Silhouette

by Justin Richards

  On the ground behind him, Bellamy lay twisted and still. The clothes seemed far too big for the wizened, emaciated husk of a body. A skeletal hand stretched out across the ground, fleshless fingers frozen in the act of clawing desperately at the cobbles as if trying to cling to the last moments of fading life.

  Chapter

  2

  ‘King Arthur.’

  ‘No.’

  Clara glared. ‘What do you mean, “No”?’

  The Doctor didn’t look up from the TARDIS console, just put up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘No. Not King Arthur.’

  ‘You said I could choose.’

  ‘Within reason.’ He still didn’t look up.

  ‘Not what you said. I can choose, you said. Any place any time any person, you said. So I choose King Arthur.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We just did that.’

  ‘Still no.’ He did look up now. His eyes were lost in shadow so it was hard for Clara to see if he was joking or deadly serious. The rest of his face always looked serious, it was the eyes that were the clue. If you could see them.

  ‘So why not?’

  ‘Not a good time, that’s all.’

  ‘You got something better to do?’

  ‘The time of King Arthur is not a good time. Smelly, dirty, dangerous. You’d hate it. Besides …’ He turned back to the console, cradling his chin in his hand as he stared at the screen.

  ‘Besides?’ Clara went over to join him, staring over his shoulder at the jumble of lines and squiggles and blobs on the screen. ‘Besides what?’

  The Doctor sighed, straightened up, and waved his hand at the screen. ‘Well, look at it. Just look at it. There. See?’

  ‘Um, no. Is it broken?’

  That earned her a raised eyebrow.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Power spike.’

  ‘Something wrong with the TARDIS?’

  ‘Not the TARDIS, no. A power spike in the late nineteenth century, right in the middle of London. Someone’s using a post-nuclear power supply, and that’s not good. Oh, they’ve got it shielded,’ he went on, striding round the console, hands behind his back and head down as he considered. ‘Which just confirms the fact that it can’t be a natural phenomenon or an instrumental anomaly.’

  ‘Well, quite. Late Victorian London?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Could it be Madame Vastra? Maybe Strax is messing about with some new post-nuclear weapon.’

  ‘Very likely he is. But no.’ The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, no, no. They’d never be that careless. This is someone who doesn’t want to be found, but who has no idea of the anachronistic implications.’

  ‘So we forget King Arthur and go and sort out this post-nuclear spike, is that what you’re suggesting?’

  He was already working the controls. ‘It wasn’t a suggestion.’ He glanced across at Clara. ‘We’d better get changed into something that blends in a little more, don’t you think?’

  ‘You already look Victorian,’ she told him.

  ‘ “We” was a tactful term. It wasn’t actually me I was talking about.’

  ‘That’s a first.’ Clara looked down at her bright blue blouse and short skirt. Maybe he had a point. ‘I’ll find something that will fit in with late Victorian then.’

  He was working the controls again, pulling a lever and checking a dial. ‘Choose something practical. It’ll be smelly, dirty and dangerous,’ he warned her. ‘You’ll love it.’

  Frost clung to the trees like brittle blossom. The snow was filmed with a thick crust where it had frozen over. Icicles looked as if they had sprouted from the undersides of windowsills and ledges. Most impressive of all, the wide expanse of the river Thames was a sheet of opaque ice.

  ‘There’s a definite nip in the air,’ the Doctor observed.

  Clara’s breath misted in front of her. ‘You can say that again. Well, not actually say it again,’ she added quickly. He could be so literal sometimes.

  The TARDIS had landed in a narrow, deserted street close to the river. Judging by the lack of footprints in the snow, it was not a street that saw a lot of traffic.

  ‘So, have you got some instrument that can lead us to this power source?’ Clara asked as they set off along the pavement beside the river.

  ‘Power spike. It’s not a source, it was a spike, a spike that came from a source.’

  ‘Which is different, right?’

  ‘Right. And because it was a spike, it just happened the once. So now it’s gone, and there’s nothing to detect.’

  ‘Unless it does it again?’

  ‘Unless it does it again. In which case …’ He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and checked its settings. ‘In which case we’ll know. But we can’t just wait for it to happen, because it might not.’

  ‘So how do we find this power source, then?’

  ‘We investigate. The TARDIS landed us as close as she could, but we could still be a couple of miles away.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’

  ‘That’s not bad over several centuries and few million light years. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down an alien presence in London. Chances are that they’ll be obvious, arrogant, think themselves superior.’

  Clara gave the Doctor a good stare. ‘Yeah, right.’

  His eyebrows knitted together. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘So, what’s the plan? Pop along to Paternoster Row and ask our local friends for help?’

  ‘Vastra and Strax and Jenny? Oh no, we don’t need to bother them. Trust me.’ He shook his head. ‘This’ll be easy.’

  It was late morning and a steady stream of people made their way to the Frost Fair. Caught up in the tide, Clara and the Doctor were happy to go with the flow.

  ‘So, it’s not desperately urgent, this power spike?’ Clara said through a mouthful of roasted chestnuts.

  The Doctor was examining a baked potato, trying to work out how best to attack it. ‘We’re investigating,’ he said, before taking a huge bite. He hopped from foot to foot, mouth open, and gasping.

  ‘Hot?’ Clara guessed.

  The Doctor nodded furiously, while also somehow managing to scowl at a nearby boy who was laughing at the spectacle.

  ‘I think you just wanted an excuse not to go and see King Arthur.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He blew furiously on what was left of the steaming potato. ‘Though last time I visited there was a bit of a problem with a sword.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He was very young at the time, came running up shouting that he needed a sword, so I handed it to him.’

  ‘And that was a problem.’

  The Doctor risked some more potato. ‘Apparently,’ he said as he chewed, ‘Arthur was supposed to take the sword out of the stone himself. Lot of fuss about nothing, if you ask me. But I did get to be King of England for a day before I abdicated in his favour. No real harm done. Are you going to stand here chattering all day?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s that over there?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but popped the rest of the potato in his mouth and strode off into the crowds.

  The centrepiece of the fair was a large merry-go-round. Clara watched the horses rising and falling as they spun. Coupled with the music there was an almost hypnotic quality to the scene. The Doctor watched with her for a few minutes, then dived off on his own, and they met again by a stall selling rag dolls and cloth purses.

  ‘You having fun, love?’ the woman at the stall asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Clara assured her, hoping she had said it loud enough to cover the Doctor’s less positive response. ‘Is there a fortune teller?’ she asked on a whim.

  ‘That’ll be in the Carnival.’

  ‘The Carnival?’

  The woman pointed. ‘Up that end is the Carnival of Curiosities. They’ve got all sorts in there. It’ll cost you a penny each to get in, mind.’

 
; ‘Want to give it a go?’ Clara asked the Doctor.

  ‘Oh yes. It sounds …’

  ‘Curious?’

  He smiled. ‘Intriguing.’

  The Doctor produced two shiny pennies to pay at the gate into the Carnival of Curiosities, receiving two cardboard tickets in return.

  ‘Just show this if you want to come back later today, squire,’ the lad on the gate told him. ‘Only valid for today though, mind. Tickets’ll be a different colour tomorrow.’

  Inside the enclosure, there was an open area where several stalls were set up in the snow, and tents round the outside. The fortune teller was something of a disappointment. The elderly woman, wrapped in a shawl, sat at a table hunched over a crystal ball. She waggled her fingers over it, having first deprived Clara of another halfpenny, then gave a bored and obviously pretty standard spiel about her meeting a tall handsome stranger and going on a long journey.

  ‘Well that much is right, I suppose,’ she said to the Doctor. ‘You want a go?’

  He shook his head. ‘Either she’s a charlatan, in which case there’s no point. Or she genuinely can see into the future in which case meeting me will probably provoke a coronary.’

  He was more interested in an exhibition of ‘Never-Creatures’. Once inside the tent, they found themselves confronted with glass bell jars filled with unidentifiable organic matter and grotesque sculptures. Labels suggested the contents were anything from a still-born starchild to a breed of moon-pig only found in the mountains of Spain.

  The prize exhibit, stretched out under a glass case at the end of the tent was a dead mermaid. The Doctor spared it little more than a glance. ‘An obvious fake,’ he announced, just too loudly for comfort. ‘The skin’s the wrong colour and those fins are entirely the wrong shape.’

  He embarrassed Clara again by yawning loudly in the middle of the Strong Man’s demonstration outside the tent. The man was huge, his upper body covered with tattoos that included a dagger on each bicep and chains across his chest. With his bald head and broad physique he reminded Clara a little of Strax, except the man was much taller – well over six feet. He impressed the rest of his audience by smashing a pile of bricks with his hand, breaking a slab of stone with his forehead, and finally attempting to lift a metal pole with baskets of rocks attached at each end.

  The muscles in his neck and arms stood out impressively as he strained and grunted and eventually managed to raise the rocks off the ground. He braced his legs, hefted the pole to his chest, and staggered as he struggled to lift it high above his head.

  The Doctor sighed, looking round to see if there was anything more interesting happening somewhere else.

  ‘You got a problem, mister?’ the Strong Man demanded, slowly lowering the pole. He kept it braced across his chest as he stared at the Doctor.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s right – you.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The Doctor walked up to the Strong Man. ‘I just wasn’t that impressed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Doctor,’ Clara warned.

  There was a tangible air of anticipation among the crowd as the Strong Man glared back at the Doctor. ‘I can soon teach you to be impressed.’

  ‘You think so?’ The Doctor gave Clara a ‘What can you do?’ glance. Then he took the metal pole from the man, holding it easily in one hand, steady as the rocks in the baskets attached to each end. ‘Let me hold that while you try.’

  The Strong Man stared back, astonished.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Michael what?’

  ‘Michael, sir.’

  ‘No, no, no. Let me put this down.’ The Doctor set down the pole carefully. ‘What’s your surname? Michael what?’

  ‘Oh. Michael Smith.’

  ‘Ah!’ The Doctor’s face cracked into a sudden smile. ‘I’m a Smith myself. Doctor John Smith, well sort of. Us Smiths have to stick together, you know. Good act, by the way. Maybe work on your presentation a bit. Develop some patter to keep people interested.’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael the Strong Man said. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The Doctor turned away. ‘No problem. Oh,’ he said, looking back for a moment, ‘and try to make it look difficult.’

  ‘I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life,’ Clara told him as they walked away, ignoring the stares of the crowd.

  ‘Yes you have.’

  ‘Yes I have,’ she admitted. ‘But I was probably with you at the time.’

  The last tent they visited, right at the back of the enclosure, advertised ‘The Most Magickal Shadowplay.’

  ‘If it was that impressive,’ the Doctor said, ‘they’d be able to spell “magical”.’

  ‘Don’t be so grumpy and come and enjoy the show,’ Clara told him.

  The show was already in progress, so they made their way to the nearest seats at the back of the darkened tent. Across the tops of the heads of the rest of the audience, Clara stared transfixed at the screen. The principle was simple. A light was shone from behind the thin screen, and cut-out puppets between light and screen cast shadows as the show unfolded. There didn’t seem to be a story as such, not in this part of the show anyway. It was more of a display, a dance of animals, of flights of birds, of figures so lifelike and so well animated that it was easy to believe the shadows were real, were alive.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it,’ the Doctor whispered. It was a refreshing change to find he was actually impressed. ‘Is it just me,’ he added, ‘or is it actually impossible?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clara hissed back. ‘Can’t you just enjoy it?’

  ‘Oh I can, I am. But …’

  ‘But? But what?’

  ‘But, they’re puppets.’

  ‘Obviously.’ She turned back to watch the show. A butterfly fluttered delicately through the air, chased by a child with a net. Her mind had no problem filling the dark shadows with imaginary texture, detail and colour.

  ‘So,’ the Doctor whispered right in her ear, ‘where are the strings, or the rods? If they’re puppets – what keeps them up and makes them move?’

  Clara frowned. Actually he was right. ‘Well, they’re hidden, that’s all,’ she decided. ‘Or the wires are extremely thin. It’s very clever.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’

  The show ended to a riot of applause. The screen rose into the air, to reveal a figure standing behind. A young woman wearing a red cloak. The hood was folded back, so that her long hair spilled down the back – black as shadows. Her features were delicate, almost childlike, as she took a bow.

  She was still standing there as the tent emptied. Clara turned to go, and found that the Doctor was already hurrying the other way, down to where the woman stood.

  ‘How do you do it?’ he was demanding as she arrived.

  ‘Sorry,’ Clara said before the woman could reply. ‘What he meant to say was: “That was really impressive and we enjoyed it very much.” ’

  The woman shook Clara’s hand, and smiled. ‘I’m glad my show entertained you.’

  ‘It did,’ the Doctor agreed. ‘So, like I said, how do you do it?’

  ‘This is the Doctor, by the way,’ Clara said. ‘And I’m Clara.’

  ‘I have always had a talent for shadow puppetry,’ the woman said. ‘For bringing shadows and shapes to life. You’ll forgive me if I don’t share all my secrets with you. My skill is all that I have.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ the Doctor said. ‘But like Clara said – impressive. Thank you. Oh,’ he added as they turned to go, ‘you didn’t tell us your name.’

  The woman pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head, so that her face fell into shadow. A striking red figure standing stark against the glow of the lamp at the back of the tent.

  ‘I am Silhouette,’ she said.

  Chapter

  3

  ‘I still don’t think it’s possible,’ the Doctor said as they made th
eir way back through the fair.

  ‘Just because you don’t understand it,’ Clara told him. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we agree that it’s magic? That covers it.’

  He fixed her with a stare that was somewhere between sympathetic and condescending. ‘Magic is just a term people use for things they’re too primitive to understand properly.’

  Clara nodded. ‘I think that’s what I just said, actually.’

  They paused to watch a man in a short cape and impressive moustache doing card tricks. He fanned out the pack and waved it at the Doctor.

  ‘Pick a card. Any card. Don’t tell me what it is, but show it to the young lady there, and then to everyone else.’

  The Doctor showed everyone his card – the three of diamonds.

  ‘Good, now replace it in the pack, anywhere you like. That’s it.’

  The conjuror shuffled the pack. Then he cut it. Then he shuffled it again. Finally, he threw the pack up into the air. One card separated from the others, and he caught it in one hand. The rest of the pack, he caught in the other.

  ‘And tell me, sir,’ he announced confidently, ‘if this is your card?’

  The crowd was silent. The Doctor peered at the card. The seven of clubs. ‘No, it’s not.’

  The conjuror’s smile became rather more fixed as he quickly looked through the rest of the cards. ‘All part of the trick,’ he said rather unconvincingly. ‘Ah! Queen of spades.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nine of hearts?’

  ‘Still no.’

  The conjuror sniffed and frowned. ‘So what was it?’

  ‘Left pocket,’ the Doctor told him.

  The conjuror’s frown deepened as he pulled an unexpected card from his trouser pocket. ‘Three of diamonds?’

  ‘That’s the one. Sorry, I cheated.’

  They headed back through the Carnival towards the main Frost Fair. The snow was getting heavier, settling on top of the compacted snow already lying on the ground.

  ‘So what’s the plan now?’ Clara asked.