Doctor Who_ Deep Blue Part 8

Walker pulled a pint of bitter without being asked and placed it on the bar. 'Any idea what's causing it?'

Andy shrugged. 'Not really. The hot weather maybe.'

He paid for his beer and went to sit down. As he drank he glanced around, covertly watching the pub's customers. The majority, he noticed, were scowling, standing with their fists clenched, turning to stare at strangers as if inviting confrontation. At the bar, people were barging through without care or apology, causing a number of heated exchanges, and several snapped threats.

He had been in the pub for ten minutes when, seemingly apropos of nothing, a pint gla.s.s flew across the room, beer arcing from it, spattering the crowd.

The gla.s.s smashed against the bar, spraying a woman with crystal splinters. She screamed, her hands flying up to her lacerated face. The man beside her turned, enraged, and launched himself at the nearest target, an elderly, bespectacled man who was standing with his wife, sipping whisky. He bore the man to the ground, punched him in the face, smas.h.i.+ng his spectacles. The elderly man's wife slammed a wine gla.s.s on to her husband's a.s.sailant's head, cutting her hand, and then, astonis.h.i.+ngly, spun like a dervish and began to viciously pummel the young man in the leather jacket who was standing next to her. The young man retaliated, kicking and bludgeoning the woman to the ground. As if the sudden flurry of violence had snapped their own fragile threads of inhibition, other people abruptly turned to launch unprovoked attacks on those standing close to them. These tinders of violence escalated into a forest fire with such astonis.h.i.+ng speed that within half a minute of the catalyst of the exploding gla.s.s the entire room was in uproar.

The chain of events was so swift that Andy, like many others, could only gape at first, his beer gla.s.s clutched almost forgotten in his hand. He had been involved in violent situations before and quickly realised that what was happening here did not conform to the usual patterns.

Brawls and riots generally looked more frightening than they actually were, most of those involved content simply to make up the numbers, to get caught up in the excitement whilst staying out of trouble. Here, though, things were different.

Here, the majority rather than the minority seemed eager to get in on the action.

Women were screeching and clawing and kicking; men were punching, head-b.u.t.ting, picking up whatever they could find to use as weapons. The violence was intense, random, senseless, frenzied. People were simply inflicting pain on others for the sheer crazed joy of it, fighting with whoever was closest to hand, regardless of age or gender.

Andy had only a second or two to take this in before a big guy with a thick moustache and a look of glazed madness in his eyes lunged towards him. Andy jumped up from his seat and instinctively threw his beer in the man's face. As the man blundered on, momentarily blinded, Andy dropped his beer gla.s.s and in one movement stepped forward and punched the man right in the centre of his face, poleaxing him. Before anyone else could zero in on him, Andy ran across to the door at the back of the bar, shot through it and slammed it behind him.

The corridor behind the bar, at the end of which was a staircase leading up to the living quarters, was deserted. To Andy's immediate right was a fire exit door, which he slammed through without hesitation. He found himself in a cobbled back yard that narrowed to an alleyway that ran along the side of the building. The noises coming from inside the pub made it sound as if a wild party was taking place in there. Andy took out his walkie-talkie and put a call through to the station. By the time the police arrived, three minutes later, the violence had spilled out into the street.

Andy stayed out of sight at the end of the alleyway until he heard the sirens and saw the flas.h.i.+ng lights of four panda cars and a Black Maria. When he emerged into the gla.s.s, debris and body-strewn street, the doors of the police vehicles were opening and uniforms were piling out. Though he was grateful for the back-up, Andy still couldn't help feeling uneasy. A good number of his colleagues looked as itchy for a fight as most of the people in the pub had been, and Andy didn't think their eager, yet oddly blank expressions could simply be put down to adrenalin.

As the uniformed PCs and the pub combatants clashed, Reg Stafford, a fellow sergeant and a friend of Andy's, got out of the front pa.s.senger seat of the leading panda car and hurried across. 'What the h.e.l.l's been going on here, Andy?'

he said.

'All h.e.l.l broke loose in there, and I don't just mean a few blokes throwing punches,' Andy said. 'Someone chucked a gla.s.s, and next thing I knew everyone was going at it hammer and tongs - men, women...' He tailed off, shaking his head.

'Right,' Reg said, and even his eyes were glittering a little, 'I'll follow my boys in, see what the damage is. You coming?'

'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' Andy said without enthusiasm.

Reg and Andy followed the uniforms through the open double doors. Inside the pub, which had been comprehensively wrecked, PCs had drawn their truncheons and were setting about their task of breaking heads. Andy tried to avoid watching them too closely, not because he was squeamish, but because he didn't want to see how undisciplined his colleagues had become; didn't want to see the glee on their faces as they brought their truncheons cracking down on skulls. Instead he concentrated on tending to those who had been bludgeoned and beaten out of the fight.

Most of them had relatively minor injuries - scratches, bites, broken noses, missing teeth, black eyes. Others were injured more seriously: there were broken limbs and ribs and gashes to the head, some of which were quite deep.

Almost every one of those who had been too badly injured to continue fighting seemed dazed, confused, as if they had emerged from a hypnotic trance. Several of them asked Andy what was happening; one or two even seemed to have difficulty remembering where or who they were.

Andy made as many of them as comfortable as he could, a.s.sured them that ambulances were on their way, then moved deeper into the melee. The police were getting on top of the situation now, hauling people outside. Some battlers still struggled furiously as they were dragged away, whereas others became quiescent, the blank-eyed fury on their faces giving way to a sleepy bewilderment. Gla.s.s crunched beneath Andy's feet and the floor was strewn with debris. A large wooden table-top, cracked and splintered, was lying on the ground, the legs smashed off it, no doubt used as weapons.

Andy lifted the table-top aside, intending to prop it against the wall, help to clear the way for his colleagues. As he did so he froze. Beneath the table was a man lying in a very large and still spreading pool of blood.

'Over here!' Andy shouted, shoving the table-top aside and dropping to his knees. He grabbed the man's wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there, but it was flickering, erratic. He saw almost immediately what had happened. The man had been stabbed several times in the stomach and chest. The points of entry were ragged as though something other than a knife - a broken gla.s.s perhaps? - had been used. Andy hoped that this meant the wounds were not too deep, though the amount of blood that was still gus.h.i.+ng from them seemed to suggest otherwise.

Andy and two uniformed constables tried to stem the bleeding as much as they could, first with beer towels taken from the bar and then, after Bob Walker had risen dazedly from his hiding-place, with bigger, thicker towels from the airing cupboard upstairs. It was not long, however, before the towels were saturated and the men's hands and clothes covered in blood.

It seemed to take an age for the ambulances to arrive, but eventually two paramedics in yellow jackets were there beside Andy.

'He's been stabbed several times,' Andy said, moving aside for them. 'His pulse is very weak.'

'All right, let's take a look,' said one of them, a balding man with a darkly stubbled chin, who exuded an air of calm efficiency.

He produced a small scalpel, which he used to slice open the front of the man's blood-soaked s.h.i.+rt. Pulling the s.h.i.+rt open, he instantly recoiled. 'Jesus, what the h.e.l.l's that?' he exclaimed.

His colleague, Andy and the two policeman stared in horror and disbelief at what had been revealed. All over the man's chest, shoulders and upper arms were ma.s.ses of small, black quills.

Through her open window came the susurrating rhythm of the sea stroking the sh.o.r.e. Her eyes closed, curled up on her bed, Charlotte wondered whether this was what it was like in the womb. How nice it must be, she thought, to be in the warmth and the dark, soothed by the sound of a mother's internal tide - the pumping of a heart, the ebb-and-flow of life-giving blood. How wonderful to have no cares, no fears, no thoughts. She would have found it easier to relax into the idea if her own cares had not been eating her up inside, denying her sleep.

She sighed, rolled over and opened her eyes. As she sat up, the weight of her anxieties sank like ballast inside her. Mum had gone to bed two hours ago, exhausted with weeping, but Charlotte had lain sleepless ever since. It felt as though her life was coming apart. What had she done to deserve it? Why was she being punished in this way?

She looked at her clock. It was five past two in the morning. For almost five hours her mother had wailed and clung to her, declaring that her life was over. Charlotte had done her best to console her, even though she too had felt like weeping. They had had no dinner, but even now Charlotte felt too sick to eat.

The evening had been punctuated by emergency sirens whooping outside, police cars and ambulances racing by.

Soon after, round about 11.30 p.m., they had heard Dad come back. He had been drunk, stumbling and muttering, making so much noise as he tripped up the stairs that Charlotte felt sure it would bring Mrs Macau swooping down on him like a vampire bat. It was the only time that night when her mother had stopped crying. She and Charlotte had clung to each other, staring fearfully at the closed door.

Thankfully he had blundered past, opening and then slamming the door of the room he was supposed to be sharing with Mum. After that they had heard nothing. He had probably collapsed on to the bed and instantly fallen into an alcohol-induced sleep.

At midnight, Mum had announced that she too was going to bed. Before turning in she had tearfully wondered about calling the police to report the fact that Chris still wasn't home. Charlotte, though, had managed to dissuade her.

'Don't worry, Mum, he'll come back when he's ready.'

'But he's only a baby,' Imogen wailed.

'Don't let him him hear you say that,' Charlotte said, trying to keep her voice light. hear you say that,' Charlotte said, trying to keep her voice light.

Mum clutched her hand and looked imploringly into her eyes. 'He will will be all right, won't he?' be all right, won't he?'

'Course he will.'

'Promise me.'

Charlotte licked her lips uneasily. 'I promise.'

Mum had seemed pacified by that, had kissed Charlotte goodnight and gone to bed. Charlotte had offered to let her have her her bed and to sleep on the floor, but Mum had waved the offer away. bed and to sleep on the floor, but Mum had waved the offer away.

' I'll I'll be all right. Your dad's too drunk to argue and I'm too tired.' be all right. Your dad's too drunk to argue and I'm too tired.'

'Well, if you want anything I'll be here,' Charlotte had told her.

Mum's eyes had filled with tears. 'I know you will, love. I don't know what I'd do without you. Goodnight.'

That had been two hours ago and it had not been a good night. It had not been a good night at all.

As far as she was aware, Chris had still not returned to the boarding house. She got out of bed and went to the window, sticking her face between the gap in the curtains. She couldn't see much. Aside from the nimbus of orange light emanating from each street lamp and pooling on the ground beneath it, the tarmacked road and stone-flagged pavements, and even the beach, looked not only black but composed of the same substance. Only the sea looked different, the shards of white moonlight on the waves giving it the appearance of rippling black plastic.

She s.h.i.+vered, despite the warm night air, and left the window. She crossed to her suitcase, which was sitting open on the floor beside the wardrobe, only partially unpacked.

Delving beneath her clothes she found a cardboard box, similar in size and shape to that which might contain a toothpaste tube.

She sat down on the bed, cross-legged, her back supported by a pillow jammed against the headboard, and stared at the words in blue on the box's white surface: PREGNANCY TESTING KIT. Her hands were shaking. She wondered whether she ought to put the kit back and wait for a better time. But the house was quiet and everyone was asleep.

What better time could there be? If she didn't do it now then she probably never would.

Opening the box, she tipped its contents on to the bedclothes. The equipment for this potentially life-changing event was singularly unimpressive. A strip of plastic with a window of white paper in the centre. Even though she knew how to use it, she studied the instructions again, buying herself a little time. Finally, with a sigh of annoyance, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the plastic strip. Her stomach performing slow, queasy somersaults, she tiptoed along the creaking corridor to the bathroom at the far end.

Two minutes later she was back in her room, waiting for the results. If a blue line appeared, bisecting the square of paper, the test was positive; if it remained white, it was negative.

The few minutes she had to wait were excruciating. Unable to bear holding the strip of plastic in her hand, she placed it on top of the chest of drawers and sat on her bed, watching the clock.

Finally it was time. Despite the warmth of the summer night she felt cold inside. She picked up the strip of plastic, looked at it.

She exhaled, making a low sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, there was a bright blue line bisecting the square of white paper.

Within minutes of lying down on the beach, Chris began to s.h.i.+ver with cold. It was a balmy night, but the chill seemed to seep up from the sand, into his bones. He sat up, hugging himself, his head whirling so much that he felt he was still sitting on the Spinning Spider at the fun-fair. He felt sick from drinking the six cans of Special Brew he had asked an older kid to buy for him from an offy on the seafront, and every time he tried to walk it seemed as if the ground was pitching and tossing like the deck of a boat on a stormy sea.

He had run straight to the fun-fair after his fight with Dad, and had stayed there until the place closed down for the night at 10 p.m. He had gone on tons of rides - all the big stuff of course, none of the little kids' rubbish - and had eaten so many hot dogs that by the end of the evening the smell of them made him want to puke.

Yet although he had had a good time, his family and their stupid problems had always been there, lurking at the back of his mind. He hated the way his mum and dad argued all the time; it made him feel as though his head was being squeezed in a vice. Charlotte was OK, but she got on his nerves by not standing up to them, not saying or doing anything to stop their rows. She just tried to be nicey-nicey, to pretend nothing was happening, but it didn't work. It was just pathetic.

Chris was sick of it all. He wished he never had to see any of them ever again. He had even asked a couple of blokes who were working on the rides if there were any jobs going on the fair, but they had just looked at him and laughed as if he was some stupid little kid.

Fed up, he had finally wandered down to the promenade and drunk himself into near-oblivion. All he wanted to do now was sleep, but he needed somewhere warmer than the beach. He had a warm bed at the guesthouse, but he would rather freeze to death than go back there tonight.

All the same he had to find somewhere. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying for a moment, taking deep breaths in the hope that fresh air would rid the urge to throw up. He looked around, moving his head slowly. There were bus shelters on the promenade, but he would feel too vulnerable there.

His gaze drifted further, finally alighting on a block of craggy darkness at the far end of the beach. Chris vaguely remembered seeing the caves that afternoon and wondered whether they would be warm enough. They ought to be. It wasn't as if it was a cold night, after all. It was only the breeze coming off the sea that was making him chilly and the caves would provide shelter.

He weaved along the beach. As he blinked at the gaping caves they seemed curiously insubstantial. Their blackness seemed to divide and sub-divide, to spin like a vortex, increasing his nausea. Abruptly he stopped, leaned forward and vomited hot dogs and beer all over the sand. His stomach spasmed and he threw up again, so violently that tears were squeezed from his eyes. After that he felt a little better. He stumbled the last two hundred yards almost blindly, desperate to sleep.

The largest of the cave mouths seemed to suck him in. As he stepped into the cave, lulling darkness wrapped around him.

The solid walls muted the gnas.h.i.+ng of the sea and provided a barrier against the snapping sea-breeze. Chris sighed, halfway to sleep, though not too far gone to notice a curious smell in here. It was strong and fishy, like spoiled crab-meat, but also... musky, hot, animal-like. Horse-sweat and cowsheds and the lion enclosure at the zoo.

He moved deeper into the cave... and started at a stealthy sc.r.a.ping from the murk in front of him. It sounded like someone dragging a sharp, metal implement across granite.

He imagined a ragged figure with wild hair and wild eyes lurking in the darkness, clutching a meat cleaver. He tried to lick his lips, but they were gummed together with curd-thick saliva. He instinctively took a step backwards.

And something flew at him from the darkness, its reverberating screech transfixing him with utter terror, echoing at crazy angles from the cave walls.

Chris caught a brief, terrifying impression of black, spider-like eyes, and jointed, chitinous, razor-edged legs. Then unbelievable pain ripped through him and turned his world a brilliant, scorching red.

'Good lord,' said the Brigadier wearily.

The Doctor grinned. 'Lethbridge-Stewart, my dear fellow.

How are you?'

'Same as ever, Doctor. Unlike yourself.'

'Didn't Mike explain?' the Doctor asked, glancing at the Brigadier's number two, who was standing between his commanding officer and the burly frame of Sergeant Benton, still wearing his civvies.

'Well, er, I tried,' Mike said with a grimace of apology 'I'm sure you did a sterling job,' said the Doctor breezily, turning to address him before swinging to face the Brigadier again. Suddenly sombre, he said, 'Now, where's this body you called me in to see?'

'Through here,' the Brigadier said, indicating with his swagger stick. He led them through a small, scrupulously clean anteroom containing a set of lockers, two large sinks and various items of medical equipment, to a set of double doors at the far end, which he pushed open.

The mortuary was a large well-lit room whose main wall was composed of rows of big square metal drawers, each of them numbered. A small, balding, white-coated man with a scrubby moustache and thick spectacles scurried forward to meet them. 'Brigadier Stewart?' he enquired.

'Lethbridge-Stewart,' corrected the Brigadier severely.

The little man quailed and glanced at the clipboard he clutched in his hand. 'Ah yes, of course. You've come to view number thirty-two, I understand?'

'If that's the stab victim who was brought in last night, then yes we have,' said the Brigadier.

'Of course,' said the man again. 'This way.' He led them over to the wall of metal drawers and tugged at the handle of drawer 32. It rolled open with a metallic rumble.

Mike Yates gasped involuntarily. Sergeant Benton murmured, 'Blimey.'

The Brigadier regarded the body grimly for a moment, then glanced up. 'What do you make of it, Doctor?'