Deep Blue

by Mark Morris

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Andy asked, breaking her out of her reverie.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking.’

  ‘You don’t want to do that, you know,’ he told her. ‘Makes your brain hurt.’ He leaned closer to her, propping himself on one elbow. Tegan could smell the suntan lotion on his shoulders and chest. His voice became softer, more serious.

  ‘Look, Tegan, I just want us to have a nice day together. I reckon if you’ve got stuff to tell me, you’ll tell me in your own time. I don’t want to come over all heavy on you. My philosophy is, enjoy life while you can. You might not be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Very comforting,’ said Tegan.

  He grinned, ‘Come on, let’s go for a swim. Get rid of some of those cobwebs.’

  He jumped to his feet and held out his hand to her. Tegan laughed, ‘You’re not going to get me in there.’

  ‘Why not? Can’t you swim?’

  ‘Course I can swim. But the sea back home is like a warm bath compared to that!’ She nodded disdainfully at the grey water.

  Still grinning, he grabbed her hand and hauled her to her feet. ‘Bracing is what it is. Come on, Tegan.’

  She put up only token resistance as he dragged her, laughing, down to the water’s edge.

  ‘Urgh, what’s this stuff?’ she said, sidestepping what looked like a lump of colourless jelly that had been carried in by the tide.

  He shrugged, unconcerned. ‘A melted jellyfish? Maybe the heat of the sun was too much for it.’

  ‘It’s all over the beach,’ she exclaimed, noticing mounds of it scattered along the shoreline.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. As long as you don’t step in it, you’ll be all right.’

  Ten yards from the water, he let go of her hand, ran at full-pelt down to the sea and plunged in. Tegan saw a wave crash over him and then a few seconds later he surfaced, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘You’re mad!’ she shouted.

  ‘Come on in,’ he replied. ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘Not likely,’ she said, though she walked down to the water’s edge and allowed the tide to swirl in around her feet.

  She was right. Despite the heat of the day, the water was freezing. Within a minute her feet were aching with cold right through to the bone.

  Andy stood up and waded towards her. Tegan couldn’t help thinking how great he looked in his tight blue trunks, water trickling through the wiry hair on his chest, dappling his broad shoulders. Suddenly, five feet from her, he leaned forward, scooped up two great handfuls of water and drenched her.

  She leaped back, gasping. ‘You beast!’ she shrieked when she managed to get her breath back. She kicked water at him, but it was no more than a token gesture. Andy was laughing so much that he fell backwards into the water anyway.

  At HMS Bilford the Brigadier’s brainstorming session was continuing apace.

  ‘Could this infection be transmitted from person to person, Doctor?’ Turlough asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’ll know more once I’ve pinpointed its exact nature. So far it’s proving impervious to analysis.’

  ‘We could set up a lab for you here, Doctor, if that TARDIS

  of yours doesn’t carry the necessary equipment,’ the Brigadier said with the trace of a smile.

  The Doctor raised his eyebrows. ‘Thank you, Brigadier, but I don’t think that will be necessary.’

  ‘It’s not a bad invasion plan... if it is an invasion plan,’

  Benton said, then reddened when everyone looked at him.

  ‘What I mean is, well it’s sneaky, isn’t it? Coming in by the back door, so to speak. And somewhere like this, well it’s the obvious place. Lots of people coming and going all the time.

  You could pick up the infection here, then go back to, say, London or Glasgow or Birmingham and spread it on there. It could be all over the country in no time.’

  ‘It is a feasible scenario, sir,’ Mike Yates said.

  ‘Alarmingly so,’ the Brigadier agreed. ‘How long before this infection begins to take effect, Doctor?’

  ‘A matter of days, it seems, though I suspect it rather depends on the individual and the level of contact. Our young friend in the mortuary had been in the town only four days, you say?’

  Mike nodded. ‘He arrived last Wednesday.’

  ‘Hmm. Then a solution must be found quickly.’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you if I may, Doctor, whilst I concentrate on containing the problem,’ said the Brigadier.

  ‘Contain how?’ asked Turlough.

  ‘First of all by attempting to get the necessary authority to quarantine the town, close down the beach and ban the sale and consumption of seafood.’

  Mike pulled a face. ‘With all due respect, sir, I think that might prove difficult. This is the height of the season, after all. There’s bound to be a huge amount of opposition to your proposal, both locally and nationally.’

  The Brigadier was silent for a moment, then he nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I do take your point, Yates. I’ll just have to convince the chaps at Whitehall that we’re facing a national emergency, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I still don’t think it’ll be easy. So far the only evidence we’ve got that there’s anything amiss is the chap in the mortuary, and he alone hardly constitutes the beginnings of an epidemic.’

  ‘What about the other people given hospital treatment after last night’s incident?’ asked the Doctor. ‘Did none of them exhibit similar symptoms to the dead man?’

  ‘Not as far as we’re aware, Doctor,’ said Mike.

  ‘Perhaps they went out of their way to keep themselves covered up,’ suggested Benton.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the Doctor. Abruptly he slapped his hands down on his knees. ‘Well, whilst you concentrate on containment, Brigadier, Turlough and I will attempt to get to the heart of the matter.’

  ‘How?’ Benton asked.

  ‘By setting the TARDIS coordinates for the area in which Mr Elkins saw the object come down.’

  ‘Won’t that be rather dangerous?’ Turlough asked, trying to conceal his alarm.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the Doctor airily. ‘The TARDIS has an in-built ability to seek out the nearest safe landing spot - which is why she never materialises inside solid objects or underwater. If there is a solid, hollow object - a spacecraft, for instance - on the ocean bed, you can rest assured the TARDIS will find it.’

  Charlotte had never had a harder night to get through. She had finally drifted off around 5 a.m., just as it was getting light. When she had seen the result of the test she had begun to shake - not just her hands or her arms, but her whole body, as if someone had started a powerful motor chugging inside her belly.

  Dropping the strip of plastic she had rushed to the toilet and thrown up. So violent had the reflex been that she had been terrified the foetus might be harmed, and yet there was a part of her that thought that losing the baby at this early stage would maybe not be such a bad thing. She had thrown up twice more, and each time she had felt certain that if it happened again it would turn her inside out. When the urge finally subsided, she sank to the toilet floor, trembling and weeping.

  How long she sat there she wasn’t sure. She might have been there all night if it wasn’t for the thought that Mum - or even worse, Dad - might wake up at any time, needing the loo. Though she felt drained of energy, she pushed herself to her feet, flushed the toilet and stumbled back to her room.

  She flopped on to her bed, curled into the foetal position, and dragged her bedclothes over her legs.

  She lay like that for a long time, her mind full of rushing thoughts. Before she had known she was pregnant, she had decided that she was going to keep the baby, but now she didn’t really know what to do. She felt sick and lost and frightened.

  Finally, around dawn, exhaustion overtook her and she slipped into a sleep that was ragged and fitful with half-remembered dreams. It was the sound of someone banging on the door that dr
agged her out of sleep.

  She opened her mouth to shout ‘Hang on’, but the sound that emerged was, ‘Nu-arrm.’

  ‘Charlotte, it’s Mum. Are you up?’

  Her mother’s voice crystallised her thoughts, cut through the last clinging threads of sleep. Sitting up, she called in a cracked voice, ‘Hang on a minute, Mum.’

  She took several deep breaths in an attempt to rouse herself and tried to rub the tiredness from her eyes before realising it was deeply ingrained in her body. She was halfway across the room when something on the carpet tugged at the edge of her vision. She looked down and saw the pregnancy testing kit. She scooped it up and shoved it into her suitcase, beneath her underwear. When she opened the door seconds later her smile belied her crashing heart.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, speaking quickly to hide what she felt sure was a guilty expression. ‘Are you OK?’

  Though she nodded, Imogen didn’t look OK. She looked drawn, haggard.

  ‘Not too bad,’ she said. ‘I was so exhausted I slept like a log at any rate. How about you?’

  ‘Oh...I didn’t sleep so well. I had too much stuff on my mind. You know?’

  Imogen gave a tight but sympathetic smile and reached out to touch her daughter’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry to burden you with all our problems - mine and Dad’s, I mean. We should sort ourselves out, shouldn’t we? Not heap it all on you.’

  Charlotte shrugged and tried to make a joke of it. ‘You need someone to sort you out.’ Then she asked tentatively, ‘How is dad this morning?’

  ‘Still snoring. I’ve left him to it. He’ll have a killer of a hangover when he comes round, I shouldn’t wonder, and it’ll serve him right.’

  Charlotte’s legs felt wobbly. She crossed back to the bed and sat down. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Gone half ten. We’ve missed breakfast, I’m afraid.’ Imogen gave a watery smile. ‘We’re not really getting our money’s worth out of this holiday so far, are we?’

  Charlotte yawned. Her eyelids felt full of grit. ‘It’s OK. I’m not really hungry anyway.’

  ‘Me neither. I could murder a coffee, though.’ Imogen paused, then said, ‘Chris didn’t come back last night.’

  ‘Didn’t he?’ said Charlotte neutrally.

  ‘No. I think maybe I should call the police.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be OK, Mum,’ Charlotte said. ‘He’s probably staying away to punish us.’

  ‘All the same, it would set my mind at rest if the police at least knew he was...’

  A peculiar expression, somewhere between distress and confusion, crossed her face, and Charlotte knew her mum had balked at the word ‘missing’. She understood why immediately. It sounded too ominous, too final.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said quickly. We’ll go downstairs, ring the police, then we’ll go out somewhere and treat ourselves to a really nice breakfast. Just give me ten minutes to get ready, OK?’

  ‘OK. You don’t mind if I wait here for you, do you?’

  ‘No problem. I won’t be long.’

  Though all Charlotte really wanted was to sink back on to her bed, close her eyes and blot out the world, she spent the next ten minutes making herself presentable. She had a wash and brushed her teeth, promising herself that tonight, without fail, she would have that lovely warm bath she’d been so looking forward to. She scraped her hair back into a ponytail. She dressed in shorts and a pink sleeveless top, wondering how long it would be before her bump started to show.

  She was desperate to tell Mum about the baby, but she knew this wasn’t the right time. She’d know when the moment arrived, she told herself. Everything would come together and she would just know.

  She was about to announce that she was ready when there came three sharp raps on the door. Charlotte and Imogen looked at each other, Imogen’s face a mixture of alarm and hope. Charlotte crossed to the door and opened it. The slight, vulture-like figure of Mrs Macau stood there.

  ‘There are two gentlemen to see you downstairs,’ she announced before Charlotte could say anything. She was already turning away when Imogen, still sitting on the unmade bed, stammered, What... who... who are they?’

  ‘Police officers,’ Mrs Macau said, the disapproval evident in her voice.

  Imogen paled. ‘Police officers?’

  ‘Did they say what they wanted?’ Charlotte asked quickly.

  ‘I didn’t enquire,’ Mrs Macau looked as if she was about to turn away again, then paused. ‘I don’t put up with trouble on my premises.’

  Charlotte felt her face flush with indignation, but the words that emerged from her mouth sounded like an apology. ‘We’re not going to cause any trouble.’

  ‘I do hope not,’ said Mrs Macau. ‘Good day.’

  Charlotte turned to her mum. Imogen’s eyes were wide and fearful.

  ‘It’ll be nothing,’ Charlotte said reassuringly, though her insides were fluttering like a moth. ‘They probably just found Chris asleep on a park bench. They’ll want us to go down to the station to pick him up.’

  Imogen nodded eagerly, but said nothing, and the two of them went downstairs. Charlotte expected the policemen to be uniformed, but they weren’t. They were waiting in the hallway, looking hot and uncomfortable in their grey suits and ties despite their unbuttoned shirt collars.

  They straightened up when the two women appeared, like army privates in the presence of a commanding officer. ‘Mrs Maybury?’ said the foremost of the two men. Charlotte was about to defer to her mum when Imogen stepped forward, anxiety making her movements and voice jerky.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. What’s happened?’

  ‘Is there somewhere more... comfortable we can talk?’

  Why? What is it you’ve come to tell us?’ Imogen snapped.

  ‘There’s the lounge,’ said Charlotte, slipping into the familiar role of arbitrator. ‘We can go in there.’

  Dusty sunlight streamed through the tall bay windows, enlivening the red flock wallpaper, but seeming to bleach and age the lumpy sofa and pale brown carpet. The sofa rustled when the women sat down on it as though its misshapen cushions were filled not with foam padding but with straw.

  The senior officer perched on the edge of an armchair facing them, elbows on knees, trousers riding up to reveal fluffy green socks. His colleague, a younger man with fuzzy sideburns and wiry eyebrows that clashed in a tangle above the bridge of his nose, leaned against the wall, arms folded.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Worthington,’ the seated officer said, and there was something about the urgent compassion in his voice that increased the fluttering dread in Charlotte’s belly. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to brace yourself for some distressing news.’

  ‘What is it?’ Imogen whispered, and Charlotte could feel her mum trembling beside her. ‘What’s happened?’

  Gently DI Worthington said, ‘This morning a body was washed up on the shore several miles from here. We believe it to be that of your son, Christopher.’

  In the silence that followed it seemed as though time was coming to a slow, soupy halt. Distantly Charlotte heard a door open and it seemed to give her the momentum to ask,

  ‘Why do you think it’s Chris?’

  ‘He was carrying a rail card with his name and address on it,’ DI Worthington said. ‘Our enquiries led us here. We were given this address by a neighbour of yours.’

  ‘Mrs Ramirez,’ said Charlotte dreamily. ‘She’s looking after our house while we’re away.’

  DI Worthington nodded. ‘I understand what a terrible shock this is for you, but I’m afraid the body must be formally identified, and as quickly as possible. Christopher may have died in suspicious circumstances. We need to carry out a post mortem immediately to ascertain exactly how.’

  Charlotte felt light-headed, not quite rooted in reality. She stared at DI Worthington with tunnel vision, oblivious to everything else around her. ‘What do you mean, “suspicious circumstances”?’

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat
. ‘There was extensive... damage to the body. It may have been caused by rocks, but then again...’ He clasped his hands together and gave a grimace of apology, sympathy, discomfort.

  All at once Charlotte was jolted back to reality by her mother’s scream. It was a terrible scream, like an animal in intense pain. Charlotte jumped, then sank back, shaking, as her mum dissolved into tears beside her.

  The grief was frightening in its intensity, emotion so raw it seemed to possess an awful destructive power that Charlotte felt sure would tear around the room like a hurricane if unleashed. Suddenly everything seemed too stark, too real.

  Charlotte saw DI Worthington cross the room and drop to his knees in front of her mum, trying vainly to comfort her. She saw the tall man she’d bumped into on the doorstep yesterday enter the lounge, to be immediately confronted by Worthington’s colleague, who peeled himself from the wall and held up his hands as if to physically repel the man back into the corridor.

  ‘I’m Captain Mike Yates from UNIT,’ she heard the man say, raising his voice above Mum’s hysterical wailing. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t help overhearing what your colleague said, and I think it might have some bearing-’

  Charlotte lowered her head, squeezed her eyes tight shut and pressed her hands over her ears. She didn’t care what the men were talking about; she didn’t care about anything.

  Chris was dead, and there was an unwanted baby growing inside her, and Mum and Dad hated each other, and her whole world was falling apart. At that moment, she realised, she envied her brother more than she grieved for him. She wished with all of her heart that she could be dead too.

  The Brigadier slammed the phone down in frustration. Surely those idiots in Whitehall ought to realise by now that he asked them for aid and co-operation only when absolutely necessary? He’d saved them from getting a considerable amount of egg on their faces over that Global Chemicals business, and how did they repay him? By continuing to put barriers in his way.

  He hadn’t even managed to get through to the Prime Minister this time; no doubt the fellow was too embarrassed to speak to him following his misjudgement over the Llanfairfach incident. He had left it to one of his minions to inform the Brigadier that quarantining the town would be tantamount to martial law and therefore out of the question.