Doctor Who: Plague of the Cybermen

by Justin Richards

  ‘We cannot risk our son,’ Lord Ernhardt added. ‘I hope you understand that.’

  ‘I’m beginning to,’ the Doctor said. ‘But are you certain it was the Watchman who saved your life?’

  ‘What if the fever just passed?’ Olga agreed. ‘How could you know – who else has he treated?’

  ‘Treated?’ Lord Ernhardt looked away. ‘You speak as if he were a physician or a surgeon.’

  Olga and the Doctor exchanged looks.

  ‘Then – what is he?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘So many questions!’ Lord Ernhardt was suddenly angry. He stepped away from them, and thumped his gloved hand into the wall of the passageway.

  There was a shower of dust. The fist embedded itself in the rock. A lump of stone fell to the ground. Olga gave a cry of surprise and shock. The Doctor took a step backwards.

  ‘Alexander – calmly,’ his wife said. ‘They just want to help.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Ernhardt sank to his knees. He picked up the fallen lump of rock in his gloved hand – the same hand he had punched into the wall. ‘But I fear that we are beyond help. Even the Watchman’s …’

  He raised his hand, examining the solid stone. Then slowly, almost casually, he clenched his fist. The stone cracked, then shattered into fragments.

  ‘The Watchman can repair anything in his workshop,’ Lady Ernhardt said. ‘He will fix Victor. He must!’

  Lord Ernhardt nodded. He straightened up and took a deep breath.

  ‘I must apologise, Doctor, and Miss Bordmann. But you will appreciate Marie and I want only what is best for our son.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ Olga said. She nudged the Doctor. ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘Well leave you to it,’ the Doctor said. ‘But when you do need my help, which you will, then just ask.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We can find our own way out.’ The Doctor turned to go. Then he turned back. ‘That’s an impressive trick, by the way. Thumping the wall. Crushing the rock.’

  ‘Several years ago, I was attacked by a wolf. It took my hand.’ Lord Ernhardt held up his arm. The black velvet glove was dusty-grey from the stone.

  ‘The Watchman mended it,’ Marie said. ‘He can mend anything.’

  ‘Anything except your son. Yes, you said.’ The Doctor took a step towards them. It took him into the shadows between two of the wall lights. His face darkened. ‘Why do you call him the Watchman?’

  ‘Because that is what he does. Or what he did, before he came here to help us.’

  ‘He was a guard?’ Olga asked.

  Ernhardt gave a short laugh. ‘No, of course not. He wasn’t that kind of watchman.’

  The Doctor took another step, so he was standing right in front of Ernhardt. He took hold of the velvet glove. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The Doctor pulled the glove from Lord Ernhardt’s hand. Behind him, Olga gasped in surprise. But the Doctor nodded as if he had expected what he saw.

  Beneath the glove, Lord Ernhardt’s hand was made of metal.

  ‘You call him the Watchman,’ the Doctor said quietly, ‘because he makes watches. He’s a clockmaker. He doesn’t work with flesh and blood, he works with mechanisms.’

  ‘I’ve never seen the like of it,’ Olga said, staring fascinated at Lord Ernhardt’s hand.

  He clenched his fist. Tiny motors and gears whirred into life. Joints moved, metal sinews and intricate mechanisms flexed.

  ‘No one has ever seen the like,’ Marie agreed.

  ‘I have,’ the Doctor said. ‘That is the hand of a Cyberman.’

  Chapter 4

  The passageways all looked similar to Olga, but she was pretty sure they were heading in the opposite direction from where they’d come with Lord Ernhardt.

  ‘How far is it back to the courtyard?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea,’ the Doctor said. ‘We’re not going back to the courtyard.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Shortcut,’ he explained.

  ‘It doesn’t seem shorter,’ she said after a while.

  ‘No. But then my shortcuts are often rather longer than the original route.’

  Olga considered this. ‘So why bother?’

  They rounded a corner, and found a flight of spiral steps descending into the solid rock.

  ‘It isn’t the destination that’s important,’ the Doctor said, pausing to examine the walls. ‘It’s what you find along the way.’

  ‘And what do you expect to find?’

  ‘No idea. Exciting isn’t it?’ He turned to grin at her before continuing downwards.

  ‘But – it isn’t a shortcut at all, then, is it?’

  The Doctor looked at Olga sympathetically. ‘It’ll save loads of time. But later on. Trust me.’

  The stairs arrived in another passage, and the Doctor looked both ways before deciding to turn left. They walked on in silence for a while.

  Eventually, the Doctor said: ‘Ernhardt told us this whole side of the valley is a maze of these passages and tunnels.’

  ‘Too many for his grandfather to map them all,’ Olga remembered.

  ‘I think they’re even more extensive than that. Too many for several grandfathers.’

  The Doctor was taking turnings, choosing side passages, and descending more stairways apparently at random. Olga had long since given up trying to remember the route they had taken.

  ‘Are you lost?’ she asked after a while.

  ‘No.’ The Doctor paused, turning to look back the way they had come. ‘I just have no idea where we are, that’s all.’

  ‘Sounds like we’re lost, then.’

  ‘We’ve been descending. Slowly, but it’s onwards and downwards all the same. I reckon we’re close to the valley floor now.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Pressure in the ears. You feel it?’

  ‘No.’

  The walls of the passage they were in were pitted and cracked. Cobwebs hung from above them, glittering in the guttering light from the ever-present wall lamps. The Doctor batted the fragile filaments aside with his hand. The floor was uneven and strewn with dust and debris that had fallen from the roof.

  ‘I don’t think this passage leads anywhere,’ Olga said. The further they went, the more claustrophobic she was becoming. It was hot and dry. The sooner she felt the fresh air on her face and tasted the rain, the better. ‘Look at the state of it.’

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The Doctor took Olga’s arm and pointed. ‘The way that pile of rubble is arranged – and I mean “arranged”. The scuffed dust. The general state of the tunnel walls. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it seem uninviting, like there’s nothing down here worth seeing.’

  ‘Doctor, that may be because there is nothing down here worth seeing.’ She tried not to sound too exasperated. ‘No one else has been down here for years.’

  ‘Really?’ The Doctor put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Then who lit the lamps?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Olga admitted. He had a point. ‘Do you know?’

  The Doctor nodded. ‘The Watchman lit them.’

  ‘You’re guessing. It could have been Caplan, or another of the guards.’

  ‘Dust on the man’s shoes matches this passageway. It’s very distinctive.’ The Doctor paused to drag the toe of his shoe through a pile of dust. ‘Quite distinctive anyway. That is, I think it’s pretty much the same. Look – Lady Ernhardt mentioned he had a workshop, and I want to find it.’

  ‘You think it’s down here?’

  ‘I think he works in secret, alone, so yes – down here … Somewhere.’

  A few minutes later, the Doctor was proved right. The way he made nothing at all of this suggested to Olga that he was well used to being proved right.

  The tunnel opened out into a wider area with several other tunnels leading off. Set in one wall was a large wooden door, braced with metal bands. The Doctor turned the heavy iron ha
ndle and heaved. The door didn’t move.

  ‘Locked?’ Olga suggested.

  ‘Secrets often are.’

  The Doctor produced his metal wand from his jacket pocket and aimed it at the door. The end of the wand lit up, and there was a whirr and a click. When the Doctor tried the door again, it opened. He grinned and stood aside to let Olga go ahead of him.

  Like everywhere else, the chamber beyond the door was lit by burning sconces of oil attached to the walls. The room was vast, dominated by a central wooden table. It was covered with dismantled machinery, with metal and glassware and tools. There was a barely a space on the table. A huge magnifying glass held in place by a metal frame gave a distorted view of half the room. Alcoves round the edge were curtained off.

  The Doctor was at the table in an instant, like a child finding a pile of new toys. He made his way round the table, examining everything.

  ‘Recognise this?’ He held up a metal gauntlet. It looked exactly like Lord Ernhardt’s artificial hand.

  ‘So many things,’ Olga said. She didn’t understand any of it. ‘Did the Watchman make all this?’

  ‘Some of it,’ the Doctor conceded. He dropped the glove and it thudded heavily back down on the table. ‘But an awful lot of it is very old.’

  ‘Then where did it come from?’

  ‘Good question.’ The Doctor continued his journey of discovery. ‘Same place as the jewellery that isn’t jewellery, I should think.’

  Olga dropped the metal pipe she was holding. It landed on the table with a loud clang. ‘Is it poisoned?’

  ‘Ooh.’ The Doctor looked anxiously over the table. ‘Even better question. Hadn’t thought of that. Hang on.’

  He took out his wand again and swept it across the bits and pieces. It clicked like it had before, but nothing like as angrily or loudly.

  ‘No. That’s a relief. All this must have been a good distance from the reactor core. The jewellery is irradiated because it was part of the main housing. You don’t understand much of what I’m on about, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Olga agreed.

  ‘That’s all right. He smiled. ‘Neither do I, most of the time. But things are becoming clearer.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Olga murmured.

  ‘I wonder where he found it all.’

  The Doctor picked up the metal gauntlet again, peering inside the open wrist. Over his shoulder, Olga could see a mass of cogwheels and gears.

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s stripped out the organic material and substituted a clockwork mechanism.’

  The Doctor put down the gauntlet and picked up another mechanism, a collection of levers and cogs attached to a sealed sphere with thin pipes coming off it.

  ‘This looks like he was trying to use steam.’

  The Doctor set down this mechanism too, and started round the edge of the room. He drew back the heavy, faded curtain across the nearest alcove. Behind it was another wooden table – covered in dismantled clocks and watches.

  ‘He didn’t give up the day job, then,’ the Doctor said. ‘This is where it all began.’

  Not interested in clocks, Olga went to the next alcove and drew back the curtain. Behind it was a larger table. Leather straps hung from brackets at the side. On another, smaller side table, was arranged a collection of narrow knives, thin metal spikes, and other sharp instruments.

  ‘Perhaps he is a surgeon, after all,’ the Doctor said quietly.

  ‘You mean …?’ Olga shuddered. Was this an operating table? Was this where the Watchman had attached Lord Ernhardt’s new hand? What else had he done here?

  ‘I don’t like to think what I mean,’ the Doctor said. He drew the curtain across again. ‘But I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘You know what all this is?’

  ‘Oh yes. And I don’t like it.’

  ‘Where did it all come from?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out. And then make sure nothing else gets recovered. If this is all he’s found, then we’re lucky. Very lucky.’

  ‘What else do you think there is?’

  The Doctor put his finger to his lips. ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Olga listened, but she couldn’t hear anything. ‘Are you sure?’ she whispered.

  ‘As sure as eggs is eggs,’ he whispered back. ‘Quick – in here.’

  The Doctor grabbed Olga’s hand and they ran to the next alcove, pushing behind the curtain. A burning sconce illuminated the small area where they stood. There was a tall stone plinth beneath the sconce, the sort that might have a statue or a sculpture displayed on it. But a sheet was draped over the top, masking the shape of whatever – if anything – was there.

  The sheet moved. Just slightly, but enough to make Olga gasp. She reached out gingerly to pull the sheet away.

  But then she heard the door to the room open. The sheet moved again – just the draught from the opening door, she realised with relief. She joined the Doctor at the curtain, and together they peered out into the room.

  Two people had come into the room. One was small and wiry – not the Watchman, but a younger man. His lank hair hung in dark, greasy coils from his head and he was rubbing his hands together as he backed away from the other figure. She recognised him at once.

  At first, Olga thought the second figure was a grotesque, misshapen creature, hunched and huge. But as it made its ungainly way across the room, she realised it was a large man carrying another figure over its shoulders. As the man turned, Olga gave an involuntary gasp, quickly clamping her hand over her mouth.

  The figure was carrying the body of a woman.

  The Doctor glanced at Olga but his look was full of sympathy rather than admonition. ‘You know her?’ he whispered.

  Olga nodded, biting her lip. Afraid to reply.

  ‘Liza, the plague victim missing from her own coffin?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘What about the other two?’

  The smaller man had drawn back the curtain from the alcove containing the operating table. The larger man was setting down Liza’s body on the table.

  ‘Worm,’ Olga hissed.

  ‘He looks the type,’ the Doctor agreed.

  ‘And the butcher.’

  ‘Steady – she died from the poison, we know that. He didn’t butcher her.’

  ‘No,’ Olga whispered. ‘The little man is called Worm. The larger one is Drettle – the village butcher. He sells meat.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Their job apparently done, the two men were standing by the main table, shuffling uncomfortably.

  ‘So where is he?’ the big man – Drettle – demanded gruffly.

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ Worm’s voice was a contrasting whine. ‘But the door wasn’t locked so he can’t be far away.’

  ‘He could be hours.’

  ‘No point in waiting then. We’ll get paid.’

  ‘We’d better.’

  Their conversation continued out of the door and down the tunnel, fading into the distance.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, the Doctor whipped back the curtain and hurried to inspect Liza’s body. Olga hung back. She had no wish to look at the corpse. She was no stranger to the dead, but the sight of a body always made her shudder.

  ‘Definitely radiation poisoning. Did she have a ring made from the material?’

  ‘I think she might have done,’ Olga said.

  ‘There’s considerable discolouration round the fourth finger here, look.’

  ‘I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you, Doctor.’

  ‘It’s all the same to me, Olga. Maybe one of those two ghouls pocketed the ring. He’ll get a shock if he did. Not all at once, but over the next few months or years if he hangs on to it.’

  The room seemed airless and hot. Olga was finding it hard to draw breath. She tried to stay calm, tried not to think about the people who had died because they just wanted a bit of good luck or divine protection. Tried not to think about Drettle and Worm
– or the noise poor Liza’s body made when they slumped it down on the table. Or what the Watchman intended to do with her now …

  ‘Can we go now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, we can go.’ The Doctor straightened up. ‘This stops now. Today. All right?’

  Olga nodded. ‘You can stop it? The death …’ She gestured to the cluttered table, to Liza’s grey body. ‘All this?’

  The Doctor opened his mouth to answer. But from across the room came the scraping sound of the door opening.

  Olga stood frozen, alone in the room. The Doctor seemed to have vanished, and the door was slowly swinging open. She looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. She was too far from the nearest alcove – she’d never get there in time. Where had the Doctor gone?

  ‘Down here!’ a voice hissed.

  Without thinking, Olga dived under the big table. The Doctor pulled her close to him, a reassuring arm round her shoulders.

  The view of the room from under the table was curtailed. Olga could only see the Watchman’s legs as he walked slowly across to the table. She prayed he wouldn’t look underneath – why should he? Except the floor under the table was scattered with boxes and debris just like the top of the table. She didn’t dare move in case she knocked against something. But what if he needed one of the boxes …?

  The Watchman continued past the table towards the alcove where Liza’s body lay.

  ‘Good, good. They’ve done well.’

  The Doctor leaned closer and whispered in Olga’s ear: ‘He talks to himself. That’s never a good sign.’

  Olga did not reply. She talked to herself almost constantly when the children had gone home and there was no one else to listen.

  ‘Well, obviously I talk to myself,’ the Doctor went on. ‘But that’s different.’

  The Watchman’s voice was pitched up, as if he thought someone else was in the room. ‘We have another body, my friend. We should get started straight away, it’s already beginning to putrefy. Plague victim by the look of her.’ For the first time there was a hint of sympathy in his voice as he added: ‘Not so very old, either.’

  ‘If he is talking to himself,’ the Doctor murmured, echoing Olga’s thoughts. ‘Or perhaps he’s just raving bonkers. It happens.’