Island of Death

by Barry Letts

  Even the Brigadier and the two officers had reverted to party mood, chatting volubly and guffawing like schoolboys.

  Telling dirty jokes, probably.

  As they approached the mist surrounding the ship, which had thinned considerably by this time, she looked over at the Doctor, who was near the Brig at the other end of the launch.

  He was sitting as quietly and soberly as she was herself.

  She’d tried to get near him, so that they could talk and compare notes, but he seemed to have deliberately kept away from her.

  He was the only one who had believed her when she’d told them that the Skang was lying hundreds of feet under the sea. But after that, he’d ignored her. In the past he’d treated her like a trusted friend, so what was going on?

  It wasn’t until they were safely back on board, with the two launches secured alongside the ship, ready to act as ferries again if needed, that she cheered up a bit. As her feet touched the deck, she found herself taking a deep breath and relaxing as the tension went from her muscles. The smell of the mist... Violets? It felt like coming home.

  A touch on her shoulder. It was the Doctor.

  ‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ he murmured. ‘Incredibly powerful stuff.’

  What was he on about? The juice? But they hadn’t had any.

  ‘We can’t talk now,’ he went on in the same quiet voice, as the crew noisily thronged past them.

  ‘Hey, Dusty!’ came a voice from the crowd. The dishy steward turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As good as Kowloon Katie, was she?’

  Dusty grinned and gave a two-fingered answer.

  A cheerful shout: ‘Doctor? Where’ve you gone?’ It was the Brigadier, somewhere in the milling crowd.

  The Doctor took her arm and drew her into the corner behind a ventilator. ‘Just hang on tight. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Blighter’s disappeared... Doctor! It’s well gone six o’clock.

  Time for a burra peg!’

  He took her hand and pressed something into it, and was gone.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Doctor.’

  ‘So I am,’ came his voice, receding into the general hubbub.

  A folded piece of paper.

  Be ready at 5am. Bring your camera - that Polaroid of yours.

  Don’t let it take you over!

  It?

  Again the faint whiff of violets...

  Of course! It was after the mist had so strangely descended on the Hallaton that the others all began to behave so oddly.

  Come to think of it, she hadn’t been exactly normal herself.

  It must have been one of the effects of the stuff itself that had stopped her realising before. With every breath, they’d been absorbing a smaller dose of the very same drug that was in the drink.

  She made her way to her cabin in a warm glow of relief.

  Everything was falling into place.

  Now then, the camera...

  Ah, there it was. Why didn’t she think of taking it with her before? Why did he want the Polaroid?. Not that she had any choice. She’d lost her lovely little Olympus when she’d fallen into the drink.

  Fancy her believing that the Doctor had turned against her!

  He must mean to go ashore at first light, and do a proper recce. And she’d be able to get some ace shots, and they’d be able to prove once and for all that the Brig was right, and that the Skang lot were just a bunch of harmless nuts. And all that nonsense about their sinking the ship! After all...

  With a shock that almost made her jump, she seemed to come to, as if she was waking up from a dream. This was what he’d meant. It was taking her over.

  Hang on tight, he’d said.

  It was going to be a difficult night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘I freely admit that I was wrong. I failed in my duty as the senior Skang representative in the region by allowing my own ideas to take precedence over the decisions that had been made, and by risking the security of the whole in allowing my emotions to be the motivation for my actions. I humbly beg that the inner council will recommend to my brothers and sisters...’

  Drop the head, as though overcome. A little pause.

  Careful... Not too much...

  ‘... recommend that my excision should be reversed, and that I should be allowed to enjoy once more... the fullness of the unity of the Skang.’ Alex kept his eyes cast down. The little tremor in his voice on the last word might just swing it, he thought.

  He knew quite well that his wretched appearance spoke for him. The sallow skin of his face, hollow on the cheeks, and sagging like that of an old man; the rawness of his eyes; the drooping of his shoulders - all bore witness to his desperation.

  Hilda was sitting in a marble chair slightly to one side of the great icon of the Skang, like a bishop in a cathedral, with the massive Will Cabot at her shoulder. The remainder of the inner council were grouped around her on the raised platform, while Alex stood facing them, humbly alone.

  He risked a quick glance. He knew three of them: Shunryu from Tokyo, who wouldn’t catch his eye; Joseph Moskowicz from Warsaw, who had listened to him in Rome when he’d first mooted the possibility of a change of leadership; Sister Juanita from Brazil, who always sat on the fence. But the black man with one gold earring, and the woman with the mass of ginger hair who looked like a refugee from a Pre-Raphaelite painting were strangers to him.

  It was difficult to tell what they were all thinking, as they murmured to each other. But then his heart leapt, as he saw Hilda’s expression. She was a different matter. Hilda was sorry for him, no question.

  Will Cabot caught his eye. ‘Tell me, Whitbread...’

  He didn’t call him Brother. Or even Alex. Not a good sign.

  ‘...why did you bring the Doctor and the Brigadier here?

  And the journalist girl? Why did you tell them where we had gone?’

  Injured innocence, that was best. ‘Me? How can you...? I would never have done such a thing! They already knew. I promise you. One of the crew of the Skang must have let it out. I expect the whole of Bombay knows.’

  ‘Mm. You’re probably right about the last bit,’ said Cabot, who showed no sign of believing anything else he’d said.

  Alex shook his head gently, as if saddened that one of his brothers could be so untrusting.

  Joseph Moskowicz seemed to agree with him. He’d been frowning as Will spoke, and as he spoke to Alex, his face softened. ‘Though I have to say that the way you behaved fully merited the punishment the council decreed, I consider that you have suffered enough.’

  Will started to interrupt, but Brother Joseph put up his hand to stop him. ‘In my opinion,’ he went on, ‘if a man of Brother Alex’s standing is as willing to humble himself as he has shown himself to be, then it would be against all that we stand for, for us to deny him.’

  But Will was not to be silenced. ‘This man hasn’t been caught smoking behind the bike sheds, for God’s sake! We still can’t be sure that he hasn’t screwed up the entire project. If we trust him now, we could lose everything. I tell you, he is a bloody traitor!’

  Alex could see the sympathy draining out of the other faces. It would do him no good to get angry with this fool.

  ‘That’s not only untrue, but illogical,’ he said, letting his voice quaver a little. ‘Why should I want to betray what has become the only reason for my existence? Can’t you see that I’m pleading for my very life? If you refuse me, I tell you that I shall end it. There’d be no point in...’

  Even as he let his voice trail away as if overcome with emotion, he realised, with a mental spasm that shook his whole body, that he was telling them nothing but the truth. No way could he go on as he was. His only hope must be that they would believe him.

  But if Will felt any sympathy for his plight, like the Pharaoh in the Bible he hardened his heart. ‘Right from the beginning, you’ve been sounding off about Mother Hilda’s way of doing things. If we had listened to yo
u...’

  Hilda stopped him with a gesture. ‘That is an entirely different matter, Brother Will.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘Enough!’

  He was about to argue, but then turned away, his face set and grim.

  For the first time, the tall black man spoke up. A Masai chief probably, thought Alex. Not one of the West Indians who were swamping the UK, thank the Lord. They were no friends of his.

  ‘Nevertheless, Mother, the matter should be considered. For some it might speak in his favour.’

  ‘It will be dealt with later, Brother Azeke. We’ve wasted enough time on what is essentially a trivial matter.’

  With an almost regal nod, Azeke accepted the rebuke. But what had he meant exactly? Which side was he on? And what about the red-head? Was that a smile, before she looked away?

  ‘However, Brother Alex needs to know where he stands...’

  Hilda continued.

  Brother!

  After a glance at the others, Hilda spoke directly to Alex. ‘I can see that we are not likely to reach a consensus tonight.

  So, in accordance with our practice, the matter will be decided by a majority vote of a full meeting. Tomorrow morning. It may be that they will be as divided as we are. In which case, it may come to my having to use my casting vote.

  It’s only fair to tell you that as I feel at the moment, I consider that you have recognised the culpable nature of your behaviour. If I am not persuaded otherwise tomorrow, I shall make it known that I think you deserve another chance.’

  For a moment it looked as if Will Cabot was about to object, and object with some force. Instead, he took a deep breath and pushed his way through the group towards Alex.

  Was he going to attack him physically?

  But no. He came to a stop less than a yard in front of him, leaned forward, looked him straight in the eye, and spoke quite softly. ‘Over my dead body, mate.’

  Alex watched him as he stalked away towards the door in the marble wall that lead to his chamber.

  ‘Okay,’ he thought. ‘If that’s the way you want to play it.’

  It was indeed a difficult night. Sarah thought it best to keep well away from everybody else, in case their artificial bonhomie infected her and she lost her grip on reality along with the rest. But sheer hunger drove her from her cabin, where she’d been keeping her feet precariously on the ground with the help of John Betjeman, her favourite modern poet, doing her best not to listen to the unmistakable sounds of a ship-wide booze-up.

  ‘Sarah! Where’ve you been? We’ve missed your pretty face.

  Where’s the delectable Miss Smith, the world’s been asking.

  Come and join the party!’

  Unbelievably, it was the Brig uttering these totally un-Briggish words. He was sitting in the wardroom with a half-empty bottle of Scotch at his hand and half shouting over the voice of Fats Waller, at full volume, telling the assembled company what his very good friend the milkman had said to him.

  The Brig of all people! She knew he liked a dram or three, but he’d always known when to stop.

  Two of the three officers gave her an even bigger welcome, pressing large gins and dry-roasted peanuts on her.

  ‘Here’s to Sarah, for she’s true blue! She’s a good ‘un through and through...’ sang Bob Simkins off-key, a slight bowdlerisation of the real words (which Sammy had taught her).

  Chris, who was sitting on the floor, raised his glass and said vaguely, ‘So drink, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug...’ and draining his glass he sank onto the carpet, gently snoring.

  Pete Andrews lifted his own gin. ‘To Sarah Jane Smith, the one and only,’ he said, solemnly, with all the dignity of his recent elevation, spoilt only by a furriness of the voice to match his beard, and the Chinese coolie hat on his head, which had ‘A Present from Hong Kong’ printed on the side.

  For a moment, the flattery of being treated as the only woman in the world nearly pulled her into the stream of inexorable jollity, to be swept away by the current. But then she caught sight of the Doctor, sitting quietly in the corner with an untouched glass of wine on the table in front of him.

  He didn’t even have to raise an eyebrow.

  Grabbing a handful of Wong Chang’s best eggy sandwiches, she fled, with a quick ‘See you later!’. Cries of protest followed her out onto the deck.

  When she went to bed, she found it impossible to sleep.

  Although the sounds of the British seaman at play started to die down at about two o’clock, it was 3-25 when she looked at her alarm clock for the umpteenth time. In just over an hour the Doctor expected her to be ready... what was that expression the American astronauts used? Yeah. ‘...bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’ Huh! He’d be lucky.

  Her exhausted brain gave up the struggle and she fell into the depths of sleep.

  Brother Alex’s night was no easier than Sarah’s. His excision had not only had the most devastating effect on himself, it had also completely thrown the timetable for his takeover bid. It must succeed either before or soon after the ceremony.

  His erstwhile allies would have to be brought on board anew, and then the rest of them; and there would be no chance of that if he hadn’t been re-admitted.

  The thought of the bleakness of his future if he was turned away clamped his mind and cramped his guts. Instead of inheriting the lordship of the world, he’d be starving in a gutter.

  He had to be sure that he would be accepted; and that meant neutralising Brother Will. But how? Plan after plan came into his mind, and each was discarded. One would take too long; the next was so complex that the slightest hitch could kill it; another meant involving too many people; and so on, and so on.

  But by the time the stars were beginning to fade he’d made up his mind how to do it. There was only one snag. He’d have to find someone to help him.

  Even with her camera case slung over her shoulder, it was very tricky getting down the rope ladder into the smaller of the two boats, especially as the Doctor had said they mustn’t attract any attention.

  Luckily, the sun wasn’t up yet and there didn’t seem to be anybody on watch. In fact, Sarah felt that if she really listened hard she might be able to hear the ship herself snoring. After last night, there was going to be one helluva hangover.

  Once he’d got the boat far enough out not to be heard, the Doctor put away the paddle, started the engine and brought the bow round on a course for the island, though he didn’t seem to be making for the beach.

  ‘I’m beginning to get a pretty good idea of what’s going on,’

  he said. ‘You were quite right in guessing that there are many more than one of the aliens. I’ve thought for some time that the leaders of the Skang cult have been inveigled in some way into acting as herdsmen for them.’

  ‘And Jeremy and all the others are their cattle?’ She’d been struggling not to have that very thought.

  ‘Exactly. I’m pretty certain that the Skang themselves aren’t on the island. If they were, we would never have been given carte blanche to wander wherever we wanted.’

  ‘So... where are they?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out. Maybe the ship wasn’t sunk after all. But the first thing we have to do is stop the Hallaton from sailing on the tide.’

  Good luck, mate!

  He caught her doubtful expression. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have a hope of persuading Lethbridge-Stewart and the others not to leave. Even though the mist has nearly cleared, the effects of the juice are bound to last for quite a while. So it’s up to you and me to get the evidence to convince them that it’s not all hunky-dory on the island.’

  Hunky-dory! The Doctor was even more out of date than Jeremy. But then, if anyone was, he was entitled to be.

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Well, I could do with a cup of coffee,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ve only had a couple of hours’ sleep. But I must admit, I feel a lot better than I thought I would.’

  ‘Me t
oo. We’re still being affected by the mist.’ He was steering towards the rocks south of the landing place. ‘We must keep our voices down,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure they’ll have some of those guard fellows keeping an eye open.’

  He found a place where they could get ashore, a tiny inlet through the rocks with a few yards of sand and a convenient shrub to tie the painter to.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ said Sarah, in an undertone.

  He put a finger to his lips. ‘Ssh!’ he said; and, with a last look round, he crouched down low and disappeared, snake-fashion, into the undergrowth.

  Hitching the strap round her so that the camera case lay on her back, Sarah followed as best she could.

  Aggravating man. Why couldn’t he tell her what he was hoping to find out?

  Alex took a deep breath. At all costs, he must hang onto the appearance of normality. This fool was proving more difficult to persuade than he’d expected. He would need all his old skills to do it.

  ‘Once I am reinstated, the way forward will be clear,’ he said. ‘But Hilda’s foolish habit of seeing both sides to every question means that she always listens to her precious Will.’

  ‘But she said...’

  ‘She goes the way the wind blows. Once he get to work on her...’

  Dafydd was still frowning.

  Alex had brought him here, outside the temple wall, ostensibly so that there could be no chance of their being overheard; but more to the point, the rim of the crater, on the side where the rock had fallen away, was the place to which he needed Dafydd to lure his victim.

  ‘Dafydd, my old friend...’ Just a light touch on the arm...

  mustn’t frighten him off. ‘I knew from that first meeting in Rome that you were the one. The incisive mind, the indomitable will...’ - the susceptibility to flattery - ‘Ultimately, to achieve the purpose of the Skang, this planet must be held in a grip of iron. I recognised at once that you are the one I need. You are the one who has the strength to make it happen. Would you let the mouse go free after it had eaten the cheese, and hope that you’d manage to catch it again?