Doctor Who: The Clockwise Man

by Richards, Justin

  'Never done a club before,' he confessed. 'You, Matty?'

  Matty Black shook his head. He was a tall, lean man. A contrast to the rather shorter and more portly figure of Cheshunt. 'Looks easy enough.'

  Cheshunt rubbed at his misshapen nose with a callused hand. 'Yeah. Easy. Tell us again what you're after.'

  The woman remained in the darkest of shadows. The only good glimpse that Cheshunt had caught of her face had been a blank mask – literally. A smooth, paper-white approximation of a face made all the more disconcerting by the way her real eyes stared darkly out of it. 'Anything relating to the Doctor and Rose Tyler. You will search their rooms, now I have told you where they are. You will check their belongings, papers, clothes. I shall need a full description of everything.'

  'Right. Yeah.'

  'In addition, I want to know how and if they are registered as guests or members. What sureties if any they have offered. Who has vouched for them and under what circumstances. In short, whatever is recorded about them in the club's records. The register is in the front desk. The other records are in the safe, as I have told you. I shall also want to know of any security measures you encounter.'

  'You what?' Cheshunt stared at the woman, his face almost as blank as hers.

  A sigh from behind the mask. 'What precautions they have taken to deter intruders such as yourselves. Alarms, strong rooms, defences. Anything.'

  'Oh, right.'

  'There must be stuff more valuable than just papers and records,' Matty insisted. 'We'll come out of there laden,' he hissed excitedly to Cheshunt.

  'You will not,' the woman said sharply. Her eyes glistened in the pale shape of the mask. 'You will confine yourselves to the matters I have specified. I would rather no one even knew you had been there.' She hesitated in the darkness, then went on, 'You may be wondering how I already know so much.'

  'Your business.'

  'True. But it may be of interest to you to know that an. . . associate of mine spoke to one of the staff at some length. I would have preferred to have her make further enquiries for me, but sadly she was not co-operative.'

  'Yeah,' Matty said, not at all interested. 'Very sad.'

  'My associate had to deal with her quite sternly.' She leaned forward and the glow from a nearby street lamp made her white face shine like a ghost. 'In fact, very sternly. As a result the unfortunate woman's services are no longer available to me. Or to anyone.' The face turned slowly from Cheshunt to Matty and back again. 'Do I make myself clear?'

  Cheshunt could feel his heart thumping rhythmically in his chest as he realised what she was telling them. 'Very clear, lady. Very clear.' He nudged Matty with his elbow. 'We won't be taking nothing the lady don't want from inside. All right?'

  Matty nodded. looking down at his feet as he shuffled nervously under the gaze of the faceless woman and the burly Cheshunt. If he saw the black cat stretched out in the shadows nearby, staring at them through startlingly green eyes, its ears pricked up attentively, he said nothing.

  After they left the British Empire Exhibition, the Doctor and Rose took a cab back into the centre of London and went shopping. It was getting late, and the shops were beginning to close, but Rose still managed to find some clothes that she would feel more comfortable in. A woollen suit and a less frumpy dress were her main purchases. Jeans – or indeed any women's trousers – and T-shirts were nowhere to be found.

  'Camouflage jackets are hard to find too,' the Doctor said.

  Rose wasn't sure if he really wanted one or if he was joking. She didn't ask.

  By the time she got back to the Imperial Club, Rose was exhausted. She and the Doctor ate dinner with Wyse, who was keen to hear all about their day. He nodded understandingly as they told him that Freddie had not been allowed to go to the exhibition. He seemed pleasantly surprised, though – as they had been – that Anna had let him come in the car. Rose pushed her food round the plate, too tired to eat much at all.

  By the end of the meal, she could hardly keep her eyes open. The Doctor and Wyse were talking politics. Or something. Boring, whatever it was. She made her excuses and left them to it. The Doctor was obviously happy to continue his talk without Rose's help, though he was polite enough not to say so.

  Back in her room, Rose struggled into a long nightdress that the Doctor had insisted she get. She wasn't convinced, and she decided to wear it more for novelty and authenticity than comfort. And because she was too tired even to take it off again as she collapsed into bed.

  Of course, once she was in bed, Rose could not get to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she seemed to find herself walking through yet another concrete pavilion. Her feet felt as if they had forgotten how to stop walking, and she found that she was thinking about everything in terms of exhibits. She imagined the Doctor and Wyse playing chess, and they were in front of an audience, sitting in an exhibition area on display. Each of the chess pieces seemed to be at once in the game and in a glass cabinet ready to be admired for the craftsmanship it demonstrated.

  She dozed, and woke and half slept and half woke again. Everything and nothing was part of her dreams. She was walking through the club, peering into the display cabinets that seemed to be everywhere. In one of them she was startled to find Aske staring up at her. He winked. Moving on, she found Repple waiting in the next cabinet, just as she realised she had expected. But this was a working exhibit, a demonstration. The side of his face had been stripped away to reveal the workings inside – the skull and the brain. One eye stood proud, as in a diagram on the classroom wall, to show its workings, complete – impossibly – with labels.

  "Why doesn't he bleed?' Freddie wanted to know. He was standing the other side of the cabinet, looking over at Rose.

  'He isn't real,' she assured him. 'They're just made up for the show.'

  There was a banging sound now. Like a knocking. She knew it was Aske, trying to get out of his cabinet. Knocking for help. Becoming more and more frantic. Yet she could not look away from the prone figure of Repple. 'Help him!' she shouted at Freddie.

  But he shook his head. 'I might get hurt.'

  Then suddenly the room went dark, and Rose realised she was awake at last. And the banging, thumping, agonised heartbeat of sound was still there above her.

  Rose sat up in bed, suddenly alert as she struggled to shrug off the dream and cling to what was real. Sounds – scrapings, movement. Above her. From the ceiling, from the floor above. Then a skittering like claws, or perhaps just a suitcase being moved. Because she realised with a flush of relief that there was someone in the room above. That was all. The reclusive Mr Pooter had returned from his travels.

  Even after the sounds stopped, Rose could not get back to sleep. She seemed to be more awake now than she had ever been. She was also hungry, and wished she had eaten rather more of her dinner. She lay there for a while in the near-darkness. Then she decided this was silly, and she got up and put the light on.

  After a few minutes wandering round the room aimlessly, she went through to the little adjoining lounge. She waited there for several minutes, sitting on each of the chairs in turn and finding none of them comfortable. Then she went over and knocked on the connecting door to the Doctor's room. There was no answer. When she put her ear to the door, she could hear nothing. She opened the door a crack.

  'Doctor? Doctor – are you awake?'

  Still no answer. She held her breath, trying to listen for his breathing to tell if he was asleep. Nothing.

  'Oh, this is stupid,' she said out loud. 'I can't sleep, and I don't believe you even do sleep.' She fumbled round on the wall inside the door, and found the bump of the light switch – so much more prominent than the flat white plastic light switches in her flat. It was as if someone had stuck half a cricket ball there.

  The lights came on, harsh and unforgiving, to reveal a bed that was not only empty but unslept in. Typical. He was probably still playing chess. She went back to her own room to find some clothes.

  * * *


  'You know, sometimes I despair of the empire, I really do.' Wyse kept his fingers on the rook as he considered his move. 'Yes, why not?' he decided.

  'Oh?'

  'This passion for self-determination and allowing colonies to secede.'

  'Not in favour?' The Doctor considered his next move. He blew out a long breath; it really was quite difficult. Wyse was a clever and skilful opponent, and the Doctor was just itching to move something and be done with it.

  'All right as an ideal, I suppose. But where's it going to end? I mean, look what's happened in Ireland, and that's not over by a long chalk, I'll warrant.'

  'Well, quite.' The Doctor knew where it was going to end, and he was careful to neither agree nor disagree.

  A strong central government, that's what we need. An overriding philosophy, with some local leeway.'

  'You reckon?'

  'Well, it's that or let them slip back to barbarity. Take the United States, fr'instance.'

  'Barbarous,' the Doctor agreed with a smile.

  'No, no. I mean they manage to maintain a federal system. Albeit with a rather more cohesive geography and an approximation at least of the English language.'

  'Isn't that what the Commonwealth is all about?'

  'Is it?' Wyse moved one of his knights forward. 'Thought that was about giving up power while trying to keep face. Recipe for disaster, in my opinion. Loss of control. Seems to me we're in danger of feeling ashamed of an empire we should be proud of. Oh, and that's check, by the way,' he pointed out.

  'Maybe there are things to be ashamed of too.' Without bothering to look at the board, the Doctor moved his king out of check.

  'Oh, undoubtedly,' Wyse agreed. 'Lots of 'em, I'm sure. But denying the good things doesn't make the bad ones any better, does it? Best to own up to everything, good and bad. Always a trade-off.' He removed the Doctor's queen and put his knight on the square where she had been. 'See what I mean?'

  'Sure you wanted to do that?' the Doctor asked, eyes glittering in the firelight.

  'What?' Wyse inspected the board, and frowned. 'Blast it.' He leaned back in his chair, pushed his monocle into his eye, and smiled. 'You know, Doctor, you should try running an empire. I've a feeling you'd be rather good at it.'

  The Doctor smiled back. 'Another game?'

  The moon was hidden behind smoky clouds so that the only light was from the street lamps as they struggled to cast a glow through the thin, swirling fog. The Imperial Club was locked up, the doorman gone, the lights out. Asleep for the night. Or so Cheshunt and Matty hoped as they made their way cautiously to the back of the building.

  Matty was carrying a heavy bullseye lantern which he contrived to shine everywhere except where Cheshunt wanted it. It would be easier for Cheshunt to take it himself, he knew. But what was the point of being in charge if you did everything yourself?

  'Seems quiet enough,' he grunted, jabbing a meaty finger at the back door in an effort to persuade Matty to hold the light over the lock. Once he could see, it was a matter of a few moments with a picklock, and they were inside.

  Cheshunt had a rough sketch map of the interior. He had not asked the woman in the mask where she'd got it. He was not sure he wanted to know the answer – or what had happened to the person who had provided it. But it served to show the way through the service areas and servants' quarters at the back of the building.

  They had decided to start with the foyer and the club's records. If all went according to plan, they could then move on to the Doctor's rooms. Both Cheshunt and Matty were used to searching rooms while their owners slept on in their nearby beds, oblivious. Each of them was carrying a small hessian sack which had accompanied them on many previous expeditions of a similar nature.

  It all started to go wrong as they emerged into the main foyer. Cheshunt held up his hand to stop Matty in the doorway. They stared out across the marbled floor and the huge staircase that swept imposingly upwards.

  'What is it?' Matty whispered.

  'Voices,' Cheshunt said quietly. 'Listen.'

  Right at the edge of his hearing, Cheshunt could make out the sound of people talking. Laughter. He led Matty to each of the several doorways off the foyer in turn. Eventually they found where the voices were coming from. The doorway gave into an oak-panelled corridor with paintings hanging on the walls. The two men crept slowly down the passageway, ready to turn and run at any moment. When they reached the end, Cheshunt motioned for Matty to stay put while he peered round the doorway and into the large, panelled room.

  There were two men, quite a way across the room. They seemed to be playing some game on a table – draughts or dominoes or something. Between taking their turns, they talked and laughed together. They seemed well occupied, and if they had sat there until three in the morning, Cheshunt expected and hoped they were not about to move now. He gestured for Matty to retreat down the corridor, the voices fading behind them.

  As he turned to follow, Cheshunt noticed the third occupant of the room. A cat. A black cat with triangular white markings on its front. The cat leaped down from the leather sofa where it had been stretched out. It stared across the room, as though it had seen Cheshunt, though he was sure it could not have done. Then it started across the room towards him. He turned and hurried after Matty.

  Back in the foyer, Matty was already starting work on the small wooden desk that stood discreetly to the side of the main doors. The lights were turned down low, and Matty was holding the lantern in one hand while he worked on the lock with the other. Cheshunt hurried to join him, the cat already forgotten.

  But he was soon reminded of it. Forcefully. The cat emerged from the corridor and hurled itself across the foyer, claws clicking a rapid rhythm on the stone floor like the ticking of a clock. It gave a screeching yowl of anger as it leaped at Cheshunt and Matty.

  Cheshunt swore and stepped aside, hand raised in front of his face. Matty, intent on breaking the lock, had not seen the cat. He looked up, startled by the sound. The lamp swung wildly as he tried to get up a hand to protect himself. Claws slashed at his face. Shadows stretched and loomed in the lamplight. Matty was shouting to Cheshunt for help as the creature crashed into him, tearing and slashing and yowling.

  The noise echoed round the foyer. Soon it was joined by running feet from the passageway. Cheshunt was pulling at the heavy bundle of fur that was clamped to Matty's face, ripping it away and hurling it to the floor. The cat landed on all four feet, turned in an instant, launched itself at Cheshunt.

  The men from the panelled room were there now, running, shouting. Cheshunt considered bluffing, pretending he and Matty had every right to be there and asking for help to get the dratted animal away from them. But from the expression of boiling anger on the face of the man wearing the monocle, he knew there was no point.

  For a moment they confronted each other. The cat was on the desk, hissing at Cheshunt. Matty was sobbing with pain, scratched head in hands. The two men stood facing them across the foyer. Then suddenly, bizarrely, the other man – the one in the dark leather jacket – grinned like an amused schoolboy.

  'Hello,' he said brightly.

  Somehow that was more frightening than the first man's anger or the cat's claws. The confidence and amusement of the man told Cheshunt in an instant that he had no chance of intimidating him, and little chance of escape.

  'What's going on?' The voice came from the main stairs. 'Doctor?'

  It distracted the two men, just for a second. Long enough for Cheshunt to grab Matty and push him roughly towards the main doors.

  The cat hissed again, and leaped. But Cheshunt was ready for it now. He ignored the young woman running down the stairs, the two men starting across the foyer. He let the sack he was holding fall open in one hand. With the other he caught the cat in mid-air, felt its uncanny strength, somehow managed to bundle it into the sack and pull the strings at the top closed.

  Matty had opened the door, bolts scraping and lock protesting. The two of them tumbled out, do
wn the steps, and ran.

  Thanks, Rose,' came the sarcastic voice of the man from behind them. There was a clatter of feet in pursuit, rapid down the steps behind them. Cheshunt did not turn to see who was following. He ran after Matty, holding the sack at arm's length, desperate not to be scratched by the frantic, dagger-sharp claws that lashed through the heavy material. He would dump the wretched animal as soon as he got the chance. And he knew exactly where, he thought – the only pleasant thought in his mind right now.

  * * *

  What are you doing? Rose asked herself. There was no way she could catch the two intruders, and even if she did they were hardly going to come quietly back to the Imperial Club to apologise and explain themselves. She slowed to a jog as the two men ahead of her reached the end of the bridge.

  The moon was struggling through the thin clouds and the start of a rain shower had dispelled the last wisps of fog, so she could see them clearly. The small man still had his hands over his face. The larger man was talking to him. As Rose watched, he held up the bag. She could see it moving, struggling, squirming as the cat inside struggled to be free.

  In a moment, she knew what the man was going to do, and she was running again. But there was no way she could get there in time. With a loud bellow of laughter, the man let the bag drop. Then the two of them were running again.

  Rose reached the bridge and looked over. She could see the murky water below reflecting back a broken image of the moon. The rain was getting heavier, peppering the surface of the river. The pale neck of the bag was just disappearing under the water, the strings hesitating a moment before following it down. Rose stared in disbelief. He'd done it, he'd really done it – chucked the poor thing into the river. She stared down, wondering if it was too late to jump in and try to find the bag. She thought of the cold, murky water, the length of the drop to the river, how she would ever get out again – or not. No bubbles broke the surface of the Thames. Rose stood there, staring down at the river, half expecting – hoping, willing – the cat to come struggling to the surface spitting water and hissing with fear. But there was nothing. She shivered, swallowed, and turned reluctantly away.