Doctor Who: Adventures in Lockdown

by Steve Cole

  But by the time I did so, her TARDIS had already faded away.

  I could only turn back to look at my world. I couldn’t help but feel something relax inside me at being back in the embrace of my people. They were already coming towards me, calling out, curious, welcoming.

  I took a deep breath. And the air was good.

  14

  Fellow Traveller

  by Mark Gatiss

  It was probably a Tuesday. That’s what I thought as I made my way up the old road. Road was pushing it, to be honest; it was little more than a dirty track with the hedgerows crowding in from the sides so that they formed a sort of dark green tunnel. No vehicles had been along that road for a long time, you see. And probably very few people.

  But I shrugged the little rucksack further up my back and trudged on, my new boots squelching through liquid brown mud. I’d liberated the boots from a shattered shop window display in a building still scorched from long-gone gunfire: mannequins stood limbless and broken, and a wren had made a rough nest in the corner. I spent a happy afternoon there trying on dresses just for the hell of it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn one. Maybe that evening we’d pretended like none of it had happened. Imagined what it might have been like if we’d met under normal circumstances… But the boots – the boots were sturdy and still sound so I took them. No one would mind.

  It was quite easy making my way across country. The weather was pretty good and there were plenty of dry, warm barns and outhouses still standing. Occasionally, I even found whole farms intact. As I headed north, I lost track of the days. But I thought it was a Tuesday.

  Come to think of it, it was probably a Tuesday when they came.

  I was avoiding the big towns, of course. There’d been some effort to get them up and running again, but the rats were everywhere, growing in size and confidence, and most people were happier out in the countryside, making a go of the new settlements which were more like medieval villages. Simple, functional and, on the whole, working.

  I was somewhere on the outskirts of what was left of Luton when I saw her.

  It had started to rain, that sort of fine, cold, annoying rain that doesn’t seem like much but ends up leaving you drenched. The sky above the looming hillside was a sort of brilliant, electric grey, as though a storm were coming. And suddenly there was a figure there, silhouetted like a scarecrow. A long grey coat with the hood up and stout boots like mine. As I trudged closer, the figure produced, as if from nowhere, a battered umbrella and put it up.

  ‘Going my way?’ she said, letting the umbrella cover me.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She craned her neck to peer towards the hill. ‘There’s a farmhouse close by, I think. Abandoned. We could stop there for a bit, if you like. Get out of the rain.’ I couldn’t see much of her face because of the hood but a big grin split her rain-dimpled face. ‘And – I’ve got sandwiches!’ she enthused. ‘Cheese and pickle. Branston, obvs. It’s not much but you’re welcome to share. Come on.’

  She thrust the umbrella into my hand and clomped on, the mud adding inches to the soles of her boots.

  ‘There now,’ the stranger said. ‘That’s better. Isn’t that better?’

  Somehow she’d got a fire going and the tiny old front room of the farmhouse, its flock wallpaper peeling, its furniture bursting and damp, felt almost cosy. Through the grimy windows, I could see that night was coming on and I was grateful to be inside with a friend.

  Friend? I knew nothing about her. She knelt down by the fire, rubbed her hands together cheerfully and finally pulled back the hood of her coat. Her blonde hair was damp and stuck to her forehead and her eyes were bright in the firelight. When she talked, which was often, her nose crinkled up in a sort of sulky frown before the big, sloppy grin reasserted itself.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ I said at last. ‘Taking pity on an old woman.’

  ‘Old? You? You’re not old! I was just thinking how good you looked. Can’t have been easy. All these years. How long has it been… actually?’ The nose crinkled up again.

  ‘Since what?’

  ‘Since the defeat. Since you all sent them packing.’

  I shrugged. ‘Must be… fifty years. More. It’s easy to lose track and since…’ I felt myself go all hot and my chest tighten. ‘Since… well, lately I’ve become a bit of a hermit.’

  The woman was sitting with her legs crossed now, like a cobbler in a fairy tale. She had on a T-shirt, damp with rain like everything else, with a faded rainbow on it. That made me smile. ‘But you’re not being a hermit now, are you?’ she said. ‘You’re out and about!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Heading… where?’

  ‘North,’ I said quietly. ‘Unfinished business. Did you say something about sandwiches? I’m starving.’

  She held up a hand, like a magician about to perform a particularly brilliant trick, and produced a parcel of sandwiches (wrapped in grease-proof paper in the old fashioned way) from her capacious pockets. The bread was fresh and delicious. And there was tea! Tea in a flask.

  ‘You know,’ I said at last, after eating my fill. ‘We haven’t even introduced ourselves—’

  ‘This unfinished business of yours,’ said the stranger, cutting across me. ‘Can I help out at all?’

  I smiled, shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s just something I… I have to do.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bedford.’

  ‘Bedford! What a coincidence! I’m heading that way. Bedford’s great! Haven’t been to Bedford in yonks. Why Bedford?’

  I looked into the fire and watched the damp sticks pop and spark. ‘I heard there were still some of… them left there. If you look hard enough. There was a great purge, you see. After it was all over. People just wanted to forget. So all the remains were collected together. Thousands and thousands of them. Put into a great heap and burned in Trafalgar Square. Victory Day.’ I shrugged. ‘Cathartic, I suppose. People needed that. Needed to feel we’d properly won.’

  ‘So… why…?’

  ‘I’m a widow now. And there are things… feelings that I need to let out. Let go of. My husband was a good man. We worked well together.’ I smiled a small smile. ‘Most of the time. But it was hard. So very hard. And it was because of them that his life was shorter than it should have been. The strain eventually… wore him out. I just… need to see one again.’

  She bowed her head. The reflected flames danced in her dark eyes. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  I passed a hand over my eyes. I suddenly felt very tired and very old. ‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll get my head down. We’ve a long walk in the morning.’

  The stranger nodded vigorously. ‘Right. Yes. Absolutely. There’s probably a nice warm bed made up for you upstairs. Probably.’

  And you know what? There was.

  I don’t know if it was because the rain had cleared, whether it was just the freshness of a new day (Wednesday, we must suppose) or the incredible smell of kippers (kippers!) coming from downstairs, but I woke up feeling cheerful. Properly cheerful in a way I hadn’t felt for a very long time.

  I struggled back into my clothes (which seemed to have been warmed and aired) and went quietly down the winding staircase of the farmhouse.

  My new friend was bent over the cooker, a pan of kippers in one hand, pouring out tea from an old brown pot with the other. She beamed when I appeared.

  ‘Hiya! Hope this OK. It’s amazing what you can find when you have a root about. Whoever used to live here knew how to live.’

  I found this very doubtful. Kippers didn’t tend to survive global emergencies. But maybe I’d already guessed by then that my new friend was something unusual.

  ‘You’re full of surprises,’ was all I said.

  ‘Aren’t I just?’

  ‘I can’t let you do all this. Wait on me hand and foot. Please, let me—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ She propelled me to the battered ol
d kitchen table. ‘My treat. You’ve been through the mill. You deserve a bit of TLC.’

  And she touched my head tenderly.

  Then she served up the kippers and the tea and a great big pile of fresh bread and butter. Knife and fork in hand, she sat down at the head of the table. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you too. It’s in the barn.’

  ‘What is?’

  She pushed a stray strand of blonde hair from her face. ‘I’ll show you after breakfast. Come on. Tuck in.’

  The barn was very old. A high, beamed ceiling. Crumbling farm tools rusted against the walls and there were still scraps of slimy straw in the corners. As my friend heaved open the door, they lifted into the air in little whirls of dust.

  In the middle of the barn was a shape, covered in a battered green tarpaulin. I shuddered. Even after all these years, it was all too familiar. ‘You’re not trying to tell me,’ I said incredulously, ‘that you just… found one lying about?’

  ‘Yeah!’ she cried brightly. ‘Well… no. No, not exactly. I had to, you know, root about for it a bit. Like the kippers.’

  ‘Some kipper.’ I gazed very levelly at her. ‘Tell me the truth. Where did you find it?’

  ‘I told you!’

  ‘The truth.’

  She looked away, shrugged, plunged her hands into the pockets of her long coat. Her nose screwed up again. ‘Bedford.’

  ‘Bedford?’

  ‘Yeah. What you heard was right. There are still a few lying about. Bits and bobs. Blown-up ones full of rain water. A couple smashed in half right next to the old mine where…’

  She stopped. Looked right at me with dark brown eyes which once were blue. And I shivered.

  Then I pulled back the tarpaulin.

  It was smaller than I remembered. Long dead. Disfigured. The domed head had been almost entirely crushed in, the arm and the gun were missing, and the bulky lower half blossomed with rust and mould.

  I felt something being placed into my hand. It was a big length of steel broken off from a girder. The stranger was holding something similar.

  She smiled. ‘You know, it’s important to have a good cry. Let things out. Stamp your feet and shout your head off. Especially when you’ve lost someone. But sometimes… sometimes you just really need to bash a Dalek with a big stick.’ She gestured to me. ‘After you.’

  I took a deep breath. Lifted the steel bar high over my head. And then it all came pouring out. All the years of struggle. Hardship. Homesickness. Abandonment. And the grief. Oh God, the stabbing, vicious, crushing grief.

  I brought down the bar and it connected with the Dalek’s head with the most satisfying of crunches. ‘This…’ I gasped. ‘This is for David.’

  I didn’t make much of an impression on it, of course. Their armour was pretty invincible, except, perhaps, to the ravages of time. And I’m a geriatric with little fighting energy left in her. At least in this incarnation. I suppose this old body of mine is wearing a bit thin. And now, with David gone, perhaps it’s time for new horizons. New adventures.

  Afterwards, the stranger and I sat by a stream and listened to its musical tinkle and splash. A beautiful sound. The sun was high in a bright sky as blue as a cornflower.

  ‘I thought I’d made a new friend,’ I said. ‘But it turns out you’re an old one. My oldest. More than that. Family.’

  ‘When did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘Probably… probably the kippers.’

  The stranger laughed. ‘You always liked them, didn’t you? Used to make me pop out for them. When we were in the junkyard.’

  ‘Well, the food machine could never quite get the flavour right. Tasted all chocolatey.’

  She looked me up and down. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘You have!’

  ‘Yeah, well, you know. It’s a lottery. But it was about time.’

  I sighed. ‘Everything is.’

  ‘We have a lot to catch up on, don’t we?’

  ‘That we do.’

  She stood up, and I let her put her arm around me. It was so familiar that my eyes pricked with tears.

  ‘You see, my dear,’ she said, ‘I always told you I’d come back.’

  15

  Listen

  by Steven Moffat

  What’s that in the mirror?

  And the corner of my eye?

  What’s that footstep following?

  And never passing by?

  At night I hear such breathing

  The dark is never still

  The shadows all are seething

  The air is damp and chill

  Even as I write this

  The shadows all have moved

  How do I learn to fight this?

  This enemy unproved

  And now a voice is muttering

  A voice that’s not my own

  The candle now is guttering

  The wind is now a moan

  And wait, the door is knocking

  And no, this can’t be right

  The door I’m always locking

  Is opening tonight

  And standing there with blazing eyes

  A man I’d never seen

  His face was pale and strange and wise

  And lined and very lean

  ‘This poem that you’re writing

  You now must throw away.

  The shadows that you’re fighting

  I fight them every day.’

  One night I’ll have to read it

  And fear will grip my soul.

  This fear I do not need it

  This fear will take a toll.’

  I listened as he ranted

  And then I told him no

  For words, like seeds, once planted

  Towards the light must grow

  He stood there now in silence

  He did not turn to go

  His eyes were full of violence

  But his voice was soft and low

  ‘These seeds you must not sow them.

  Please cast them on the rocks.

  I’m the reader of this poem

  I’m a madman with a box.’

  16

  The Secret of Novice Hame

  by Russell T Davies

  This is the last day of my life.

  They have built a bower for me, here on the clifftops, overlooking the New Atlantic. I’m lying in a cradle of wood and silk. Huge pavilions of white cotton have been raised up, so that people might come and pay their last respects.

  The canvas billows in the breeze from the sea; it reminds me of the refugee camps where I was born.

  My parents were made homeless when the Mechanical War swept across the Western Arm of the Spiral Conflagration. I was born in the middle of battle, beneath a sky on fire, the last of a litter of 16. My mother and father sold me. Their kittens were starving, so they gave me to the Sisters of Plenitude for ten shillings, enough to buy the rest of my family a berth on the last shuttle out of Restitution. They fled, into the stars. Leaving me behind. And then the Sisters wrapped me in swaddling clothes and took me to New Earth.

  I was called Hame, after the Cat God of Harvest. At 13, I was inducted as Novice Hame. And then… Oh, it’s such a long story and my time is running short. Though there are recordings, I think, and holograms of my adventures. Such mad days! It’s impossible to think, but once, I was such a wildcat, shouldering guns and fighting foes and running alongside a Lord of Time!

  But time passed. And responsibilities grew. I sought to atone for the sins of the Sisterhood, becoming Senator Hame. Then Vice President Hame. Then Feline Imperator of the New Earth Order.

  Today, I am called Novice Hame once more. Because at my age, every day is new. With so much still to learn.

  And I am waiting. At the end of my life, I am still waiting.

  For him.

  Because I have one, last secret to be told.

  Once, it was said of the Face of Boe that, on the day of his death, he would impart a vital secret to a lonely travell
er. I think to myself, how strange, and how right, that history should repeat.

  But don’t think the pavilions are a place of sadness! My life has been one of joy, and luck, and love, I want to be celebrated here! I want children to remember the day they laughed with the funny old cat. So the crowds come, and bask in the bright sunlight, on the sloping hills of apple-grass. There’s no need for the Hippopotamus Guard, though they stand on duty nevertheless, spears at the ready. All around them, Dog-kind and Sparrow-forms dart and bark. Swans and Flamingos feed the visitors, carrying platters laden with curds and whey and roasted corn. And as evening sets, the Dolphin Children dance in the firelight.

  As the days pass, they approach me, one by one. The Lion-kind bow. The Heron-folk sing songs of the old days. And the little Mice-kind, dressed in tunics of gold and purple, nibble at my paws then run away, still scared of their old enemy, the cat, after five billion years. But the last surviving Owl-woman stands before me and merely blinks. With such wisdom. As though she knows.

  I think the owl and the pussycat have always known.

  There are traditions to be upheld. In my paw, I clasp two gold coins. They will be taken, by my final visitor, and placed upon my eyes, to pay for my journey into the Great Cat Kingdom beyond. So I wait. For that final visitor’s approach.

  And now, tonight, the clifftops are asleep. The fires flicker into ash. The crescent moon shines off the water, with the lights of New New York glittering on the horizon. The Hippopotamus Guard stand on duty, but sleeping, held upright by their uniforms of bronze and rope. The encampments of every kind of animal stir and mutter, but drift into dreams. The air is still, as though paused.

  I wait.

  And then, out of the silence and the darkness…

  He comes.

  He says, ‘Hello.’