by Mark Gatiss
Jo flicked her fringe from her eyes. ‘So what did they call him?’
Mrs Toovey’s laugh pealed like bells. ‘Well, he was such a love to them all. All those brave boys… they named him after that painting.’
Jo frowned and shook her head.
‘You know,’ cried Mrs Toovey. ‘The old Victorian woman in the black dress…’
A delighted smile crept over Jo’s face. ‘Whistler’s Mother?’
Mrs Toovey nodded rapidly, her eyes disappearing in a forest of amused creases. ‘Mother!’ she chortled. ‘Lord bless him!’
Jo laughed too, pleased she’d been able to cheer the old lady up. But there was still no sign of Wing Commander ‘Mother’ Whistler. Nor the Doctor, for that matter.
‘So he decided to stay on here? After the war?’
‘That’s right. He loves it here. The countryside. The people…’
Mrs Toovey looked into the middle distance, suddenly lost in thought. She sighed deeply.
Jo leant over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘So he hasn’t taken too kindly to these new people?’
Mrs Toovey shook her head. ‘Oh you mustn’t get the wrong idea, Miss Grant.’
Jo held up her hands. ‘Jo. Please.’
Mrs Toovey smiled. ‘Jo, then. No, the Wing Commander’s not some old fossil, raging at the world. There’s something… bad about those folk up at the aerodrome. He said it himself. Something… evil.’
Jo suppressed a shudder. ‘I suppose it must’ve been very different in the war. When you knew who the enemy were.’
Mrs Toovey got up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Oh yes. He’d have just gone up in his Spitfire and given the Jerries the old one two! Now, I’d better see to the washing-up.’
Jo got quickly to her feet. ‘No, no. You’ve done quite enough, Mrs Toovey. Let me.’
The old woman gave a grateful smile and sank back into her chair. ‘Well, if you’re sure, my dear…?’
Jo nodded and began to clear away the teacups. Mrs Toovey crossed her hands over her chest and let her leathery chins sink into one another. ‘When the Wing Commander gets back, you might ask him if he’ll take you up in the old kite.’
Jo frowned. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Spitfire,’ said Mrs Toovey evenly. ‘It’s out the back.’
Jo’s face was a mask of surprise. ‘You’re joking?’
‘No, no. He restored the old thing himself. It’s in full working order. The Wing Commander gets her out, regular, every summer for the village fête. She’s ready for tomorrow. That’s if we have a summer fête with all this going on.’
Jo lifted the tea tray with both hands. ‘Well, I can hardly wait to meet him. I feel like I know him already.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Mother!’
As she moved to the door, there was a soft thump from upstairs. Jo stiffened and looked back over her shoulder at Mrs Toovey.
‘What was that?’
Mrs Toovey glanced up at the ceiling and began to fiddle anxiously with her wedding ring.
There was a small, crisp sound, like someone clicking their fingers, and all the lights went out. Mrs Toovey drew in a sharp breath.
‘There’s somebody in the house.’
Ted Bishop placed a cool hand on to his son’s forehead and bit his lip anxiously.
Max had been gone the best part of an hour, so Ted had moved Noah into the back room and stretched him out on the sofa. He seemed no better, his face lathered in sweat, his eyes rolling white.
Glancing at his watch, Ted gently lifted Noah’s head from his lap and let it rest on a cushion before getting to his feet. He made his way across the room and picked up the phone.
In the absence of the police, there was always one person he knew he could rely on.
She was an old friend of his late wife and had been a great comfort to him in his grief. She was a cheery, sensible person who disliked Max and his theatrical ways. That made her all right in Ted’s book.
He picked up the receiver and was about to dial when Noah groaned. One arm flopped over the side of the sofa and he trailed his fingers on the thin carpet. As Ted watched, the boy’s eyes flicked open once more, wide and frightened, the whites glittering in the light of the fire.
Jo held her breath and looked up as another thump echoed through the little cottage. She reached out and gripped Mrs Toovey’s arm, more to steady her own nerves than the old lady’s.
Mrs Toovey opened her mouth to speak but Jo put a finger to her lips and shook her head. She looked around, listening as the clock on the stone mantelpiece softly marked time, then detached herself from Mrs Toovey and headed for the door to the hall.
‘Where are you going?’ hissed Mrs Toovey in alarm. Jo pointed to the ceiling.
The housekeeper shook her head violently and Jo gave her a reassuring smile. Creeping up close to her, she whispered in her ear.
‘It’s OK. I’ll go out and open the front door. If there’s anything fishy, just run. I’ll be right behind you.’
Mrs Toovey frowned concernedly, clearly not happy with Jo’s plan.
Jo shrugged. ‘We have to do something,’ she whispered gently. ‘We can’t just stay here like a couple of frightened rabbits.’
The old woman gave a small smile and patted Jo on the wrist.
Jo tiptoed across the room and softly opened the door.
The corridor beyond suddenly seemed very dark indeed. Phantom shadows flitted over the walls as moonlight spilled in through the fanlight over the front door.
Jo swallowed nervously and then dashed swiftly across the uncarpeted floor. Her hands hovered briefly over the door before she found the lock and carefully unhooked the latch. She swung the door open and winced as it creaked noisily.
Warm night air washed over her and she took a moment to catch her breath. Turning, she looked back over her shoulder at the staircase which ascended into pitch darkness a few yards inside the hallway.
The housekeeper was leaning out through the open door to the living room, anxiously rubbing her wrinkled throat. Jo gave her a thumbs-up sign and then dashed to the stairs. She and Mrs Toovey passed each other. The old woman patted her shoulder and then Jo suddenly found herself climbing upwards.
She paused and took another deep breath. Ahead she could make out perhaps the first three stairs, their turkey-rug pattern bleached white by the moonlight. After that though, she could see nothing, just the yawning blackness of the top of the house where something might be waiting.
When she was very young, Jo had occupied a sizeable room on the second floor of her parents’ house. Inside had been the usual girl’s jumble; posters hanging haphazardly from the walls, piles of schoolbooks and unlearnt violin scores in every spare space. The room abutted her parents’ and a large landing occupied the space just in front of both, at the top of the bannistered stairs. During the day, this was Jo’s favourite playground, sometimes the sumptuous ballroom for her dolls’ elaborate parties, sometimes a rolling pasture where she exercised her imaginary horses.
At night, however, it seemed very different. Her mother would always leave the bedroom door open and, waking up in the middle of the night, Jo would peer out into that lonely darkness and imagine all kinds of horrors. She could usually make out the skeletal banisters silhouetted against the window, the moonlight spilling on to the carpet.
Regularly, she would work herself up into such a pitch of terror that every nerve in her body cried out for her to flee across that landing to the safety of her parents’ bed. But the fear of crossing the dark space was almost too much to bear. Who knew what might reach out and grab her? A rotted hand thrust out of the night? A gaping mouth, packed full of sharp, sharp teeth…?
Jo tried to push the memory to the back of her mind as she found herself once again in her childhood nightmare, approaching the dark landing in Whistler’s cottage.
Tentatively, she put out her hand and found the wooden post that marked the top of the stairs.
Thump.
Jo’s mouth turned dry. Her heart began to bang against her ribs and she could hear the blood pounding in her ears.
Thump.
The sound was very close by, seemingly coming from one of the three or four rooms that made up the upper storey of the house. She had only to cross the landing to find out.
Cross the landing.
Jo let out a shuddering breath and hugged herself. She wished very much that the Doctor was there. He would have strode confidently across, thrown open the door and demanded to know who – or what – was lurking there.
Jo almost smiled at the thought, but the darkness was too terrifying.
Thump.
It was coming from the room immediately to her right. She turned her whole body towards it and began to grope her way forward, hands waving about in front of her. With a burst of speed she raced across the landing.
She was doing well, she told herself. She’d got this far. Nothing to be scared of on the landing any more. Now she just had to deal with the door and whatever was behind it…
Jo steadied herself, thrust out her hand, twisted the knob and threw the door open.
The room beyond was very small. She could sense that, even in the darkness. It took her a few moments to register that it was some kind of boxroom, and that the window to the right was open. It was swinging gently in the night breeze, the metal fastener periodically banging into the old woodwork.
Thump.
Jo gave a sigh of relief and took a step towards the window to close it.
She stopped dead. There was a rush of air and something shot out of the shadows and ran at her. Holding out her hands defensively, she immediately backed towards the door, trying to scream.
The shadow was big and bulky. As it backed Jo out on to the landing she felt it brush against her and suddenly found her voice. She screamed and stumbled towards the stairs.
‘Mrs Toovey! Run! Get help!’
She felt a cold hand slap over her mouth and tried to scream again. Her hot breath streamed around her assailant’s fingers and she hurled herself to the carpet in an effort to extricate herself.
The figure came at her again, arms spread wide. Jo rolled over on the carpet and grabbed for the banisters. She pulled herself forward and took the stairs two at a time. The figure was right behind her.
Suddenly Jo pitched forward and felt herself falling. She threw out her arms and felt the stair carpet burn her as she crashed down towards the hall. Reaching the bottom, she flopped on to the bare boards, the wind knocked from her and a sharp pain shooting through her side.
Ribs aching, she lifted her head from the floor and tried desperately to breathe.
She could hear her assailant moving swiftly down the stairs towards her. There was no one to save her. She’d screamed at Mrs Toovey to flee and now she couldn’t even cry for help. If only she could get her breath back…
The figure was standing over her now, bathed in moonlight. She could make out details of a black uniform and a chiselled, pale-skinned face. He reached out a hand towards her.
A harsh bell shattered the muggy silence. Jo blinked rapidly. Her assailant’s hand hesitated. The bell rang again and again. It was the telephone.
Jo took advantage of the distraction and rolled on to her stomach, breath flooding back into her lungs. As she did so, a thin beam of light split the darkness illuminating the figure, which was now clearly revealed as Captain McGarrigle.
He reacted to the light as if physically struck, hissing like a vampire caught in sunshine and shielding his wide, dark eyes. He stepped back and knocked the telephone from its little table. It crashed to the floor and the receiver was dislodged. A tiny, tinny voice called ‘Hello?’
The torchlight bobbed closer and the Captain ran for the door, barging into the person who was holding the torch. The light swung crazily about over the ceiling and Jo heard booted feet clattering over the floor and out into the night.
She sat up and shielded her eyes as the light from the torch bore down on her. Another hand, warm this time, reached out and gripped her shoulder. Jo gave a little yelp.
‘It’s all right, Jo,’ said the Doctor soothingly. ‘It’s only me.’
Jo let out a huge sigh of relief. ‘Oh, Doctor. Thank goodness.’
‘What have you been up to?’ he asked.
The small voice from the telephone sounded again. The Doctor set the torch down and squatted on his haunches. He reached out for the telephone and picked up the receiver, cradling it under his chin and giving Jo a cheerful smile.
‘Hello? Who? No, no. She’s not here, I’m afraid.’ He covered the mouthpiece for a moment. ‘Mrs Toovey’s not here, is she, Jo?’
Jo shook her head.
‘No,’ continued the Doctor. ‘She’s… er… she’s just stepped out. Can I help?’
His face looked grave in the beam of light that shone upwards from the torch. ‘I see. Very well. Where are you? The post office. All right.’
He put down the phone with a soft click.
‘Come on. Stir your stumps, Jo. We’ve got work to do.’
Jo struggled to her feet. She glanced down and noticed that the Doctor was missing a shoe.
‘What happened to you?’ she giggled.
The Doctor didn’t look happy. ‘It’s a long story.’
He glanced up the stairs. ‘I wonder if the Wing Commander has any spare boots?’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY
And now the thing outside the steel palace raises its balled claw and hammers against the glass. There isn’t much time left. It must survive. It must…
The Apothecary glides forward, its legs skittering over the marble-tiled floor. It regards the thing outside with cool, detached eyes and then inclines its great head to one side. Two others like it emerge from the bluey shadows, carrying long, tubular weapons in their spiky claws. They peel off from the Apothecary’s side and, moments later, an airlock opens on to the outside world with a startling hiss.
The thing falls back from the window, suddenly afraid. The two creatures that have emerged shrink back from the elements as though shocked at what they see. It is as if they haven’t been outside in a long, long time. All around them is decay and desolation. After a time, the closer of the two glances down at the thing at its feet.
The thing tries to look appealing. It tries to look whole and healthy and useful. It raises a claw in greeting, in brotherhood. The closer of the two creatures responds and for an instant, hope lifts the thing’s heart.
Then the other lifts its weapon and a bolt of red fire disintegrates the thing to the screaming wind.
Without a sound, the two creatures from the palace turn and re-enter the airlock. One of them turns as the door slides shut, taking a last, long look at the world he has left behind…
The Doctor placed the flat of his hand on Noah’s brow. Ted Bishop and Jo stood to one side of the sofa, their faces fixed in concerned frowns. They had caught up with Mrs Toovey on the village green and she sat close by, frightened, anxiously fiddling with her rings.
The Doctor nodded to himself. ‘Severe shock. Keep him warm. Plenty of fluids. He should be all right.’
Noah’s father was hugging his arms around himself, as though for comfort. ‘I found him up by the aerodrome. Just off the road. In a ditch. Max reckons he must’ve been hit by one of them lorries.’
Jo looked across at the recumbent boy. ‘Is that true, Doctor?’
The Doctor got to his feet and shook his head. ‘There’s no sign of physical damage apart from the gash on his forehead. No, this boy’s been frightened out of his wits.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Where’s your brother now, Mr Bishop?’
Ted jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s gone to fetch the constable. Shouldn’t be long now.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘No sign of the Wing Commander and now a young man in shock.’
‘And both connected to the aerodrome, somehow,’ muttered Jo.
The
Doctor walked to the window and pulled back the curtains in one swift stroke. The first streaks of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky. ‘Well, it’s been a long night. I suggest you all get some rest.’
Mrs Toovey nodded, quickly slipping back into the protective mode she knew so well. ‘I’ll see to your rooms then.’
The Doctor smiled pleasantly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Toovey. I’m sure Miss Grant will find hers satisfactory.’
Jo stopped at the door. ‘You’re not coming?’
The Doctor looked down at Noah. ‘No. I’ll stay here with young Noah. Then Mr Bishop can get some sleep too.’
Ted ran a hand over his drawn, exhausted face. ‘I’d be very grateful, Doctor.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said the Doctor, settling himself into an armchair.
Jo glanced at Mrs Toovey. ‘Are you sure it’s OK for us to go back there? After what happened?’
‘I don’t think they’ll try anything else tonight, Jo. Now you get your head down.’
He patted her hand. A few moments later, the Doctor was alone.
He walked up and down for a while, wriggling his toes inside the cavalry boots he’d managed to dig out of the Wing Commander’s wardrobe. They were slightly too tight but would do very well until proper replacements could be found. Throwing himself into an armchair, the Doctor pondered his experiences at the aerodrome. The wind tunnel intrigued him. The first horizontal one was no surprise. After all, a new airline would have a vested interest in experimentation. But what on Earth could be the function of the vertical chimney?
Unless…
He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. Unless its function wasn’t on Earth at all…
Noah shifted in his sleep, sweat still pouring from his clammy face.
The Doctor got up and stooped to examine the cut on his head, now encrusted with dark blood. The boy reacted to his touch and groaned as though in pain.
‘It’s all right, old chap,’ said the Doctor soothingly. ‘It’s all right.’
‘No,’ croaked Noah, his lips dry and flaky. ‘No. I saw it. Saw it.’ He reached up and grabbed the Doctor’s wrist.
