Doctor Who

by Alex Kingston

  We go back to my office. I grab the directory and turn to the section on hotels. Not the first time I’ve had to do the rounds – it’s a slog, but a private eye’s job is 5 per cent guesswork, 5 per cent grey matter, and 90 per cent legwork. Maybe I could’ve phoned around and hang the cost, but trotting around the city with Harry appealed some.

  So, I turn to A for Adelphi, and I’m just gonna start making a list when my eye catches a name just a couple of lines further down and I come to a full stop. I show the listing to Harry.

  ‘What d’you reckon? Say you’re the reincarnation of Cleopatra – where else would you go?’

  He looks and he agrees. So together we set off for 250 West 103rd Street, just off Broadway, and the Hotel Alexandria.

  It was an impressive building of 14 storeys – mind you, it had to be impressive, to charge five bucks a night. I’d slipped a mink over my workaday clothes before we left; not my style at all, and there’d been many a time I’d thought of hocking it for rent money, but it was worth its weight in – well, in mink. Put on a coat like that and you’re somebody. So I assume my best ‘I belong here’ face, with Harry hurrying after me like a well-trained secretary (or Boston Terrier), sweep up to the desk and demand Mrs Peterson-Lee’s room number.

  The desk doll starts to say, ‘We ain’t supposed to … ’ but I look at her like no one has ever said no to me in my life before and anyone trying to start now will be looking at the Help Wanted ads tomorrow morning. She caves.

  I go over to the elevator and instruct the liftboy to take me to the fifth floor, calling over my shoulder to tell Harry to take the stairs. I just figure that’s what a really rich dame would do – plus it’s funny. His face as he said, ‘Yes, madam’ was a picture. It’s even better when Harry then joins me on the fifth floor and I say, ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ as he gets his breath back and tidies his hair (one wavy lock tends to spill over his forehead when he runs, that’s pretty much the whole reason I did this. It’s pretty darn adorable).

  We find the room. A maid with a trolley full of fluffy white towels is just coming down the corridor, so as the Peterson-Lee woman opens—

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STORMCAGE, AD 5147

  I was in the middle of revising the chapter where Melody goes to the Hotel Alexandria (there’s a reason why the writer’s curse is: ‘May your rewrites never end’) when Ventrian started screaming.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I demanded through the air vent. It felt like a very long time before I got an answer.

  ‘They’re going there!’

  That was unhelpful. ‘Who is going where?’

  ‘They’ll find it! It’ll find them! I can already feel it! Something’s getting close … ’

  I told Ventrian, ‘Calm down’ a lot. After about the 80th time, he almost did.

  But it turned out he had good reason to panic. We may well have a problem – a big one. Universe big. One of the guards had informed Ventrian that the authorities were attempting to retrace his steps. They wanted to find the weapon he’d used to destroy the planet. So of course Ventrian was terrified they would find the Eye of Horus Device, and he had good reason. But getting agitated does no one any good. I don’t panic – I act.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I said, as my brain whirred. ‘This is the plan. Tonight, I’ll go and see what I can find out. If there really is something to worry about, I’ll come and get you, and we will stop it. Listen to me,’ I said again. ‘We will stop it.’

  ‘We can’t wait that long!’ he said, but unfortunately for him, we had to. The guards may be happy to look the other way on occasion, but without my hallucinogenic lipstick there would probably be a bit of violence involved, maybe a few alarms set off – basically a discreet exit would be impossible.

  I spent the rest of the day making plans and tidying my prose. Looked like I wasn’t going to finish my book in Stormcage after all, I’d have to wrap it up later. A pain, but I’d got most of it done at least.

  Finally it was time for night-time rounds. After lights out, the warders come round to make sure all the prisoners are tucked up safely in their beds. I’d told Ventrian not to take his meal pill; he was to feign sleep and stay awake until I could report back.

  ‘Goodnight, boys!’ I called out to the guards as they passed, adding in a rather winsome little yawn to show I was all ready for beddy-byes. Each floor contains 50 cells, spread far apart, and they still had one more floor to check after mine. But following that, they would rejoin their fellows in the staff wing and the coast would be clear. I had planned what I would do next down to the smallest detail.

  Suddenly there was a distant sound. Loud, but muffled. Perhaps a space shuttle backfiring – not that many shuttles make it into our little galactic blind alley. I tensed, waiting.

  There was nothing else for a few minutes, and I was starting to relax when I heard footsteps. The two guards hurried back through the gloom, pistols unholstered. ‘What’s happening?’ I called as they passed. One half-turned to look, maybe speak, then changed his mind. The other didn’t even glance my way. Not normal. I’d expect a ‘Mind your own business’ at the very least.

  Someone said something – it wasn’t a guard’s voice. Then the corridor lit up red, just for a moment. Then another moment.

  Thud. Thud.

  A sound I recognised very well. Bodies falling to the ground. Two of them, one after another. And the flashes – that had been energy weapons discharging. But not Stormcage-issue weapons: the beams were the wrong colour.

  I moved over to the bars of my cell – quietly, slowly, keeping low – and tried to look down the corridor. There was something right on the corner of my vision that might have been a shoe, supine. Urgent, man down, man down! Surely the alarms would go off any moment? But no. There was no one else to set them off.

  Look, if you work somewhere like this, you know the risks. And there aren’t many prisoners I’d raise even a little finger to help. But (other) people breaking in to Stormcage and shooting the warders is irritating, to say the least. When it gets so you don’t feel safe even in your own maximum-security prison, there’s something very wrong going on.

  I was tempted to forget my plans and just stay in my cell. Keep out of trouble.

  The problem with that is, I like trouble.

  And there was something else too. The few words I’d heard just before the shootings. I was almost certain they’d been ‘Eye of Horus’. Possibly ‘Where’s the Eye of Horus?’ Something like that.

  The Egyptian symbol of protection, power and health? The fictional ruby of Melody Malone’s story? Well, both seemed rather unlikely. Ventrian’s powerful Device? Rather more plausible. Except – who could possibly know he was referring to it in that way? Was he still connected to it somehow? Did it have its claws so deep into his mind that it knew what he was thinking? That could cause a lot of problems. I needed to find out what was going on.

  I would have to bring my breakout forward.

  The cells in Stormcage are low tech, deliberately. They’ve learned the hard way that many criminals are able to hack, reprogram, fuse, sonic or otherwise break through electronic systems, whereas iron bars and bolts and huge locks with metal keys can’t be overcome with the merest flick of a switch or click of the fingers. But there are ways. Normally I like to have a little fun, play a game, pit my wits against the guards to get out of my cell (seriously, they love it too, I know for a fact they keep a book on what method I’ll use next time, so really it’s a favour to them to keep it interesting). But now, of course, I just needed to get out with the least amount of fuss in the shortest amount of time.

  I dug through my makeup bag until I found a small bottle labelled nail varnish. Notice ‘labelled’ – because labels can lie. This particular label should say ‘fearsomely strong acid’. I remember this woman I was at a party with, One-Thumb Marlene – oh, actually, that rather gives away the end of the anecdote. Never mind.

  I painted on the liquid with the handy
little brush, and waited for it to burn through the metal. There were only a few drops of acid left in the little bottle when I was done, but I took it with me anyway. My arsenal was necessarily low due to my situation; the warders may turn a blind eye to some things, but heavy-duty weaponry isn’t one of them. Apart from the dregs of acid, my resources consisted solely of a sharpened nail file and an under-razer-wired bra (and for goodness’ sake, never go on a trampoline when you’re wearing one of those). I quickly fastened the Vortex Manipulator around my wrist too – usually you can’t teleport from inside the prison thanks to a powerful dampening field, but if intruders had made it in, there was a fair chance the field had been, or would be, disrupted somehow.

  I crept out. I’d been right, two guards lay dead on the floor. Tomas and Ezra. Both not too objectionable, in their own ways. Their weapons were missing. Oh, and someone had cut off their hands and dug out their eyes. I’m not squeamish, but I was still quite glad it was night-time and I didn’t have to look too closely. It gave me a moment’s pause though – maybe the words I’d heard weren’t ‘Eye of Horus’, but something else. ‘Where’s the eye for us?’ Could have been that, maybe.

  The sensible course of action would be to assume I was mistaken and go back to my nice, cosy cell.

  Oh, I don’t think so.

  I was assuming that the explosion I’d heard was the outer shell being pierced. And here’s a thing. My time sense was tingling. Remember the ‘marble drop doors’ that had to be properly aligned if you didn’t want to do an impression of Marie Antoinette at the guillotine? This intrusion had been planned, and planned well, because we were just coming up to the time of day when all the doors aligned on this floor. Unless it was an almighty coincidence, I guessed the intruders were heading to the staff wing, from where you can access all the Stormcage systems.

  Most prisoners wouldn’t be able to find their way through the prison labyrinth to the ‘marble’ doors. Luckily I’m not most prisoners. But even if I had been, I could have easily followed the interlopers’ trail, scattered as it was with open gates and dead guards instead of breadcrumbs.

  I reached the ‘marble drop’ door. There was still time to make it through, so I did. Unlike the rest of the prison where a soft blue night-time light was the only illumination, here it was as bright as day. I followed the open route to the staff quarters, wading through a sea of dead guards, most of whom I knew by name.

  Finally I came upon the intruders. There were only five, all men, but they were huge, thuggish, and very heavily armed. Keeping low, I crawled forward. My hand came down on something squishy. I’m not squeamish, I’ve already told you that, but how would you like to find you’d just put your hand on a discarded eye ball? Especially when you knew its owner. I won’t lie, I was tempted to say a few rude words. Still, waste not, want not. Maybe I’d need to get through an iris reader some time. I put the eyeball in my pocket and hoped it wouldn’t stain.

  Onwards. I couldn’t see what was on the screen in front of them – but I could hear their voices, whispering to each other. A bit closer and I might be able to make out words …

  I took out my sharpened nail file and held it between my teeth, like a pirate carrying a cutlass (did you know that’s where the phrase ‘armed to the teeth’ comes from? Musket in both hands, knife between the teeth in case you don’t have time to reload. We archaeologists are full of little tidbits like that. Life and soul of the party, I’m sure you’ll agree).

  A step. Another step. Then one of them said loudly, ‘Well, how would you spell it, then?’

  ‘Try F – E – N – T – R – Y – O – N,’ said another. Slowly. Huge, thuggish, very heavily armed, but not necessarily blessed with brains.

  Now, they don’t let me have access to the prison rosters – I have asked, it’d be very helpful when compiling my Christmas Card list, but no – but I would be surprised if there were too many prisoners whose name sounded like ‘Fentryon’, however it’s spelled (something I’d have to check with the man himself later).

  So if they’re looking for Ventrian, there’s a very good chance they had said ‘Eye of Horus’. It also meant – or so I reasoned – that there was no connection still between the Eye and Ventrian, because if there had been they’d at least have known how to spell his name.

  These men had slaughtered their way through Stormcage, and they wanted the Eye of Horus.

  And if the Eye of Horus had caused so much death and destruction in the hands of a good man – because I was sure Ventrian was a genuinely good person; I’m not a good person, so I can spot a fake a mile off – then how much more dangerous would it be in the hands of people who are not good at all?

  So that’s how I suddenly realised I had to cancel my plans and do whatever it took to stop them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  STORMCAGE, AD 5147

  ‘You sure you’ve got the name right?’ demanded one of the men.

  ‘It’s what Sukri said. He kept overhearing this bloke talking with some bird. Only heard the name a couple of times, but that’s what he told Deff. But he hadn’t got no clue where the voices were coming from.’

  Well, that solved another mystery: how they knew about Ventrian and the Eye. Our vent-to-vent conversations had been overheard. I briefly contemplated tackling all five of them there and then, my righteous fury at being called a ‘bird’ more than making up for any deficiencies in weaponry, but I was wearing white and you can never get the bloodstains out; it would be bad enough having to deal with the squishy eye goo that was already seeping out of my pocket.

  I had to warn Ventrian. The trouble was, I didn’t know where to find him either. Our earliest conversations had been rather like a confessional: words sent into the ether to an unseen audience, in some ways they hadn’t felt real. I realised how foolish I’d been not to check in with him before I set off chasing the intruders.

  So, should I stay here and watch these goons until they worked out Ventrian’s location, then hope I could get to him first? That would be cutting things very fine. No, I’d try to locate him on my own, with my fingers very firmly crossed.

  I reversed back into the vestibule. The doorway to my floor would remain open only a few minutes more. I had to hope the thugs disabled those defences or I’d never be able to get to Ventrian in time. The trouble being, of course, that once they disabled the defences the way would be accessible for them too.

  Back to my cell. I pulled my mattress aside, and was about to call out when a thought hit me: what if we were overheard? That guy they mentioned – Sukri. He was obviously an inmate, but he wasn’t with them. He could still be listening. I had to watch what I said.

  ‘Ventrian! Ventrian, are you there?’ I hissed through the vent.

  No reply. Surely he hadn’t gone to sleep?

  I tried again. ‘Ventrian?’

  Aargh! He just couldn’t hear me. There was no choice, I had to shout. ‘Ven-tri-aaaaaan!’ I yelled. The ducts took my words and threw them around, the echoes churning inside the pipes. I did it again. ‘Ven-tri-aaaaaan!’

  That reached him. A sudden, surprised, ‘River? It is time already?’

  ‘No. Just listen. You’re in danger. Someone’s coming for you.’

  ‘Who? Why? I don’t—’

  ‘No time for that. Tell me how to find you.’

  ‘I’m in—’

  ‘No! Stop! We could be overheard.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do!’ I’d put the poor man in a panic. Not surprising. But there had to be a way through this.

  My personal pied-à-terre is Cell 426. A nice even number. ‘You can find me at the fall of the Roman Empire minus 50,’ I told him. ‘Get that?’ One of those dates that all Earth historians know, and I’d talked about Rome with him. Not that it mattered if he remembered it was AD 476 or not, I was just giving him the idea. He had to tell me his cell number in a way that only I would understand.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Don’t get flustered. Just give me a sum.�
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  There was silence for a few moments. My foot was tapping in irritation. Finally he said, ‘I’m, er, in … oh yes! Alexander the Great conquers Egypt … plus Julius Caesar is assassinated!’

  What a clever boy! He’d definitely been listening. I felt quite proud of myself. I was obviously an exceptionally good teacher. So – Alexander the Great conquers Egypt: that’s 332 BCE; Julius Caesar is assassinated: 44 BCE. Both negative numbers, strictly speaking, but I’m fairly certain we don’t have negative cells. So 332 plus 44 equals 376. I threw my hands in the air in frustration. He could have just used my example of the fall of the Roman Empire minus a hundred. I almost went to berate him, then decided that would be better kept for later.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ is all I said.

  With 50 cells to a floor, he must be right underneath me. Obviously that made sense, our vents were connected, although if I had to guess I’d have put him further away. If only I’d packed a bucket of acid instead of just a few millilitres, I could have burned through the floor and reached him like that. As it was, I had to take the long way round.

  I retraced my steps until I got to the ‘marble doors’. I’d just make it. No time to think twice, I just dived through. If Ventrian’s floor was below mine, the likelihood was the next alignment would take me to him.

  I was counting down the interval until the next passage opened, when I heard someone coming from the direction of the staff wing – and as far as I knew, the only people still alive in there were the thugs. I’d have to cross the threshold the instant it became viable – it didn’t matter where it took me, I had to get out of there. Closer and closer came the footsteps. It wasn’t going to work! The entrance wouldn’t align in time. Could I make it out the other way? I didn’t have my special mirrors with me, the laser maze would cut me to pieces.