Deep Blue

by Mark Morris

  ‘Only you, mate,’ said the man with a grin.

  ‘Me?’ said the Doctor, taken aback. Then he smiled and touched the stick of celery attached to his lapel. ‘Ah. Yes, I suppose my attire is a little anachronistic.’

  The man chuckled as if the Doctor had made a joke and leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter of the van’s serving hatch. ‘You’ll have heard about the palaver down by the harbour earlier.’

  ‘Will I?’

  ‘I thought everyone had.’

  ‘I’m new to town,’ said the Doctor, licking his ice-cream.

  The man nodded wisely, then winked and glanced right and left as if about to impart confidential information that he didn’t want overheard. ‘Aye, well, they sealed the whole place off.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘Really? Any idea why?’

  ‘They reckon there was a fishing boat found this morning, just floating out at sea. Everyone on board dead. Murdered, they reckon.’

  The Doctor stared at the man for a moment, then thrust the half-eaten ‘99’ into his hand. ‘Thank you, you’ve been most helpful,’ he said as he spun away.

  ‘Oi!’

  The Doctor halted in mid-spin. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Are you going to pay for this or what?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ The Doctor rammed his hand into his coat pocket and produced a dozen or so glittering purple shells which he scattered across the small counter in front of the man. The man gaped at them in astonishment, then spluttered, ‘Hey, wait a minute.’

  But the Doctor was already halfway down the road, hurrying in the direction of the harbour. ‘It’s all right, keep the change,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  The earlier excitement had died down by the time the Doctor reached the police barrier. There was a smattering of curious onlookers, though with nothing much to see. On the jetty, a couple of hundred yards beyond the makeshift cordon of yellow tape, a lone uniformed policeman stood guard beside a trawler whose deck was covered by several tarpaulins.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the Doctor shouted, raising a hand in an attempt to snag the policeman’s attention. Unsuccessful, he cried out more loudly, ‘Ahoy there!’, but again the policeman either didn’t hear or chose to ignore him.

  The Doctor sighed in exasperation, ducked beneath the barrier and strolled nonchalantly towards the boat. The policeman stepped into action. He hurried forward to intercept the Doctor, his face red with exertion and anger.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? I could have you arrested for crossing a police line.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the Doctor, offering his most winning smile. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’d simply like to speak to whoever3s in charge.’

  ‘You would, would you? And which backstreet rag do you represent then?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not a journalist. I work for UNIT. In an advisory capacity, of course. I have a pass here somewhere.’ The Doctor rummaged frantically through his pockets, then all at once his face cleared and he grinned. He removed his panama hat to reveal a square of laminated card perched on the top of his head. He nodded and the card fell neatly into his palm.

  He held it out to the policeman, his forefinger concealing the photograph of his third incarnation, then replaced it deftly in his pocket. ‘I understand you have something of a mystery here,’ he said, striding towards the trawler.

  ‘Aye, but then your friend will have told you all about that.’

  The Doctor stopped and turned so abruptly that the policeman almost walked into the back of him. ‘Friend?’

  ‘The other UNIT feller.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You didn’t happen to catch his name by any chance?’

  The policeman frowned. ‘Aye. The DI called him... Bates, I think it was.’

  ‘Mike Yates?’ supplied the Doctor.

  ‘Aye, that’s it. How many of you people are here then?’

  ‘Oh, several,’ said the Doctor vaguely, then clapped the policeman on the arm. ‘Tell you what,’ he said as if it had suddenly occurred to him to do this man a great favour, ‘why don’t you tell me exactly what happened here?’

  ‘Your friend not fill you in then?’ said the policeman drily.

  ‘Different departments,’ bluffed the Doctor. ‘Mike Yates is the military liaison officer, I’m in the scientific research team.

  Our paths don’t cross all that often. Besides, I’ve always been a great believer in getting the facts from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.’

  The policeman raised his eyebrows, but seemed convinced enough of the Doctor’s credentials to fill him in on the fate of the Papillon’s crew. The Doctor listened hard, then gestured towards the boat. ‘May I?’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Be my guest. Not much to see now, though, bar a few bloodstains. All the remains were taken for forensic examination a couple of hours ago.’

  The Doctor jumped nimbly down to the deck of the trawler and hauled the first of the heavy tarpaulins aside. He spent several minutes examining the boat, alternately squatting on his haunches and jumping up to range about as if searching for something specific.

  Finally he leaped back up on to the jetty. ‘Thank you, Constable, he said. ‘Most enlightening’ He swivelled on his heels, briefly scanning the holidaymakers toing and froing on the promenade. ‘Tell me, have there been any strange occurrences in the town recently? Anything at all out of the ordinary?’

  ‘Well, no, not really, sir. Oh, apart from Elkins’s light, of course.’

  ‘Elkins’s light?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought you knew about all that.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  The constable gave him a curious look, but dutifully recounted the story.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said the Doctor, staring distractedly into the middle distance. Abruptly he snapped out of his semi-trance and said, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir, not really. There’s been a higher level of violent incident than is usual for even this time of year around the Sands these past couple of weeks, but that’s most likely a sign of the times than anything.’

  ‘Most likely,’ echoed the Doctor. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Constable.’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  The Doctor half-turned away, then something seemed to occur to him and he smiled. ‘Oh, one final thing. I don’t suppose Mr Yates left a contact address by any chance?’

  The first day of Charlotte Maybury’s holiday had not been a good one. Despite the sunshine and the change of scenery, her parents had continued to bicker and her brother to mooch sullenly along in their wake.

  By 6 p.m. Charlotte was exhausted, her stoically cheerful veneer close to cracking. She felt as if she had spent the day holding at bay two combatants who were determined to rip chunks out of each other. Her various suggestions - Sea Life Centre, crazy golf, beach - had been met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm from her mum and dad and a sort of contemptuous indifference from Chris. In the end they had simply shuffled aimlessly from one location to another, forcing down ice-creams and fizzy drinks and cups of tea at regular intervals merely because it seemed the thing to do.

  Now they were meandering back to the boarding house and Charlotte was looking forward to a warm bath and a bit of peace and quiet in the privacy of her room.

  They were walking past a fish and chip restaurant called The Happy Plaice when her dad, Tony, halted. ‘Who fancies haddock and chips?’ he said.

  Imogen shot him a disdainful look. ‘Don’t you ever say anything sensible?’

  Tony rolled his eyes. ‘What’s your problem now, woman?’

  ‘Apart from you, you mean?’ She sighed and as if speaking to a child said, ‘We’ll be having an evening meal at the B ‘n B.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘What do you mean, says who? We’ve paid for it, you stupid sod.’

  ‘So what? We’re on holiday, aren’t we? We can splash out a bit.’

  ‘Oh yeah
? What with?’

  ‘Don’t start going on about that again. For God’s sake, woman, a plate of fish and chips is hardly going to break the bank, is it?’

  Imogen thrust out her jaw and said through gritted teeth,

  ‘But I don’t want fish and chips.’

  ‘Well, I do,’ sneered Tony, thrusting his face close to hers.

  Charlotte felt the familiar tension squeezing her lungs. She was so exhausted by their arguing that she felt like screaming at them to stop, felt like grabbing each of them by the scruffs of their necks and banging their heads together.

  But she knew that anger on her part would do no good. It was her lot to be the conciliator.

  Wearily, all thoughts of a warm bath slipping away from her, she said, Why don’t we just pop in for a cup of tea?

  We’ve still got plenty of time before dinner.’

  Chris snorted and looked away as if he thought her attempts at arbitration pathetic.

  Her dad rounded on her. ‘I don’t want a cup of tea. I want fish and chips.’

  ‘Well, you have fish and chips,’ she said reasonably. ‘Mum and I can have a cup of tea and Chris can have... whatever he wants.’

  Her brother mumbled something. Imogen snapped her head towards him. ‘If you’ve got something to say, just say it.’

  Suddenly Chris was glaring at her, the cheekbones of his spotty face flaring with colour. ‘I said what I want is to get away from this bloody family. I don’t know why I had to come on this stupid holiday, anyway. I wish you’d all just get stuffed and leave me alone.’

  Charlotte looked around. They were starting to attract the attention of passers-by.

  Imogen stepped towards him. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that!’

  ‘Oh yeah, or what will you do? Smack my bum?’

  ‘She might not, but I will,’ growled Tony.

  Chris took a step back, but his stance was aggressive, defiant. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tony and lunged forward, face red, eyes bulging. Chris hopped sideways and threw a clumsy punch, which connected with his father’s face more by luck than judgement.

  Quite a crowd was gathering now. Charlotte rushed forward to position herself between Chris and Tony, her composure crumbling. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ she shouted. She tried to grab her dad’s arm to pull him back, but he swung out to shrug her off and his hand struck the side of her face, sending her reeling. She stumbled off the kerb and her legs gave way beneath her, dumping her unceremoniously on the ground.

  ‘You bloody animal!’ Imogen screamed at Tony, but Tony ignored her, advancing on Chris.

  ‘Come here, you little sod!’ he roared, but Chris darted into the crowd of onlookers, which parted before him.

  When he was a safe distance away, he shouted, ‘I hate the lot of you. I wish you’d all just bloody drop dead.’ Then he turned and loped away. A group of lads, who had been watching what was going on with grins all over their faces, cheered and clapped.

  ‘And you lot can bloody shut up,’ Tony roared, stomping towards them.

  The lads ran off, laughing and making V-signs as they retreated.

  Tony clumped to a halt. He was red and sweating, the side of his face already purple where Chris had hit him. His eyes bulged and there was froth at the comers of his mouth. For a moment he looked confused, as if he had no idea what to do next, then he swung towards the restaurant. ‘I’m off for some fish and chips,’ he muttered, ‘You two can do what you like.’

  Charlotte, still sitting in the gutter, aware that she was being stared at like some curious exhibit in a museum, allowed her head to sink into her trembling hands to hide the tears that were running down her face.

  ‘Right,’ said Tegan as soon as she had put the phone down,

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘To find the Doctor?’

  She gave Turlough a withering look. ‘You really think I’m that desperate?’

  He shrugged. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Well... where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk. To get some fresh air.’

  Turlough raised his eyebrows dismissively. ‘Right... well, I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Much later,’ snapped Tegan and marched out.

  For a while she stomped through the streets of the town, the exasperation inside her blinding her to her surroundings.

  Eventually, she calmed down, and moving into the town centre, away from the seafront, spent a pleasant hour window-shopping. She grimaced at the seventies’ fashions, wondering how she could ever have found such clothes trendy in her teenage years, and marvelled at how cheap everything was. Thinking of money made her remember how the Doctor had insisted on vetting the cash in the little shoulder bag she’d packed - and which she was now carrying with her - to ensure she wasn’t about to hand over coins that were yet to be minted. Her throat and stomach tightened again. The Doctor was her friend, she trusted him implicitly, but if he treated her more like an adult she wouldn’t have cause to fly off the handle so often, would she?

  She spotted a pub, The Captain Cook, and decided to pop in for a drink. She couldn’t remember the last time she had sat quietly by herself on her own planet in (more or less) her own time while life drifted by around her. Since Amsterdam, her life had been a whirlwind of exotic locations and life-shattering - sometimes planet-shattering- events. ‘Strictly no aliens allowed,’ she murmured to herself as she pushed open the pub door and entered.

  Predictably, the landlord of The Captain Cook had opted to give his pub a nautical theme. The dark-wood walls were decorated with framed photographs of fishing trawlers and their crews, and with various sea-faring paraphernalia: a ship’s wheel, a barometer, an anchor. Above the bar was a huge stuffed marlin in a glass case.

  Tegan stood beneath the marlin as she ordered a glass of dry white wine. The barman, whose stringy hair was plastered carefully over his balding scalp, tried to engage her in conversation, but she rebuffed him as politely as she could and took her drink to a table in the comer.

  It was still early evening, only just opening time, and Tegan was The Captain Cook’s first customer. Within minutes, however, the door banged open and a group of men in their early twenties bustled loudly in. They wore tight T-shirts and jeans so flared they flapped like sails as they walked. Each and every one of them had a helmet-like mop of shoulder-length hair. One of the men spotted her and nudged his companions and they turned with leering smiles.

  ‘All right, darling,’ said one.

  ‘Drinking alone, love? Why don’t you come and join us?’

  invited another.

  Tegan sighed. ‘No thanks,’ she replied curtly.

  ‘What’s the matter, love? Don’t you fancy us?’ asked a man with a pockmarked face and a scrubby blond moustache.

  ‘Not much, no.’

  ‘Ooh, too good for us, are you?’

  ‘Here,’ said a man, whose thick dark fringe almost covered his eyes, ‘where you from? You an Aussie, are you?’

  Tegan looked the man squarely in the eye and said, ‘Look, I just came in for a quiet drink, so I’d appreciate it if you’d all go away and leave me alone.’

  Her words were met with a barrage of comments:

  ‘Playing hard to get, are we, darling?’

  ‘Tie me kangaroo down, sport.’

  ‘Hey, you know what they say about Aussie birds.’

  The blond man with the moustache and the pockmarked face leaned forward, resting his knuckled fists on the edge of Tegan’s table. In a voice that was quieter and more threatening than his friends’ he said, ‘We only want to buy you a drink, lady. We’re only trying to be polite.’

  Tegan’s temper flared. She couldn’t help it. ‘No, you’re not,’

  she snapped. ‘You’re a bunch of annoying little boys, all trying to act the big macho man in front of your mates.’

  She saw the blond-haired man’s face change,
a strange blankness come into his eyes, his lips curl aggressively.

  Astonished, she watched as he drew his arm back, his hand closing into a fist. She had no doubt that he intended to punch her in the face.

  At that moment she was aware of someone barging through the crowd of youths, and a split second later the blond man’s head jerked up and he was yelping in pain. The man who had grabbed her would-be assailant’s wrist and twisted it behind his back ignored the threats from around him, and leaned over the blond man’s shoulder so that his mouth was positioned directly beside his ear.

  ‘Get off on attacking women, do you, sonny?’ he said. ‘That about your level, is it?’

  ‘Let me go,’ the blond man cried through the pain.

  ‘Or what?’ said the newcomer. ‘Will you tell your mummy?’

  ‘I’ll tell the police you attacked me. I’ve got witnesses here to back me up.’

  ‘I am the police,’ said the man, thrusting an ID card into the blond man’s face.

  The way the others melted away from the scene, some of them sidling over to the pool table on the far side of the pub, a couple even sneaking out through the door, almost made Tegan smile.

  The last vestiges of defiance drained from the blond man’s voice and he became whiny, craven. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he said. ‘We were just messing about.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think the lady found it very funny. Do you?’

  ‘Er... n-no, probably not.’

  ‘So what do you say?’

  ‘Er...’

  ‘I think an apology is called for, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh. Oh yeah. Sorry, officer.’

  ‘Not to me, you moron, to the young lady.’

  ‘Oh... er... yeah. Sorry... er, miss.’

  Tegan snorted and rolled her eyes.

  The policeman said reflectively, ‘Now, what shall we do with you? I think a night in the cells might make you think twice about throwing your puny weight around, don’t you?’

  The blond man quailed. ‘No... no, don’t, please. I mean, I’ve... I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve never been in trouble before, honest. I won’t do it again.’