Wishing Well

by Trevor Baxendale

  They were electronic gates, and Martha thought ruefully that the Doctor's sonic screwdriver would have made short work of them. 'Maybe if I got out and used the intercom?' she suggested, pointing to the metal box on the pillar.

  'Might work,' agreed Angela. 'But I prefer it this way.' The horn blared again and again. Eventually the gates swung slowly open on hydraulic hinges, and Angela hit the accelerator. The Land-Rover shot forward, throwing up gravel as the heavy tyres searched for a grip on the driveway.

  'Well, we're here,' Angela said as they skidded to a halt. Through the dirty windscreen they could see the wide steps and large front door of Gaskin Manor. That door could do with a new coat of paint,' she muttered. 'Just look at it – all peeling and what-not. Wood's probably rotten, too, I shouldn't wonder.'

  Martha recognised diversionary conversation when she heard it. She rested a hand gently on Angela's arm. 'Look, I'm really grateful you came. But I can speak to him on my own, if you prefer.

  'Not a chance!' Angela pushed her bush hat down on her head, climbed out of the Land-Rover and stomped up the steps towards the front door.

  Angela already had her thumb on the doorbell when Martha caught up. 'After all this he's probably out.'

  'His car's still here,' Martha said, pointing at the gleaming Daimler parked further along the drive. And someone must have opened the gates for us.' She winced as she listened to the doorbell ringing constantly inside the house as Angela kept the button pressed. With that and the car horn, Henry Gaskin was going to be in a pretty bad mood by the time he answered the door.

  Come to think of it, the door did look a bit shabby. The paintwork was badly maintained and some of the glass in the windows was cracked or the beading was in need of replacement. It seemed odd, somehow. Martha expected a big country manor like this to be in tip-top condition. The Daimler certainly was, and Gaskin himself hadn't looked like the kind of man who tolerated second best.

  At last the door opened and Gaskin glared down at them. The bristling black brows and deep-set eyes already seemed familiar to Martha. 'Oh, it's you,' he said drily, as he saw Angela. He didn't sound in the least bit surprised. 'Couldn't you use the intercom like anybody else?'

  'Would you have let me in?'

  'No.'

  'Well, then.'

  Gaskin turned to Martha. 'What's going on here, if you don't mind me asking? I do have work to attend to, you know.'

  Martha pulled on her most man-dazzling smile. 'Look, we're really sorry to disturb you, Mr Gaskin, but it really is important and we need your help.'

  'I really am very busy,' Gaskin told her, addressing Martha with a modicum of genuine regret. 'I'm sorry.'

  He began to close the door but Angela got her foot inside first. 'Not so fast, Henry!'

  'It's my friend,' Martha interjected quickly, sensing her opportunity was going to vanish fast. 'He's had an accident – he's fallen down the well.'

  Gaskin switched his dark eyes back to Angela for the first time. 'Is this some sort of joke?'

  'Of course it isn't,' she snapped. 'What do you take me for?'

  'You'd better come in.'

  * * *

  It was a beautiful house. Even in the present circumstances, Martha was impressed. The ceilings were high, the furniture sumptuous, the walls lined with old paintings and sculptures.

  Gaskin took them into the drawing room, and the first thing that struck Martha was Jess. The Border Collie literally leapt up to greet her as she entered the room. The dog was friendly enough, just a little enthusiastic, almost pushing her over. Martha patted the Collie and gave her ears a rub and fancied she'd made an instant doggy friend. Gaskin, however, wasn't in the mood for any canine fun. He made a few abrupt noises and Jess had to settle for running around everyone's legs with her tail wagging madly.

  'Get out, you daft thing,' grumbled her master, and the dog obeyed. Gaskin excused himself for a moment as he ushered Jess away with a tight, embarrassed smile and shut the door. 'Wretched dog,' he said without malice. 'Always getting under my feet.'

  There was a grand piano in one corner, covered with framed photographs, presumably of the Gaskin family. Although there were a number of comfortable, expensive-looking armchairs in the room, they weren't invited to sit. Gaskin simply stood by the ornate Adam fireplace and glowered at them. 'Please be brief,' he instructed them. 'I really am pressed for time.'

  'So is the Doctor,' said Angela bluntly. 'He could be injured at the bottom of the well for all we know. Or worse.'

  'I said he shouldn't have gone down the well,' Gaskin replied with a shake of his head. 'It was madness. You're all mad.'

  'We don't actually know what's happened to him,' Martha said, in what she hoped was a calm and intelligent manner. 'We lowered him down and everything was going all right. But when we tried to pull him up – he wasn't on the end of the rope.'

  'Are you in contact with him in any way?'

  'No.'

  'Then may I ask why you have come here to see me, rather than doing the obvious thing, which is to call in the emergency services?'

  'The Doctor said that if anything went wrong, anything at all, I was to come and see you.'

  Gaskin raised his bushy eyebrows. 'Did he, indeed? And why would he say that?'

  'Well,' Martha confessed, 'I'm not sure. But I think it might be because you said something about a monster.'

  'Monster?'

  'Look, I know it doesn't make sense, but the Doctor's in terrible danger and I really need your help.'

  Gaskin straightened up. 'Well, I'm very sorry to disappoint you, young lady, but I don't see what I can possibly do to help. I mean... monsters? We all know the stories, my dear, but really.

  'Stop prevaricating, Henry!' ordered Angela, her voice resounding in the room. 'We need practical help, not waffle. You've got climbing equipment, haven't you?'

  'I hope you're not suggesting I go down the well after your foolish friend?'

  'Well that would never happen, would it?' Angela demanded, nostrils flaring. 'Oh, what's the point? Martha doesn't know the sort of man you are, does she? She doesn't know that it's useless trying to rely on you for help.'

  Gaskin opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. Martha tensed, realising that the interview had taken an ugly turn in a personal direction which had nothing to do with saving the Doctor. Angela gave a derisive snort and turned to leave. 'Come on, Martha, we're wasting our time here. Let's go.'

  And with that she marched out of the drawing room.

  Martha hesitated, and then turned to Gaskin. 'I'm sorry,' she said, only to find that he was saying exactly the same thing to her.

  He shrugged. It was a curiously helpless gesture for such a self-confident man. 'What can I say? Angela and I... we haven't exactly been on good terms for many years, as you can probably tell.'

  Martha felt sorry for him. He looked so miserable and not a little lost; nothing like the arrogant bully she had first seen on the village green. 'It's about her husband, isn't it?'

  'Roger. Fine man. A good friend – the best.' Gaskin's speech became clipped as his upper lip stiffened. He picked up a picture frame from the piano, and showed it to Martha with a heavy sigh. 'That's Roger and me, twenty years ago. I had more hair then.'

  Two rugged-looking men smiled out of the photo, arms slung around each other's shoulders. They were wearing outdoor clothes and climbing gear. They looked happy and carefree, despite clearly being near retirement age. Roger Hook had white hair, and a neat, slightly piratical beard. Gaskin looked thinner and fitter than he did now.

  'Switzerland, 1987,' Gaskin explained. 'Ready for one last go at the Jungfrau. God, those were the days!'

  Martha kept thinking of the Doctor, but it would have been too rude not to say something about the incident. 'Sadie Brown told me there was an accident and Roger died.'

  'There is slightly more to it than that. Roger wasn't a well man. He'd been diagnosed with a heart complaint ten years before that photo was taken. He took it
hard, as might be expected of a man who had led a life like his. We were in the Parachute Regiment together, you know. Saw action all over the world in our younger days.' Gaskin smiled fondly at the memories. 'Roger always said he didn't want to die in bed like an old man. He was still determined to live life to the full. He implored me to go with him on one last climbing trip. The Swiss Alps were always his favourite. I tried to talk him out of it – to think of Angela – but he wouldn't have it.'

  Martha smiled sympathetically as Gaskin returned the picture to the piano. 'What happened?'

  'The climb went well. We reached the summit without a problem. Glorious view – ice-white peaks all around us, nothing but unbroken blue sky above us. Roger was in his element. But on the way back down he began to experience chest pains. I suspected the worst, of course. Told him to take one of his tablets...' Gaskin took a deep breath and shivered, as if he was back there in the snow and ice. 'He didn't have his tablets with him. He said he'd forgotten them, left them at the chalet – but I suspect he had left them behind deliberately. The strange thing was I think he was almost relieved. He'd been waiting for a heart attack for years. He was just glad it happened on the way down.'

  'Poor Angela,' said Martha.

  'Indeed. She took it very badly, I'm afraid. She was very much in love with Roger and completely devoted to him. She was convinced I'd persuaded him to come on the trip and blamed me for his death. That's about all there is to it.'

  'And she's never forgiven you?'

  'Never forgiven herself, more like,' Gaskin said gruffly. 'Because she knows deep down that it was what Roger wanted, and I think she's cross with him – and feels guilty about feeling that way. We've hardly spoken since. That little exchange was the most we've said to one another in twenty-odd years.'

  'I'm really sorry,' Martha said, without quite knowing what it was she was apologising for. She was supposed to be getting help for the Doctor. 'Look, I'd better be going.

  'I'm only sorry that I can't help you,' he said, as he followed her towards the door. 'I suggest you telephone for the police or the ambulance service at the earliest opportunity.'

  He led the way out of the drawing room and Martha followed him. In the hallway was a low table in front of a mirror with a bowl of flowers and a telephone. 'You can call from here if you wish.'

  'It's OK, I've got my mobile.' Martha felt totally deflated. She kept remembering the Doctor's advice: if anything goes wrong – go and see Gaskin. There must have been a reason for him saying that.

  Gaskin was giving her a quizzical look, seeing her hesitation. 'Is there anything else I can help you with?'

  She had to say something. 'It's the well... there's something strange about it. You must know something, Mr Gaskin. You said yourself – there are stories about treasure and monsters.'

  'Neither of which I grant the slightest credence,' said Gaskin. 'As I said, they are simply stories my dear.'

  The Doctor slid deeper into the darkness.

  Whenever he tried to move himself, the white weed gripped him more tightly. As far as he could tell it was an involuntary reflex. He'd tried talking again, calling, shouting, even low-level telepathy, but there was no response. Nothing. Just a deep, black abyss full of this pale, grasping undergrowth.

  Nevertheless, he was moving, due to some kind of peristaltic motion. Every so often the grip of the luminous roots shifted, and he was moved further down the gullet of the well. He only wondered what he was heading for and what would happen when he got there.

  He wished he'd brought a book with him so he could have read while he waited – the dismal glow of the white weed was just about good enough.

  It was getting very cold now, and he was starting to imagine things in the blackness – a glowing movement in the corner of his eye which disappeared when he looked, or the distant sound of whispering, or a thudding, alien heartbeat. He kept hearing that heartbeat, although it seemed to come and go. It was always distant, but there was a definite thud... thud... thud... coming from somewhere. It wasn't a regular double beat like a human's, or anything else that he recognised. It was slow and strangely irregular; it brought to mind a sick, diseased heart straining to eke out the last hours of life. Or was that just his imagination?

  Whatever it was, it was getting louder. Nearer.

  With a sudden, unexpected gulp of the weeds around him, the Doctor was pushed down into a dark chamber. He tumbled out of the grasp of the weeds and hit something soft.

  There was just room enough to stand up, but he had to be careful because the ground underfoot kept moving. His trainers fought to keep a grip on a blubbery surface coated with slime. Gingerly he dusted his suit down, removing the last traces of any weed that had got caught on his way down here.

  'Hello?' His voice echoed dully but the only reply was an empty silence. 'Anyone home?'

  Then he became aware of something moving in the darkness – something slow and fluid, uncoiling in the darkness as if awakening from a deep sleep.

  Then, slowly and ominously, a number of pale lights opened like eyes in the darkness. They stared balefully at the Doctor and he stared back.

  The eyes watched him unblinkingly for several seconds. Then, for want of anything else to do, the Doctor tried his best and brightest smile and said, 'Hello!' again.

  No response. The eyes stared. There were several, of various sizes, but the Doctor knew instinctively that they all belonged to the same creature. Just like he knew, instinctively, that behind the eyes there was not a shred of compassion or intelligence.

  Just a cold, malevolent hatred.

  Because now he knew what it was.

  FOURTEEN

  Martha found Angela quietly fuming by the Land-Rover. 'I told you coming here would be a complete waste of time,' the old lady complained bitterly. She kicked at the gravel which covered Gaskin's driveway. 'That man's got such a nerve. I hate him!'

  Martha didn't say anything. It seemed safer to remain diplomatic about the whole thing.

  'I suppose he was telling you all about Roger,' Angela muttered. 'His version of events at least.'

  'Yes, I suppose so,' Martha conceded. 'But he can't help us with the Doctor anyway.'

  'Rubbish. Of course he can.' Abruptly Angela set off on foot, walking around the outside of the manor. With an anxious glance back at the front door, Martha hurried after her, boots crunching across the gravel. 'He's got all kinds of equipment back here,' Angela said. 'We'll just go and help ourselves.'

  'We can't do that,' Martha protested, trying not to shout. 'It's trespassing!'

  But then they both stopped in their tracks. At the side of the house was a series of willow trees leading to a terrace overlooking the gardens at the rear. Martha was dimly aware of a series of beautiful lawns and woodland stretching away behind the manor, but what grabbed her attention was much closer to hand.

  Lying on the terrace was the body of a man.

  Instinct took over and Martha ran towards him. Without touching him or turning him over, she quickly checked that he was still alive and breathing. 'Hello?'

  The man groaned and turned over.

  'Hell's bells,' exclaimed Angela. 'It's Nigel Carson. What the heck is he doing here?'

  'He's fainted, or something,' Martha said. She made sure his airway was clear and helped him into a comfortable position. 'Nigel? Can you hear me? What's happened?'

  Suddenly the French windows opened onto the terrace and a black and white blur ran out, barking madly. Jess skidded around the little group, jumping back and forth. Gaskin followed the dog out of the house, his face like thunder. 'What the devil's going on, Jess? Great Scott, what are you two doing here? I thought you'd just left!'

  Martha was helping Nigel to his feet. 'We've just found this man collapsed on your patio,' she said. 'Can we take him inside?'

  'What? Yes, I suppose so. Jess, stop making that damned noise!'

  'Here,' said Angela, helping Martha with Nigel. 'Let me take him.'

  Jess was still
barking like she'd cornered a cat, but she wasn't interested in Nigel Carson. There was something else, just under the trailing edge of the rhododendrons, that held her attention.

  'Jess!' shouted Gaskin. 'Inside!'

  But the dog was having none of it. Martha knelt down beside her. 'What is it? What have you found?'

  Lying on the flagstone was a rock the size of a lemon. Martha picked it up while Gaskin grabbed his dog by the collar and hauled her back.

  'What's this?' Martha wondered, looking at the rock. It was heavy, but on closer examination it wasn't actually a rock. The surface was translucent, but scored with hundreds of tiny little whirls like fingerprints. It felt warm in her hand.

  'Martha!' called Angela. 'You'd better come and see this.'

  She ran back into the conservatory, where Angela had sat Nigel Carson down in a wicker chair. He looked gaunt and grey, hair dishevelled and his eyes roaming wildly. Martha wondered if he was drunk, but Angela was pointing to his hands.

  The palms and fingers were stained with blood.

  'I don't know what he's been doing,' said Angela, 'but I'd say we've caught him red-handed.'

  Martha checked his hands. It wasn't easy because they were clenching and unclenching, but she could see that the skin was peppered with tiny cuts. The blood's his,' she told them. She turned to Gaskin, who was still struggling with Jess. 'Can we have some warm water and clean towels? Any kind of First Aid kit you have would be a help.'

  I'll see what I can find,' Gaskin said, pushing Jess back out into the garden and closing the doors. She continued to bark and fuss outside, but at least it was quieter. 'I don't know what's got into her,' Gaskin muttered.

  Martha held up the stone. 'It's this. She doesn't like it.'

  'What is it?' wondered Angela.

  Nigel suddenly reared up out of his seat and grabbed the stone out of Martha's hands. 'That's mine!' he yelled. 'Give it to me!'

  He sank back into the chair, hugging the thing to his chest.

  'Steady on,' Angela said. 'You're not well, you know.'

  Nigel appeared to be calming down. He took control of his breathing, and, still clutching the stone to his chest, sat up in the chair. It was as if he found the stone strangely comforting. 'I'm all right, I'm all right. Leave me alone.'