Doctor Who BBCN10 - The Nightmare of Black Island (10 page)

On the other side of the courtyard was the house. Half a dozen tall, cylindrical metal bins were clustered together along the rear wall next to a winding fire escape. At some point Rose needed to take a look in those bins, but not with Ali around. God only knew what she was going to find inside.

Alongside the bins, almost at floor level, was a row of small, dirty windows. The cellar. Rose nodded. The two boys had said they’d been able to see into the cellar. That was where she would start.

‘Rose!’

Ali was watching her from the tunnel, eyes wide. Rose had hoped that common sense and more than a little fear would make the girl stay put in the safety of the shadows, but Ali seemed to be determined to join in the ‘adventure’.

Rose beckoned her across and Ali darted over to where Rose was crouched. Rose caught her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

‘I need you to be very quiet now. You see those windows across there?’ Rose pointed across the courtyard. ‘I’m gonna go and have a look. Once I’ve done that, I’m gonna look in the bins and then we’ll go back down the tunnel to find Billy and the others, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘Now I want you to stay hidden here.’

Ali opened her mouth to protest, but Rose raised a finger to her lips.

‘I mean it, Ali. It’s not a game. Stay here, all right?’

The little girl didn’t look happy but she nodded nonetheless. Satisfied, Rose peered out into the courtyard again. It was still deserted.

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‘Well, now or never,’ she muttered to herself.

Slipping out of the lean-to, Rose hurried across the courtyard, keeping to the wall, using the piles of furniture as cover. There was no movement from the house, no light from any of the windows. There wasn’t even any birdsong. It was eerie.

A noise made her start and she ducked down behind a high-backed chair. A door opened and a white-coated figure emerged, carrying a bulging black refuse bag. The figure crossed to the bins and tossed the bag in, then hurried back inside the house.

As the door slammed shut Rose shot a look over at where Ali was hiding. She had tucked herself deep into the shadows of the lean-to.

Rose waved at her to stay put.

One eye on the door, Rose darted across to the house, pressing up against the stone, making herself as small as possible. She ducked down, peering in through one of the narrow windows. The glass was filthy and she had to wipe at the dirt with her sleeve. She cupped her hands around her eyes, pressing her face against the glass.

The room she could see was large and low-ceilinged, lit by a single light bulb. Dozens of cardboard boxes piled high with books and ledgers were stacked against one wall, rolls of carpet underlay against another. A wine rack full of dusty bottles and spider’s webs dominated a third wall and an old exercise bike was propped up in the far corner.

It was like a million cellars in a million homes: boring, dull and ordinary. Rose felt a wave of disappointment. She’d hoped to be able to report back to the Doctor with proof that Morton was up to no good and, given what the boys had told her, she’d thought the cellar was her best bet.

She cursed under her breath. This was turning out to be a waste of time.

She was about to go to investigate the tall metal bins instead when something caught her eye in the shadows of the cellar. A bag tossed casually into a corner, half covered with an old tarpaulin. A long canvas bag, with fishing rods protruding from the open zip.

Rose’s heart leapt into her mouth. Her dream. The fisherman. This was the proof that she’d been after, an indication that he
had
been 69

down at the shore. She leaned her weight against the window frame, seeing if it would move. The catch inside flexed slightly but the frame held. She wasn’t going to get in here.

She started to work her way along the wall of the house, pulling and pushing at each of the narrow windows in turn, oblivious now to the rain that had started to pour from the leaden sky. There! One of the catches was loose, the screws pulling from the rotten wood. She needed something to lever with.

Keeping low, she ducked over to the pile of furniture. Leaning against the back of one of the chairs was a roll of stair carpet. The house was quite old-fashioned. If she was lucky. . .

She pulled the chair to one side and allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. There. Stair rods. Perfect. Hefting one of them in her hands, she crossed back to the window. Slipping the stair rod through the narrow gap, she levered it back against the brickwork. The rod bent slightly, but she could feel the rotten woodwork starting to give. . .

She readjusted her position, getting a better angle to push against the catch, and leaned all her weight on the stair rod.

There was a splintering crack and the window popped open, the catch pinging off. Rose stumbled forward, just catching the window before it swung closed again, wincing at the noise of the catch as it clattered on the flags toned floor of the cellar. She shot a wary glance at the back door. Nothing.

Carefully she placed the stair rod on the floor and swung her leg through the open window, feeling with her toes for a firm foothold.

With a quick glance back at the waiting Ali, who was watching her open-mouthed, she slipped through the gap and into the house.

The old iron padlock on the lighthouse door disintegrated into a thousand tiny fragments, literally shaken apart by the high-frequency sound waves from the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver. The door itself was vibrating violently, rust and paint peeling off and whipping away in the wind.

Bronwyn had her hands clamped over her ears, trying to shut out the whine of the screwdriver and the deep throbbing hum that came 70

from the door. The Doctor seemed oblivious to the noise, holding the little sonic device straight out in front of him, clearing years of corrosion in a matter of seconds.

With a flourish he finally turned it off and pushed at the door, which swung inwards, creaking alarmingly. He gave a satisfied smile and ducked through. A spiral metal staircase faced him, leading up the inside of the tower. He bounded up it, taking two steps at a time.

Bronwyn followed him uncertainly, steadying herself on the less than secure handrail. Round the walls wound the same thick black cable that they had seen in the cave, snaking up through a neat hole drilled in the concrete of the floor, the alien technology harsh and new against the rusted metal of the old lighthouse. Bronwyn eyed it warily, as if it might uncoil from the wall and attack her at any moment.

The steps were slick with water and it took her several minutes to make her way up to the top of the tower, testing each step gingerly, pausing now and then to catch her breath. Rain lashed in through the broken windows and the wind swirled around her, flapping her oilskin.

She struggled on, emerging into the room where the lamp had once been housed. The machine that now sat there was certainly no light to warn off ships. It was a squat, black cylinder, its surface ridged and vented, dozens of tiny lights flickering across complex clusters of controls. The thick cable that snaked up the tower wound in and out of exposed sections of the machine like a worm through an apple core.

The entire thing throbbed with malevolent power.

The Doctor was scurrying around it, prodding at sections with his sonic screwdriver, peering through vents, examining it from all angles.

There was a look of satisfaction on his face and he flashed Bronwyn a dazzling smile.

‘Knew that it had something to do with the lighthouse, just knew it!

Isn’t it gorgeous?’

‘What is it?’ Bronwyn didn’t want to go anywhere near.

‘Not entirely sure.’

The Doctor tapped his teeth with the handle of his sonic screw-71

driver, then pointed at a small panel.

‘This bit’s a behaviour inhibitor, usually used on farming planets to keep the livestock under control. Induces extreme anxiety if they stray too far from their fields. Probably why the locals are so reluctant to get anyone in to sort out their problems. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to stop them calling for help.’

‘You going to turn it off, then?’

‘Ah, well, that might be a bit hasty. Whoever put this here did so because they can cover the entire village from this spot.’

The Doctor crouched down, peering through a grille.

‘This is a wide-beam transmitter of some kind. Or receiver. But I’m not entirely sure what it does, and I hate to go around poking at things until I know what they do. Could cause untold damage.

Besides, there’s lots of power going in. Lots and lots of power.’ He frowned. ‘Ridiculous amounts of power, in fact. That little spacecraft must be working flat out when this thing is going at full tilt.’

‘Is it safe? I mean, are we safe?’

‘Oh yes.’ The Doctor nodded vigorously. ‘This thing’s just on tick-over.’ He tapped at a dial. ‘No worries while the power is down at this level.’

There was a sharp click. Lights sprang to life all across the machine.

The low hum started to rise in pitch.

‘Ah,’ said the Doctor.

Rose lowered herself gently on to the floor of the cellar, listening for any sign that her entrance into the house had been heard. She let the window swing shut gently and peered through the dusty gloom.

Distant muffled footsteps could be heard from overhead and there was the soft, low throb of machinery, generators of some kind, she supposed, but other than that it was silent. Rose crossed to the bag, pulling it out from under the tarpaulins. The fishing rods had been pushed in hurriedly without breaking them down properly, fishing line wound round everything in an untidy knot. Seeing the glint of fish hooks in the dim light from the bare bulb, Rose dragged the bag over to the window, determined to get a better look. Her fingers touched 72

something sticky. She held her hand up to the light and swallowed hard. Dark red stains smeared her fingertips. Blood.

Grimacing, she wiped her fingers on the damp canvas of the bag and opened the zipper carefully. It was what you would expect of a bag packed for a fishing trip: reels of line, cans of bait, carefully packed sections of various styles of fishing rod. A peaked cap and a stainless-steel Thermos flask were stuffed into a wide pocket at one end and there was a scrap of paper, an advert for holidays at Ynys Du.

Rose unfolded it, looking at the cheery sunlit pictures of the harbour and the lighthouse. ‘You’ll never want to leave,’ read the cheery headline.

‘Yeah. Right.’

Rose stuffed the advert back into the bag, zipped it closed and dragged it back to where she had found it. She needed more evidence than this. She needed something that identified the man. It had been a vain hope that Morton and his cronies would have left anything that incriminating just lying about. She looked around the cellar in frustration. There was nothing.

The background hum of the generators suddenly changed in pitch, deepening, the vibration setting the wine bottles rattling in their frames. Rose frowned. The noise was rhythmic and regular, almost like a heartbeat; she could feel the vibrations deep in her stomach.

Another sound cut above the vibration, a high-pitched chattering and beeping.

‘That’s not a generator,’ Rose murmured.

On the far side of the cellar a set of steps led up to the only door.

It was slightly ajar. Rose crossed to it, climbing the short set of stone steps and pressing her eye to the gap.

The door opened into a tall, vaulted corridor lined with pillars and arches. There was a dark wooden staircase against one end. The corridor was empty. Easing the door open, Rose slipped out. The cellars were more extensive than she had thought. Each arch led off to another room piled high with junk. Perhaps she would be lucky and find the evidence that she was looking for after all.

The noise of machinery was louder now, almost painful. It was 73

coming from one of the arches at the far end of the corridor. Wincing, Rose edged her way forward. There was a harsh, pulsing glow from behind the pillars that sent long fingers of light flickering across the vaulted ceiling. She could see the outlines of tall, gleaming machines ranged against the cellar walls, bundles of cables fixed clumsily to the ancient brickwork.

She stepped down into the throbbing room in astonishment. It was full, packed floor to ceiling with technology. Tall silver cabinets were stacked against each wall, lights flickering deep inside them, while a large central console was bolted to the flagstones in the centre of the room. Cables and conduits snaked off into the shadows. Monitors showing the sleeping figures in the dining room hung in an ungainly tangle from the ceiling and huge power units throbbed in a corner.

It was like mission control from some space shot, and certainly not the product of anything on Earth. Rose shook her head in amazement.

Not the evidence she had been looking for, but certainly something that the Doctor would want to know about.

She circled the console, trying to make sense of the flickering readouts. Each set of controls seemed to relate to one of the sleeping figures upstairs. Heartbeat, respiration, brainwave activity.

‘What the hell are you up to Morton?’ she murmured.

The machinery suddenly shifted in pitch, the pulsing glow from the power units getting brighter, the vibrations stronger. Suddenly realising that she had been in the house longer than she had intended, Rose turned to make her way back out through the cellar window.

And stopped dead. At the bottom of the stairs was Miss Peyne, an unfriendly smile on her face, an ugly, snub-nosed pistol in her hand.

‘Why, Miss Evans. You really have lost your way.’

Several of the lab-coated figures appeared at her shoulder. Rose was trapped.

The Doctor helped Bronwyn down the rickety spiral staircase, the noise from the machine in the lamp room humming in his eats. It had increased steadily over the last few minutes as more and more panels sprang to life across its surface.

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‘We’re going already?’

Bronwyn was not happy.

‘After you’ve

dragged me all the way up here? I wish you’d make up your mind!’