by Mark Morris
Andy lifted the table-top aside, intending to prop it against the wall, help to clear the way for his colleagues. As he did so he froze. Beneath the table was a man lying in a very large and still spreading pool of blood.
‘Over here!’ Andy shouted, shoving the table-top aside and dropping to his knees. He grabbed the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was flickering, erratic. He saw almost immediately what had happened. The man had been stabbed several times in the stomach and chest. The points of entry were ragged as though something other than a knife
- a broken glass perhaps? - had been used. Andy hoped that this meant the wounds were not too deep, though the amount of blood that was still gushing from them seemed to suggest otherwise.
Andy and two uniformed constables tried to stem the bleeding as much as they could, first with beer towels taken from the bar and then, after Bob Walker had risen dazedly from his hiding-place, with bigger, thicker towels from the airing cupboard upstairs. It was not long, however, before the towels were saturated and the men’s hands and clothes covered in blood.
It seemed to take an age for the ambulances to arrive, but eventually two paramedics in yellow jackets were there beside Andy.
‘He’s been stabbed several times,’ Andy said, moving aside for them. ‘His pulse is very weak.’
‘All right, let’s take a look,’ said one of them, a balding man with a darkly stubbled chin, who exuded an air of calm efficiency.
He produced a small scalpel, which he used to slice open the front of the man’s blood-soaked shirt. Pulling the shirt open, he instantly recoiled. ‘Jesus, what the hell’s that?’ he exclaimed.
His colleague, Andy and the two policeman stared in horror and disbelief at what had been revealed. All over the man’s chest, shoulders and upper arms were masses of small, black quills.
Through her open window came the susurrating rhythm of the sea stroking the shore. Her eyes closed, curled up on her bed, Charlotte wondered whether this was what it was like in the womb. How nice it must be, she thought, to be in the warmth and the dark, soothed by the sound of a mother’s internal tide - the pumping of a heart, the ebb-and-flow of life-giving blood. How wonderful to have no cares, no fears, no thoughts. She would have found it easier to relax into the idea if her own cares had not been eating her up inside, denying her sleep.
She sighed, rolled over and opened her eyes. As she sat up, the weight of her anxieties sank like ballast inside her. Mum had gone to bed two hours ago, exhausted with weeping, but Charlotte had lain sleepless ever since. It felt as though her life was coming apart. What had she done to deserve it? Why was she being punished in this way?
She looked at her clock. It was five past two in the morning. For almost five hours her mother had wailed and clung to her, declaring that her life was over. Charlotte had done her best to console her, even though she too had felt like weeping. They had had no dinner, but even now Charlotte felt too sick to eat.
The evening had been punctuated by emergency sirens whooping outside, police cars and ambulances racing by.
Soon after, round about 11.30 p.m., they had heard Dad come back. He had been drunk, stumbling and muttering, making so much noise as he tripped up the stairs that Charlotte felt sure it would bring Mrs Macau swooping down on him like a vampire bat. It was the only time that night when her mother had stopped crying. She and Charlotte had clung to each other, staring fearfully at the closed door.
Thankfully he had blundered past, opening and then slamming the door of the room he was supposed to be sharing with Mum. After that they had heard nothing. He had probably collapsed on to the bed and instantly fallen into an alcohol-induced sleep.
At midnight, Mum had announced that she too was going to bed. Before turning in she had tearfully wondered about calling the police to report the fact that Chris still wasn’t home. Charlotte, though, had managed to dissuade her.
‘Don’t worry, Mum, he’ll come back when he’s ready.’
‘But he’s only a baby,’ Imogen wailed.
‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ Charlotte said, trying to keep her voice light.
Mum clutched her hand and looked imploringly into her eyes. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’
‘Course he will.’
‘Promise me.’
Charlotte licked her lips uneasily. ‘I promise.’
Mum had seemed pacified by that, had kissed Charlotte goodnight and gone to bed. Charlotte had offered to let her have her bed and to sleep on the floor, but Mum had waved the offer away.
‘ I’ll be all right. Your dad’s too drunk to argue and I’m too tired.’
‘Well, if you want anything I’ll be here,’ Charlotte had told her.
Mum’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘I know you will, love. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Goodnight.’
That had been two hours ago and it had not been a good night. It had not been a good night at all.
As far as she was aware, Chris had still not returned to the boarding house. She got out of bed and went to the window, sticking her face between the gap in the curtains. She couldn’t see much. Aside from the nimbus of orange light emanating from each street lamp and pooling on the ground beneath it, the tarmacked road and stone-flagged pavements, and even the beach, looked not only black but composed of the same substance. Only the sea looked different, the shards of white moonlight on the waves giving it the appearance of rippling black plastic.
She shivered, despite the warm night air, and left the window. She crossed to her suitcase, which was sitting open on the floor beside the wardrobe, only partially unpacked.
Delving beneath her clothes she found a cardboard box, similar in size and shape to that which might contain a toothpaste tube.
She sat down on the bed, cross-legged, her back supported by a pillow jammed against the headboard, and stared at the words in blue on the box’s white surface: PREGNANCY
TESTING KIT. Her hands were shaking. She wondered whether she ought to put the kit back and wait for a better time. But the house was quiet and everyone was asleep.
What better time could there be? If she didn’t do it now then she probably never would.
Opening the box, she tipped its contents on to the bedclothes. The equipment for this potentially life-changing event was singularly unimpressive. A strip of plastic with a window of white paper in the centre. Even though she knew how to use it, she studied the instructions again, buying herself a little time. Finally, with a sigh of annoyance, she snatched up the plastic strip. Her stomach performing slow, queasy somersaults, she tiptoed along the creaking corridor to the bathroom at the far end.
Two minutes later she was back in her room, waiting for the results. If a blue line appeared, bisecting the square of paper, the test was positive; if it remained white, it was negative.
The few minutes she had to wait were excruciating. Unable to bear holding the strip of plastic in her hand, she placed it on top of the chest of drawers and sat on her bed, watching the clock.
Finally it was time. Despite the warmth of the summer night she felt cold inside. She picked up the strip of plastic, looked at it.
She exhaled, making a low sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, there was a bright blue line bisecting the square of white paper.
Within minutes of lying down on the beach, Chris began to shiver with cold. It was a balmy night, but the chill seemed to seep up from the sand, into his bones. He sat up, hugging himself, his head whirling so much that he felt he was still sitting on the Spinning Spider at the fun-fair. He felt sick from drinking the six cans of Special Brew he had asked an older kid to buy for him from an offy on the seafront, and every time he tried to walk it seemed as if the ground was pitching and tossing like the deck of a boat on a stormy sea.
He had run straight to the fun-fair after his fight with Dad, and had stayed there until the place closed down for the night at 10 p.m. He had gone on tons of rides - all the big stuff of course, none
of the little kids’ rubbish - and had eaten so many hot dogs that by the end of the evening the smell of them made him want to puke.
Yet although he had had a good time, his family and their stupid problems had always been there, lurking at the back of his mind. He hated the way his mum and dad argued all the time; it made him feel as though his head was being squeezed in a vice. Charlotte was OK, but she got on his nerves by not standing up to them, not saying or doing anything to stop their rows. She just tried to be nicey-nicey, to pretend nothing was happening, but it didn’t work. It was just pathetic.
Chris was sick of it all. He wished he never had to see any of them ever again. He had even asked a couple of blokes who were working on the rides if there were any jobs going on the fair, but they had just looked at him and laughed as if he was some stupid little kid.
Fed up, he had finally wandered down to the promenade and drunk himself into near-oblivion. All he wanted to do now was sleep, but he needed somewhere warmer than the beach. He had a warm bed at the guesthouse, but he would rather freeze to death than go back there tonight.
All the same he had to find somewhere. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying for a moment, taking deep breaths in the hope that fresh air would rid the urge to throw up. He looked around, moving his head slowly. There were bus shelters on the promenade, but he would feel too vulnerable there.
His gaze drifted further, finally alighting on a block of craggy darkness at the far end of the beach. Chris vaguely remembered seeing the caves that afternoon and wondered whether they would be warm enough. They ought to be. It wasn’t as if it was a cold night, after all. It was only the breeze coming off the sea that was making him chilly and the caves would provide shelter.
He weaved along the beach. As he blinked at the gaping caves they seemed curiously insubstantial. Their blackness seemed to divide and sub-divide, to spin like a vortex, increasing his nausea. Abruptly he stopped, leaned forward and vomited hot dogs and beer all over the sand. His stomach spasmed and he threw up again, so violently that tears were squeezed from his eyes. After that he felt a little better. He stumbled the last two hundred yards almost blindly, desperate to sleep.
The largest of the cave mouths seemed to suck him in. As he stepped into the cave, lulling darkness wrapped around him.
The solid walls muted the gnashing of the sea and provided a barrier against the snapping sea-breeze. Chris sighed, halfway to sleep, though not too far gone to notice a curious smell in here. It was strong and fishy, like spoiled crab-meat, but also... musky, hot, animal-like. Horse-sweat and cowsheds and the lion enclosure at the zoo.
He moved deeper into the cave... and started at a stealthy scraping from the murk in front of him. It sounded like someone dragging a sharp, metal implement across granite.
He imagined a ragged figure with wild hair and wild eyes lurking in the darkness, clutching a meat cleaver. He tried to lick his lips, but they were gummed together with curd-thick saliva. He instinctively took a step backwards.
And something flew at him from the darkness, its reverberating screech transfixing him with utter terror, echoing at crazy angles from the cave walls.
Chris caught a brief, terrifying impression of black, spider-like eyes, and jointed, chitinous, razor-edged legs. Then unbelievable pain ripped through him and turned his world a brilliant, scorching red.
‘Good lord,’ said the Brigadier wearily.
The Doctor grinned. ‘Lethbridge-Stewart, my dear fellow.
How are you?’
‘Same as ever, Doctor. Unlike yourself.’
‘Didn’t Mike explain?’ the Doctor asked, glancing at the Brigadier’s number two, who was standing between his commanding officer and the burly frame of Sergeant Benton, still wearing his civvies.
‘Well, er, I tried,’ Mike said with a grimace of apology
‘I’m sure you did a sterling job,’ said the Doctor breezily, turning to address him before swinging to face the Brigadier again. Suddenly sombre, he said, ‘Now, where’s this body you called me in to see?’
‘Through here,’ the Brigadier said, indicating with his swagger stick. He led them through a small, scrupulously clean anteroom containing a set of lockers, two large sinks and various items of medical equipment, to a set of double doors at the far end, which he pushed open.
The mortuary was a large well-lit room whose main wall was composed of rows of big square metal drawers, each of them numbered. A small, balding, white-coated man with a scrubby moustache and thick spectacles scurried forward to meet them. ‘Brigadier Stewart?’ he enquired.
‘Lethbridge-Stewart,’ corrected the Brigadier severely.
The little man quailed and glanced at the clipboard he clutched in his hand. ‘Ah yes, of course. You’ve come to view number thirty-two, I understand?’
‘If that’s the stab victim who was brought in last night, then yes we have,’ said the Brigadier.
‘Of course,’ said the man again. ‘This way.’ He led them over to the wall of metal drawers and tugged at the handle of drawer 32. It rolled open with a metallic rumble.
Mike Yates gasped involuntarily. Sergeant Benton murmured, ‘Blimey.’
The Brigadier regarded the body grimly for a moment, then glanced up. ‘What do you make of it, Doctor?’
The Doctor was already leaning over the body, a concentrated frown on his face. After a few seconds he looked up at the little man, who was hovering on the periphery of the group. ‘Do you have any surgical gloves, Mr...’
‘Booth,’ said the man, ‘Yes, sir, I’ll just get you some.’
He scuttled away and returned moments later. The Doctor thanked him, pulled on the gloves and began to examine the dead man more closely, touching the spines on his chest and arms, prodding the surrounding flesh. ‘I understand the man died of blood loss due to his injuries?’
‘Yes, sir. He was stabbed four times.’ Booth indicated the now bloodless purple-black slits in the man’s abdomen.
‘Hmm. Was anyone else involved in this incident treated for injuries at this hospital?’
‘Yes, sir. Several people.’
‘And did they exhibit similar... afflictions?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. I could find out for you.’
‘I’d be grateful if you would,’ said the Doctor and straightened up, looking down at the corpse curiously. ‘He seems to be lying rather awkwardly.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Booth. Tie’s a hunchback.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look?’
‘No, sir. I’ll give you a hand.’
They heaved the corpse over on to its side. Now they could all see the peculiar double-hump, almost like vestigial wings, on the man’s back.
‘Interesting,’ breathed the Doctor.
‘Well, Doctor?’ said the Brigadier. What do you think?’
The Doctor looked round at the three UNIT men.
‘Metamorphosis,’ he said.
‘Meta-what?’ said Benton.
‘The people of Tayborough Sands are changing, Sergeant,’
the Doctor replied. Then he looked thoughtful and his voice dropped an octave. ‘The question is - into what?’
The ringing of the telephone jerked Edith Perry from a dream about her long-dead husband Harold and his pigeons. The pigeons had been changing into little trains with wings, and Harold had been waving his fists in the air and ranting, ‘It’s that boy what’s done this. Where is he? I’ll tan him, I will.’
The ringing made her heart flutter like a dying bird in her paper-thin chest. She swung her legs slowly from the bed, confused and alarmed, wondering who could possibly be calling at such an hour.
Then she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 7
a.m. What was going on? Why hadn’t Jack brought her her early morning cup of tea before slipping out to work? Surely he hadn’t overslept for the first time in his life?
The sultry night had given way to an already muggy morning, but she shivered as she crossed the roo
m to the dressing-gown hung on the back of her door. In the past five years or so she had become prone to an inner chill that only old people seemed afflicted by. It made her wake each morning with stiff limbs, made her feel as though her blood had congealed to cold jelly in the night.
She pulled her dressing-gown around her bony shoulders, rubbed her aching, arthritic wrists and moved sluggishly out on to the landing. The ringing of the phone went on and on, setting her teeth on edge. ‘All right, all right,’ she croaked,
‘I’m coming’
She wondered why Jack hadn’t been roused by the noise as she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.
‘Hello?’ she said a little suspiciously.
‘Mrs Perry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Perry. My name’s Gordon Cleeve. I’m Jack’s boss. I was just calling to find out what’s happened to him this morning.’
‘Happened to him?’ said Edith.
‘Yes. I mean, he didn’t turn up for work.’
‘Didn’t he?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ There was a pause, then Cleeve asked cautiously, ‘I take it that Jack’s not there with you then?’
‘He’s not with me at this moment, no,’ said Edith, ‘but I can’t say for certain that he isn’t in the house. I haven’t had the chance to look yet, you see. Your phone call woke me up.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, that’s quite all right. I’m usually a much earlier bird than this. I don’t sleep well, you know. Haven’t done since my husband died.’
It was evident that Cleeve didn’t quite know how to respond to this. ‘Um... sorry to hear that,’ he mumbled. Was it... was it recent? Your husband’s death, I mean?’
