical expressions of amused contempt. They all spoke with identical, whining, adenoidal American accents. ‘I, Zandor the Magnificent, have no care of what you might think of me.’ Grammar obviously wasn’t their strong point. ‘I must feed.’
At this, the youths herded the terrified golfers and golfers’ wives into one corner of the dining room and singled out one slender, kind-faced lady. They closed in on her while her husband tried to stand in their way. But the man was cuffed to the ground by one youth. Although it was scrawny, it clearly had immense strength.
Next, as the woman tried to smile and be dignified in what was an intolerable situation, one of the youths extended his hand towards her. She took this as a good sign and reached out in her turn, holding its hand. But as soon as she touched the youth’s skin, she cried out and – quickly, quickly – it was clear that contact was emptying her, literally emptying her.
Mangold and the rest of the guests looked on and her husband yelled impotently where he was restrained, still on the floor. But nothing could stop the woman’s horrible transformation.
First her forearm emptied and flattened, as if it had been no more than a skin container for water, or air. Very soon, the whole of her right arm was shrivelled and hanging. The process was obviously hugely painful, but the woman could only stare at the ruin of herself as her body failed. More hands were reached towards her and at each point they touched, her substance was removed, leaving only her skin.
Mangold tried to think that at least the ordeal would be over quickly, but that didn’t make it any better. And it was quite plain that every human being in that room was going to face the same fate.
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