by Jenny Colgan
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Doctor Who: Into the Nowhere
Copyright
About the Book
The Eleventh Doctor and Clara land on an unknown alien planet. To the Doctor’s delight and Clara’s astonishment, it really is unknown. It’s a planet the Doctor has never seen. It’s not on any maps, it’s not referenced on any star charts or in the TARDIS data banks. It doesn’t even have a name. What could be so terrible that its existence has been erased?
About the Author
Jenny T. Colgan has written 16 bestselling novels as Jenny Colgan, which have sold over 2.5 million copies worldwide, been translated into 25 languages, and won both the Melissa Nathan Award and Romantic Novel of the Year 2013. Aged 11, she won a national fan competition to meet the Doctor and was mistaken for a boy by Peter Davison.
A COLD POISONOUS wind blew across the abandoned wasteland. Some loose gravel, leached of colour, rattled across the barren ground. Above, an ever-moving, angry sky with roiling clouds fretted across the empty landscape.
Or not quite empty. Bleached by the wind, rubbed dry by the sand and stone, skeletons littered the earth as far as the eye could see, a jumble of femurs, knobbly spines, toes. A hank of colourless hair, here and there; a glint of something on the ground that might once have meant something to someone; and the skulls, everywhere, endless, all laughing the rictus of death under the grey and purple sky.
The little piece of gravel had stopped bouncing down the hill of scree, but after a long moment of silence, a tapping noise occurred. Then silence, then another one. At first it was simply a tap-tap-tap. Then it was joined by a low rattle, here and there. Almost indistinguishable from the little stones being tossed by the wind. Almost.
The bones were on the move again.
*
‘Where are we?’ said Clara, squinting at the screen.
There was a long silence. This was unusual. Clara looked around the console room.
‘We appear to be in the TARDIS but the Doctor isn’t talking’ said Clara to herself. ‘This extraordinarily rare phenomenon is believed by some observers to be the result of his gob being immersed in a black hole… actually what are you doing? Have you got addicted to Home and Away again? Are you hungry? I have issues with people who never get hungry.’
The Doctor didn’t even lift his head.
Clara jumped round the other side of the red-flashing console to where the Doctor was craning his neck at a large screen. On it, and replicated on the other monitor, was a sight far from unusual: a planet, orbiting a dull sun.
‘Where are we?’ she asked again.
At this the Doctor let out a sigh.
‘What is wrong with you?’ said Clara. ‘Are you missing that dog thing again? You talk about that dog thing a lot.’
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor finally. ‘But that’s not it.’ He stabbed a long finger at the planet on the screen. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said crossly.
‘It looks harmless,’ said Clara. Storm patterns whorled around its surface.
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the Doctor. ‘But still. I don’t like it. Let’s go somewhere else.’ He started tinkering with a large lever.
‘Hang on,’ said Clara, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Where is it? I mean, what’s it called?’
The Doctor carried on tinkering.
‘Ha! You don’t know! That’s why you’re cross. You actually don’t know something. Are we lost?’
‘No! Absolutely not. Anyway, we never get lost. We occasionally… get fruitfully diverted.’
He patted the TARDIS fondly with his hand.
‘Good’ said Clara, putting her hand over his to stop him moving the dial. ‘So, just tell me what this planet’s called then we can get on our way.’
‘Um… it’s called… it’s called…’ The Doctor cast around the room for inspiration. ‘It’s called Hatstandia,’ he said, then screwed up his face at the choice.
‘Hatstandia?’ said Clara. She pushed a button, which lit up red and glowered at her. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I’m just checking.’ She looked up. ‘The TARDIS doesn’t think it’s called Hatstandia.’ She stood back and folded her arms. ‘Do neither of you know what it’s called? Now it’s getting interesting.’
‘It’s not on any maps,’ said the Doctor crossly. ‘It’s not referenced anywhere. It’s not in any of the literature.’
He threw a hand-sized item covered in buttons with a ‘D’ and a ‘P’ just visible on the cover across the control room, then checked to make sure it had had a safe landing.
‘Normally if I don’t recognise a planet then the TARDIS knows, or something knows, or I can find out somewhere,’ he said, rubbing the back of his hair. ‘This one, though… It’s just nowhere. Nowhere.’
‘Maybe it’s just too dull to bother giving it a name,’ said Clara.
‘They named Clom,’ said the Doctor. ‘No, it would have a name. Or at the very least, it would still have coordinates and references. But this… It’s like it’s just appeared from nothing.’
‘Oh, a mysterious planet,’ said Clara. ‘Well in that case we’d better leave it alone, don’t you think? Just head off and never think about it again. Yup that will be best…’
They had already landed.
*
‘Ugh! I hate this planet, it’s rubbish. Look at all these rocks! Rubbish!’ The Doctor hurled a stone far away into a crater. It bounced then skidded to a halt. There was a rattling noise.
‘Not Gallifrey, then?’
The Doctor silenced her with a look.
Clara cast her eyes around to quickly change the subject. ‘Did you hear something?’ she said.
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Stop grumping,’ said Clara, pulling her red cloak around her. She still felt the novelty of stepping out onto the ground of a completely different world. She looked up in the sky. There was a mouldy-looking burnt-orange old sun which gave out an ominously low sickly light. ‘It’s like travelling the universe with Alan Sugar. Anyway, I think you’re being world-ist. Somebody must love this place; it’s their home. You know, like Croydon.’
The Doctor gave her a look. ‘Don’t be daft, Croydon’s got a tram museum. Croydon is ace. Where’s your tram museum, planet?’
‘What’s that smell?’ Clara asked, looking round in vain for any kind of interesting thing to fixate on.
The Doctor took a deep sniff. ‘It’s 78.09 per cent nitrogen, 20.95 per cent oxygen, 0.039 per cent carbon dioxide, 0.871 per cent argon, and 0.05 per cent sulphur, hence the rotten eggy smell, planet.’
‘All right,’ said Clara. ‘OK, you win, let’s go.’ She turned back to the TARDIS
‘Well I can’t, can I?’ said the Doctor sulkily, hurling another pebble into the middle distance. Once again, Clara thought she heard it rattle for longer that it ought to have done. ‘Planet with its own atmosphere, not on any star charts, not recorded, not in the TARDIS data banks. Well, that’s not right, is it?’
‘You don’t have to find out. You’re not the policeman of the universe,’ said Clara. ‘No, wait, that’s exactly what you are, isn’t it? You’ve got the box and everything.’
*
The skeleton quivered as it lay on the ground; in order now, the bones having managed, slowly, to assemble themselves in the correct shape. Now it looked more like a body correctly laid out for burial. For a moment under the congealing sky all was still. Then slowly, carefully, a toe bone began to flex.
*
The Doctor strode forward. ‘So now we just have to walk about until we find somethin
g. I’m hoping for an engraved plaque that says, “Oh, sorry, this is Planet Anthony, we forgot to mention it to anyone, not to worry, we peacefully ceased reproducing six billion years ago and it was all fine, have a nice day.”’
‘Planet Anthony?’
The Doctor sniffed, but said nothing.
‘Well,’ said Clara, setting off determinedly for the horizon. She mounted a small rocky bank. ‘Maybe we could just say it’s a pleasant constitutional.’
‘Why are you going that way? I think we could do with a bit of colour. Can I wear my fez?’
‘No,’ said Clara, desperately trying not to lose her patience with him. ‘And we can go the other way if you aaaaaaaah…’
The Doctor charged up the bank, then, carefully, back again, hopping as he felt his boots sink immediately. ‘Argh, quicksand!’ he shouted, throwing himself on the ground. ‘Clara! Clara! Get out! We’ve landed in quicksand!’
But he was too late. Clara was already stuck in: hemmed in by a whirlpool of sand that was swirling round like water in a sink, sucking her down. The more she struggled, the more it was pulling her under. Her large dark eyes were full of terror.
‘Doctor!’
‘Try not to panic!’
‘The sand is eating me! So, you know – panic!’
The sand was closing in on Clara. She could barely see the Doctor over the top of the ridge. Her body and chest felt entirely constrained, pushed in; her ribs couldn’t move to breathe against the sheer weight of all the earth. She couldn’t bear the thought of the sand reaching her mouth, but the more she tried to get her head free, the more it sucked her down, the sand whirling round and round her, the scent of old dust in her throat and in her nose, choking her. She pushed her head back as the sand reached her ears, the feeling revolting, the noise a roar: one hand now had been pushed back and was trapped behind her, wrenching and immobile.
Then the sand was in her mouth. One grain, then more, dry, dusty, choking.
‘No!’ she screamed, her throat raw, clenching and spitting at the muck. ‘Doc—’
But then she was forced to close her mouth.
The Doctor was cursing his slow progress crawling over the side of the dune, tugging off the front buttons of his braces.
‘This would probably have worked better with the fez!’ he shouted, tying one end of the braces to a dead root that protruded from the dry earth, kept the other on, and dived in towards the sand, headfirst, reaching down. He forced himself down into the earth, groping downwards until he felt a hand, and quickly tied the final side of the braces to it, then forced himself upwards through pure will up against the cascading whirlwind of sand that was still pouring down like a huge draining sink.
Then he buttressed himself against the slope and began the agonising feat of dragging her out, as the elastic stretched and stretched and the Doctor feared it would not hold, as he pulled with all his might, shouting out with the exertion, as finally, slowly, emerged Clara, coughing and choking and covered in fine pale chalky sand. Once her arms were free, she could help herself and moved upwards more quickly.
They both scrambled up the bank, dusting themselves down.
‘That was disgusting,’ said Clara, finally, spitting sand out of her mouth.
‘Yes, and—’
‘Stop going on about a fez not being elastic,’ said Clara, wiping out her mouth with her red cloak, thoroughly shaken up.
They turned round to look back the way they had come. Now, the quicksand seemed obvious – the entire landscape practically undulated all the way back to the TARDIS. The dark and light patches of sand and rubble now appeared ominous in the dull and purple tinged light, the TARDIS listing slightly to one side.
To their left were great mountain peaks, grey and forbidding. To their right, stretching out far, was a thick wood.
‘Can you summon the TARDIS to come and get us?’
The Doctor rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Clara, and I’ve been keeping that from you all this time.’ He looked at the TARDIS regretfully. ‘She’s not a dog.’
‘Again with the dog,’ said Clara, poking the last bits of sand out of the corners of her eyes.
The Doctor looked around the landscape suddenly.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Nothing. Um. Discarded ladder?’
‘Oh yes, it’s just over there by the handy pile of rope,’ said Clara. She too took in their surroundings.
They looked again at the dead and wintry-looking forest of bare trees, their crooked gnarled branches reaching towards the miserable sky at an angle, as if in supplication. They seemed to curve on for ever.
‘Shall we try the trees?’ said Clara. ‘Maybe find a long way round?’
The Doctor was looking the other way, at the mountainous horizon. ‘Hmmm…’
They both heard it this time.
A low, distinct rattle sounded, just audible above the howling wind. The Doctor spun around again, confirming the direction of the noise. ‘Spooky woods?’ he asked Clara.
‘Definitely,’ said Clara. ‘We can climb the desolate mountains as a treat afterwards.’
*
They inched their way carefully along the stone ledge towards the trees. Despite her cloak, Clara was cold, and the sky threatened rain. Noise was travelling strangely and she was still shaken up by the awful feeling of being nearly buried alive. Of course, there was absolutely no way she was going to admit that to the tall figure cheerfully striding on ahead, his bad mood quite forgotten now there was a mystery to solve, looking for all the world as if he was having a Sunday stroll in the park.
‘Hullloo!’ he shouted as they approached the woods. ‘Anyone here, rattling about? Rattling about, that’s a joke, you see? It will disarm and intrigue them.’
He took out his sonic screwdriver and lit it up to give it a steady glow, but in fact, as the day had grown darker, this served rather to bring the immediate ground into sharp relief, whilst plunging everything else into shadow. Clara liked it distinctly less. The trees stretched out their gnarled empty branches likes arthritic arms. There wasn’t a leaf or a speck of green to be seen on them anywhere, they were blasted black.
‘Maybe it was just the wind whistling through the trees,’ she said hopefully.
The rattling continued. It sounded nothing like trees. The Doctor shone his light on the ground ahead of them, and they both stopped, and gasped.
‘That wasn’t there before,’ blurted out Clara.
‘Maybe we’ve got a little confused,’ said the Doctor, looking round. The trees on all sides looked exactly the same. It was much darker in the forest than he’d anticipated. But down on the ground, clear as day, there was a spelled out message in ash, like the remains of a bonfire, resting on the blackened twigs.
‘K-N-O-W.’
Immediately Clara whipped her head round, but couldn’t see anything.
‘Well, now we’re getting somewhere,’ said the Doctor cheerily. ‘Come and say hello. What should we know?’
Suddenly the two end letters were blown away by the wind, leaving behind only the N and the O.
Clara suddenly felt rather nervous. ‘I’m not sure I want them to come and find us,’ she said. ‘What are they?’
‘Dunno!’ said the Doctor, marching on.
Clara bit her lip. She would have liked to have taken his hand, or even just held on to his coat. Sometimes his belief that everyone was as fearless as himself was encouraging and inspiring. Sometimes… it wasn’t. She glanced behind her. Already, the ash message on the ground had been blown away by the noisy, ever-swirling wind.
They seemed to be getting deeper and deeper into a forest that had seemed little more than a thicket when they’d approached. But the normal sounds of a forest – birdsong, squirrels scampering – were all absent. It was like nothing lived there at all.
But they knew that something did.
‘So, this is peculiar,’ said the Doctor, shaking his sonic screwdriver.
‘What’s up?’
‘Well, I’ve been heading directly for the TARDIS – I have a perfect sense of direction.’
Clara gave him a Hard Stare, but the Doctor didn’t notice.
‘We really ought to be there by now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Unless there’s something odd about the dimensions of this place… It’s almost like the lost planet wants us to be lost too. But why?’
Suddenly, something caught the corner of Clara’s eye and she started a little; she couldn’t help it. It was just the faintest brush of something vanishing at speed through the trees; a white flash she wasn’t even sure she had seen. But left behind, right there it was outlined on the ground; another message.
‘NO.’
They looked at it for a moment.
‘What do you reckon?’ said Clara. ‘Warning us off a delicious gingerbread house?’
‘I think the trees are getting thicker,’ said the Doctor. ‘Like the forest is trying to keep us out.’
Clara glanced around. He was right. ‘Do you mean… are those trees closer together than they were before?’ she said, her heart starting to pound in her chest.
The Doctor looked behind them. ‘Now you mention it.’
As he said this, behind them the way they had come appeared to have closed over completely in a tangle of dead, wiry branches, blocking their retreat. It was getting darker and darker overhead.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Clara.
‘“The best way out is always through,”’ mused the Doctor. ‘Do you know, I think this calls for a bit of the old you-know-what.’
*
Clara knew they were not imagining it, even though as they ran it felt like a panicky dream from which she could not awaken.
The trees were moving in the wind as if they were alive; they were twisting towards her; stretching out ancient gnarled fingers, trapping in her hair, clutching at her dress, ripping her clothes. Her heart was pounding in her ears and she could feel her own breath tearing at her throat.
Twisted vines shot up from nowhere, branches appeared, separating them, until she could no longer see the Doctor, could see nothing except the next gap or the next hole in the twisted, splitting wall of nightmarish rotting branches and black encroaching trees.