Dr. Who - BBC New Series 25

by Ghosts of India # Mark Morris

  Ranjit knew he would catch the kid eventually, but his fear was that the kid would panic and throw the torch away. If he did, they might never find it in the long grass.

  With this in mind, he halted on the edge of the field and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘I only want to talk to you!’

  But the kid didn’t stop. If anything, he ran faster. Ranjit sighed and went after him. It was not easy running in the long grass. The sun had dried it out, making it hard and spiky. It scratched his legs, drawing stripes of blood here and there. Ranjit knew that the feld was probably full of creatures that could bite and sting: snakes, spiders, scorpions. If one of them bit him, he might think it was just the grass scratching him. Venom might race around his body without him even knowing it.

  And if that happened, who would help him? Who would see him if he collapsed in the long grass? His Uncle

  Mahmoud’s next-door neighbour had been stung by a scorpion once, a big one. Uncle Mahmoud had sucked out the poison. He had told Ranjit that it tasted like goat’s milk, but Ranjit hadn’t believed him.

  He was gaining on the kid now. The kid was halfway across the field, Ranjit only thirty or forty metres behind.

  Ranjit’s head throbbed where the rock had hit him, but otherwise he felt pretty good. On the way to the temple that morning, Bapu had shared his breakfast with him –bread, oranges, grapes, sour lemons and strained butter with a juice of aloe – and so for the first time in days his belly felt full and his limbs strong.

  All at once, the kid spun round, pointing the magic torch at Ranjit.

  ‘Leave me alone or I’ll shoot you!’

  Ranjit stopped, his legs stinging, sweat trickling down his face. He laughed. ‘That’s not a gun.’

  The kid was thin, with dark hollows under his eyes. He turned the torch on. It glowed blue and made a high-pitched noise, but nothing else happened.

  ‘You see,’ said Ranjit. He held out his hand. ‘Now give it to me.’

  The kid shook his head. ‘It’s not yours.’

  ‘It’s not yours either. You stole it.’

  ‘I didn’t steal it,’ said the kid indignantly. ‘I found it.

  The Englishman dropped it.’

  ‘If you saw him drop it, why didn’t you give it back to him?’

  The kid looked flustered for a moment. Then he said, ‘I was going to. I hoped he might give me a reward for it, so

  that I could buy food for my family.’

  Ranjit shook his head. ‘Just because you’re hungry, that doesn’t mean you should become a thief. Mr Doctor is a good man. He’s trying to help us.’

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ protested the kid. ‘Is it my fault if the Englishman is careless?’

  Ranjit held out his hand again. ‘Give me the torch. I’ll give it back to Mr Doctor. I’ll tell him that you found it.

  Maybe he’ll give you a reward and maybe he won’t.’

  But the kid shook his head and tightened his grip on the torch. ‘I won’t give it back.’

  ‘Yes you will,’ said Ranjit, stepping towards him.

  The kid turned to run and Ranjit jumped on him, wrestling him to the ground. For a few seconds, the two boys fought furiously. Ranjit tried to grab the torch, but the kid held on to it for dear life. The younger boy’s thumb pressed down on a row of tiny controls on the side of the instrument and it began to shriek as though in pain, its tip glowing a brilliant white-blue.

  *

  There! This time the readings came through loud and clear. Not only had the scanners detected the sonic energy waves of the level 6 device, but they had now been able to pinpoint its location. Assimilating the information, the alien pilot sent out a thought-pulse.

  Ranjit finally succeeded in wrenching the torch out of the kid’s hand. However, he pulled so violently that the torch flew end over end, describing an arc in the air.

  Ranjit sat up, grass poking out of his hair and sticking

  to his sweaty skin. He jumped to his feet just in time to register roughly where it had landed. He waded through the grass, trying to keep his eye on the spot.

  Though the kid had fought hard to keep hold of the torch, he had now given up on it. He sat in the middle of the crushed patch of grass where he and Ranjit had been wrestling, arms folded and mouth down-turned in a sulk.

  Ranjit poked about in the long grass where he had seen the torch land, tearing clumps of it out in frustration. At last he saw a whitish glimmer and snatched it up. He straightened just in time to see a strange silvery shimmer in the air.

  Next moment, two men were standing in the long grass about twenty metres away. Their skin was white, like chalk, but it was their faces which almost stopped the breath in his throat. They had no eyes; just smooth, pale hollows of unbroken flesh. They neither smiled nor spoke nor showed any emotion at all. They simply began striding, fluidly and remorselessly, in Ranjit’s direction.

  Ranjit had never been so terrified. There was something awful about these men. He turned and ran, his fear making him stumble, his breath hitching raggedly in his throat.

  The kid was still sitting where Ranjit had left him, arms folded. Ranjit realised the kid couldn’t see the terrible men above the long grass.

  ‘Run!’ he shouted, his voice raw and high-pitched.

  ‘Run now!’

  The kid just scowled at him, stuck out his bottom lip and turned away.

  Ranjit could see the men coming towards him out of the corner of his eye. He hated leaving the kid, but he didn’t have time to argue. If he paused for even two more seconds, the men would get them both. And so, feeling sick, he ran past the kid, deeper into the field, towards the tall trees on the far side.

  He was halfway between the kid and the trees when he heard the kid scream. It was a hot day, but the sound was so full of terror that it made Ranjit feel cold all over.

  Ranjit looked back and saw the kid trying to scramble to his feet as the men loomed over him. He managed it, but as he turned to run the men reached out and grabbed him with their awful white hands.

  ‘No!’ Ranjit shouted, but then there was another silvery shimmer. When his eyes cleared a moment later, Ranjit realised he was shouting at nothing. The two men and the kid were gone.

  ‘ Don’t you ever get the urge to do something…

  y’know… naughty?’ Donna said.

  Gandhi chuckled. ‘Naughty?’

  ‘Yeah, don’t you ever just wanna have a day off from helping other people, and… I dunno… go on a shopping spree or… just bask in the sun and pig out on chocolate?’

  Gandhi was laughing now. He clapped his hands in delight. ‘I do like chocolate,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, there you go then.’

  ‘But I deny myself the pleasure of it.’

  ‘But why?’ Donna asked. ‘I mean, look at all the fantastic things you do for people. Surely you, more than anyone, deserve a treat now and again?’

  They were sitting in a tonga, heading back towards the Campbells’ palatial property on the outskirts of the most

  salubrious area of Calcutta. Cameron was perched between Donna and Gandhi, his bicycle strapped to the back of the little carriage.

  Gandhi had an appointment with Sir Edgar to discuss possible solutions to the recent troubles, and had asked if he could tag along. Donna had been delighted. She had already grown fond of the little man. His selfess good humour, open-mindedness and joie de vivre made her think of an older version of the Doctor.

  ‘Have you heard of The Gita, Donna?’ he asked now.

  She frowned, vaguely recalling a drunken pub conversation she had once had with Amrita, a work colleague at H.C. Clements, before all the Racnoss business had kicked off.

  ‘It’s a holy book, innit? Krishna and all that?’

  Gandhi nodded. ‘A passage in The Gita describes the ideal man. He is desireless. His aim is to reach the highest state of perfection, to transcend his physical being and become one with God – to achieve
Nirvana.’

  ‘And that’s what you’re trying to do, is it?’

  Gandhi inclined his head. ‘It is a daily struggle.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you,’ Donna said. ‘If anyone can get there, it’s you. Me, I’d have no chance. One whiff of a Cadbury’s Wispa and I’d slip right off that pedestal.’

  As the tonga came to a halt outside the imposing black gates of the Campbells’ house, Cameron shrank back into his seat.

  ‘Time to face the music, mate,’ Donna said not unkindly.

  ‘I’m going to be in so much trouble,’ whimpered

  Cameron.

  She pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Might not be as bad as you think. I mean, they’re hardly gonna bawl you out with His Lordship in the house, are they?’ She flipped a thumb at Gandhi, who was being helped out of the carriage by a reverential tonga-wallah. ‘It’ll be all “how do you do?”, best china and cucumber sandwiches. It’ll have blown over by teatime.’

  The look on Becharji’s austere face when he opened the door was priceless. Donna had never seen a man do so many goggle-eyed double-takes before. She had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself laughing out loud.

  ‘Me again,’ she said eventually. ‘And this time I’ve brought a couple of mates along.’

  Becharji looked at her with a glazed expression, and then with a little shake of the head he recovered his composure.

  ‘Of course. Um… please come in. I’ll inform Sir Edgar that you’re here.’

  They stepped onto the polished wooden floor of the elegant hallway as Becharji hurried away. An aspidistra bloomed in a large ceramic pot in the corner by the door; a ceiling fan rotated elegantly overhead.

  ‘Wait for it,’ said Donna.

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the door to the parlour flew open and Mary Campbell emerged, wet-eyed and red-nosed. She saw Cameron and gave a little scream.

  She was dashing forward, long-limbed and awkward, pearls swinging around her neck, when she registered

  Gandhi, standing there in his homespun robe. She faltered, torn between an unseemly display of emotion and the decorum she knew she ought to show in such circumstances.

  In the end, it was Cameron who rushed forward, arms outstretched. ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he cried, and promptly burst into tears.

  Mary hugged her son. ‘It’s all right, darling. You’re home safely. That’s all that matters.’

  Next to emerge was Adelaide, red-cheeked and beaming with relief. She strode forward and ruffled her younger brother’s hair. ‘Where have you been, you little scamp?’ she said affectionately.

  Just behind her was Ronny, who half-heartedly scolded Cameron for worrying them all to death. Adelaide smiled at Gandhi, palms pressed together in the traditional Hindu greeting.

  ‘Mr Gandhi, welcome,’ she said. ‘How lovely to see you again.’ She turned to Donna and took her hands. ‘And Donna. What brings you back here so soon?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Donna, nodding at Gandhi, ‘someone had to keep an eye on these two.’

  A flurry of greetings and questions and gabbled explanations followed. Sir Edgar huffed and blustered, apologising to Gandhi and stooping to mutter to Cameron that he would have words with him later. Finally he suggested that he and Gandhi retreat to the study, leaving everyone else to take tea in the parlour.

  ‘I’ll just use the telephone in the study, if I may?’

  Ronny said.

  Sir Edgar looked exasperated. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Thought I’d better let old Daker know that Cameron is safe before he turns Calcutta upside down.’

  He hurried away, but was back a few minutes later.

  ‘Too late, I’m afraid. Daker’s already left.’

  Sir Edgar raised an eyebrow. ‘No doubt he’ll be giving the locals what for by now,’ he said, unable to hide the approval in his voice.

  Donna looked at him with a flinty expression. ‘And you think that’s good, do you?’ she said curtly.

  Ronny and Adelaide exchanged a look, then Ronny stepped smartly forward, taking Donna’s arm and steering her away from his father.

  ‘Tea, Donna?’ he said, clenching his teeth in a desperate grin.

  The streets were narrow and dirty, the cramped dwellings shabby and run down, patched up with planks of wood and rusty sheets of corrugated iron. Daker and his troops were moving in groups through the poorest areas of Calcutta, from street to street and door to door, searching for what the Major described as ‘insurgents’, enemies of the state.

  Private Wilkins and four of his colleagues were in the Major’s group, and Wilkins for one was feeling uneasy. As the morning had worn on, and no clue had been found to the whereabouts of the three missing soldiers, Major Daker had started to become increasingly angry, increasingly unreasonable and increasingly… well, unstable was not too strong a word in Wilkins’ opinion.

  He watched as the Major strode forward and hammered

  on yet another door. Many of the buildings they had tried had been abandoned, left to the rats and cockroaches. This infuriated the Major. He seemed to think that if a family had fled, it was because they had something to hide rather than because they were frightened of becoming victims of the almost-nightly violence.

  Major Daker used the butt of his revolver to bash on the door, leaving dents in the wood. ‘Open up!’ he barked.

  ‘This is the British Army.’

  After a moment the door opened a crack and a young Indian man peered out, clearly frightened.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Daker demanded. ‘What are you hiding in there?’

  The Indian man shook his head. In broken English he said, ‘Please… this is my house… nothing here for you.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Daker said. ‘Stand aside.’

  He stepped forward, shoving at the door. The man tried to resist, but Daker was too strong for him. The man staggered back as the door flew open.

  Daker strode in, brandishing his revolver.

  The building was little more than a dingy hovel. The place smelled musty and closed in. There was sacking on the floor and condensation ran down the walls.

  A woman and three small children were huddled in one corner, the woman gathering the children to her. She was clearly terrified of the soldiers.

  Stepping into the house behind the Major, Wilkins saw the children staring at him with big round eyes and tried to smile reassuringly.

  Daker looked around, contempt on his face. ‘An

  English boy and three soldiers have gone missing,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, eh?’

  The Indian man shook his head vigorously. ‘No, sahib.

  We know nothing.’

  ‘What’s through there?’ Daker jabbed his revolver towards an arch in the back wall, across which was hung a grubby piece of material.

  The Indian man mimed resting his head on his hands.

  ‘We sleep… yes?’ he tried to explain.

  ‘The bedroom?’ Wilkins said, trying to help him out.

  ‘Beds?’

  ‘Beds, yes.’

  Daker turned to one of the men. ‘Check it out, Barnes.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Barnes stomped across the room and yanked aside the sheet of material so violently that it fell off the wall. One of the children burst into tears.

  ‘Please, sahib,’ the man protested, raising his hands.

  ‘You frighten my…’ he gestured towards his wife and children. ‘We know nothing, yes?’

  Daker’s eyes were glinting dangerously beneath the brim of his peaked cap. Wilkins noticed that he was swaying slightly from side to side.

  ‘You’re a liar,’ he muttered. Then suddenly he started to shout, making the other children cry too. ‘You people are all the same. All liars!’

  Wilkins glanced at his colleagues. They looked back at him, shaking their heads.

  Barnes emerged from the arch. ‘Nothing there, sir.’
<
br />   A glazed look had come over Daker’s face. He turned his head stiffly in the Indian man’s direction.

  ‘Where are they?’ he said.

  ‘Please…’ The Indian man glanced at Wilkins, as if begging him for support.

  Daker took a step forward, raising his revolver.

  His voice was horribly low and silky, but it could still be heard above the crying of the children. ‘Tell me where they are.’

  Wilkins swallowed and stepped forward.

  ‘Sir,’ he said.

  Daker appeared not to hear him.

  Wilkins raised his voice. ‘Sir, I don’t think these people know anything.’

  Daker stopped dead. He stood swaying for a moment, and then he slowly turned to face Wilkins.

  ‘What?’ he said quietly.

  Wilkins felt sweat running down his face. ‘I really don’t think these people know anything, sir.’

  Daker’s face suddenly twisted. ‘Are you siding with the enemy, Wilkins?’ he snarled.

  ‘They’re not the enemy, sir,’ said Wilkins. ‘They’re just a poor family, trying to get by in difficult times.’

  ‘Traitor!’ screamed Daker.

  He lunged forward, and suddenly shoved Wilkins out of the door.

  Wilkins staggered backwards into the street. Blinded by the sun, he toppled over, landing on his back in the dust.

  He lay for a moment, winded, and then tried to rise.

  All at once a dark shape loomed over him, blotting out

  the sun. Shielding his eyes, Wilkins saw Major Daker pointing a revolver at his head.

  Staring into the circular black barrel of the gun, Wilkins wondered whether he would hear the explosion of the discharged bullet in the split-second before it ended his life.

  *

  The Doctor emerged from the TARDIS, holding his timey-wimey detector. It looked as if it had been cobbled together from an alarm clock, a steam iron, an old Bakelite telephone and a reel-to-reel tape recorder. It hummed and clicked as he waved it in a wide arc in front of him.