by Doctor Who
‘I’ve just found a biscuit.’ A second later: ‘I’ve just found a pound coin.’ A second later, worriedly: ‘I don’t know what I’ve just found, but I’ve put my elbow right in it. . . ’
And a second later, she could smell something. A tang in the air, as if she’d just been spritzed with lemon juice. Her tongue and nostrils were fizzing.
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‘This is it,’ said the Doctor, perching on the arm of the chair above her. ‘Hold tight.’
She grabbed hold of his bony ankle, reflecting in a distracted way how odd it was that a 900-year-old alien from outer space wore diamond-print socks, just like they’d used to sell at the shop where she’d worked, £8.99 for three pairs, breathable cotton weave.
There was a crash; they’d smashed open the front door again. And then the Doctor was standing up, and saying really unconvincingly,
‘Oh no! Why are you pointing a gun at me? I’ll come quietly.’
And she just had time to see, from under the draped throw, a pair of clawed legs obscuring her view of the screen, which was showing a load of angry Mantodeans swarming around, clacking their jaws together.
‘Game over,’ Rose thought, and then everything disappeared.
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Rose was disorientated for a few seconds, and because of that she almost died. She felt sick and dizzy, and her skin tingled as if she’d just had a bath of Alka-Seltzer. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to move again, or even know quite how bits of her body attached to other bits of her body ever again. But as her head began to clear she suddenly became aware that her arms were moving. She certainly hadn’t consciously decided to move them, and she observed the strange phe-nomenon with detached interest for a few moments. Then the mental mists parted still further, and she realised that her arms were moving because she was clutching something with a death grip, and it was trying to shake her off. A moment later and she recognised it as an ankle, as the Doctor’s ankle, and everything came flooding back. The Doctor was talking loudly, trying to distract attention from her. ‘Where am I? What’s all this about then?’
She unclenched her fingers, let go of the ankle. There were other ankles in her line of vision, squat ankles covered in coarse black hair, leading to ugly clawed feet. A Quevvil’s feet. Trying not to make a sound, not to move, she took in her surroundings. She was on a concrete floor, utterly exposed. But to one side was a litter of things: 43
filing cabinets, chairs, a cracked computer monitor. She wriggled over to the pile as quickly and quietly as possible, began to slither behind it. Her legs were still sticking out when a door opened right next to her and she heard the tink tink of more claws on concrete. Lots more claws. Had she taken a fraction of a second longer to recover. . .
Not that she had recovered fully – she still felt nauseous and she found herself mentally checking herself, trying to work out if she’d been reassembled in exactly the right way. Had her fingers always been that long? Had her feet always been so small? She finally con-cluded that they had.
She wondered where they were. Still on Earth, she reckoned, thank goodness – she couldn’t believe that any alien planet populated by giant porcupines would feature old computer chairs and doors with Chubb locks. And as Jackie had said, this was only a local promotion
– well, let’s hope they’d not ventured outside of London for their secret base, if that was where she was.
Through a gap in the junk, she could just see the protesting Doctor being bundled through a door on the other side of the room. She heard a yell of surprise in Mickey’s voice before the door slammed shut and felt a huge sense of relief. He was alive.
After a few minutes, the Quevvil who’d taken the Doctor into the room came out, alone. The key was turned in the lock. Rose mouthed a silent sigh of thanks – she’d been worried that they’d shut them in with some hideous alien lock, like the ones on the prize booth, and she’d never be able to let them out.
Mind you. . . how was she going to let them out anyway? There were four Quevvils in the room with her, and there was no way she could get over to the door without them seeing her, however low on the ground she kept. She’d just have to hope they left. But they were gazing at a couple of monitor screens, seemingly transfixed. On the screens, she could see complex 3D graphics. She suspected they were plans of this Mantodean stronghold they wanted infiltrated, and perhaps were representing the gaming progress of the Doctor and Mickey.
But she couldn’t see how exactly – it made no sense to her.
She waited, and waited, trying to gently flex her muscles so her legs 44
didn’t go to sleep in case she had to make a quick getaway. If it came to it, there was always the other door, the one the Quevvils had come through – she hadn’t heard a key turn in the lock.
The minutes crept slowly by. If only she had a way to distract them! But she just couldn’t think of one, not one that’d keep them distracted for long enough, anyway. The Quevvils weren’t even talking, she wasn’t even learning stuff about the enemy, they were just staring at these screens. But then. . .
Something must have happened, something to do with the game.
All four of the Quevvils leaned forwards, muttering among themselves, pointing and commenting. Was this it? Was this enough of a distraction? No, it wasn’t, there was still no way she could get to the locked door, but – but she could try for the other door.
The thought was barely in her mind before she’d acted; if she’d waited it might have been too late. She was on her feet, turning the handle, slipping out of the gap. . . She pulled the door to behind her and sprinted off, still silently, waiting for the shouts and the gunfire and the pursuit, any moment now, any moment. . .
But they didn’t come. She’d made it!
She’d abandoned the Doctor and Mickey to their fates, but she’d made it. . .
No, that was being silly, this was all part of the plan. She couldn’t distract the Quevvils while she was in the room, but she might find something out here. And at the very least, she’d have found an escape route for when she did get them out. . .
She looked around her. She was in a corridor lit with dim electric bulbs. There was another door, and there was a ladder leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
She shinned up the ladder, but the trapdoor was protected with the dreaded hideous alien locks. Mentally crossing her fingers, she climbed back down and hurried over to the door at the far end. It was locked, but with an ordinary key. She turned it, still trying to be as quiet as possible, and slipped through. She took the key; locked the door behind her.
She almost sneezed as the must hit her nose. Piles of mouldy old 45
newspapers and magazines tied up with string lined the walls; she left the door open for the light from the corridor and took a closer look, managing to discern, through the dust, 1970s copies of Woman’s Realm (‘knit a Rupert the Bear for a favourite grandchild’) and the Daily Telegraph (‘Nixon resigns’). Every step she made showed in the dust on the floor, and she felt like Neil Armstrong. Didn’t they say that footsteps remained on the moon for ever, because there was no wind to disperse them? Perhaps one day the Doctor would take her there, and she could see for herself.
If they made it through this, that was.
On the other side of the room there were concrete steps, leading up to a door, with a thin sliver of light underneath. Daylight? She made her way up. The door was locked. She squinted through the keyhole, but couldn’t see a thing. It had to be blocked by a key.
So. . . she could think of only one plan. It came solely from children’s books, the adventures of the sort of young detectives who caught smugglers and jewel thieves, and she couldn’t believe it would work in real life, but she had to give it a go.
She collected an aged, crackling Woman’s Realm, and after a search discovered an ancient children’s comic with its free gift of a lollipop still sellotaped to the cover. Trying not to think what damage the sweet would do to a child’s insides after
thirty years, she prised the sticky mess away from its long-term home, and climbed back up the steps. She shoved the magazine under the door, rammed the lolly stick into the lock, took a deep breath, crossed her fingers and pushed.
There was a dull thud on the other side. Trying not to get her hopes up too high, she pulled back the magazine.
And there, on top of a recipe for damson jam, was the key.
She was shaking as she put it in the lock. So close, so close. . . If they heard her now. . .
The door didn’t want to open. It creaked like a door from a horror film. She expected the Quevvils to come running; she expected to find Dracula waiting for her on the other side.
But, to her amazement, she came out somewhere that she actually knew. It was the newsagent’s shop where the Doctor had bought his 46
seventeen Guardians; where she’d bought that last pint of milk, now in Mickey’s fridge; where she’d totally failed to win on the scratchcards.
She considered briefly that the newsagent was in league with the aliens, but she couldn’t see it somehow. He might be a bit grumpy, but he wasn’t that bad. And the door into the shop obviously hadn’t been opened for ages.
Luckily, no one seemed to have noticed her come in. The newsagent was serving a customer at the front of the shop, and he couldn’t have heard the door opening over the loud background Radio One.
She slipped out of the front door, on to the street. There in front of her was the prize booth, the place that they’d totally failed to get into before. The Quevvils had obviously extended it down, linked it up with some of the old shop cellars. A nice little underground base that no one’d suspect.
But now what could she do?
She looked down the high street for inspiration.
Woolworths.
Chemist’s. Chippie. She couldn’t half fancy a portion of chips, swim-ming in salt and vinegar. . .
Something clicked, somewhere at the back of her mind. Something she’d once read, or seen on one of those Wildlife on One documen-taries. Porcupines and salt. Porcupines would do anything for salt; they were like total salt addicts. Would it be too much to hope – yes, it would be, it would be far too much to hope that these creatures had the same craving, just because they looked like the Earth animal. . .
But they might do, and it was the best plan she had. . .
She nipped into the chip shop. The smell was divine, but all she had was the pound coin she’d picked up from behind Mickey’s chair; she couldn’t afford to treat herself. But there was no one else in the shop, no one to create a distraction.
‘Portion of chips, please,’ she said. ‘Wrapped.’
The pretty Chinese girl behind the counter slid a shovelful of golden-brown chips on to some paper. ‘Salt and vinegar?’ she asked.
‘I’ll do them myself,’ said Rose, picking up the giant salt pot. ‘Oh, and could I get a can of Coke?’ She pointed to the fridge behind the counter, and the girl turned. And the instant she did, Rose was out 47
of the door, salt cellar in hand, regretfully leaving the chips behind her. She waited for the girl to shout out, but it never came. Perhaps customers did runners all the time. It wasn’t as if she’d nicked the chips. The girl might not have noticed the absence of the salt. It was the second time that day that Rose had been a minor criminal. But, after all, she was potentially saving the world.
Now came the next part of her plan, the part that relied totally on luck. Because if this bit didn’t work, she might have to turn criminal for real, to get her hands on a winning scratchcard. But before that, she’d give it a go. She pulled the pound coin out of her jeans pocket, and strode back into the newsagent’s.
‘A hundred penny sweets, please,’ she said.
Rose’s fifty-eighth card was the lucky one. She was getting pretty fed up with scratching off the silver stuff only to find the inappropriately jolly message, ‘Sorry, you’ve not won this time! Please try again!’
She’d ‘please try again’ed until she thought her fingernail was nearly worn down to the bone.
But here it was. Here was the winning card. She’d won a games console.
Rose hurried across to the prize booth. There was no queue. She placed her card in the slot, and after a few moments’ delay the door opened up. She went in. Inside was a counter, and behind it was a Quevvil, its mouth twisted in what might have been meant to be a friendly smile. ‘Congratulations!’ it said. ‘You have won! I will fetch your prize.’
It moved away from the counter, and Rose leaned over to look.
There was a tiny room behind it, with another door at the back – and on the floor, a trapdoor. That was it! That must be the entrance to the corridor under the ground! Time for the final phase of her plan – if only it worked. . .
She stepped back from the counter, trying to keep as far away from it as possible. Then she removed the giant salt shaker, and sprinkled a tiny bit on the floor.
The reaction was almost instantaneous. It was much, much more 48
than she’d hoped for. The Quevvil began sniffing. It raised its nose in the air like an ugly, spiny Bisto kid. Then it darted forwards, scrabbling over the counter, ungainly and desperate. As the creature sank to the floor, its black tongue darting out to lick up the treat, Rose followed its route in reverse, diving over the counter into the little room beyond. She tried the trapdoor, but it seemed locked from this side as well, and she didn’t have time to experiment. So she upended the salt container, and scattered it all over the floor, making sure that some of it trickled down the sides of the trapdoor. And then she ran out of the far door, offering up thanks that the alien locks must only work from the outside, and she didn’t have to make her way back past the mad-dened Quevvil scrabbling on the floor. She slammed the door behind her, and, ignoring the interested looks from passers-by, hurried back across to the newsagent’s.
‘Look, I’ve only got a limited number of them cards,’ the newsagent said. ‘If you’re going to do that again, you can just buzz off somewhere else.’
Rose gave the man her most charming smile. ‘Just browsing,’ she said. She waited till he was once more distracted with a customer and then, praying he didn’t have CCTV installed, nipped back through the door to the cellar.
She opened the door to the corridor and peered through the gap.
Her plan was working! Boy, those giant porcupines must really love their salt. All four Quevvils were on the ground below the trapdoor, licking at the floor like thirsty puppies. As she watched, one of them got to its feet and started climbing awkwardly up the ladder, then the others followed. She couldn’t see what the first one did to open the hatch, but open it he did. All four climbed through, and before it was shut again, she could hear an explosion of snuffling sounds from above, as the rest of the salt bounty was discovered.
The instant the trapdoor was shut, Rose moved. She gazed up as she reached it, but had no idea how to activate the alien lock. She gave the ladder a quick tug, but it was bolted too firmly to the wall.
She had to keep the Quevvils at bay for as long as possible, though. . .
She plunged her hands into her pockets, looking for inspiration. She 49
couldn’t afford to waste time. . . Only one thing occurred and she did it as quickly as possible, before hurrying into the first room, the one they’d teleported into. She locked the door behind her, not that it would keep out a determined Quevvil for long. Then she darted across to the other door, and turned the key. She opened the door, and there was the Doctor, and there was Mickey, tied to a couple of plastic chairs, playing the game.
‘Surprise!’ she called.
They both turned, enormous grins on their faces. ‘What kept you?’
said the Doctor.
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Rose made as if to shut the door again, trapping the Doctor and Mickey in the Quevvils’ basement once more. ‘A bit of gratitude, please, or the rescue stops here and now,’ she said, but she was grinning as broadly as they were.
&nbs
p; ‘I take back everything I was saying about humans being useless,’
said the Doctor.
‘When were you saying that?’ asked Rose, indignantly.
Mickey sighed. ‘Oh, ’bout every other minute for the last hour.’
Rose glanced at her watch. It had taken her some time to effect the rescue. But better late than never. She moved over to them and began working on their bonds, Mickey first. Her instinct had been to release the Doctor first, and although that was just a perfectly natural choice, didn’t mean a thing, somebody had to be first, she had an idea Mickey would take it more personally than that. And because she didn’t want to admit that he would be right to do so, she’d changed her plan.
She looked at the Doctor, his elbows tied tightly to the chair arms so he had enough freedom to manipulate the control pad, but not enough to untie himself. ‘Wish I had a camera,’ she said. ‘That’d be one for the album. Not to mention I could probably make a fortune 51
from any alien bondage websites there are out there.’
‘Does your mother know about your obsession with these “alien bondage websites”?’ he replied.
‘Why do you think she’s so suspicious of you?’ Rose said. ‘I told her you were the mastermind behind them.’
‘Are there really alien bondage websites?’ asked Mickey.
Rose and the Doctor burst out laughing. ‘Yeah. I’ll give you the address when we get back,’ said the Doctor.
‘Don’t be silly, I didn’t really think there was. . . ’ Mickey continued hurriedly. Then, as the Doctor didn’t stop laughing, he added,
‘Although aliens being gagged, I can see the appeal of that.’
Rose finished untying Mickey, and turned her attention to the Doctor. Soon his ropes lay on the floor, and Rose waited for him to stand up so they could make their getaway. But he stayed sitting down, still holding the control pad.
‘Hadn’t we better be getting out of here?’ she said urgently.
