7
The Mysteries of Juke Street
‘I’m gonna kill him!’ Mickey gripped the wheel, literally baring his teeth.
Rose laughed. She loved winding him up. ‘Yes, he’s a complete stranger off the internet, he wears black leather gloves and everything. Plus, a balaclava. I’m going to his house, to his dungeon, and you’re taking me there, so it’s your fault.’
Mickey’s old yellow Volkswagen Beetle puttered through the city, heading north from the Powell Estate, through Southwark, over the river at London Bridge, towards Stoke Newington; Clive Finch lived on Juke Street, N16, just to the north of Abney Park. As they drove, Rose tried to explain their mission, slaloming down a hillside of lies. ‘This Clive bloke is a legal expert, and Mum says I’ve got to get compensation from Henrik’s, and he works from home, so I’m just going to see him and fill out some forms.’
‘I’m coming in with you!’
‘You are not. Because I’m not a baby. You can just sit outside and if he gets a bit creepy, I can whistle.’
‘And I’ll knock his block off!’
‘You’ll knock his block off?’ said Rose, and they both laughed. ‘Where are you from, 1950?’
‘Pip, pip, old chap,’ said Mickey in a posh voice, and they relaxed into each other’s company as they drove across the Thames, bright afternoon light glinting off the grey river. ‘All the same,’ he said, calmer now, ‘why can’t you do this online?’
‘Because he needs my signature, then the forms can be processed first thing on Monday morning. I have to, Mickey, I’ve got no wages, I’ve got no savings, I’ve got nothing.’
That seemed to settle it, and Mickey began to talk about the summer. Maybe a holiday, just the two of them, maybe Europe, maybe interrailing? And Rose congratulated herself on a great lie. The Doctor was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for years, and she liked keeping him secret. Not just to avoid Mickey’s disbelief; she simply liked having something that was hers and hers alone. She wondered what that said about their relationship, but as her friend Shareen always said, Worry about that tomorrow.
Clive Finch had promised much. ‘The truth will shake you to the core!’ She’d sent him a short, vague summary of her two meetings with the Doctor, not mentioning Henrik’s or the plastic arm, just that she’d met a man who had fascinated her. But when she’d asked what Clive knew, he’d emailed to say, ‘Not online. People are watching. This stuff is so secret and confidential, I can’t risk it leaking. Seriously, the evidence I’ve got, I won’t send attachments. You’ll have to come to my house and see it for yourself.’
At that point, Rose had almost given up. ‘Nice try!’ she’d replied, and Clive had emailed with denials and protestations of innocence, adding ‘I’m not into boys!’ That had puzzled her for a second, until she realised she was on Mickey’s computer, emailing from his account. ‘That makes it worse,’ she’d emailed back, ‘cos Mickey’s my boyfriend and my name is Rose.’
A minute or so had passed, and she’d wondered whether to abandon this and join the laughter in the kitchen. But then, ping! Another email. She’d opened it, and a photograph had begun to download, slowly. Rose had tensed up, thinking, If I see anything pink, I’m reporting him. But the photo had resolved into a fully clothed Clive, smiling, holding up today’s copy of the Guardian—he couldn’t know the significance of the Henrik’s headline—and behind him, his kids and Caroline waving at the camera. Caroline had a flat, peeved look, as though she’d done this a hundred times. Clive’s message read, ‘Look, it’s me, right now, today, with the family, I don’t think internet weirdos invite you to come and meet the family, do they? And just to prove that it’s safe, you can bring your boyfriend, I don’t mind.’
Fair enough, Rose had thought, and then his final line had reeled her in. ‘If you’ve met the Doctor, if you’ve actually looked into his eyes and heard the things he has to say, then you won’t be able to let this go. Am I right?’
As soon as Clive Finch opened to door to No.1 Juke Street, Rose trusted him. He was smiling, beaming, clumsy—he managed to stub his toe on his own front door—and behind him, she could see his two boys playing on an Xbox. Late Saturday sunlight bleached the white living room walls through wide patio doors, a long, narrow, green garden stretching away at the back of the house. Nice place, thought Rose, nice family, nice man.
‘You must be Rose!’ said Clive, a hint of North East in his voice.
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘And that’s my boyfriend, Mickey, there he is, d’you see?’ She stood back so that Clive could see Mickey, sitting at the wheel of his bright yellow car. Mickey glowered. ‘He’s going to wait outside in case you try to kill me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ called out Clive, giving Mickey a cheery thumbs-up. ‘No murders!’
‘You’d better not,’ said Rose. ‘Cos I’d knock your block off long before Mickey could get here, is that understood?’
‘Perfectly!’ Clive gave a little salute and stepped aside to let Rose in. She gave Mickey a final glance—his glower was almost rippling with heat, now—and then closed the front door on him. As she stepped into the hall, a woman’s voice called out from upstairs, ‘Who is it?’
‘One of Dad’s nutters,’ yelled the oldest boy.
Clive looked mortified. ‘He’s just joking, sorry. Michael! Behave!’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Rose. ‘After the day I’ve had, I feel like a bit of nutter.’
‘Well, come on, come through, I’ve got all the stuff, it’s in the shed. Oh, that sounds a bit murdery, doesn’t it? Sorry!’ Then he called upstairs, ‘It’s a Doctor thing, I might be a while. She’s been reading the website, she might have evidence!’
‘She?’ called the voice, presumably Caroline. ‘She’s read a website about the Doctor and she’s a she?’ Both boys on the settee cackled.
‘My lot are so funny,’ said Clive, giving the lads a pretend kick and a comedy growl as he led Rose out to the back garden. And there it stood, Clive’s shed, hemmed in by wooden fences on either side, in the curved shade of a laburnum tree.
‘The answers to everything,’ he said, ‘are in here.’
Mickey Smith kept on glowering, even though there was no one to appreciate it. Juke Street made him frown. Bay windows. Neat, square front gardens. Cars shining in the spring sunlight. Not wealthy, but richer than the Powell Estate. It was quiet, on a Saturday afternoon. Everyone was playing tennis or bridge or chess or whatever. Mah-jong, probably.
But still, he thought, his bad mood ebbing away, Rose hadn’t said no, to France, in the summer. They’d spent a few weekends together in Southend in a cheap B&B, but they’d never had an actual holiday, as a couple. But now, if he saved up, they could go away for a fortnight, maybe even three weeks. Depending on her new job, of course, if she could find one. But if she couldn’t then maybe, yeah, it was time to ask her to move in.
He was grinning now, his good humour restored by the one thing that always made him happy. Rose Tyler from No.143.
When he thought of her, Mickey held one particular word close, like a talisman, and that word was: lucky. Everyone else used that word too. ‘Oh you’re lucky, going out with her,’ said Patrice, said Mook, said Sally, and Mickey would laugh, like it was a joke. But he knew with all his heart that it was true. He was going out with the only girl he’d ever loved, the first girl he’d ever spent the night with, the best girl he’d ever known.
He didn’t tell her that too often, of course. But he planned on having years and years to ration out the compliments.
He remembered those terrible Jimmy Stone days, when she’d got bored and taken off with that louse, leaving Mickey with hollow bones. He could have raged, he could have shouted, he could’ve run off with Trisha Delaney instead, but Mickey had been so stunned that he’d done the best thing possible, quite by accident. He did nothing. He’d just waited. And when the Jimmy Stone storm had passed, Rose saw Mickey, still there, still faithful, still true, and cam
e back. Luck beyond luck.
And his luck had one truly strange and remarkable aspect, which bemused him every single day; his mother was long since gone, but nevertheless, she had known his girlfriend. Odessa Smith had once held the baby Rose in her arms, she’d smiled at her and kissed her forehead as though giving her blessing to them both across the years.
I’m the luckiest man in the world, thought Mickey.
And then he saw something move.
He’d parked opposite Clive’s house, outside No.2 Juke Street, and he thought he’d glimpsed something by the front door. Nothing now. The house sat still and silent, front window, porch, azalea bush, a grey wheelie bin …
Which moved.
The plastic bin jerked, bumped, and turned to face front, if a bin could be facing anything without an actual face, thought Mickey, smiling. He lifted himself up in his seat to see if a cat or a dog was nudging the bin. But there was no sign of anything.
And then the bin jerked, shuddered, tottered from side to side, and seemed to make its mind up. It trundled down the path to the garden gate, big plastic wheels rumbling as it rolled. Then it stopped, bumping against the gate again and again, like a dog in a cage. Mickey was laughing now, because the lip of the lid on top of the bin did suggest a mouth, in a long, mean scowl. Anthropomorphism, he thought. Like seeing a face in the moon.
He got out of the car, chuckling to himself, because they were clever, whoever was doing this. Kids, of course. Had to be. He looked for wires or strings but couldn’t see any. It was a free-standing bin, jerking and thudding against the gate, as though angry. A fleeting thought said, It’s hungry. But Mickey dismissed that and walked forward.
‘Where are you, then?’ he said to thin air. But no one appeared, and the bin seemed to be getting angrier. ‘Okay, I’ll play your game.’ He opened the garden gate and gave a mock little bow to allow the bin out. But then he was chilled as the bin zoomed forward to execute an arc, curving around to face him. The animation was perfect. This couldn’t be strings or levers or pulleys. It couldn’t even be remote control, because the turn of the bin had been so fluid, so graceful.
So real.
Like something living.
Mickey stared at the wheelie bin. It stared back. Even the tub of its body seemed to flex and contract, as though breathing.
He flushed with anger. Many times in his life, he’d said: no one takes the mickey out of Mickey. So now he reached out to grab hold of the bin, lifting up its lid to expose the child or puppeteer or motors inside—
But the bin was empty.
A black hollow.
Mickey slammed down the lid and stepped back—
Or tried to step back, because his right hand was now stuck to the lid.
Superglue, he thought! He swore out loud. Oldest trick in the book. He pulled away, grimacing, ready to lose a little skin off his hand if he had to.
But the plastic stretched. Like thick grey toffee. A pizza-cheese-rope of plastic extended from the bin, to his hand, and then—yank!
The plastic pulled him back in. Mickey jerked forward, holding out his left hand stop his head hitting the bin. And now his left hand was stuck too.
He felt like an idiot, guessing that some kids behind net curtains were capturing this on a camcorder. £250 from You’ve Been Framed, you little sods. But at the same time, Mickey felt absolute terror, because the plastic underneath his hands was squirming, somehow, it had heat, it had motility, it had intention as it flowed over his hands, up to his wrists.
The bin was absorbing him.
Mickey didn’t care who was watching now, or how stupid he looked. He was fighting to save his life. He heaved backwards. The gluey-grey-toffee-plastic extruded out, he felt the plastic around his wrists tighten, but he pulled harder and harder, and the extrusions grew longer, paler, thinner. Yes, he thought, yes, if I can pull hard enough, they’ll snap, so he pulled with all his might, the ropes of plastic stretching out a metre, two metres, thinning, about to break …
But the bin was just playing with him.
It yanked back its extrusions with one smart snap. Mickey stayed attached and lifted off his feet, flying through the air towards the bin. It opened its lid to swallow him. He plunged head-first into the bin’s body with an echoing scream, and the lid slammed shut.
Then the bin stood still. Inanimate. An ordinary thing on an ordinary pavement on a completely ordinary day.
There was silence on Juke Street.
Nothing moved.
Then the bin’s lid-lips rippled as it issued the most tremendous, larruping, satisfied burp.
And everything was silent and still once more.
8
Shed of Secrets
Rose felt that old fear return as she stepped into the shed. From the outside, it was rickety and wooden, but on the inside, sophisticated enough to be a murderer’s lair. Clive had walled it with a skin of cladding and then filled it with filing cabinets, bookshelves, a light-box table, piles of files and folders, all chilled with the hum of air-conditioning. He offered her a stool by the light-box and she thought of the chairs in Sweeney Todd and Austin Powers, trapdoors poised to plunge her down into the depths before his innocent wife could even hear the scream.
But Clive was still reassuringly Clive. He bumbled about, moving papers and rolled-up charts, then moving them back again, having a little argument with himself, which he lost. He offered her a drink. If he means alcohol, Rose thought, I’m out of here, but he immediately added, ‘I’ve run out of coffee but I’ve got tea?’
‘Tea would be fine,’ she said. Clive did a little three-act play with the desktop fridge, opening it, no milk, closing it, opening it again, still no milk, and then he said, ‘Hold on! I’ll get some from the house.’ He scurried off and Rose was left alone.
She looked around. One wall was covered with old calendars, cut-and-pasted into some sort of curvy timeline, with the letters U.N.I.T. stencilled above. The opposite wall was stacked with a hundred-plus box-files underneath a big white sign—the word was partially obscured by crenellations of VHS tapes but she presumed it said TOUCHWOOD.
She was dismayed by the photographs pinned to the walls. Silly monsters. Cheap robots. Daft aliens. Fake dinosaurs from Saturday afternoon movies, pasted into landscapes of London. All snapped at bad angles, hand-held, deliberately blurred to give them a fake authenticity. Maybe this man’s just a hoaxer, she thought, as Clive came back waving a carton of milk.
‘It’s a lot to take in,’ he said of his rogues’ gallery, as he popped a teabag into an X-Files mug.
‘I’m not really into that science-fiction stuff,’ said Rose, and then she had to endure him giggling and snorting with laughter as he clattered about with the kettle. ‘You wait!’ he chuckled, and she glared at the back of his head. She hadn’t come all this way for some man to laugh at her. She said, ‘So, anyway, the Doctor?’
‘Right, yes, sorry,’ said Clive, leaving the kettle to thunder away. He grabbed a stack of files, saying, ‘This stuff’s quite sensitive. In fact, it’s top secret. But I’ve discovered, over the years, that if you keep a lively mind and dig deep enough, the Doctor keeps cropping up. All over the world. In history books. Political diaries. Autobiographies. Whistleblower journalism. Conspiracy theories. Even ghost stories. Over and over again, known only by that name. The Doctor.’
‘But there are lots of doctors,’ said Rose. ‘Millions of them. That was the problem with searching online, it got too many results.’
‘Yes,’ said Clive, with a glint in his eye. ‘That’s how to stay hidden in plain sight. Clever, isn’t he? Or she.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, to narrow the search down, I started looking for the Doctor, the definite article, specifically no first name, no last name, just the Doctor. And all the evidence seems to suggest that Doctor must be some sort of title. Given to a freedom fighter or a covert operative. Granted by the government or the United Nations, or the Powers That Be. Because in t
imes of crisis, there’s always been a Doctor. And look, here they are, these people would seem to be the most important Doctors of all.’
He’d laid out the files on the glass table top and opened each of them to specific photographs. He pointed them out, one by one. ‘It’s hard to work out the right order, but I think this is the Doctor. And this. And this …’
He was running away with himself. Rose brought him back to the first photograph, a shot of an old man with white hair and a black cape, standing in the street in front of some sort of metal tank. She asked, ‘What’s that thing?’
‘A War Machine,’ said Clive. He took a deep breath and said as fast as he could, in case she laughed, ‘Killer tanks built by an evil supercomputer hidden inside the Post Office Tower, which invented the internet. I mean the supercomputer invented the internet, not the tower. Obviously.’
Rose sighed. ‘You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?’
But Clive rushed on, and Rose felt awful; she could see how many times he’d been mocked. He pointed out Doctor after Doctor. There was a little man with a Beatles mop of hair outside an antique shop. A man with a fabulous grey bouffant standing next to a small silver hovercraft. That man in the long scarf again, too small to be seen in detail because he was dwarfed by a silly forced-perspective puppet monster rising out of the Thames. A rather hot blond man at Heathrow. A curly-haired man clearly on his way to a fancy-dress party dressed as a picnic. A World War II photo of a short man with an umbrella running with some soldiers. A dashing, Byronic man at the opening of some atomic clock thing. And then, him!
The Doctor. Her Doctor. Wrestling with … a pterodactyl?
‘Well that’s the one, that’s my Doctor,’ said Rose. ‘But that photo makes him look stupid. Did you do that? With Photoshop?’
‘No, but hold on. Before we stop, you should see the whole thing,’ said Clive, exasperated. ‘He’s not the final Doctor in the sequence, have a look at this next one.’
‘I can’t keep Mickey waiting forever,’ said Rose. Clive wittered on, saying something about a man with two suits, brown and blue, but she ignored him, distracted by the pterodactyl. She looked closer. There was a small mark on the Doctor’s cheek. Strange. It was exactly like the cut he’d got today, just a few hours back, from the broken glass in her living room. This looked like the same scar. But the photograph was crumpled and bent at the corners, it must’ve been taken years ago.
Doctor Who Page 5
