‘What are you doing?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Reversing the polarity.’
‘Is that all we ever do?’ said the Doctor, raising his very much smaller, teeny-weeny screwdriver. ‘Isn’t there anything new in the future?’
The smaller screwdriver buzzed alongside his, as they both aimed into the vortex. ‘It’s not working,’ he said, after the moment.
‘We’re both reversing the polarity!’ said the Doctor.
‘I know!’
‘There’s two of us—I’m reversing it and you’re reversing it back again! We’re standing here, cancelling each other.’
‘Well stop then.’
‘You stop!’
‘No, you stop!’
He reached for the Doctor’s screwdriver and in the same moment the Doctor tried to grab his. Their momentary tussle was interrupted by a tremendous crash from a few feet away. They stared at one another, neither wanting to turn and look. Something else had dropped through the vortex, and hit the forest floor. There had been no cry of pain on impact, but now they heard a few grunts of effort and the crack of an old man’s knees. Someone had just climbed to their feet.
The forest was still. Birds twittered, bees droned, wind rustled. Still they didn’t look.
‘Anyone lose a fez?’ said a voice like a silken rasp.
The flesh of his face hung like the leather of his jacket and his smoke-slitted eyes glittered like blades.
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PLEASE REMEMBER THAT THE PAGE NUMBERING IS ENTIRELY PSYCHIC AND MAY VARY AT TIMES AS A COMMENT ON YOUR READING SPEED.
Now look, this is getting out of hand. Too many of you are complaining about Chapter Nine, and the publishers are now forcing me to take action. Look, I did warn you all, it’s really not my fault.
While I’m dealing with this, please proceed to Chapter Two, The Children of the Doctor.
Chapter 2
The Children of the Doctor
Whatever I had expected it wasn’t this. The trees around me suggested Earth, and it was a brisk, beautiful day though not quite summer; the sunlight was golden, but the air still held that refreshing chill. The glade I found myself in was almost entirely deserted and as I looked around I could see no sign of a TARDIS, or any possible iteration of myself. Had something gone wrong?
She had stood, smiling, by the vortex and told me my future lay on the other side. I had stepped through, if not in hope, in curiosity. But here I stood, alone. Well, almost alone. I glanced again at the two identical twelve-year-old boys who stood a few feet from me, apparently having a little squabble. This time I noticed they were dressed slightly differently, perhaps so people could tell them apart; one of them wore a big coat with a bow tie, and the other one had clearly stolen a suit from Daddy’s wardrobe, though he’d only been able to find a pair of tennis shoes to go with it. Obviously they were playing dress-up. Boy wizards, perhaps, cavorting around a forest, looking for demons to battle. In my previous life, as the Doctor, I’d rather enjoyed those books, and there had a been a time, long ago, when I might even have joined in their games. Perhaps created a little magic for them, with the sonic screwdriver.
But today I had work to do.
I cleared my throat and, realising my sudden appearance among the trees might alarm them, I spoke softly. ‘Anyone lose a fez?’ I held up the battered, red hat which must have been thrown from this very spot.
They looked at me in obvious terror. I was used to that. Time and warfare had not been kind to my appearance.
‘You,’ squeaked one of the boys. ‘How can you be here?’
‘More to the point, why are you here?’ squeaked the other.
I looked into their wide, tearful eyes, and wondered why the Interface would have chosen this place, and these two, for my vision of the future.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said, as gently as I could, ‘I’m looking for the Doctor.’
‘Well you’ve certainly come to the right place,’ said Daddy’s Suit.
‘Good, right,’ I said. So they knew my future self, that would speed things along. And wherever Future Me was, he was calling himself the Doctor again, which was interesting. ‘Well, who are you boys, then?’ I asked, trying to sound jovial. ‘His companions?’ I added, with a laugh.
‘His companions?’ squeaked Bow Tie. He sounded a little indignant and, looking at their hurt faces, I realised that I had been too amused at the idea of either of them being likely TARDIS crewmembers.
‘Goodness me,’ I said, giving them my warmest smile. ‘They get younger all the time! Well if you could just point me in the general direction of the Doctor …’
They looked at me, defiant. They each held a magic wand in their hand and now proffered them for my inspection. I fought down a sigh and tried to look impressed. I even smiled, approving, but still the wands were being held out. As they awaited some further reaction, I started to notice a hint of presumption in their eyes, which I found intensely irritating, but given their youth, I resisted an impulse to give them a very similar look back. Then, as I turned my attention back to their magic wands, I noticed something. They weren’t magic wands at all! In fact, I was looking at a pair of sonic screwdrivers. The implications of that took a few seconds to unravel in my brain.
It is fair to say that in those seconds, for the first time in a very long and often difficult life, I understood why people carried hip flasks.
I stared into their faces again. They weren’t twelve years old, now that I looked properly. Indeed, they were taller than me. The one with the tennis shoes was probably shaving. A terrible possibility was now circling in my head but I wasn’t quite ready to let it land. ‘Really?’ I heard myself say.
‘Yes!’ said one, and ‘Really!’ said the other.
‘You …’ I said, and my voice failed me. ‘You are …’ but again I couldn’t complete the thought. I scanned their faces for any trace of dignity, of wisdom, or any of those qualities I flattered myself I had displayed throughout my lives. Nothing stared back at me, except perfectly modulated vacuity. It was like watching television! I steeled myself, and spoke the necessary, yet preposterous, words. ‘You … are me?’
‘Yes!’ they both declared at a pitch of outrage that must have alerted dogs for miles around.
‘Both of you.’
‘Both of us!’
I pointed at the one with the bow tie and asked, ‘Even that one?’
‘Yes!’
Try as I might, I couldn’t assemble the thought in my mind. ‘You …’ My voice faltered again, but I braced myself for the final assault. ‘You … are my future selves?’
‘Yes!’
I fought for words. Those two smooth faces, barely used, unmarked by character or history; all that hair, clearly attended to and even styled; the affectation of the tennis shoes; the desperation of the bow tie—the Interface had shown me my future, and here it stood in front of me, ready to present Blue Peter.
‘Am I having a midlife crisis?’ I snapped, and then realised I might have spoken too abruptly. Certainly they both stepped back, in seeming alarm, and swished their magic wands towards me. No, not wands, I forced myself to remember. Sonic screwdrivers. ‘Why are you pointing your screwdrivers like that?’ I demanded. ‘They’re scientific instruments, not water pistols!’ Only then it occurred to me that the screwdrivers were not aimed at me at all, but a point just over my shoulder. I now heard a voice crying out from behind.
‘Surround them, take them now!’
I cursed myself. For the longest-standing veteran of the Time War to be so easily surprised was shaming indeed. I spun round, and to my relief saw nothing more dangerous than a large number of armed soldiers. They came pouring through the trees, surrounding the three of us. Elizabethan, I noted, probably early 1560s going by the scabbard length, 32 of them, average height 172 cm, swords and dogs only. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have laid aside a sandwich, but today I was
encumbered. I glanced round and sure enough, there they were, prancing all over the place, randomly pointing their screwdrivers at the new arrivals, as if that would accomplish anything. ‘Will you stop pointing those things,’ I thundered at them. ‘They’re screwdrivers! What are you going to do, assemble a cabinet at them?’
‘You are encircled,’ declared a young man, with a face so forgettable I couldn’t retain it while still looking. ‘Which of you is the Doctor?’ he demanded.
‘You mean you’re not?’ I replied. ‘That makes a refreshing change.’
‘I would have the Doctor’s head,’ he declared.
‘Well, take your pick,’ I replied. ‘This has all the makings of your lucky day. What has the Doctor’s head been up to, if I may ask?’
‘The Queen of England is bewitched.’
‘Ah, Elizabeth the First, splendid. Remarkable woman, though I have not yet had the pleasure of a personal encounter.’ I thought I heard a snigger from behind me, but I ignored it. ‘In what way is she bewitched?’
‘She placed the Doctor on the scaffold, then spared his life and took him as her lover. There must be witchcraft in this.’
I roared with laughter. Lover indeed! ‘I assure you, sir, the Doctor is an old—let’s say, friend of mine—and while he might be inclined to interfere with history, he rather draws the line at interfering with—’ I broke off, because I had glanced behind to see that one of the Harry Potters was looking decidedly shifty.
The other one gave me a little shrug and an apologetic look. ‘In fairness to him,’ he said, ‘it might have been the squid. It’s 50–50.’
‘What is that?’ The shout of alarm came from the forgettable young man. (I assume it was the same one, but there was no real way of telling.)
The soldiers were now looking up at the vortex above them. It had started to buzz and shimmer, and so drawn their attention. I wondered if the dimensional anchors were working loose. I wouldn’t have long, if I wanted to return that way.
‘What witchcraft is this?’ cried out the young man. (Again, probably the same one.)
‘Yes, that is witchcraft, in fact,’ said a voice, ringing with authority. I looked round in surprise. Bow Tie was now striding into the centre of the ring of soldiers, suddenly demonstrating a calm and a command, that I would not have judged him to possess. ‘Ooh, witchetty witch-o witchcraft,’ he went on, completely destroying the effect, with what I can only describe as a moment of boogie. He now moved towards the vortex and shouted into it. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Hello, in there? Excuse me, hello! Am I talking to the wicked witch of the well?’
There was, of course, silence. What did the fool think he could possibly accomplish by—
‘Hello?’ came a voice from the vortex. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’ It was a young woman speaking, but it certainly wasn’t the voice of the weapon interface, which had not, thus far, carried even a hint of Blackpool. But how was this possible? There had been no one else in the barn. Unless, of course, this dimensional opening gave onto multiple locations, which was, I judged, entirely feasible.
‘Trying to talk to the wicked witch, actually,’ Bow Tie told the vortex.
‘Why do I have to be a wicked witch?’
‘Ah, there you are, wicked witch. Would you mind telling these prattling mortals to get themselves begone?’
The vortex buzzed again, and shimmered. I gave a silent prayer that it would hold firm.
‘What he said,’ came the girl’s voice, at last.
‘Tiny bit more colour,’ insisted Bow Tie.
Even across the dimensional divide it was possible to detect a sigh. Then she resumed in a high, commanding voice: ‘Right, prattling mortals, off you pop, or I’ll turn you all into frogs.’ She sounded like a schoolteacher.
‘Frogs, nice. You heard her.’ The boys were now wagging their fingers at the surrounding soldiers who somehow managed to look impressed. Not an elite division, then.
‘Doctor, what’s going on. How can you be in 1562?’ called the voice.
‘Oh, it’s nothing, never mind,’ replied Bow Tie, waving a hand and coming within a dangerous inch of slapping me. ‘Just a timey-wimey thing.’
‘A what? A timey-what?’ I said.
There was a touch on my arm, and Daddy’s Suit was giving me a sympathetic look. ‘I have no idea where he picks up that stuff.’
‘The Queen!’ cried one of the forgettables, and for a moment I was puzzled to see all the soldiers drop to their knees. Then, from among the trees behind us, came a voice, clear as a bell and of exquisite refinement.
‘You don’t seem to be kneeling. How tremendously brave of you.’
I turned. She was not as tall as I had expected, nor as imperious in her demeanour, but beneath the merriment of her eyes, I sensed strength and resolve at a level I rarely encountered. This would be an ally indeed, I thought, as Queen Elizabeth of England stepped into the glade. I was about to introduce myself, and make the appropriate obeisance, when Daddy’s Suit went prancing in front of me.
‘Which one are you?’ he demanded in his squeaky-voiced way.
‘I am Elizabeth,’ she replied.
Bow Tie was flapping around her now. ‘What happened to the other one?’
‘Indisposed.’
‘What does that mean?’ snapped one or other of them. (I was losing the will to distinguish.) I saw a smile on Elizabeth’s face that made me fear for any who crossed this woman.
‘Long live the Queen,’ she said.
‘Long live the Queen!’ chorused the kneeling soldiers.
‘Arrest these men,’ said Elizabeth, sweeping her hand at the three of us. ‘Take them to the Tower.’
Daddy’s Suit whirled round to the soldiers as they started to rise. He pointed at Elizabeth and struck a pose of such studied drama I wondered if he was expecting a wind machine. ‘That is not the Queen of England—that is an alien duplicate!’
‘And you can take it from him,’ added his playmate, ‘cos he’s really checked.’
‘Oh shut up!’
‘Venom sacs in the tongue—all I’m saying.’
‘Just cut it out, okay?’
‘No, hang on, wait!’ Bow Tie was now flapping about the place, as if his hands were having two separate fits. ‘The Tower, you said the Tower! Brilliant, love the Tower. I demand to be incarcerated in the Tower with the rest of my boy band. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but this one scrubs up a treat,’ he said, thumping my arm. ‘Straight away, thank you. Chop, chop, if you’ll pardon the expression. We’ll have breakfast at eight please, is there Wi-Fi?’ He made an attempt to mime the concept of Wi-Fi, and two of the soldiers were forced to duck.
‘Are you capable of talking without flapping your hands about?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said, as one of his hands narrowly missed his nose. ‘No,’ he added, a little despondent.
‘Silence,’ commanded the Queen, rather to my relief. ‘The Tower is not to be taken lightly. Unless you are in a hurry to lose your head.’
‘Oh, what’s in a head?’ laughed Bow Tie. ‘What’s in a tower? Just another day at the office.’ And it seemed to me that as he said the word ‘office’, he winked at the vortex still revolving above us.
The soldiers were now grabbing hold of each of us. I saw no profit in resisting for now, so allowed myself to be manhandled with the other two. As they began marching us from the glade, I heard another sizzle and hum from the vortex. It was sounding more discordant now, almost brittle. I looked back to see it flex, and darken, then twist itself into nothing with the gentlest of sighs. The vortex had closed. My one escape route was gone.
As we made our way through the trees, my thoughts were sombre. I was trapped in this place now, and almost certainly about to be beheaded. Worse than that, I reminded myself, I was about to be beheaded three times. Having begun the day in the absolutely certainty of my own death, it was a surprise to me how quickly the situation had deteriorated.
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IF YOU ARE READING A BORROWED COPY OF THIS BOOK, INFORM YOUR FAMILY YOU MAY BE PRONE TO VIOLENT PSYCHOTIC EPISODES AND STEALING.
At the request of the publisher, Chapter Nine has had to be rescheduled. No, don’t all flap at once! I didn’t say cancelled, I said rescheduled. In fact, brace yourselves, we’re going in right now.
A word of warning. By reading this book you have confirmed yourself to be a serious student of the Doctor and his adventures. You may have formed very strong views on the many controversies surrounding him: the precise reason why the TARDIS exploded during the Pandorica incident; the exact dating of his exile to Earth during the late twentieth century; why on a planet like Gallifrey his granddaughter had a name like Susan; the rumours about whether he is half human. These controversies are at an end, as they will all be resolved in this, Chapter Nine. Be aware: you will have to concentrate as what you’re about to read involves an encounter with the mysterious order sometimes known as the Priests of Silencio. These creatures have evolved a form of concealment known as memory proofing: they are able to induce complete amnesia about themselves in any life forms they encounter. They are also known, more popularly, as the
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IF ANY ASPECT OF THIS BOOK IS MAKING YOU ANGRY, PLEASE KNOCK YOUR HEAD LIGHTLY AGAINST A WALL TO RESTORE PERSPECTIVE.
And at last we come to Chapter Three, considered by many to be the most challenging of the Doctor Papers. Please remember our general topics: who wrote this about the Doctor and which Doctor did they write it about. The moments when the Doctor chooses to use, or not use, his preferred title, are, as always, revealing.
Depending on your point of view, the Doctor was locked in a dungeon for two hours, or four hundred years. He was without friend, or TARDIS, and while to all outward appearances there were three of them there, in fact he was alone.
Consider then, the Doctor alone.
(NB We are still receiving complaints about Chapter Nine, which you have all read. No, we didn’t forget to publish it—you forgot to heed the warning. If you doubt me, try again.)
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