Doctor Who: In the Blood

by Jenny T. Colgan

  Chapter

  Eight

  The Doctor and Donna walked thoughtfully back to the TARDIS. To their surprise, it had a canopy strung up over it and a vintage VW van painted pale blue parked up in front of it, blocking the entrance.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the Doctor.

  Donna frowned. ‘Oh, no way. Oi! Hipsters!’

  Two men with very long beards wearing collarless shirts with braces looked up defensively. ‘What?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s our new artisan hand-brewed coffee experience,’ said one of them. ‘Would you like to try it?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘No you can’t!’ said Donna. ‘And you have to get out of the way!’

  ‘Actually we qualify as one of the government’s micro startup efficiency craft businesses,’ said the other, who had a handlebar moustache and an interrogative tone of voice. ‘So we’re fine here actually.’

  ‘Yeah, we aim to provide the finest holistic coffee experience in West London,’ said the first man again. He looked dubiously at Donna unfolding the psychic paper. ‘But as a startup we’re kind of exempt from red tape and health and safety and so on.’

  ‘Yeah, we see ourselves kind of going beyond all that bureaucracy, yah?’ said the other one. ‘I mean, really we see coffee as more of a spiritual experience. Basically our aim is to get ourselves classified as a religion.’

  Both men snickered and folded their arms.

  ‘But that’s my . . . police box,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘It’s public property,’ said one of the men. ‘The council says . . .’

  ‘I don’t care what the council says!’ said the Doctor. ‘Trust me, if I don’t listen to the Shadow Proclamation, I’m not very likely to take on board what Hammersmith and Fulham Local Authority have to say about it.’

  ‘What do you do with it?’ said the shorter of the two men, sniggering. He had trousers rolled up to his knees. ‘Call coppers?’

  The Doctor glanced at Donna, who was paying for a large paper cup of hazelnut latte. ‘Donna!’

  ‘It’s triple filtered!’ said Donna.

  ‘Four fifty,’ said the taller of the men.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Well, how about you let me just check inside it, grab something I’ve left there,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘No,’ said the bearded man. ‘Don’t mess with us. We’ve squatted before. Trust us, we know our rights. We let you in there, we’re done for.’

  ‘I’m not a squatter!’ said the Doctor.

  Donna looked at him.

  ‘I’m not! Well . . . not . . . well. Anyway. That’s my box. More or less.’

  The two men folded their arms.

  ‘I should warn you,’ said the taller. ‘My Taekkyeon teacher says I’m profoundly gifted.’ He bent out his elbows and kicked off his shoes.

  The Doctor grinned. ‘Does he now?’

  Donna glanced around. Something strange was happening. A crowd had gathered. And they were all filming on their phones. ‘Doctor . . .’ she said.

  ‘What? Come on, I want to see this guy do some Taekkyeon. In those trousers. It’ll be hilarious!’

  ‘No, Doctor. Look. They’re all filming you.’

  The Doctor spun round. ‘Why?’

  ‘In case you have a fight or something. Then they’ll upload it on the internet.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Donna shrugged. ‘That’s just what people do now.’

  The bystanders looked eager, hungry, unpleasant smiles on their faces.

  Except one, the Doctor noticed. One, a young woman, was touching, suddenly, at her chest, as if she’d felt something there.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said to her.

  ‘Get out of my space,’ she spat back at him, still holding up the phone.

  The Doctor took a step back and glanced at Donna. ‘Actually,’ he said ‘It might make sense to trace the route physically. Get a sense for what’s actually going on on the ground. Good instincts. Good police work.’

  ‘Do you mean run away?’ said Donna.

  ‘A temporary retreat . . .’

  ‘Actually,’ said Donna, hailing a cab. ‘ It is pretty good coffee. And you know what: if we’re going somewhere on Earth, I think a trip sounds like fun. Who needs the TARDIS? Let’s take a trip!’

  Chapter

  Nine

  ‘Why would a coffee shop owner want to attack me with violence, though? It doesn’t make sense,’ said the Doctor as they went through Heathrow.

  Donna looked with pleasure at the short security line and the departures board indicating hundreds of fascinating locations. ‘Modern life doesn’t make sense,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’m enjoying myself. I’ve always wanted to go travelling.’

  The Doctor gave her a very hard stare at that.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the security woman was saying to him.

  The Doctor turned his full high-beam grin on her, but it didn’t appear to be having the usual effect.

  ‘This can’t go through hand baggage. You’ll need to check it in, or we can dispose of it for you.’

  The Doctor looked at her in horror. ‘But it’s . . . I mean . . . It’s just a screwdriver.’

  ‘No screwdrivers,’ said the woman in a bored voice pointing to a set of guidelines on the wall. ‘No guns, knives, liquids, needles, exotic animals, or—’

  ‘Screwdrivers,’ said the Doctor reluctantly.

  Donna wasn’t listening. She’d got past security, and was now being directed by a handsome young steward to the lounge.

  The Doctor relinquished his screwdriver to the baggage hold with no little anguish, and followed Donna through to the softly lit carpeted luxury of the first-class lounge.

  Donna was standing in the middle of it, being noisy.

  ‘You mean we could have been travelling like this all this time? I spent all that time in that box thing when I could have been—’

  ‘Would you like some champagne, madam?’ interrupted the handsome steward.

  ‘Yes please.’ Donna thrust her arm out and the man put a glass in it with a smile.

  ‘Seriously! All this time!’

  The Doctor looked wounded. ‘You truly prefer this to the TARDIS?’

  The man coughed and leaned forwards again. ‘Would you like some complimentary pyjamas, madam? For sleeping on the flight? And perhaps a massage?’

  ‘Yes to the pyjamas, no to the massage. Can’t trust ’em,’ said Donna steadily, still staring at the Doctor. ‘Where are my TARDIS pyjamas, eh?’

  ‘You’re seriously telling me you prefer moving around a single planet at a snail’s pace to my beautiful ship?’

  Donna was looking down the expansive menu. ‘Caviar? Hmm. Foie gras? No, that’s cruel.’

  ‘We can make you anything you like, madam,’ said the steward.

  ‘I would really like a toasted cheese sandwich,’ said Donna. ‘With extra marmite. Want anything?’

  The Doctor shook his head.

  ‘Certainly madam.’ And the steward melted away.

  ‘Seriously? You really prefer this?’

  They were in the air now, and the Doctor was still going on.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Donna, putting the soft-lined eye mask up over her hair in preparation for later, and smothering the expensive face cream they’d given her all over herself.

  The Doctor was half-lying, half-sitting on top of the flat bed seat at the pointy end of the plane, looking extremely bored and uncomfortable.

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’ asked Donna.

  ‘People keep asking if they can get me stuff. And I say, “Can you get me my screwdriver?” and they say, “No.”’

  ‘Ssh,’ said Donna. ‘I have seventeen episodes of The Apprentice to catch up on. Everyone in it is particularly awful and unlikeable this year.’

  The Doctor frowned. ‘More contempt served up as mass entertainment. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Well, Alan Sugar,
right . . .’

  ‘No, I mean. All of it. Hate as a way to communicate. It’s new.’

  He disappeared and reappeared two minutes later.

  ‘Where’d you go?’

  The Doctor showed off his screwdriver, looking marginally more cheerful. ‘You know they’ve got a little lift?’ he said. ‘It’s awesome. I love a little lift.’

  His attention was taken, suddenly, by a large man a few rows behind. He looked the epitome of business-like, sober responsibility, in his expensive suit and silk socks. But in the lounge the Doctor had noticed him, hitting his keys furiously; complaining loudly to staff about the slowness of the internet connection. The frustration boiled off him, as clearly as if you could see little wavy lines emanating from his head.

  He’d noticed something else too. The Doctor almost never felt the cold. But he’d noticed a cold corner of air where the businessman was, even though the man was sweating angrily. Just as he’d noticed a cold spot in the room in Alan’s house. It was strange.

  There was a terrible, slow internet connection available on the aeroplane itself, although few of the passengers were paying attention to it. Most of them were sleeping or watching films, or eating or, if they were Donna, attempting to do all three things at once.

  The Doctor paced up and down. Whenever Donna raised an annoyed eyebrow at him, he pretended to be doing the stretching exercises that came with the welcome pack, which earned him a suspicious look.

  He hovered next to the man. ‘Having trouble getting online?’ he said sympathetically. ‘Me too.’

  ‘This airline sucks,’ said the man.

  ‘It’s not the best way of getting places,’ said the Doctor encouragingly. ‘Are you trying to get some work done?’

  ‘Yeah’ said the man. ‘I have a bunch of total putzes to fire, and I can’t get the thing fired up?’

  ‘You fire them over an email.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man. ‘Stops them getting all worked up.’

  ‘Does it really?’ The Doctor glanced around. ‘Does it feel cold to you in here?’

  The man looked up. ‘Yeah,’ he said. Useless bloody airline, they can’t get anything right. Complete waste of everyone’s time. Load of useless chancers.’

  The Doctor nodded slowly. ‘Do you think.’

  The man smiled. ‘In fact, I think I’m going to just send them a little message right now.’ He typed furiously and managed to pull up a review site. ‘I’ll throw in a few words about the stewardesses . . . not exactly the lookers, are they? What do they think they pay for up here – am I right? Am I?’

  The man nudged the Doctor, who closed his eyes briefly in horror. One of these days, he thought, he was going back to being a potter.

  The man continued typing furiously. The Doctor watched over his shoulder. There was a stream of expletives and nasty sarcasm, copied to the airline’s twitter account and any email address the man could find on their website.

  Then, something happened. The temperature dropped again.

  The man turned his head. ‘Did you feel that?’

  The Doctor nodded.

  The man stared at the porthole window on his left side. ‘From there – didn’t you feel it? Is there a draft in here? Stewardess!’ the man screeched loudly. ‘Get me another whisky. For God’s sake, does nobody do their jobs around here?’

  He rattled his glass rudely at the young woman who hurried up to fulfil his demand. She scuttled off, clearly hating him; the chain of bad manners spreading ever onwards.

  ‘And what’s that draft?’ he demanded, red in the face, as she returned. ‘Where’s that draft coming from? Is there something wrong with the plane?’

  He said this at a loud enough volume for several people seated nearby to turn round.

  ‘What does he mean, something wrong with the plane?’ came a worried voice from further up the cabin.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the plane,’ said the young stewardess, whose name badge read Amina, bravely. ‘I can’t feel what you’re feeling, sir.’

  The man’s face grew even more brick red. ‘Damn it, of course you’d say that. You’re paid to say that. Doesn’t mean anything.’ He unbuckled his seatbelt.

  ‘Could you stay in your seat, sir?’ said the stewardess.

  ‘The light isn’t on,’ said the man. ‘I’ve paid for this seat. I can do what I bloody well like.’

  The Doctor had been intently interested to see where the man thought the draft was coming from, but even he couldn’t stand for that.

  ‘Actually, I think the lady asked you to stay seated,’ he said, as the man heaved himself up.

  ‘Actually, I don’t give a monkey’s what the lady said, you big long streak of—’

  The Doctor ducked in perfect time as the man, who seemed disorientated, attempted a swing at him that went slightly wrong. The man lurched into the gangway. Someone let out a startled yell.

  ‘There’s something wrong with this plane,’ the man shouted incoherently. ‘It’s freezing! They’re letting the air out! Someone’s not telling us something! Something’s gone wrong! Can’t you feel it? What’s going on out there?’

  He banged hard on the window. Someone else yelled at him to stop. The Doctor glanced at Donna, but she had her headphones on and was fully engrossed in two people shouting at each other at a fancy dress party. He whipped out the sonic and tuned it in to the frequency of the window. There were cold patches and warm patches. It didn’t make sense.

  He frowned. The man saw him do it.

  ‘You know!’ he shouted menacingly. ‘You know something’s happening! You know!’ He advanced on the Doctor. ‘Tell me what it is! Tell me! I need to know! You have to tell me.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ said the Doctor, lying through his teeth. He was, in fact, extremely worried.

  Amina the stewardess ran up. ‘Why don’t you just retake your seat sir, and, um . . . We’ll have a choice of chicken or fish along in a moment . . .’

  The man cannonballed himself into the Doctor with unlikely aggression. The Doctor could feel his pulse. It was racing. He looked at him curiously.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  The man’s face was now inches away from his, pressing him against the wall of the cabin. There were people screaming now and a sense of panic throughout the cabin. The man put his arm up to try and choke the Doctor.

  ‘Tell me what’s happening out there!’ he screeched, spittle hitting the Doctor’s face.

  ‘Only, your skin feels clammy,’ said the Doctor. ‘And you’re very, very red. Seriously, if I was your doctor . . .’ He put his hand on the man’s pulse. The man’s wrist was starting to squeeze on his neck. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You see, this, your pulse is completely galloping. It’s very, very bad. I really think you should sit down with your head between your legs for a moment.’

  The man was screaming, as were several passengers. Behind, unnoticed to anyone, the man’s laptop was blinking.

  ‘Stop babbling and tell me what the hell’s going on!’

  There was a vein now pulsing in the man’s temple. The man kept up his pressure on the Doctor’s windpipe, whilst drawing back his other hand to punch him in the face.

  ‘What are you feeling?’ said the Doctor, urgently.

  The man blinked at that. He paused for just a second, drew a ragged breath.

  ‘Well . . .’ he began.

  ZZAP.

  The man lay stretched out on the floor. Behind him was Amina the stewardess, holding up a Taser.

  ‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘I’ve never had to use that before.’

  The Doctor blinked in annoyance. ‘I was actually doing just fine.’

  ‘You were being strangled and about to be punched in the face. It seemed the right thing to do.’ Amina looked nervous for a second. ‘At least, that’s what it says in the manual.’

  ‘No, no, I suppose you were absolutely right, if it’s in the manual,’ said the Doctor, recovering himself as the other pa
ssengers gave her a round of applause. Except for Donna, who still had her headphones on and was eating an ice cream.

  The cockpit door opened and one of the pilots came out to see what the commotion was about.

  On the floor, the man was stirring, and starting to struggle. Amina had brought out a pair of restraining cuffs.

  ‘It’s amazing what you guys fly with,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Isn’t it!’ she replied.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ said the co-pilot coming forward. ‘Do we have to turn back? I’d really rather not.’

  They looked at the man, who was lying and grunting on the floor

  ‘He’ll either have to deal with British police or Korean police,’ said the pilot. ‘Wonder if he’s got a preference.’

  ‘He’s Swiss,’ said Amina, checking the manifest. ‘So no extradition either way. I doubt he’ll care.’

  The Doctor shook his head. ‘I don’t think this was a crime,’ he said. ‘I think this was a medical episode.’

  Amina sniffed. ‘Well, it looked a lot like a crime to me . . .’

  ‘No, I think he’s basically harmless and—’

  What happened next happened very quickly indeed. There was a quick scrabbling noise and, with an unlikely and extraordinary strength, the man on the floor shot up and pulled down the co-pilot, grabbing his ankles with his hands until he fell down, knocking himself out on one of the large plastic seats.

  Then the man shot incredibly fast through the open cockpit door and, before anyone had a chance to react, slammed the door shut behind him.

  There came a muffled yell and some noise from the front of the plane – presumably as he knocked out the other pilot – and, mere moments after that, the huge airliner went into a sharp dive.

  The entire thing had taken less than thirty seconds.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Many of the occupants of the plane started to scream as the tight temporary social contract people had with one another, balanced above the world in a little tin box, dissolved and people’s true panic proved very close to the surface.

  The co-pilot was lying concussed on the floor. Amina swore mightily, and ran to the cockpit door, hammering to be let in.

  The intercom came on over the entire plane.