Deep Blue

by Mark Morris

  ‘Good lord, no! 1959 it was. A stroke, you know.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cleeve. Well, if you could get Jack to call me at his earliest convenience, Mrs Perry?’

  ‘I’ll go up straight away and see if he’s here. Find out what’s ailing him. To be honest he has seemed a little off-colour this week. Perhaps he’s got a touch of summer flu.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Perry. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Edith said.

  She put the phone down and shuffled to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Jack,’ she called up, her voice high and splintery.

  ‘Jack, are you there?’

  There was no reply. Edith frowned and tried to recall the last time she had seen her son. Her short-term memory was terrible these days. She could remember events from ten, twenty, even fifty years ago with crystal clarity, but attempting to place recent events into some semblance of order never failed to get her into a dreadful muddle.

  Had she seen him yesterday? Hadn’t they sat down together to a supper of baked salmon and broad beans? They usually ate together, so surely she would have remembered if they hadn’t? Wasn’t it yesterday that he had been quiet, almost surly? Hadn’t he left his food untouched, then stumped upstairs without a word?

  She began to climb the stairs, slowed down by her aching joints. She hoped he wasn’t in trouble. Though what sort of trouble could he be in? He never saw anyone, never went anywhere, except for the railway station on a Sunday to help out. He was a good boy, Jack. He had always looked after her. Not that she had asked him to, of course; everything he’d done had always been his own decision.

  She reached the top landing, breath wheezing thinly in her throat. Jack’s door was closed. She moved across to it and tapped lightly.

  ‘Jack, love, are you all right?’

  Silence.

  She grasped the handle in both hands and pushed it down.

  The door opened with a grinding clunk. She stepped into the room - and instantly recoiled. The smell in here was terrible.

  It was like the fish market on a Friday, but somehow darker, heavier.

  She looked towards the bed, across which lay a bar of sunlight from a gap in the curtains. The bed was clearly not empty, but she could not see its occupant. Something was moving beneath the brown sheet which was all Jack had been sleeping under since the nights had turned humid. The movements were slow, almost sinuous, making her think of coiling snakes. Wrinkling her nose against the awful smell, she took another step into the room.

  ‘Jack?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Jack, is that you?’

  The figure in the bed stopped moving, but it neither responded nor emerged from beneath the sheet.

  Edith felt a little tic start up at the side of her eye and a nervous curling in her stomach. She wanted to retreat from the room, but a part of her was concerned for her son.

  ‘Jack, please come out from under there,’ she pleaded.

  Still no response.

  ‘Right,’ she muttered, and with a flash of irritation she hobbled across the room, grasped the bed sheet and yanked it away.

  Jack was sitting, naked, cross-legged, eyes closed, hands dangling loosely in his lap. Yet despite his apparently relaxed stance there was something terribly wrong with him. His fleshy, usually hairless chest, chubby arms and rounded shoulders were covered in tiny black spines which made him look like a human cactus. Even more alarming were the humps on his back, which were moving, as if something was alive in there.

  ‘Oh Jack,’ Edith said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  He opened his eyes. They were as black as tar.

  Edith tried to scream, but could manage nothing more than a squeak. She stumbled backwards, nearly fell. Jack turned his head and hissed at her.

  The hump on his back surged and abruptly, with a wet tearing sound, it split open. Before Edith’s horrified gaze, six large, long, jointed, crablike legs unfurled themselves. They probed blindly at the air for a moment before finding purchase on the walls and bed. Pain flared in Edith’s chest; she was finding it hard to breathe. Jack gave a savage grin and, using his newly-hatched limbs, scuttled across the room towards her.

  The Doctor wanted something to thump, but the lab benches were smothered with a complex array of delicate scientific equipment, so he had to be content with spinning on his heels and smiting his brow in frustration. Three hours ago he had thought that analysing the cell samples taken from the dead man in the hospital mortuary would be a relatively simple task; he had even been blithely confident of coming up with an antidote to the metamorphic processes unleashing themselves on Tayborough Sands’s inhabitants.

  But the cell samples, despite his best efforts, were stubbornly refusing to identify themselves. He’d tried everything he could think of, using the technology of countless civilisations.

  Now, temporarily defeated, he glared at the eclectic jumble of equipment beeping and whirring around him, and hoped that his more long-term endeavours would provide the breakthrough he was looking for. He perfunctorily checked a multi-rack of test tubes in which samples of the infected man’s blood had been mixed with a variety of potential neutralising agents, and a row of petri dishes in which various cultures were growing, then he trudged out of the laboratory and out of the TARDIS, and remained lost in thought and almost oblivious to his surroundings until he reached the Lombard Hotel.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Turlough asked a little plaintively, throwing open his door before the Doctor had finished knocking on it.

  ‘Here and there,’ said the Doctor briskly. ‘Where’s Tegan?

  She didn’t answer my knock.’

  ‘She’s gone out, again,’ said Turlough, as if he disapproved.

  ‘Out? Out where?’

  ‘She said she had a date.’

  The Doctor stared at Turlough as if searching for signs of duplicity. Turlough shrugged, looking sulky, ‘Someone she met last night apparently. She said she’d be back later.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured the Doctor, looking concerned. ‘I do hope she’ll be careful.’

  Turlough raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure Tegan is quite capable of looking after herself, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she is, in the normal run of things,’ the Doctor said, ‘but there are some dangers that are not immediately apparent.’ Abruptly he bustled past Turlough and into his room. Crossing to the dressing table, he pulled open the top left-hand drawer and began rooting through it.

  Turlough looked indignant and, despite himself, somewhat guilty, ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Nothing incriminating,’ said the Doctor pointedly. ‘Ah!’

  Turlough was still blushing at the oblique reference to his past as the Doctor pulled out a sheet of writing paper and a pen, both emblazoned with the hotel’s name. His hand moved in a blur as he applied pen to paper. Even as Turlough was opening his mouth to ask, ‘What are you doing?’, the Doctor was folding the sheet neatly in half and striding back to the door.

  ‘Come along, Turlough,’ he said before his companion could speak.

  Turlough spluttered a little, then his voice became plaintive again. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’ve an appointment with some old friends of mine.’ The Doctor offered a disarming grin. ‘One of them’s an old friend of yours too.’

  Turlough hated these manic bursts of energy that gripped the Doctor sometimes. All he could do was scurry along in his wake, wishing he knew what was going on. By the time he had reached the ground floor - the Doctor having bounded down the stairs ahead of him, of course, too impatient to wait for the lift - Turlough was wheezing and gasping like an asthmatic.

  In the reception area, the Doctor’s straight, blond hair whipped about his face as he looked quickly around. Seconds later he was striding towards a trio of payphones in an alcove beside the main doors. As the Doctor made a call, Turlough took the opportunity to recover his breath. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with a white handkerchief as he watched the Doc
tor speak rapidly into the phone, put it down, cross to the reception desk and hand the receptionist the folded sheet of paper before re-joining him.

  ‘Why all the subterfuge, Doctor?’ Turlough protested.

  The Doctor looked puzzled. ‘Subterfuge?’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘No time for explanations, the Doctor said. ‘If we’re to prevent an epidemic we need to make good use of every available second.’

  ‘An epidemic?’ said Turlough, baffled. ‘An epidemic of what?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ the Doctor admitted sombrely, then abruptly perked up again. ‘Come along, we’ll wait outside.’

  Turlough gave a groan of exasperation as the Doctor strode off once more, heading for the main doors. He descended the wide stone steps to the pavement two at a time, then prowled back and forth in front of the hotel like a caged tiger, scrutinising the oncoming traffic.

  Turlough sat down on the low wall outside the hotel and folded his arms. He watched the Doctor for a couple of minutes, then said, ‘So what exactly are we waiting for now?’

  ‘Transport.’

  ‘Transport to where?’

  The exasperated plea in his voice prompted the Doctor to halt, and join Turlough on the wall. ‘Have I ever mentioned my days with UNIT?’

  ‘The Brigadier and all that,’ said Turlough, nodding. ‘Yes, once or twice.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, that’s who we’re going to see now. In this time zone the Brigadier is still UNIT’s commanding officer.’

  Turlough looked at him. ‘Isn’t that going to be rather awkward?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, just that in a few years’ time, I’m going to turn up as a pupil at the school where he teaches maths. Which rather raises the question: why didn’t he recognise me when I arrived?’

  The Doctor squinted up at the sky where gulls wheeled and soared as though engaged in some arcane ritualistic dance. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he said vaguely. ‘Time has a way of dealing with these things.’

  Turlough raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t see how it can.

  Though I suppose I could always wear a hat and some dark glasses.’

  ‘There’ll be no need,’ said the Doctor with a grin. ‘You’ll see.’

  Turlough regarded him thoughtfully. ‘And you’re absolutely certain of this, are you?’

  ‘One should never be certain of anything,’ said the Doctor and abruptly jumped up. Here’s our car.’

  A blue Ford Escort was pulling up in front of the hotel. The Doctor returned the cheery wave that Mike Yates gave him.

  Mike leaned across and pushed open the passenger door.

  ‘Hop in quick, Doctor.’

  The Doctor climbed into the passenger seat, Turlough got in the back and the car sped away.

  Mike Yates drove the Escort, which had been seconded to him from the army car pool, the same way he drove his own red Spitfire - fast but skilfully. The Doctor seemed unperturbed, but Turlough clutched the seat, his face pale, tight-lipped. He hadn’t been in a car since he had crashed the Brigadier’s beloved Humber Tourer and he had no wish to repeat the experience. When the Doctor introduced him, he could manage no more than a stiff nod and a curt ‘Hello.’

  Their destination was UNIT’s temporary HQ at the local naval base five miles down the coast. Some four dozen UNIT

  troops had been billeted there, having arrived late last night.

  ‘It won’t be long before the Brigadier will have them performing manoeuvres on the beach - re-enacting the D-Day landings I shouldn’t wonder,’ the Doctor said, tempering his rather caustic humour with a grin.

  Mike gave a vague smile, tactfully avoiding being drawn into the fun that the Doctor was poking at his commanding officer. A little reproachfully he said, ‘It’s always been UNIT’s policy to keep a low profile until circumstances dictate otherwise, Doctor. You know that.’

  ‘Do I?’ said the Doctor, still grinning. ‘Must have slipped my mind.’

  The naval base, HMS Bilford, was made up of a complex of grey blocks surrounded by high chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. Mike drove up to the main gates and showed his UNIT pass to an armed Naval rating, who stared suspiciously at the Doctor and Turlough for a moment before Mike told him that their presence here could be vouched for personally by Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. The Naval rating retreated to his sentry box to make a phone call, reappearing a few moments later and grudgingly waving them in. Mike parked the car. ‘This way,’ he said, heading across a quadrangle to a long low blockhouse that annexed the main building.

  Just like school, Turlough thought, as Mike pushed open several sets of reinforced glass doors and led them along a number of featureless corridors. Eventually they stopped outside a door numbered 106. Mike tapped on it smartly and the unmistakable voice of the Brigadier called, ‘Come in’

  The room they entered was indeed a classroom, complete with desks and chairs and a blackboard at one end. There were two men drinking coffee - a burly man in a green army sweater, combat trousers, boots and a beret, and of course the Brigadier, albeit a younger, trimmer version than Turlough was used to.

  The Doctor made the introductions with a twinkle in his eye, then he and Turlough helped Mike Yates to stack a couple of rows of desks at the side of the room, creating a space in the centre of the floor. When Benton had provided them all with fresh coffee, they sat down, facing each other on a rough circle of chairs.

  Never one for unnecessary preamble, the Brigadier said,

  ‘Any new theories on the situation, Doctor?’

  ‘Yes. I believe the answer lies in whatever Mr Elkins saw land in the sea.’

  ‘In what way, Doctor?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Well, my theory is that the object is causing some kind of water-borne contamination.’

  ‘Chemical warfare?’ suggested Benton.

  ‘Perhaps. Or maybe the object is simply a piece of space debris whose impact with the earth cracked it open, releasing an alien pollutant.’

  ‘Charming thought,’ said the Brigadier. ‘As if we haven’t got the effects of our own pollution to worry about.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘So you reckon the only people affected will be those who’ve been in contact with the water?’ Benton asked.

  ‘Not necessarily. Anyone who has eaten fish or seafood since the object came down could be at risk too.’

  ‘Then we may have a problem,’ said the Brigadier. ‘The Royal Navy kindly laid on a rather splendid fish supper for us all when we arrived last night.’

  The Doctor raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Marvellous. And how about you, Mike? Have you eaten fish too?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no I haven’t.’ Mike gave a tight smile.

  ‘Pity. I was looking forward to a nice bit of haddock tonight.’

  Sunning herself on the beach, Tegan wondered what would happen if she stayed here with Andy. She’d carry on getting older, whilst in several years’ time a younger version of herself would blunder into a police box on the Barnet bypass.

  Eventually the Doctor would bring her here, where she would meet Andy and the whole cycle would begin again. It made Tegan’s head spin thinking about how tangled up in time you could become if you really put your mind to it.

  She would never be able to travel to London to meet herself, of course, because as the Doctor was always telling her, there were rules against that sort of thing. So if she did stay here, she wouldn’t be able to save Aunt Vanessa from being murdered by the Master in a few years’ time. That alone - aside from the practical limitations -was reason enough why she couldn’t stay.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Andy, lying on the towel beside her.

  Tegan opened her eyes. Everything looked bleached, not quite real. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘You looked fed up all of a sudden. I just wondered if something was wrong.’

  She turned and smiled at him. ‘I was just wi
shing I could stay here for ever - but I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked casually.

  She sat up, drawing her knees towards her and wrapping her arms around them. ‘I just can’t. In a few days or a few weeks I’ll have to move on. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Andy.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s complicated.’

  ‘Wanderlust,’ said Andy.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You’ve got wanderlust. I understand that all right. You’re a free spirit. You don’t like to be tied down.’

  She laughed. ‘If only it were that simple.’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t wanderlust, what is it?’ He paused, ‘You’re not on the run, are you?’

  She laughed even harder. ‘You’ve got it! I’m a desperate fugitive. That’s why I’m spending my day with a policeman.’

  He smiled. ‘Maybe you like to live dangerously.’

  Tegan looked out over the ocean and said, almost to herself, ‘I do that all right.’

  Andy looked perplexed. ‘You know, I’ve never met anyone quite like you.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit of a cliché?’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s true, though.’

  They lapsed into silence, both of them watching the sea charging at the shore, kids playing, dogs barking as they frolicked at the water’s edge. If she was going to enjoy her day with Andy, Tegan knew she would have to stop dropping subtle clues that there was more to her than met the eye.

  She didn’t mean to do it, but she couldn’t help it somehow. It was as if a part of her wanted him to find out who she was, where she came from. Maybe, rather than her staying here, Andy could come with them in the TARDIS. Then the Doctor could hop forward, say, eight years and they could both simply pick up their lives again...

  No, what was she thinking of? She hardly knew the bloke, for goodness sake! Why couldn’t she just concentrate on enjoying the day ahead? Morning on the beach, lunch in a nice pub, a walk in the countryside - why look beyond that?