Doctor How and the Illegal Aliens

by Mark Speed

  Kevin followed the Doctor back along the Embankment, under Hungerford Bridge, to the bottom of Northumberland Avenue. He pointed past the steps leading down from the pedestrian bridge to an oblong panelled wooden hut. It was dark green with a tiled roof. "There it is."

  "It looks like a big garden shed. Or a pixie's hut or something. What's it doing in the middle of London?"

  "Scores of these were built in the Eighteen Seventies. Shelters for cab drivers. They could get warm, enjoy decent food at a low price and keep one another company. Built by a charity founded by Lord Shaftesbury. As in Shaftesbury Avenue. There are quite a few still scattered around London. Want to know why they're all that size?"

  "Go on, indulge me."

  "The police decreed that they should be no bigger than a horse and cart because they were built on public highways. You can get ten cabbies in there, easily."

  "Not if they're as fat as most cabbies, you can't."

  They heard a faint round of men's laughter from inside the building.

  "Stop it. Now, they're a close-knit bunch and they're not keen on outsiders. Let me do the talking." The Doctor knocked on the door and went in. He was hit by a wave of warm, moist air laden with the smell of fatty food, toast and coffee. The conversation stopped, and the eight middle-aged men sitting on benches either side of a long table looked at him.

  "We're all off duty, mate," said one, through mouthfuls of a bacon sandwich. "Taxi rank's round the corner. Opposite the Tube station. Can't miss it."

  "You want to look for one with the yellow light switched on," said another, to much laughter.

  "I'm not after a cab, actually."

  "Well, if you want food then there's plenty of places on Villiers Street," said the cook from behind his counter at the far end. "We're closed to the public, mate. Cabbies only, I'm afraid."

  "I'm looking for David – Dave – Ware. I understand this is his regular shelter."

  "You Old Bill, are you?" said the one who'd joked earlier. "Takes six months to get your warrant card, four years for one of these." He waved his licence, and his mates laughed.

  "I'm his cousin, actually."

  "You don't look nothing like him," said another man.

  "Dave's twice the man you are," said the joker. More laughter.

  "So I'm right in assuming he frequents this place?"

  "Oh, la-di-dah," said the joker. "David Ware frequents us often," he said in a mock-posh voice. "Flamin' 'eck, I always thought Dave was from good stock, but I didn't realise he was related to royalty. What's happened? Has his rich aunt died and left him a castle?"

  "Yeah. Elephant and Castle," chimed another.

  "Roundabout time someone said that," said the joker.

  The Doctor waited until the laughter died down. "It's a fairly serious matter. Just... if you could please tell him his cousin is looking for him."

  "Uh, Doctor," said Kevin from behind him.

  "Not now, Kevin." The Doctor felt a presence behind, and noticed that all eyes were looking past him.

  "You looking for me?" It was a throaty voice, but it had a familiar undertone.

  "Daibhidh," said the Doctor.

  "How do you pronounce that?" muttered one cabbie.

  "Like I said, Dave's from royalty you know," said the joker. "All hail King David of the London Licensed Hackney Carriages."

  The Doctor turned to find a large man with a shaved head, two chins and wire-framed glasses standing behind him, blocking the exit with his girth. He was a couple of inches shorter, wore a creased dress shirt, cheap workwear trousers and casual trainers. His licence didn't so much hang around his neck as rest on top of a pot belly.

  "Peadair," he said. "You've not changed a bit."

  "You've... put on a bit of weight, cousin."

  "Come here, Peadair." The big man grabbed the Doctor and hugged him tightly, putting him off-balance. He put his hands lightly on his cousin's shoulders, then stepped back.

  "There's tears in my eyes, Trevor," said the joker.

  "We need to talk," said the Doctor. "Is there somewhere a bit more private?"

  "He'll have forgotten his mates in a week," said one of the cabbies.

  "I'll be back, lads. Tomorrow, most probably. Keep me seat warm, will ya?" He stepped away from the door and let the Doctor back out onto the pavement. The door closed behind him. "We can talk in my cab. It's just around the corner."

  "Daibhidh, I've been worried about you. I have to say you've put on quite a bit of weight. And I can smell tobacco smoke on you." They began walking back down Northumberland Avenue, back under Hungerford Bridge. Kevin winced as the brakes of a train thundering into Charing Cross screeched from above.

  "It's Dave now. Alright? I've built a new life for meself. And I'm perfectly happy. If you're going to have a go at me and give me a lecture, save your breath. Right?"

  "Something's afoot. I think you might need my help. I think we might all need to help each other."

  David Ware stopped to cough, deep from his lungs. "Is that why you've got the lad in tow?"

  "Yes."

  "Bit different from the others, ain't he?"

  "If you're referring to his ethnicity, then yes. I assure you he's of the highest calibre."

  "I'm sure," said Ware. He reached out a large hand to Kevin, who took it. "Dave Ware. How'd you do?"

  "Pleased to meet you, Dave," said Kevin. "Are you a Doctor too?"

  "If you mean to ask if I'm a Time Keeper, then yes I am. There's only two proper Doctors as such, and that's him," he gestured towards How, "and his brother. They was always the academic types. Anyways, I'm retired. So don't expect no fancy tricks off of me."

  "It's not something you can ever retire from," said Dr How. "Abrogate responsibility, yes; retire, no."

  "Jesus, Pete, let it go."

  "Pete?" asked Kevin.

  "It's Peadair," said Dr How sternly. "Yes, it translates as Peter. But it is most definitely not Pete."

  "But I thought the name of the Doctor was a question that must never be answered," said Kevin.

  Dave Ware began laughing. He laughed so hard that he began coughing, a deep bronchial cough that sent him leaning against a cab to recover and catch his breath. "Oh, don't tell me you're a Doctor Who fan an' all, son? Peadair's got to love you for that." He coughed some more.

  "My God, you must be driving him mental with your view of the – what's the word? – the Who-niverse." He began another laughing and coughing fit, and reached into his pockets. He leaned back against the cab in a proprietary manner and lit a cigarette. He drew deeply on it, the coal at the end glowing such a fierce yellow in the gloom that it cast light on his face. He held his breath for a couple of seconds, then blew out a thick cloud from his nostrils. He shook his head and looked at his training shoes.

  "Sorry," said Ware. He slapped Kevin on the shoulder. "I shouldn't laugh. But if you didn't laugh you'd cry. Or if you didn't laugh or cry, you'd end up like my young cousin here."

  He took another long draw on his cigarette and let the smoke out as he spoke, addressing Doctor How. "I can imagine it must have been quite hard on you. And I'm sorry about that. Really, I am. But I didn't want all that palaver. I just got... tired."

  The Doctor's face was rigid, and he spoke between his teeth. "You're right. It hasn't been easy, Dave. Not emotionally, not physically, not mentally. My young friend here is of the same, modern, individualistic view as yourself. It's all very well for the individual, just so long as all the other individuals continue to pull their weight. But when it all comes down to the last individual, then it is just a mite unfair."

  "The only fair I do now is fares."

  "Deep down, you still have your sense of responsibility. You know who you are, and you know what you have to do. As soon as I knew you were a cabbie I guessed your regular shelter would be the Embankment. Not Maida Vale, not Temple Place, nor any of the others. It had to be Embankment."

  "Excuse me, Doctor. Why Embankment?" asked Kevin, his voice smal
l.

  The Doctor gestured to the west. "Just yards from Whitehall. The centre of British power for centuries." He turned back to his cousin. "You can't deny your – our – roots any more than I can."

  Ware threw his cigarette onto the pavement and rubbed it so hard with his shoe that it disintegrated. He went round to the driver's side and opened the door. "Jump in," he said.

  The Doctor and Kevin got in and sat on the back seat.

  "I find it easier when I drive," said Ware, pulling on his seatbelt.

  "Find what easier?" asked the Doctor.

  "Everything. Just existing. Thinking and not thinking." He started the engine. "Now, where to, guv?"

  "I think you know where to go, Daibhidh."

  "It's Dave, and the surname's Ware. And I'm certainly not going south of the river. And especially not after dark."

  It took them two hours to get back to Dagenham. To the Doctor's great irritation, Kevin and Ware insisted on stopping for fast food and eating it in the cab. Whilst his companions sat and ate, he'd gone in search of something healthier, returning with an apple, a banana and some raw nuts. This dietary choice was a source of more mirth for his cousin. Despite complaints about the chill from Kevin, the Doctor insisted on keeping the window open for the rest of the journey. He said it was to get rid of the smell of the fried food, but Kevin suspected it might be punishment.

  "I shall have to have this suit dry cleaned," he said.

  Ware caught Kevin's eye in the rear-view mirror. "He's got worse. You know that clobber he's wearing is all-singing, all-dancing and resistant to everything, don't you?" Kevin nodded. "Smells don't stick to it either. Tell me, does he still insist on the UV bath when you come in his house, and then make you wash your hands?"

  Kevin shot an embarrassed glance at the Doctor before replying. "Yeah."

  "Flippin' 'eck. It's not like he's vulnerable to any of the stuff you people carry. It's just the thought of it drives him crazy."

  "You can never be too careful," muttered the Doctor.

  "He's a real catastrophiser," said Ware, catching Kevin's eye in the mirror again. "A bit of a drama queen. The sky's always about to fall in."

  "I'm conscientious, and always on alert. There's a difference."

  "Hyper-vigilance and paranoia. That's another symptom of mental ill-health. He was the one who could never relax. Well, him and... rhymes with Scooby-Doo."

  "Who is simply deranged," spat the Doctor.

  "You are."

  "No, it was a statement, not a question."

  "Gotcha, Pete!"

  "Oh, ha-bloody-ha."

  They turned the final corner into the road where Ware lived. "Home, sweet home," he said.

  "Not what your neighbours think," said the Doctor.

  "Leave it out. You don't really get rich just because your house goes up in value. You have to live somewhere, don't you?"

  "An extra twenty-thousand pounds would have helped your elderly neighbour's relatives pay her care-home bill."

  Ware shook his head. "She had ample money to pay for as much care as she needed. What her relatives were really complaining about was the fact that there was twenty grand less for them to blow on new cars or holidays."

  "Be that as it may, you might at least show some consideration by spending a small sum on tidying up your own house. I certainly can't believe you're struggling for money."

  Ware pulled into the driveway of his house. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to the Doctor. "Right, I want no nagging in me own house. You ain't me mother."

  "But I do care, Dave."

  "I know. I know."

  The three of them got out, and Ware made for his front door. Doctor How walked the few steps back to the road, and put his right hand on the badge over the radiator grill of the old cab that was sitting there – Where's Spectrel. Ware stopped on his front step and turned to look at his cousin. He looked down at his feet and put a hand over his glasses.

  "You might at least have put her in the garage, David. For pity's sake. Even if you thought your future held nothing together, you might at least have done it for all you'd been through with her." The Doctor walked back up the path, put a hand on his cousin's upper arm and led him back to the abandoned Spectrel. When they were there, the Doctor took his cousin's right hand and placed it on the badge.

  "Ow!" yelled Ware, whipping his hand away and flapping it.

  Doctor How placed his hand on the badge, and in a soft voice said, "Stop it." He turned to Ware, who had his right hand under his left armpit, and was gritting his teeth. "Come." Ware shook his head. How gestured with his free left hand, and Ware reached out his right. How took it firmly again, keeping his own right hand on the badge. He addressed the Spectrel. "Now, please. I know you feel aggrieved. Daibhidh apologises, don't you Daibhidh?" Ware nodded. "I said, don't you, Daibhidh?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry. Truly I am."

  "Very well. Forgive him." He took Ware's hand and slowly slid his own hand away whilst replacing it with his cousin's. When Ware's hand was covering the badge fully he stepped away and walked back to where Kevin was standing, dumbfounded.

  "What's that all about?" asked Kevin.

  "Reconciliation. It will take some time. Let's go inside."

  "It's locked."

  "I have his key."

  "I didn't see him give it to you."

  "You have to learn many skills in my job." The Doctor unlocked the door and fumbled for a light switch. He found an old Bakelite one with a knob-and-pin mechanism. He turned it on. The dim light of the forty-Watt bulb couldn't suppress the scene it revealed.

  "Oh, man," said Kevin. "I've seen homes like this on TV, innit? He's a hoarder."

  "It's symptomatic of his mental state."

  The carpets had gone out of fashion in the late Fifties. The wallpaper, peeling off in places, looked slightly older. To the right of the door there was a pile of papers on top of a couple of old cardboard boxes that had split open and let their contents spill out. On the stairs were more piles of paper, plus an assortment of odd objects – a spare sock, a spent light bulb, a flashlight without its end, and empty of batteries. A mouldy towel hung over the banister. The place smelled musty and damp, with a strong overtone of stale cigarette smoke.

  "It's a miracle the electricity is still on," said the Doctor. "It's also rather a worry – this place is so badly in need of rewiring it's a fire hazard. And I am not going into the kitchen," said the Doctor.

  He edged his way past a couple of piles of degraded cardboard boxes full of paper, and opened the door to the front room. He turned on the light and went in, followed by Kevin. Their feet made a curious Velcro-like sound on the carpet as they walked to the centre of the room, feeling the stickiness tugging at the soles of their shoes. The smell in the hall was just a hint at the stench they now faced in the living room.

  There was a twenty-year-old television and a VCR in one corner, and a filthy sofa with a low table in front of it. The table was piled with dirty dishes and mugs. The space between the sofa and the window was filled with a heap of discarded fish and chip wrappers and beer cans.

  "I've been in a flat like this once," said Kevin. "Old neighbour my Mum used to drop in on. Spent all his pension on drink. The carpet was exactly like this. Like walking on flypaper, innit?"

  "It's utterly revolting. We need to get him out of here. He'll never get better if he stays."

  "He ain't gonna come, boss. People like that are fixed in their ways."

  "How did they get your neighbour out?"

  "Feet first."

  "My point entirely. He needs to be in a better environment than this. I'm hoping that communing with his Spectrel will kick-start something within him."

  "Pardon the mess," said Ware, stepping into the room. "My cleaning lady jacked it in a while back. I think she wanted danger money. For myself, I just can't be bothered. I just got... tired."

  "How are things with your Spectrel?"

  "Could be better, to be honest." War
e glanced at his watch. "I should be on shift now."

  "For the love of God, Daibhidh. Do you still think your only duty is to anonymous taxi passengers in London? Is it to your bank balance? Even if you won't rejoin the battle, you might at least make more of an effort."

  "She's too weak!" shouted Ware, taking a step towards Doctor How. "She's just about gone." The echo of his voice seemed to hang in the air for a couple of seconds. Then he fell forwards onto the Doctor, who staggered under his weight. Ware sobbed great heaving sobs as the Doctor manoeuvred him towards the grimy sofa, which he fell back onto. He lifted up his feet and curled into a ball, weeping and moaning softly.

  "I'm a pessimist by nature," muttered the Doctor, to no one in particular, "but why is it that everything is always so much worse than I thought it would be?"

  "Like, what happened?" asked Kevin.

  "What like happened," said the Doctor, "is that he neglected his Spectrel for too long. She got as weak as he did. And then she was hacked. That's what like happened."

  "Like, don't take it out on me."

  The Doctor shut his eyes and slowly opened them again. "Sorry. I think I just have the one option." He pulled out his Tsk Army Ultraknife, concentrated on it for a second and then put it back in his pocket. He left the room.

  Kevin dithered, then decided that wherever the Doctor was going had to be better than being alone in a stinking room with a man – or Time Keeper – in his fifties sobbing his heart out. The front door was open, and he slipped out into the cool night air, savouring the freshness of it, and looked around for the Doctor.

  There was a red telephone box on the pavement outside. The light inside was bright – so bright that he couldn't see in – and yet the light didn't illuminate the area immediately around it. Even the black letters of the backlit TELEPHONE sign were indistinct due to the brightness of the light behind them. The obtrusiveness of the light made it difficult to see what was beyond it. As he walked slowly past Ware's black cab, he noticed that the telephone box was not reflected in its windows or polished paintwork. Thoughts of vampires crept through his imagination.