Doctor How and the Deadly Anemones (22 page)

“Like, what else aren’t you telling me, Doc?”

“If you’re into such forensic detail, it also explains the fact that the entry wound at the back of the skull from the third shot was of a smaller calibre than Oswald’s rifle: 6mm compared with 6.5mm. Oswald’s round went through two people – in fact it went through poor Governor Connally twice before lodging in his thigh – because it was a Carcano metal jacket. The one that entered Kennedy’s skull exploded into over forty fragments because it was flat-headed.”

“You what?” gasped Kevin.

“Dum-dum.”

“Look, just because I don’t know as much as you, there’s no need to insult me, Doctor high-and-mighty How. We’ve talked about this before.”

The Doctor gave an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t insult you, you idiot. His skull was blown to bits by a dum-dum bullet, as used by your local, friendly neighbourhood secret service. Details, Kevin. I expect my assistant to have a much better grasp of the details. I’ve told you before.”

“Jesus,” Kevin’s eyes widened. “You killed Kennedy, Doc.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah. It was the Secret Service – the conspiracy theorists were right! Even if it was, like, an accident. They covered up the accident!”

“Kevin, listen to me. He was already dead in the timeline. Who tried to alter history to save him to serve his own ends. I stopped him from doing that.”

“Like, even so…”

“The Addison’s would have killed him in 1967. Most US presidential second terms are a disappointment, and his would have been no exception. By that time, the infidelity would have been public knowledge. He would have died a broken man, his legacy in ruins and the entire Kennedy clan a laughing-stock. You would not have liked the world that those events ushered in. Nor, in fact, would you have been born.”

“And what about your brother?”

“You’ve seen his legacy. You were brought up on it. A wild, egomaniacal rollercoaster.”

“And that was when the split with your cousins happened, innit?”

“Exactly. They couldn’t be bothered to help me, and I couldn’t be bothered with them.”

“Like I say, my Mum has this colleague who does talking therapy. She does a non-NHS clinic on the side. I mean, it’s not like you can’t afford it. And she’s only over in Dulwich Village. The P13 bus gets you there in, like, ten or fifteen minutes. You get me?”

“Talking therapy. What a very modern solution, Kevin. However, I think they’ll find they don’t have a choice. We either stand together in this coming fight, or we die separately.
Simple as
, in your parlance.”

“You haven’t explained one aspect of the whole Kennedy thing, Doc.”

“Really? And what’s that?”

“The Babushka Lady. The woman wearing a headscarf in the crowd who was seen taking a load of pictures. She was never traced, and nor were the photos. She just vanished.”

“Sometimes real life is just like that, Kevin. It just throws up mysteries.”

“But weren’t you ever interested?”

“Not at all. The timeline was preserved and the world survived. That’s my job, and I did it.”

Tim received the message from Doctor How with some relief. They weren’t bored – a quiet life in a dark, dank basement in Tooting was, after all, their idea of the perfect retirement. The tidal chamber at the end of the Effra was a pleasant change for them – a busman’s holiday, even. However, the recent frisson of a hunt and kill had made them realise what they’d been missing. They felt appreciated for their efforts, and also wanted to redeem themselves for having let the side down a bit by having been photographed. This, Tim felt, could be their last chance at glory.

It took a few minutes for Tim to separate into those who thought it would be sensible to stay behind and guard the exit to the Thames, and those who were a bit more gung-ho and up for a fight. Of course, there was also the question of
feeding
. They’d all very much enjoyed the fresh polyp, and it was this recent meal which turned out to persuade about two-thirds of them to leave for the MI6 building. Those who were left behind had to content themselves with the possibility that there was a small chance the third polyp might come their way. Of course, they’d have to listen to the story of the kill from the others, but some of the nutrients would pass to them in time.

The final question was what to do with the communications chip the Doctor had given them. With two-thirds of them going into battle, it was thought best that they took it with them.

The Tim that remained said their farewell as the last of the Tim that were going separated off and made their way out of the chamber. If both parties were being honest, it was the fittest of them who were going, and so they were going to make good progress. They expected to be at the entrance to MI6’s sewerage system shortly.

The polyp’s senses confirmed that it had made the right choice. The pipes were smooth and divided out into a labyrinth. It kept going towards where the scent and flow of the water was most similar to that in the MI6 building. It was following miniscule traces of hormones in the watery sewage. The pattern of vibrations was similar to that which it had previously experienced. With each confirmation that it received that this new habitat matched the previous one more closely, it became more active.

Presently it came to a horizontal piping system whose outflow was a near perfect match for the one where it had made two kills before splitting. It slithered into the pipe and its tentacles felt around. Again, there was a set of holes – five this time – above the horizontal pipe. There was also a smaller hole through which a stream of diluted disinfectant and urine flowed, which it ignored – though it was a final confirmation that it was in an ideal hunting ground exactly the same as the one it had left. It positioned itself in the middle of the five overhead holes, splayed out its tentacles and waited. It was good at waiting, but its primitive nervous system was sure it wouldn’t have to wait long at all.

Just a few minutes later there was a set of vibrations it recognised and it went on high alert. A few seconds later it felt hard waste matter hitting water in one of the pipes it was monitoring. It moved closer and put three of its tentacles up into the piping. Then it struck, wrapping a tentacle around each leg of the victim and then pushing up into the hole in the middle. High-frequency vibrations cut through the background vibrations, and then ceased as the poison of its sting took effect. By that time it was already feeding on the first chunks of flesh that it was able to pull out down the pipe to its waiting mouth. This flesh tasted slightly different, and had a higher fat content.

Suddenly there were other vibrations – the same pattern that had disturbed the second feed it had had when it was a single polyp. No harm had come to it that time, so it held on to its kill for slightly longer. It felt one of its tentacles being pulled by something other than the victim, and its stinging cells delivered some poison – though they were somewhat depleted from having killed its victim. It felt the body being pulled. It pulled back.

Then it felt a stabbing pain in the tentacle that had stung the other animal, and retracted it by instinct. It felt the body of the victim being pulled to one side.

There was a flash of pain as heat seared through the skin of its tentacles, and a deeper pain as something burst into the tentacle that was still holding the leg. It retracted all of its tentacles and sat inside the pipe for a couple of seconds, its primitive neural circuits buzzing with new information.

This habitat was hostile.

The vibrations it was picking up put it on edge, and they were increasing in intensity. It had fed, but it would have to use most of that meal on healing. The risk-reward ratio was too high. It was time to leave.

“Sir Adrian Brown here,” said Sir Adrian with characteristic chirpiness. “Hi Joe, how are you?” His face darkened as he listened intently. “Ah. That happened to two of our chaps here…. One over the weekend. Saturday afternoon. He was discovered this morning after an attack just a couple of hours ago…. No, contrary to what our famous sense of humour would suggest, we’re not obsessed with lavatories. And this isn’t McDonald’s, so they’re not checked every hour by the management.”

Sir Adrian sighed heavily and rolled his eyes at Commander Bunce. Still holding the phone, he stood up and went to the window, stretching the cord to its limit. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and pointed at the US Embassy, further up the Thames. “Same MO,” he whispered. “Killed one of their guys just ten minutes ago. Joe Schlutz. Head of CIA ops for the UK. Security guard took a shot at something like a tentacle after his buddy was stung.”

He listened intently again for several seconds. “Thank you for your opinion, which doesn’t move us on one iota. We’re both about facts and acting on those facts.” He let the other party speak again.

“Well, we haven’t yet officially identified the threat…. I disagree in the strongest possible terms: you don’t just put out security warnings like that willy-nilly… I hate to remind you of how long it took and how many additional lives were lost on Nine-Eleven before you guys realised what was happening – and that was in broad daylight with the world’s media watching. This is a totally new threat, Joe – just like Nine-Eleven. As for security, it’s quite clear your architect wasn’t instructed to make the sewers secure against this kind of threat either – and who supplied him the brief? Not us…. I advise that people only use them with the doors open and security guards present. We have an order for chemical toilets to be delivered later today. That’s about as secure as it gets.” He listened to a barrage of words from the phone.

“We
are
onto it, Joe. I have the senior Met Police officer responsible for that investigation right here in my office, as it happens…. Well it’s sovereign US territory, so the Met has precisely no jurisdiction at all, does it?” Sir Adrian put his hand over the mouthpiece again. “Got him!” he whispered, winking. He took his hand off the mouthpiece again. “Well, we do happen to have a specialist unit. Tackled some giant, burrowing beetles the other week, if you can believe that…. At that stage I didn’t know about it either – only discovered after I was presented with a bill for over ten million quid. And I think it’s a long way from giant burrowing beetles to ginormous jellyfish eating people in toilets, don’t you? Oh? Well I do. One’s a land-based arthropod with a hard exo-skeleton and the other’s a water-based creature with no skeleton at all. And the beetles were highly flammable, hence the damage. If you’d shot one of those this morning you’d have known all about it.” He shook his head as he listened to his colleague. “The benefit of hindsight is a wonderful thing, Joe…. The team? MI16. Yes, six
teen
…. No, nor had I…. Not much, frankly – but one of them’s rather good – Doctor Camilla Peterson.”

“Uh-oh,” said the Doctor. “The balloon’s gone up.”

“Like, what do you mean?”

“I mean battle stations, lad,” he pointed at a 3D real-time projection of the Vauxhall area. “US embassy’s just been hit by our polyp pal. We’re not going to China – at least not right now. This is just about the worst thing that could happen.”

“Why?”

“Cowboy syndrome. The Brits are always happy to sit back and think about their next move. The Americans always feel the need to
do
something – even if it’s so obviously the wrong thing. Before you know it, they’ll be riding out with some kind of
posse
in the sewers.
Yee-haw
. They’ll presumably try to
circle the wagons
or maybe
head ’em off at the pass
.”

“So what’s the upshot?”

“Remember how you said you weren’t going to go into the sewers on any account?”

A house-bot appeared with Kevin’s battle gear hanging underneath: a helmet, goggles, balaclava, boots, a one-piece protective jumpsuit and some gloves. The one-piece suit looked like it was made of the same material as the two-piece suit he’d worn previously.

“Aw, Doc. Not the
sewers
.”

A second house-bot appeared with Kevin’s Con-Bat. “You’re fully covered, Kevin. And you’ve been itching to vent some frustration with your Con-Bat.” Trinity trotted out from the inside of the Spectrel in her arachnid form, ready for battle. “Plus you get to work with Trini and Tim. I don’t think you realise what a privilege that is. You probably won’t have to do much apart from keep out of trouble whilst the other two do the leg-work.”

“My mum used to say trouble was my middle name. I’m never out of it.” He changed quickly into his combat gear.

“Trust me, you’ll be fine.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Someone has to stay in the Spectrel and coordinate the whole thing.”

“I tell ya, Doc – you are the only person I’d do this for.” Kevin jumped around in the suit, feeling its power-assist increase his speed and strength. He daren’t swing the Con-Bat in the confines of the Spectrel.

“You’re not doing it for me, lad. You’re doing it for your own people – Londoners. And the out-of-towners too, I suppose. These things have already killed, and they’ll kill again and again if we leave them there. The Brits and the Americans simply aren’t prepared for this – it’d take them weeks, months – if they could do it at all. You, Tim and Trin are the only hope.”

“That speech is so far removed from Princess Leia’s plea to Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“
Star Wars
– the starting point for the whole thing. ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.’ Didn’t I mention this one just the other day?”

“Yes, you did mention it in our last adventure.”

“Well we ain’t firing no missile down an exhaust port – we’re hunting giant jellyfish in a sewer. Who knew science fiction stank this much? Maybe it’s more like the bit where they’re all trapped in the waste disposal unit? There was a vicious water monster in that, come to think of it.”

“For God’s sake, lad – just get out there and do the job. The sooner you start, the sooner you’re back for your Jamaican chicken patty or whatever.” The Doctor turned to the control panel and touched it briefly. “Okay, we’re there.”

“Hold it, Doc. How the hell are we all going to communicate?”

“The other two have bio-chips. Implants, if you will.”

“Can I not have one?”

“No. At least not yet. In case you hadn’t realised, your balaclava is a transceiver.”

“Trans-
what
?”

“We’re wasting time. It both transmits and receives.”

“But there’s no mic or headset.”

“We really don’t have time for this. The point is that it
works
. Now get out there.”

“Yeah, but I don’t feel that secure if I don’t know, do I?”

“Oh, very well. You know how you can put something that vibrates against a hollow surface and it amplifies the sound?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that. It uses your apparently empty skull as a sounding-board. The advantage is that no one apart from you can hear it. Now get out there.”

“What about the mic?”

“For God’s sake. We’re losing time!”

“Yeah, but –”

“Piezoelectric. Turns the vibrations into electricity.”

“Oh, yeah. We have that technology already.”

“Yes, I know: I was the one who let the Curie brothers develop it back in the eighteen-eighties. Now get on with it.”

“But won’t the intelligence services be able to pick up on our radio conversation?”

The Doctor laughed manically. “Not when it’s not even in the same dimension. Now
get out there
!” He shoved Kevin towards the exterior door of the Spectrel.

“Is it too late to say I suffer from mild claustrophobia?”

“Yes. Out!”

Trinity turned and hissed a warning, and Kevin thought it best not to incite her ire. He stepped out of the Spectrel’s control room and into the red telephone box that, he reminded himself, was just a projection of forces. It was a couple of inches above the surface of the sewage.

He put a foot down into the liquid, finding the bottom about fifteen inches beneath. He knew the suit was watertight, but he could feel the coldness through it. Grabbing the door for balance, he lowered his other foot to stand in the sewer. He let go of the door and wielded his Con-Bat in readiness. His right foot had a secure grip, but his left didn’t feel like it had a good grip at all, like it was on ice. He didn’t dare move for fear of falling over.

The red telephone box looked even more out of place in a sewer than he’d ever seen it. Almost before he’d had a chance to think that thought, the Spectrel disappeared.

This part of the sewer system had been excavated and replaced by a modern concrete design to accommodate the massive office and residential developments around Vauxhall. They were at an intersection, and the water – it made it easier for Kevin to think about it as water – swirled in little eddy currents. It didn’t smell too bad, and then he remembered that the balaclava would be filtering the air for him, just letting enough of the stench through to give him an idea of what his environment was like.

He looked around. Although there was no light coming in, the goggles gave him an excellent image. The chamber itself was a cube about twenty-five feet on each side. There were metal rungs on one side leading up to a vertical shaft. He walked over and looked up. A further ten or fifteen feet up he could see chinks of light from a manhole cover and there was a rumble of traffic. There were five six-foot diameter pipes leading into the chamber. On the other side two led out. One was a great deal larger – some ten feet in diameter – and made of concrete. The other was older and smaller, made of brick, and oval in shape.

“The smaller of those two is where the rest of Tim are,” said the Doctor. His voice seemed to be all around Kevin, and he guessed it was in a way, since the balaclava was using his head as a sounding-board. “They’re guarding the outflow to the Thames. The Effra flows down another pipe to that point. The whole system is very complex here, cobbled together over one-hundred-and-fifty years. Stay put. Tim are going to give you a wave in a second, so don’t be alarmed.”

“Okay.” He looked around the walls for signs of Tim.

The water stirred at his feet and a tendril splashed at the surface, taking Kevin completely unaware and startling him.

“He says can take your left foot off him, please?”

“How the hell was I supposed to know?” He took a couple of cautious steps back towards the centre of the chamber. His left foot found a grip on the bottom and he felt more secure. “Sorry, Tim,” he said at the place the tendril had surfaced. Something stirred further over towards one of the pipes.

“He’s heading up that pipe just ahead of you over there. Yes, that one you’re looking at now. Leads into the US embassy.” A ripple of water headed towards the pipe and then into the entrance.

“And Trini?”

“Right behind you, heading into MI6.”

“Gotcha.” He turned around. Trinity turned off her camouflage for a second. She was on the wall just above one of the pipes. Kevin realised she’d probably jumped onto the ceiling and made her way down the wall. She winked one of her eight green eyes at him and then melted into the background again.

“So, like, do we have any idea at all where the polyp is now?”

“Trini gave me an estimate of the maximum speed of one of those things. There’s no way this is a single polyp. A pound to a penny the first one is still somewhere in the MI6 building – they really don’t like to move too far. It’s been disturbed, but only after having a really good feed. The one in the US embassy has to be Trini’s friend from Brixton.”

“So why’s she not going after it?”

“Bad move. You get an idea in a super-predator’s head… it gets personal and they can get a little blind.”

“Yeah, I get you. I seen some of the Tulse Hill Crew get the same way. They put themselves in danger just to get revenge.”