Dr. Who - BBC New Series 25

by Ghosts of India # Mark Morris

  He swished through the partition before anyone could advise him to wear a face-mask. He walked along the row, looking at each of the patients in turn. Finally he whipped out his sonic screwdriver, pointed it at the nearest patient and turned it on.

  ‘Whatever is that device?’ asked Edward, astonished.

  ‘Diagnostic wand,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s a new thing.

  Still in the experimental stage. All very hush-hush, so don’t tell anyone.’

  He held the sonic up and appeared to sniff it. Suddenly his face went very serious.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Adelaide.

  ‘Cellular disruption. This is very bad. There’s only one thing which can have caused this.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Edward.

  ‘Zytron energy. But that’s impossible. It won’t be discovered on Earth for another three thousand years.’

  Edward, Adelaide and Gopal all looked at each other.

  Tentatively, Edward said, ‘How can you possibly—’

  ‘Shush,’ said the Doctor, holding up a hand. ‘I’m thinking.’ He stared into the middle distance, tapping the now silent sonic against his bottom lip. ‘So who uses unshielded zytron energy in the twentieth century?

  Whoever they are, they’re not from round here.’ His gaze scorched across the confused trio standing in front of him.

  ‘Anything else happened recently? Any odd occurrences, strange rumours, peculiar lights in the sky?’

  Adelaide said, ‘Well—’ but Edward cut her off with a scowl.

  ‘Let’s stick to facts, shall we, and not muddy the water with silly stories.’

  The Doctor glanced at him. ‘Oh, it’s amazing how many facts you can find hidden in silly stories. Go on, Adelaide.’

  A little self-consciously she said, ‘About a week ago, there were strange colours in the night sky. We all saw them – you too, Edward.’

  ‘Atmospheric disturbance of some kind,’ Edward said grumpily. ‘Nothing supernatural about that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the Doctor, ‘but what caused the disturbance, eh?’

  Gopal, who had been silent for a while, said, ‘Some people say they saw a shooting star fall to earth that night.’

  ‘Do they?’ said the Doctor, as if this was significant.

  ‘What else?’

  Adelaide felt uncomfortable at the inference that they were holding back. Still scowling, Edward said, ‘What you must understand about India, Dr Smith, is that these are volatile times and, for all the advances that have been made in the past few decades, the majority of the population remain poor, uneducated and highly superstitious.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind,’ the Doctor said flatly. ‘You were saying, Adelaide?’

  Adelaide wasn’t aware she had been saying anything, but under the Doctor’s scrutiny, she found herself blurting, ‘A great many people have gone missing recently, Dr Smith. Undoubtedly, most of them have fled, or have even been killed by their fellow countrymen—’

  ‘Their bodies are thrown into the river for the crocodiles to dispose of,’ added Gopal, earning a disapproving glance from Edward.

  ‘But nevertheless,’ Adelaide continued, ‘the city has recently been rife with talk of “half-made men”, who come in the night and steal people away. A lady called Apala, whom I spoke to only yesterday, is adamant that

  her husband was abducted by these creatures. She claims she saw them, clear as day.’

  ‘Does she now?’ the Doctor murmured. Edward snorted.

  ‘Wild stories,’ he said. ‘Arrant nonsense.’

  ‘Oh yeah, bound to be,’ said the Doctor airily. ‘Even so, I wouldn’t mind a quick chinwag with Apala. I mean, without knowing that she knows, she might know something that’ll help us, and there’s no knowing without asking. Right, Gopal?’

  ‘Er… yes,’ Gopal said.

  ‘Lovely jubbly,’ said the Doctor. ‘So what are we all standing around jabbering for? Adelaide, you come with me. Edward and Gopal, you go and make people better.’

  He swept out of the tent, Adelaide hurrying after him.

  She could only remember roughly where Apala had set up her shelter, and it took several minutes of searching before they found her.

  She was sitting crosslegged outside her lean-to, feeding a carefully swaddled baby by using her finger to scoop what looked like semolina from a small wooden bowl. Her sari, a shimmering blue edged with gold trim, might once have been grand but was now dull with wear.

  Apala’s face was thinner and more angular than it should have been. Hunger had sharpened her cheekbones.

  The Doctor squatted down and smiled at her. Back in the tent, his dark gaze had been unsettling, but Adelaide was now struck by how warm and gentle his smile was.

  ‘Hi, Apala,’ he said, ‘I’m the Doctor. What’s your daughter’s name?’ He stretched out a long index finger

  and the tiny baby curled its fist around it.

  The woman seemed too weary to be surprised that the Doctor was speaking her language. ‘Manu,’ she said quietly.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said the Doctor, and Apala’s face broke into a smile. In the same quiet voice he asked, ‘Will you tell me about the half-made men, Apala? About how they took your husband away?’

  The smile slipped from her face, but after a moment’s hesitation she nodded. ‘My husband and I were sleeping,’

  she said. ‘I heard him cry out and I came awake at once.

  In the moonlight shining through the window I saw him struggling with two men. I called out his name, but before he could respond all three of them vanished, like morning mist.’

  ‘And what did these men look like?’

  Apala raised a hand, bracelets jangling on her bony wrist, and touched her shawled head. ‘They had no hair.

  And their skin was completely white, like salt.’ She shivered. ‘And where their eyes should have been, there were only shadows.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the Doctor said gently, ‘you’ve been a great help. And I promise you, Apala, I’ll do everything I can to get your husband back.’

  He stood up.

  ‘What did she tell you?’ asked Adelaide.

  ‘Enough to make me suspect that my stay will be longer than I thought. I should have brought my jimjams.’

  Just then a ripple seemed to go through the crowd, a palpable wave of excitement. One by one, people began to

  stand up, to crane their necks, to point into the darkness.

  The murmur rose into a buzz of chatter, which then became a chant. The chant was weak and ragged at first, but it was quickly taken up, until eventually people were clapping their hands and shouting with gusto.

  ‘What’s happening? What are they saying?’ Adelaide asked, looking around in puzzlement.

  A slow grin was spreading across the Doctor’s face.

  ‘They’re saying “Bapu ki jai”. It means “Long live the Father”. Look.’

  He pointed towards a moving knot of people in the centre of the crowd. Adelaide narrowed her eyes, trying to focus through the fire-lit darkness. At the head of the crowd, walking towards them, was a little, bald, bespectacled man wrapped in a simple white robe and carrying a gnarled walking stick.

  ‘My goodness,’ Adelaide said, clearly a little awestruck, ‘is that who I think it is?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the Doctor, his grin widening.

  ‘Mohandas “Mahatma” Gandhi, as I live and breathe.’

  ‘Wee dram, sir?’ said Captain McMahon, holding up a bottle.

  Major Daker settled back into his favourite chair in the officers’ mess. ‘Don’t mind if I do, McMahon.’ He closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

  ‘Been a tough one today, sir,’ McMahon said.

  Daker grunted, removed his peaked cap and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘You’re telling me.’

  McMahon poured the drinks and brought them across.

  ‘Your good health, sir.’

  ‘And yours.’

  They each too
k a sip, reflecting on the day’s events.

  For a few moments all was silent apart from the lazy swish of the ceiling fan overhead and the soft chorus of insect sounds drifting through the wire-mesh screens across the open windows.

  Eventually Daker stirred and said, ‘I don’t mind telling you, McMahon, I’ve just about had it with this country.

  The writing’s on the wall for the British in India now. The sooner we can all go home and leave the Indians to it, the better.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more, sir,’ McMahon said. He noticed Daker wince and touch a spot behind his left ear. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Touch of heatstroke,’ Daker said. ‘Either that or I’ve been bitten by something.’ He snorted. ‘Another reason for looking forward to going home, eh, McMahon? The good old British weather.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ said McMahon. ‘Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the Highland rain.’

  The two men chuckled. But no sooner had they raised their glasses to their lips again than the peace of the night was disturbed by shouting. Next moment they saw several men run past the window, most dressed in the British Army’s regulation nightwear of white singlets and shorts.

  Daker jerked to his feet so violently that he spilled his drink. ‘What the devil is happening now?’

  Someone pounded on the door of the mess. McMahon put his drink down and hurried across the room to open it.

  Bathed in the powerful night-lights that shone across the barrack grounds were a huddle of army privates, most of whom had evidently just been roused from sleep. The squaddies were all in their late teens or early twenties, though at that moment, hair awry and eyes wide, they looked like a bunch of schoolboys scared witless by spooky stories.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Daker bellowed, his face reddening. ‘Get back to your beds at once!’

  One of the young privates stepped forward.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but … well, it’s Tommy Fox and Alfred Swift, sir. They’ve been taken.’

  ‘ Taken?’ Daker repeated in a strangled voice. ‘What in God’s name are you babbling about, Wilkins?’

  Private Wilkins glanced at his colleagues, who offered silent encouragement with nods and raised eyebrows.

  Wilkins said, ‘Well, sir, my bed is next to Tommy’s, sir. I heard a noise and woke up to see someone standing by his bed. I sat up, and that’s when I noticed another figure, leaning over Alf’s bed. I shouted out, which woke up a few of the other lads, sir. And then there was this… sort of flash. And the next second the two figures had gone, but so had Tommy and Alf. Their beds were just…empty.’

  Behind Wilkins the other soldiers were nodding. One of them, a square-set private with pock-marked cheeks, said, ‘It’s true, sir, every word. I saw the figures too. And I also saw them disappear, sir. They just vanished into thin air, taking Tommy and Alf with them.’

  ‘ Preposterous!’ barked Daker.

  In a calmer voice, McMahon asked, ‘What did these

  figures look like?’

  Again Wilkins glanced at his colleagues. ‘Well, sir, they… they looked like ghosts.’

  ‘ Ghosts?’ exclaimed Daker.

  ‘Yes, sir. They were white, sir. Chalky white. And their faces were… sort of unfinished, sir.’ He shuddered.

  ‘And you were so frightened that you ran like children!’ sneered Daker. ‘A dozen members of His Majesty’s so-called elite fighting force. It’s an utter disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Wilkins mumbled. ‘Only…’

  ‘Only what? Spit it out, private,’ ordered McMahon.

  ‘Well, sir, we… we didn’t run when the figures vanished, sir. We ran when they came back.’

  ‘What?’ Daker snapped. ‘You mean these damned “ghosts” of yours are still there?’

  ‘They… they might be, sir.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, you stupid boy?’ Not for the first time that day Daker drew his service revolver. ‘Come on, McMahon, let’s sort this out.

  You lot wait inside. I’ll deal with you later.’

  He stalked off, McMahon in tow. The squaddies’

  sleeping quarters were behind the main HQ building and administration offices, in a dozen wooden huts arranged in twin rows of six. Each hut contained sixteen beds, eight on each side, with a narrow central aisle. The hut from which Wilkins and his colleagues had fled was on the second row on the far right. It was the hut that was closest to (though still some distance from) the perimeter fence.

  Behind the huts a carpet of thick undergrowth led to a

  dense screen of bamboo trees.

  As Daker and McMahon bypassed the first row of huts and approached the second, they saw that the door to the now-empty hut was gaping open. A light above the door threw a pool of illumination onto the ground.

  ‘I would advise caution, sir,’ said McMahon as Daker strode brazenly forward, revolver at the ready.

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe this ridiculous ghost story, McMahon,’ Daker retorted, making no attempt to lower his voice.

  ‘Not as such, sir, though it seems likely enough that we’ve had intruders of some kind.’

  ‘If they’re made of flesh and blood, then I’d like to see them try to defy a bullet.’

  ‘They might be armed themselves, sir,’ McMahon pointed out.

  ‘Hmph,’ Daker said, though he changed direction and skirted the pool of light, using the shadows as cover.

  McMahon approached the door from the opposite side, his gun also drawn. When the two officers were pressed against the wooden wall on either side of the doorway, Daker nodded and pointed at himself, mouthing, ‘Me first.’ The instant McMahon nodded, Daker went in, fast and low, gun held out before him.

  The hut was empty, and aside from two rows of beds which had evidently been vacated in a hurry, there was nothing to suggest that anything untoward had occurred.

  Both officers examined the beds of the men who had allegedly vanished. The sheets were rumpled, and a pillow from one of the beds had fallen to the floor, but there were

  no other signs of a struggle – no muddy footprints, no bloodstains, nothing damaged or knocked over.

  Daker frowned. ‘What do you think, McMahon? Mass hysteria?’

  McMahon shrugged. ‘Could be, sir, but these lads are pretty level-headed. Plus it still doesn’t account for the disappearance of Fox and Swift.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Daker. ‘Perhaps we’d better have a quick poke about outside. You head east, I’ll head west. We’ll move inwards and meet in the middle.’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  The two men vacated the hut and headed off in opposite directions. Most of the fenced area housing the army barracks was well-lit at night, though the sizeable patch of ground behind the huts was cloaked in shadow.

  Daker again rubbed at the sore spot behind his ear. The skin felt raised there, as if some insect had bitten him.

  Typical if he contracted something nasty less than a month before he was due to head home.

  Aside from the endless racket of frogs and insects, the night was quiet. None of the sleeping occupants of the other huts seemed to have been bothered by the so-called ‘ghosts’. In truth, Daker half-expected to stumble across the two missing privates in the thick undergrowth behind the huts. Perhaps they were playing a prank on their mates, or maybe one had been sleepwalking and wandered off, and the other had gone looking for him. Inexplicable as the soldiers’ story seemed, Daker felt sure there would be a reasonable explanation. It could even be that a couple of coolies had painted themselves white and kidnapped

  the young men with a view to holding them for ransom, or in revenge for what they claimed were the British Army’s heavy-handed tactics during the recent troubles. If so, Daker would find the perpetrators and come down hard on them. He tightened his grip on his revolver, as if he already had them in his sights.

  He moved methodically through the u
ndergrowth behind the huts, wary of snakes. He peered hard at every shadow, trying to remain alert, though the heat seemed greater back here, as if the thick, fleshy leaves of the plants had soaked it up during the day and were now releasing it in waves. As a result, his thoughts felt slow and muzzy; the patch behind his ear itched.

  He snapped back to full attention when he heard a cry, followed by a gunshot.

  ‘McMahon,’ Daker shouted and ran towards the sound.

  It was hard going through the thick foliage, but less than ten seconds later he rounded a clump of flowering bushes and saw, fifty yards ahead, McMahon grappling with two men. Shouting the captain’s name a second time, Daker ran towards the trio. He was no more than twenty yards away when there was a silvery shimmer in the air, like the ripple of a heat haze on a summer’s day, and suddenly there was only one man standing where three had been a second before.

  Daker was so shocked that he stumbled and almost fell to his knees. Recovering himself, he pointed his gun at the lone figure.

  ‘Hands in the air,’ he ordered.

  The figure did not respond.

  ‘Hands in the air or I fire.’

  Instead of obeying, the figure began to walk purposefully towards him. As it emerged from the shadows, Daker saw that it was stripped to the waist, wearing nothing but a pair of loose salwar pants, of a type similar to those favoured by many Indians. However, one thing was instantly clear to the Major: this was no local man. The closer it got to him, the more he began to doubt that the creature was even human.

  It was man-shaped, certainly, but its skin was a ghastly, fish-belly white, and perfectly smooth and hairless, like polished marble. Even more unsettling was its face, which had the hideously blank expression of a death-mask. It was not until the creature was just a few yards away, however, that Daker became aware of the most horrifying detail of all.

  The thing had no eyes. Where its eyes have been there were nothing but smooth hollows filled with grey shadow.

  ‘ Halt!’ He almost screamed the word this time. The figure, though, simply kept on coming. In a feverish panic Daker fired. The gun roared and he saw a neat black hole appear in the creature’s chest. It staggered back a few steps, then straightened up.