Doctor Who BBCN19 - Wishing Well

by Doctor Who

  When she had finished, Angela and Sadie simply stared at her.

  ‘I see. . . ’ Angela said slowly, as if considering in minute detail what she had just been told. But Martha could tell that her whole attitude had changed, and so had that of Sadie. They weren’t making any eye contact with her any longer. They thought she was crazy.

  ‘Look, I know it seems impossible,’ Martha said, trying to sound reasonable, ‘but it’s all true, I swear. The Doctor knows about these things. It’s not easy to explain. I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t important. . . but now. . . ’ She tailed off again, fingering the Doctor’s climbing harness.

  ‘So the Doctor’s seen this kind of thing before, has he?’ said Sadie.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought he was from the council,’ Angela said. She took off her old bush hat and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘I don’t know if I can believe you or not, Martha. . . ’

  ‘But. . . ?’ Martha added hopefully.

  ‘But there’s something very odd going on here,’ Angela continued,

  ‘and I’m damned if I know what it is.’

  ‘If what you said is true,’ Sadie offered, ‘then that means Barney Hackett is dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Martha.

  ‘Which would be a very serious thing indeed.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police? Or tell anyone?’

  ‘Well, d’uh!’ Martha finally began to lose patience. ‘Do you think I enjoyed telling you two? Just think what it would have been like telling a policeman!’

  76

  Angela pursed her lips. ‘She’s got a point, Sadie.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me you believe her?’

  ‘She’s got nothing to gain by making it up, has she?’

  Martha cleared her throat. ‘I am still here, you know.’

  ‘Unlike Barney Hackett,’ Sadie remarked drily.

  Somewhere near the bottom of the well, the Doctor was upside down in complete darkness.

  He had been dragged into the white weed like a fly into a spider’s web. The more he struggled, the more deeply he became ensnared.

  The strange, fibrous roots weren’t sticky, but they still managed to hold on to him, slowly curling tiny little shoots around his ankles and wrists until he was well and truly caught.

  The web analogy wasn’t one of his favourites. It implied that, at the centre of the trap, there would be a large spider. And that he was lunch. He didn’t care for either notion.

  Besides which, the tangle of white, fleshy roots didn’t feel like something that had been constructed in the manner of a deliberate trap; it was more like something that had grown haphazardly, without any real design or purpose. The shoots had sprouted and crawled and clung to the shaft walls and eventually criss-crossed the empty space between. It was just his misfortune that he’d got tangled up. Now he was hanging upside down in the darkness, wondering what to do.

  He’d already tried the sonic screwdriver. Apart from taking a few readings which had only confirmed his previous analysis that the roots were neither animal nor vegetable in origin, there was a distinct danger: every time the sonic energy waves made contact with the web it tightened its grip. The reaction seemed involuntary, but it was there nonetheless, and after a while it began to get painful. He’d switched the screwdriver off and stowed it carefully away. Being upside down, he didn’t want it falling out of his pocket.

  He’d stopped struggling, but apart from that all he could do was hang. He kept thinking of Martha and the others at the top of the well.

  They’d be wondering what had happened to him. He was wondering what had happened to him.

  77

  ‘Bucket,’ he said aloud. His outstretched hand had just touched something hard and wooden and curved, and he recognised it instantly. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. So this was where it had ended up. Something had pulled it down here and pulled it hard. It was all but smothered in the white weed.

  Not a comforting thought. But it did give him an idea – the sound of his voice had echoed around the well, and helped define his immediate surroundings.

  He quickly went through all of his senses: it was something to do, anyway, and you never knew what you might pick up from an unexpected source.

  Hearing – if he slowed his hearts right down and stopped breathing altogether, there was total silence; there wasn’t even the noise of any insects or snails this far down, and he suspected they were instinctively staying clear of this very unnatural phenomenon. Wise move, probably.

  Touch – he knew the thing holding him was warm, fibrous, not sticky. But if he moved, it seemed to grip harder. Nothing much more to be learned there.

  Smell – damp, cold, and a faint, underlying odour of decay with just a hint of ginger. That was probably Tommy. There was something else, though, something he couldn’t identify. Something totally alien to Earth. Smell me something I don’t know, he thought.

  Taste – he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, waggling it energetically in the darkness. This didn’t tell him much more than his sense of smell, fortunately.

  Sight – nothing. Just blackness. In fact, he could see more with his eyes shut. The Doctor was just about to start going through his extra senses, starting with his sixth sense, when something made him stop.

  Wait a minute, he thought. Go back one.

  He opened his eyes again and this time he actually saw something.

  ‘Ha!’ he shouted. He could see! Not much, but there was something –the faintest of green glows, right below him, and indeed all around him.

  The white stuff was glowing in the dark. ‘Bioluminescence!’ an-78

  nounced the Doctor happily. ‘Oh, very good. I like that. Handy, too. . . ’

  He hung in the semi-darkness, looking at all the faintly glowing strands which held him there.

  Now what?

  ‘Whatever happened to Barney Hackett last night,’ said Angela, ‘makes very little difference to what’s happened to the Doctor today.’

  Martha frowned. ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, in its broadest sense, it doesn’t matter a jot if Barney Hackett transformed into a monster and then turned to dust, or ran around and disappeared into thin air, or was abducted by space aliens, or simply went away to spend some time with relatives. What matters is what we know happened here today – the Doctor went down the well and hasn’t come back up.’ Angela had regained some of her old spirit now. ‘In other words, he’s stuck down there and he needs our help.’

  Martha felt a surge of relief. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

  ‘You mean let’s just forget all about Barney Hackett,’ said Sadie accusingly.

  ‘No!’ Angela waved a hand irritably. ‘I mean, yes. Look, there’s precious little we can do about him now – that’s what I mean. But we can help the Doctor.’

  ‘How, exactly?’ Sadie nodded at the rope drum and winch. ‘Send someone else down? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Martha.

  ‘No you won’t,’ Angela told her firmly. ‘We’re not about to lose someone else down the infernal thing. We’ll call the fire brigade. They’ll know what to do.’ She fumbled in her pockets and found her mobile phone. Martha rather liked the idea of an 83-year-old lady having a mobile. Somehow, with Angela Hook, it wasn’t a surprise.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Martha said. ‘There’s no point in calling in the emergency services yet. They’ll take ages to get here and we don’t really know what we’re dealing with. At the very least they’ll just send someone else down the well, eventually.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ asked Sadie.

  Martha took a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to like it,’ she said.

  79

  The Land-Rover screeched to a halt in front of the gates and Angela sounded the horn. ‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ she told Martha. ‘I still think we could have j
ust phoned him.’

  ‘This sort of thing is better face to face,’ Martha said. She was in the passenger seat, her fingers still digging deep into the worn upholstery.

  Angela’s mood hadn’t helped her driving. She had nearly run over a local man walking his dogs on the short trip from the well to the manor.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ yelled Angela, hitting the horn again. A series of peremptory honks came from the Land-Rover’s radiator grille, but the gates remained shut.

  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.

  81

  ‘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 con-stantly 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 paint-work 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.’

  82

  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 circumstance, 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 pho-tographs, 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 83

  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.’

  84

  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 85

  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.