by Doctor Who
The newsreader paused, the smile becoming wider. ‘Entertainment news, now, from Richard Sistrah. And, Richard, what’s this I hear about young David Lotus considering turning his back on acting for another tilt at the music charts. . . ?’
Abbas’ knife slipped again, this time skidding across the worktop and sliding into his left hand.
‘Ow!’ exclaimed Abbas, automatically sucking his injured finger.
The news footage muted, the systems seeming to have recognised his discomfort. The news reader and the entertainment expert – a tall, gauche man perched uncomfortably on the edge of a desk – continued to converse with pre-planned joviality, their voiceless lips flapping vacantly.
The image switched again – a stock footage photo of the young actor, with Gabby Jayne on his arm.
Abbas peered more closely. Gabby Jayne was wearing her new dress
– she’d only bought it the other day. That meant she was still seeing the little twerp!
Abbas stared at the blood that coursed down his finger, gripping the handle of the knife more tightly. Bolognese? A peace offering?
No. He had a better idea.
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∗ ∗ ∗
It was crowded inside the hall, the warm air scented with bodies and candlelight and fear. In the centre of the great chamber lay the village’s children, huddled together under a patchwork of blankets and cloaks. They fidgeted constantly, tired but rarely willing or able to submit to sleep. Around the edge of the room, in a great protective circle, stood anxious parents. They gathered in small groups, whispering quietly and glancing out through the windows, where fingers of fog caressed and gripped the cold glass in an unending embrace.
Others – those bereaved, those overcome by the terror of it all – sat huddled under shrouds, moaning and inconsolable as cold tears fell sluggishly from their eyes. Almost everyone was carrying some sort of lantern, gripped tightly in desperate fingers and held close as if afraid the mist would penetrate even here.
Martha, Saul and Petr followed the Dazai as she walked unsteadily through the hall. ‘As the fog came in,’ she explained, ‘more children disappeared. At least four, in a single night! What’s worse, more and more people are seeing their dear departed in the fog.’ She paused for a moment, running her hands over the top of her cane, lost in thought. ‘Whatever we think of the legends, it is clear that this fog is not natural. It seems to take away the living, and then return them to us as pale shadows. We had to do something!’
‘And the light seems to keep the fog at bay,’ said Martha.
The Dazai nodded. ‘I decided we should all gather here. Since then, no one has disappeared, but the fog. . . It grows thicker all the time.’
Petr was about to ask a question of the Dazai when suddenly a woman ran across the room towards Saul. She almost threw herself at him, her panicked, exhausted voice waking those few children that slept. ‘Where have you been? Where’s Jude?’ she screamed, on the verge of hysteria.
Saul pulled the woman tight to him, shushing her and stroking her hair. ‘Sara, Sara, Sara,’ he whispered.
‘Where is she?’
Saul shook his head great head slowly. ‘I’m sorry. She followed me into the forest. She must have sneaked out of the house. . . ’
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‘What happened?’
‘We were attacked. . . And Jude disappeared.’
‘The fog took her?’
Saul shook his head again, more firmly now. ‘No. No one saw what happened.’
The woman began to wail again, beating her fists feebly against Saul’s great chest – as if she blamed him for everything that had happened. ‘Jude!’ she cried. ‘Jude!’
‘We’ll find her, Sara,’ said Saul, his voice now a croaked whisper. He turned to Petr, his eyes pleading. ‘Won’t we?’
Petr averted his gaze. He turned away after a moment, muttering,
‘I need to organise a headcount.’
Kristine anxiously approached her weeping sister-in-law and placed an uncertain arm around the convulsing woman. Martha tried as best she could to comfort Sara. ‘The Doctor has disappeared as well,’ she said. ‘But I know where he’s gone. He’s going to sort all this out. I promise.’
The woman looked at Martha through tear-smudged eyes. ‘You cannot promise for another,’ she said simply. ‘You cannot promise when no one knows what is happening.’
Saul placed an arm around Sara, drawing her tightly to his chest, and Martha was left standing on her own in the centre of the hall, feeling powerless and sad.
The judge leaned forward, his thin lips pursed. ‘Ben Abbas, is there anything you would like to say, either in your defence or in mitigation?’
‘Plenty,’ said Abbas. The guards on either side of him released their grip and let him stand.
Abbas took a moment to survey the courtroom, from the cameras and journalists up in the gallery, to the legal teams and jurors arranged in rows in front of him. So many faces, so many people eager to hear what he had to say – he would be famous, for a day or two at least.
He swallowed hard. Suddenly, the idea of his face, his words, being transmitted across the world on all the news channels seemed a little 113
daunting. Still, he didn’t have many fears left now. Better just tackle this as he tackled everything – head-on.
‘She deserved it,’ he said simply.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the jurors, the whine of cameras and recorders up in the gallery.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You heard me. She deserved it. You lot reckon she was all sweetness and light, but you never had to live with her!’ He was warming to his theme already, using his hands to underline his points. ‘One minute she’s doing some interview, promoting her latest film and talking about her charity work and how she’s the underclass’s sweetheart, an inspiration to millions.’ Abbas paused, taking a swig of water from the bottle at his side. ‘Next, she’s home with me, boasting about her latest boyfriend and wondering what shade of purple her next quad-fuel car’s gonna be.’
‘I’m not sure this is helping!’ hissed the brief at his side, but it was too late now.
‘She was always rubbing my nose in it – her wealth, how desirable she was. . . She said I was pathetic. Well, I showed her, didn’t I?’
The judge’s patience had long since snapped. ‘That’s enough,’ he called out.
Immediately the guards were at Abbas’ side, clamping his arms in their vice-like grip.
The judge, like a black vulture on a roost, peered down at the defen-dant. ‘Benjamin Michael Abbas, you are an evil man. In your younger days, many people thought of you as a likeable rogue, a man who fraternised with gangsters but was beyond their despicable methodology. In fact, while imprisoned awaiting trial for the murder of your wife, the actress Gabby Jayne Hughes, you did finally admit to your role in a number of murders across many territories of the world. You cannot put these crimes down to the indiscretions of youth – these are murders, not acts of petty vandalism! And, though you did not kill these people yourself, by your actions you ensured that it was as if the finger on the trigger was yours.’
The judge sighed theatrically. ‘You said you hoped to “turn over a new leaf” on your marriage to Miss Hughes. Instead, you became 114
jealous of her, and of her work, and you even came to doubt that you were the father of your child. The “mitigating circumstances” quoted in your defence are excuses, mere flim-flam, designed to delay the execution of justice. Now, however, a court has found you guilty of cold-blooded and heartless murder.’
The judge paused, adjusting his wig for the benefit of the cameras.
‘In this territory, we do not sentence to death. However, you will be imprisoned until death occurs. There will be no repeal, no reprieve, no hope of release.’ His words fell heavily on the courtroom; even the excited, titillated whispers from the gallery faded away, replaced only with sonorous silence.
‘However,’ the judge continu
ed, his eyes continuing to bore into Abbas’ skull, ‘in view of the severity of your crime, and your absolute lack of remorse, I will be recommending that you be forwarded to the deep-space correctional programme. Either the Castor or the Pollux will be a suitable final destination for you.’
‘Just send me to prison!’ exclaimed Abbas suddenly, his voice cracking. ‘Don’t send me there!’
The judge paused, glancing down at some notes. ‘You showed no remorse towards your victim, and deliberately misled the subsequent police investigation. You are a man entirely lacking in compassion, pity and forgiveness. You have forced civilised society to treat you in the same way. I can show you no pity, no compassion – nor would I want to. Benjamin Michael Abbas, you are evil, and a menace to all right-thinking people. I’m pleased to say that no one in this room will ever have to see your face again.’
He paused, then nodded to the guards.
‘Take him down.’
Martha nodded in the direction of Saul’s wife. Sara was motionless now, as if in a trance, her eyes looking into the middle distance and seeing nothing.
‘How is she?’
Kristine shrugged. ‘You always think your own child is going to be safe – even if everyone around you is in danger, you think, you hope, 115
you pray. . . that you’re uniquely blessed – or that your children are, at least.’ Kristine glanced down. ‘When we lost Thorn. . . ’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Martha, knowing the words were inadequate but not knowing what else to say.
Kristine stared at the candle that guttered and spat on the table at her side. She and Martha had found a quiet corner close to Saul and Petr, who stood whispering. Occasionally their voices rose in disagreement, but mostly their heads were together, conspiratorial and anxious.
‘Thorn’s first word,’ said Kristine, indicating the candle, and the stars cape of lanterns that flickered the length and breadth of the room. ‘Light! He just came out with it one day. I was sitting down to bathe him, and was just pouring some water when he pointed at a candle. “Light!” he said, as clear as day, and then he gave me the biggest smile you can imagine. He could be difficult – all children have their moments! – but for the rest of that day he seemed content, as if he’d done all he set out to.’
Martha thought of family gatherings, of weddings and parties ter-rorised by out-of-control children – but knew that any parent, for all their scolding and exasperation, would be hurt beyond words if the boy or girl were suddenly snatched from them. ‘You must miss him awfully,’ she said, again cursing her bedside platitudes but not sure she had the vocabulary for anything else.
Kristine nodded silently. Martha rested a hand on Kristine’s arm.
‘I’m intrigued,’ said Martha. ‘You said you prayed for Thorn’s safety.
Saul said something about a place where you believe the dead go. . .
But I haven’t seen any churches here.’
Kristine smiled. ‘We believe in a church not made with hands,’ she said simply. ‘What sustains us is everywhere, and in everything – or it’s nowhere at all.’
Martha nodded, thinking of the Doctor on the Castor, wondering if he had yet discovered who – or what – had created, and was now sustaining, this bubble of life. For all the Doctor’s talk of the unreality of this place, she couldn’t help but think of everyone that surrounded her as being real. When you’re presented with suffering, she thought 116
to herself, you react to it on a human level – with sympathy. You’d be something less than human if you didn’t. And did it really matter that these people had been birthed by some sort of technology locked away in a human space station that they had never seen? They had grown, evolved, matured – seemingly become sentient and able to love and hate in equal measure – and she could not abandon them now.
Martha got to her feet, desperate to do something, desperate to make things better for the people around her. She moved past the stiff and upright form of Sara, who shuddered silently, her arms still wrapped around her own body in a meaningless embrace.
‘Welcome to hell,’ said the guard, without a trace of irony in his voice.
Abbas watched the plasteel door seal itself shut. Moments later, the red warning light over the airlock flicked on; he felt the floor shake slightly as the transport ship disengaged from the larger craft.
Through the window he could just make out the flash of a silver wing as the transporter banked. Without warning – and in absolute silence
– the big engines flared for an instant, causing Abbas to blink invol-untarily.
When his eyes opened again the ship was nowhere to be seen, lost in the fathomless darkness of space. It was as if the captain couldn’t stand to be in this sector any longer than he absolutely had to.
Abbas didn’t blame him. He’d heard the rumours about this place, and none of them were pleasant.
‘This way,’ said the guard, his eyes full of longing as he averted his gaze from the spot where the transport vessel had been.
Abbas tried to swallow down the irrational, claustrophobic feeling that had gripped him from the first moment he’d glimpsed the research station.
He followed the guard, shuffling through the angular corridor, passed a number of bright-white rooms, then stepped out onto the latticed walkway that encircled the small communal area. Looking down he could see a handful of overall-clad men training with weights or sparring in a hastily assembled ring of plastic crates and thick rope.
It was clear from the light-emitting signs that peppered the walls that 117
the door at the far side of the walkway led to the security team’s sleeping and social quarters. To his left, endless, anonymous cells. To his right, the technical area – the heart of the ship, and Abbas’ eventual destination.
Before he stepped off the curved walkway and into the antiseptic corridor, Abbas risked a glance upwards. Through the thick, transpar-ent bubble that formed the roof of the common room, he could see a planet, impossibly close, impossibly large. Its pale blue mass seemed to threaten to hurtle downwards at any moment, its landmasses and frozen oceans ravenous for the microscopic morsel that was the research centre.
Abbas glanced away as his head and stomach swam with the unnaturalness of it all. Heaven above, hell below, he thought. There was something primal about the arrangement.
The guard caught his hasty look at the planet. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Does my head in, too.’
As they walked along the featureless corridor, Abbas felt the faintest of vibrations through the floor, as if they were approaching some sleeping creature. Every ten metres or so they passed a door, numbered and with a status panel at head height. On some the digits were green; others, blue; still others, a twinkling scarlet. As they passed each red door, and despite the soundproofing, Abbas could hear muffled screams and cries of anguish.
They came to a halt about halfway down the long corridor. The shouts from the next room were just reaching a crescendo, the red lettering spelling out words and numbers that Abbas couldn’t follow.
Then, suddenly, there was silence. The read-out cycled though amber, then blue, then finally became green.
The door began to hiss open, but Abbas was bundled into his own room before he could see who or what emerged.
‘Sit down,’ said a bald, white-coated man, indicating a padded seat of synthetic leather in the centre of the room. His manner was imperious and abrupt, as if he did not expect to be challenged. The guards on either side of him, armed with snub-nosed guns, showed that the scientist had every reason to be confident.
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Within moments, Abbas found himself strapped to the seat, utterly unable to move. The white-coated man turned his back for a moment, his hands moving over a pedestal of equipment. Then he turned towards Abbas, a wicked smile on his face.
‘This is the point,’ he said, ‘when convention dictates that I should say that it won’t hurt a bit.’ He leant closer, and Abbas could feel his brea
th on his cheek. ‘But I don’t like lying. . . ’
And, within moments, Ben Abbas was in hell.
Martha approached Petr and his younger brother. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asked, impatiently. She hadn’t risked life and limb to save Saul from the monster in the forest just to sit in a hut all night.
Petr looked back at her, uncertain. ‘The Dazai says that since she moved everyone in here no child has gone missing.’
Martha remembered the Doctor talking about the blank pages in the Dazai’s books. If there was only so much memory to go round, it might account for the creatures at the forest’s edge. They were there to prevent Saul or anyone else from travelling too far. It might also make sense of the strictures that the village had always placed on Saul – a traveller, a questing spirit, prevented from exploring too deeply into the forest, or from travelling to the centre of the lake at all. It might even explain the fog, and the disappearing children, and how everything seemed to have stabilised since the villagers had gathered in the great hall. In going into the forest, Martha, Saul and Petr had also been pushing at the boundaries of this world; now they had returned, and everything had stabilised.
Still, Martha wasn’t prepared to just wait for the Doctor to sort things out from his end. She had to do something – she had to find out what had happened to all the children. She couldn’t stand looking at the empty, drained faces of Kristine and Sara, and having only meaningless words to offer them in return.
She wasn’t sure how much she could share with the others – about the fog, and the borders of their enclosed world, and the disappearances. And, even if she could convince them of these things, whether it would help or hinder their progress towards a solution to their prob-119
lem.
‘There must be a way to get the children back,’ suggested Martha carefully.