‘Er . . . er . . . victory’s stopped approaching,’ said another Quevvil nervously, claw tapping a dial to make certain of the reading.
‘The humans often pause for a while,’ said another. ‘They have no stamina. They are not warriors.’
A murmur of agreement passed throughout the room.
‘No, the game’s been shut off,’ said the nervous Quevvil. ‘We just have to hope that the carrier survives until the game is resumed . . .’
There was a groan from a Quevvil watching a monitor. ‘Mantodeans in the sector . . .’ he said. The others clustered around, even the Quevvils who had entered the teleport booths came out to see what was happening.
‘It might not see the carrier . . .’
‘No, two more coming round the corner . . . They’ve spotted it . . .’
‘The one on the left’s going to get it . . . Stupid carrier, just standing there . . .’
‘It can’t do anything else without a controller . . .’
‘And there it goes. Hook up another carrier, back at the beginning, for when the controller returns . . .’
The leader, Frinel, grunted. ‘I want that controller. No other has shown such skill! This is the controller who will bring us to our destiny at last! Track the signal. Send a message to our Earth agents. He will play the game for us – under our control.’ He paused. ‘And talking of control . . .’
He lumbered round, till his back was facing the rest. Then with a swish, he sent a barrage of quills flying towards the hapless small Quevvil from the teleport booth. The Quevvil collapsed to the floor.
‘Discipline must be maintained,’ said Frinel.
Mickey Smith was beginning to regret throwing out the Doctor, not because he wanted the smug git’s company, but because it was obvious that Rose wasn’t coming back with the milk and biscuits now her older man had left. He began an expedition through the kitchen cupboards, but there was nothing much except an old box of cereal and a giant jar of pickled onions that had been a recent present from Rose’s mum. He unscrewed the lid, selected an onion and began to crunch thoughtfully.
So the Doctor was taller than him, and better-looking than him, and had saved the world more times than he had. He could cope with all that. But it was a bit much when the bloke even thrashed him at video games, because that was an Earth thing, a Mickey thing, and he should be allowed to win out there at least.
It was just because it was this new, weirdo game. Grand Theft Auto, or Gran Turismo, or even Sonic the bleedin’ Hedgehog, and the Doctor wouldn’t have stood a chance. But this game, with its jerky viewpoint and freaky graphics – it took time to get used to. Mickey hadn’t played it nearly enough yet. Taking another onion, Mickey sauntered back into the other room and switched the games console back on. He was going to master this thing, and then next time the Doctor turned up on his doorstep he’d challenge him to a game – just a little game, Doctor, not scared I’ll beat you, are you, Doctor? – and then he’d show the time-travelling show-off . . .
But the console was playing up. There were all these lights flashing and it was making this high-pitched sound, and there was no picture on the screen at all.
And then Mickey’s front door crashed open.
For a second, when he saw Percy Porcupine standing in the doorway, Mickey had the mad idea that they knew his console had gone wrong and had sent someone round to sort it. But he knew that was stupid. That wasn’t how things worked. And the bloke – or girl, who knew which was inside the costume? – hadn’t even knocked on the door.
And then, because he remembered the sort of things that happened when the Doctor was about, he suddenly realised that this wasn’t a bloke – or a girl – in a costume after all. So when the porcupine pointed a gun at him, he really wasn’t surprised at all.
FOUR
Robert had always suspected that his mum wasn’t his real mum. And he knew, knew with a passionate certainty, that deep inside he was different. Special. Not like other boys.
Then one day, the proof had come. The letter. The wonderful, glorious letter. ‘Dear Mr Watson, We beg to inform you that you are really a wizard. We will expect you at Dozbin’s Magical College at the beginning of next term.’
And his mum had had to admit that he wasn’t really her son. His parents had been famous sorcerers, possibly the most brilliant sorcerers there had ever been, but they’d been killed by an evil wizard. It was suspected that the evil wizard had been trying to kill Robert, because he was going to be the most powerful wizard that had ever lived. So Robert had been smuggled away as a baby, and given to the most pathetic, feeble, stupid, rubbishy woman they could find, so no one would suspect.
But now the evil wizard was threatening to take over the world, and Robert had to go to Magical College to learn spells so he could defeat him once and for all, and all the kids who had ever teased Robert would look at him in awe and the girls would love him . . .
He had to pack his suitcase to go to Magical College.
He was packing his suitcase to go to Magical College.
Not to go on holiday, he didn’t want to go on holiday, ‘a holiday in the sun, Bobbles, oh, we’ll have a wonderful time,’ but it wasn’t the sun part or the holiday part that bothered him, it was the Mum part. He could be quite happy lying on a beach, sunglasses hopefully hiding the fact that he was watching the girls in their bikinis – dreaming that any minute now they’d look back at him, and it wouldn’t be with pity or disdain for the skinny kid with pale skin and spots, it’d be with understanding as they divined that his soul was the twin of theirs, and it made them want him, need him, be desperate for him . . .
But he had his mum with him.
His mum who called him ‘Bobbles’, even in front of his friends, even in front of girls. His mum, who’d suddenly start rubbing sun-tan lotion on his back while he was chilling on the sand, like he was six years old.
Who read out things from her horrible women’s magazines really loudly, so everyone could hear and know that she liked really rubbish things.
Who wore rubbish clothes and rubbish shoes and really hideous sunglasses just to embarrass him.
Who’d tell complete strangers about all the ‘funny little things’ he’d ever done, from bed-wetting onwards.
Who’d make a fuss in restaurants by actually asking questions about the food, making him want to bury his head in shame.
Mum hadn’t thought they’d be able to afford a holiday this year, and he was so glad, because he could stay in his room all summer and listen to CDs and read books and think about how when he went down the shops he might bump into Suzie Price and they’d get talking and she’d hint that she thought he was a really great guy; which was much better than really going down the shops, because he might really bump into Suzie Price and none of the rest of it would happen, which would spoil the daydream completely.
And his mum, who did go down the shops, had won him this games thing, which only had one game with it but was really good anyway and he’d been playing it loads and was going to win the prize and he was quite happy to keep on doing that for the summer.
But then she’d won this holiday. And it didn’t say anywhere on the card if it was for one person or the whole family, but Mum said that these things were always for families so she was sure it would be OK. And he prayed that it wouldn’t be, that it’d be just for her, and she’d go off without him and miraculously decide he was old enough to be left on his own and he could be happy. But she’d asked, and said she wouldn’t go if she couldn’t take her Bobbles, and they’d said it was fine.
So he was packing his suitcase to go on holiday.
. . . and when he arrived at Magical College, the head sorcerer shook him by the hand and said, ‘Robert Watson! This is such an honour. I know you’re going to be naturally talented at absolutely everything. Because you’re special.’
‘Or we could go back to your mum’s, if you want,’ said the Doctor, and Rose couldn’t help thinking he sounded unenthusiastic.<
br />
‘I told her we’d be back for tea,’ she said. ‘We could do something until then. I know there’s not time to save the whole world, but if we can find something smaller that needs saving, like a village or something, we could probably manage that.’
‘So saving you from a knife-wielding thug doesn’t count as my good deed for the day?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I never got that,’ said Rose. ‘How Scouts and Brownies and stuff only had to do one good deed a day. I mean, if they, I don’t know, saw someone drowning, but they’d already helped an old lady across the road, would they let them sink?’
The Doctor grinned. ‘Yeah, the Scout law’s really strict on that sort of thing. “You will do exactly one good deed a day and no more.” If they accidentally did an extra good deed, they’d have to go and kick a puppy or something to balance it out, or they wouldn’t be allowed to go camping.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Did you have stuff like that?’ she asked, genuinely curious. ‘Space Scouts, or something.’
He nodded. ‘Oh yeah. I got merit badges in time travel, monstrithology, interfering in the destinies of planets and cookery.’
‘Monstrithology?’
The Doctor grinned. ‘Monster spotting. Or, I might’ve just made it up.’
They carried on down the road. There were all these posters, all along the street, all these giant porcupines wanting you to buy stuff and get free prizes.
‘It looks so cheap,’ said Rose. ‘They’ve not even got proper posters done, it’s just photos of people dressed up as porcupines.’
The Doctor walked up to a poster on the side of a phone box, so his nose was inches away. He was staring at it hard.
‘If you’re wondering why we still have phone boxes when everyone’s got mobiles these days, I don’t know,’ Rose said. She reached into her pocket, to make the point. Her phone wasn’t there.
‘It’s probably for daft people who leave their phones at their mum’s,’ said the Doctor, still staring at the poster. ‘Come on, we’re going into town.’
‘Why?’
‘Monstrithology. I want to find out how it’s possible for a human to fit inside a costume like that. See the wrists? And the knees? I’d have said it couldn’t be done.’
Rose almost jumped into the air. ‘So it’s aliens? Aliens taking over the planet via shopping?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘Don’t have to be trying to take over the planet, just cos they’re aliens. I’m not trying to take over the planet. The Cookie Monster isn’t trying to take over the planet. Well, not the bits which don’t involve cookies.’
She gave him a look. ‘Cookie Monster is a puppet.’
He just smiled knowingly.
‘He’s got someone’s hand up him and some bloke does his voice!’
The Doctor smiled again. ‘You humans are so gullible.’
‘You mean he’s really an alien? Cookie Monster?’
Now the Doctor laughed. ‘You humans are so gullible!’
A bus was drawing up to the kerb just ahead. The Doctor grabbed Rose’s hand and they ran for it, leaping on just as it was pulling away again. The driver glared at them, especially when he found out the Doctor actually wanted to pay money for a ticket. He didn’t notice that the travel card Rose waved at him had run out a year before.
‘I’m such a criminal,’ she said, swinging into a seat.
‘Yeah, well, don’t expect me to pay your bail,’ the Doctor replied.
‘So, are they really aliens?’ she whispered, leaning in close so the nosy old biddies in the seat in front couldn’t hear. They’d given Rose and the Doctor disapproving looks as they’d jumped on board; Rose wasn’t sure if it was because the bus had already been moving or because they thought the Doctor was ‘old enough to be her father’ and didn’t think much of that. Probably the latter. She felt like shouting at them, ‘So, how d’you know he’s not my father then?’
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘Might be. Probably just a dodgy picture, Photoshop or something.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That seems like cheating, somehow. Anyway, where are we going?’
‘Bit of shopping, bit of monster spotting . . .’
‘Just in case?’
‘Just in case.’
The Percy Porcupine booth was right slap bang in the middle of the high street, covered in posters. ‘I wonder if aliens bother with getting planning permission,’ said Rose. ‘That could be a clue.’
There was a little queue outside the booth, a couple of people, tickets in hand. The Doctor and Rose joined the line, and watched the winners hold up their tickets to a little panel with a red light on it. The light went green as the first person was bleeped into the booth, and the door slid closed behind them. The light turned red again.
‘Pretty elaborate security for a lottery thing,’ Rose said. ‘Or maybe they just don’t want people stealing the prizes. Or they’re expecting the games consoles to break down and don’t want to have to deal with a load of irate computer geeks.’
‘Anyway, looks like you need a winning card to get in,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory all over again.’
The first man came out, a boxed-up games console in hand. The door slid back decisively behind him. The second queuer, a woman, held up her ticket. The Doctor and Rose sidled close, and the woman frowned. ‘Excuse us,’ said the Doctor, giving her a charming smile, ‘we just wanna . . .’
But she’d nipped through the opening door, and it slammed shut behind her before the Doctor could even get a foot in the gap.
‘We’ll just wait here till she comes out,’ said the Doctor, poised ready to dive in.
‘And how are you going to explain this if they aren’t aliens?’ asked Rose.
‘Won’t have committed any crime,’ he said. ‘I’ll say I’ve got stuck on level six of Death to Mantodeans and I’m desperate for some gaming hints.’
Something caught Rose’s attention out of the corner of her eye. ‘Hey, isn’t that the woman who just went in?’ she said.
The Doctor looked up. ‘Yes!’ he said, staring at the woman, who was walking away from them, carrying a box. ‘I think it is.’
Rose was thinking hard. ‘Then this proves it!’ she said. ‘They must be aliens. They’re luring people into these little huts, then they’re duplicating them, robots or something. That’s why they’re so security conscious! They don’t want us to see the machinery!’
‘Or,’ said the Doctor, who had wandered round the other side of the booth and was beckoning to her, ‘they were worried we were trying to sneak in, so sent her out the back door.’
He took his sonic screwdriver from his pocket. ‘Let’s see what their defences are made of,’ he said.
Rose was darting anxious glances up and down the street. ‘We are being a bit obvious here,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t we just try to win something instead?’
The Doctor was holding the sonic screwdriver in front of the little panel. The screwdriver was buzzing away, but the light remained obstinately red.
‘Oh, all right,’ he said, putting it back in his leather jacket. ‘This doesn’t seem to want to open. Which hints at alien involvement, yeah,’ he added to her unspoken question.
It was easy to find a shop that carried the promotion; it’d have been harder to find one that didn’t. The Doctor bought a toothbrush. Rose bought a bar of chocolate. They rejoined forces to compare scratchcards.
‘“Sorry, you’ve not won this time! Please try again!”’ she said.
‘Yeah, me too,’ said the Doctor, taking the losing card from her and putting both of them in a coat pocket. ‘Shall we try again?’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But can we go into another shop? It’s embarrassing if we keep buying bits. Everyone’ll know we just want to win something.’
‘Cos it’d be awful if we got a bit embarrassed while we were saving the world,’ he said. ‘Can put you right off doing good, that can.’
She accepte
d the criticism, but remained adamant. It was easier to do stuff like that on spaceships, or in the past, or whatever, because somehow you didn’t mind what people thought of you as much. Like how on holiday you’d wear the sombrero and the novelty T-shirt that you’d never be seen dead in down the youth club. So they went to the shop next door. The Doctor bought a pad of Post-it notes. Rose bought a biro. Sorry, you’ve not won this time! Please try again!
In the next shop, Rose bought a can of drink. The Doctor, obviously tiring of the pursuit, rooted out a load of change and bought seventeen copies of the same newspaper, one at a time.
They stood outside the door, both scratching away at the silver covering on the cards, the Doctor occasionally handing out newspapers to passers-by. Not a single card was a winner, and they were running low on cash.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Rose suddenly. ‘You know how these might be aliens, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So, their technology’s going to be alien technology. If you got hold of one of those games consoles and took it apart . . .’
‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘It might give us an idea of what they’re up to an’ all.’
‘Back to Mickey’s then?’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. You still got the teabags?’
She grinned. ‘Yeah. Have we got enough money for another pint of milk, though?’
There was just enough left, so Rose popped back into the newsagent’s. The man behind the counter handed her a scratchcard, which stupidly took her by surprise, because this was actually shopping they wanted. This is it, she thought. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. When you’re waiting, hoping, desperate to win, you never do. But then, out of the blue, you get another chance. And that’s the one. That’s how it works. She beamed to herself, imagining the Doctor’s face when he saw her waving the winning card in triumph, and scratched off the silver with a fingernail.
Underneath, it read, ‘Sorry, you’ve not won this time! Please try again!’
FIVE
The Doctor and Rose caught the bus back to the estate, and made their way to Mickey’s flat. Rose didn’t realise that something was wrong, not at first.
Winner Takes All Page 3
