Doctor Who BBCN19 - Wishing Well (13 page)

Duncan sat down heavily on the ground, stunned. ‘I don’t believe it. I’ve been in on this right from the start, Ben, just like you. We went right through university with each other. Best of mates! I mean, Nigel may have found the Gaskin Tunnel but we’ve done everything else together – the research, the planning. . . all the hard work. Everything.’

‘I know.’

‘I mean, he always jokes about me being the hired muscle and all that,’ Duncan said quietly. ‘But I thought that’s all it was – a joke.’

‘You know he takes all this very seriously. And, let’s face it, he’s become a bit obsessed with all this.’

Duncan nodded and rubbed his face with a grimy hand, leaving streaks of mud behind. ‘I wonder how he is. He looked pretty rough when he left and he’s been gone quite a while.’

Ben shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. Does it matter now?’

‘Yes.’ Duncan sniffed and looked at Ben. ‘Because, whatever he said last night, this is still all Nigel’s idea. And he should be here.’

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Ben considered for a moment and then clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. ‘You know your trouble, Dune? You’re too soft. Nigel doesn’t deserve a friend like you.’

‘So this is the famous Gaskin Tunnel,’ said Angela. ‘I honestly thought it was a myth!’

She, Martha, Nigel Carson and Henry Gaskin were all gathered around a brick archway set into a bank of earth at the rear of the manor.

An old wrought-iron gate, covered in rust, had been removed to reveal a low entrance just wide enough for a person to pass through. It was concealed from the terrace by a copse of silver birch trees.

Martha touched the crumbling brickwork, pulling absently at the moss clinging to the mortar. She could see a series of stone steps leading down into the darkness.

‘They started building it in 1902,’ Gaskin told them. ‘My ancestors, that is. Great-grandfather Rupert Gaskin, to be exact. He’d grown up here with the story of the highwayman’s treasure lost at the bottom of the old well in the village. Decided he should try and get hold of it one summer. Bit of a lark, I suppose.’

‘Digging a tunnel like this is more than a lark,’ said Martha. ‘Why didn’t he just go down the well?’

‘Two very good reasons: firstly, the well was in a state of disrepair even then, and it would have been a difficult and hazardous operation. Secondly, and most importantly, Rupert owed quite a lot of money – gambling debts mostly. He was desperate for capital.’

‘So he went on a treasure hunt?’ Martha sounded sceptical.

‘The idea of digging a secret tunnel down to the bottom of the well and making off with the treasure must have been quite exciting.’

‘Well, quite,’ Angela said. ‘A lot of hard work, though not the sort of thing the Gaskin family would have entered into lightly, I’d have thought.’

‘Oh, they didn’t do the actual digging. They hired labourers. Ex-miners, in fact. The tunnel was properly constructed. They got quite a way, too, by all accounts, before it was abandoned.’

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‘Why was it abandoned?’ asked Martha.

‘Rupert died. Influenza, I believe. Tragic business. The idea was shelved anyway when a distant relative passed away at around the same time and the Gaskins inherited another small fortune, saving them from financial disaster. Suddenly the impetus to carry on with the tunnelling wasn’t there any more and the whole project was forgotten about. The tunnel was left to rot.’

‘How far does it go?’

‘I’ve really no idea.’

‘Haven’t you been down there yourself?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ Gaskin looked distinctly uncomfortable now.

‘I’m not all that good with enclosed spaces. Touch of claustrophobia, in fact. But you could ask Nigel. He’s been down there.’

Nigel Carson was leaning awkwardly against the side of the tunnel, his face still pale and one hand stuffed into his jacket pocket. ‘The original tunnel extends nearly 700 metres, right under the manor. It practically reaches the base of the well-shaft according to Ben Seddon’s calculations. Close enough for us to be able to complete the project, anyway. It’s taken a little while and a lot of sweat on their behalf but we’re nearly there.’

‘You believe this treasure actually exists?’ asked Martha.

‘Yes.’

‘How come?’

‘Gaskin Manor was used as a convalescent home for wounded sol-diers during the Second World War. My own grandfather was interned here in 1943. He never went back into battle, but while he stayed here he had the run of the place. He found out all about the Gaskin Tunnel, the well treasure, everything. He handed the plans down to me when he died. I enlisted the help of two friends from university – Ben Seddon does the logistics and Duncan Goode does the digging.’

‘And you need the money, do you?’

Nigel shrugged. ‘I need a lot of things.’

‘And what about you?’ Angela directed this question at Gaskin.

‘A place like this costs an awful lot to run,’ he said quietly. ‘Every little helps.’

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‘Huh! And you were always so dismissive of any stories about the treasure! No wonder you didn’t like us trying to renovate the well.

Probably thought we’d rumble your little treasure hunt. And we have.’

‘It’s all a bit academic now, anyway,’ said Nigel, checking his wrist-watch. ‘Ben and Duncan should be almost through to the bottom of the well by now.’

Martha clicked her fingers. ‘Perfect! I’m going down there.’

She headed for the tunnel but Angela and Gaskin immediately protested. ‘Hold on a moment! You can’t go down there!’

Martha paused. ‘Of course I can. It’s the best way to reach the Doctor. If he’s at the bottom of the well then I’ll find him.’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all I’ve got.’

‘I’d strongly advise that you don’t go down there at all,’ said Nigel.

‘Don’t worry,’ Martha told him, ‘I’m not interested in your stupid treasure. I only want the Doctor.’

‘I’m not talking about the treasure. It could be dangerous, that’s all.’

Martha gave him a cool look. ‘Duncan Goode and Ben Seddon are down there – what can go wrong?’

And then she turned and started down the steps.

‘Shouldn’t you go with her?’ Angela said to Nigel.

‘Shouldn’t you? She’s your friend.’

‘It’s your tunnel!’

‘Actually, it’s Gaskin’s.’

Gaskin coughed. ‘I can’t possibly go. I’ve already told you – I can’t stand enclosed spaces. I’m an outdoors person.’ With a curse Angela turned and looked back into the mouth of the tunnel. But Martha had already gone.

‘Hey, look at this,’ Ben said quietly. He was examining the brickwork on the well-shaft more closely.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s more of that weed stuff here.’ Ben pointed to some thin roots growing through the cracks between the bricks. They had spread across the wall, and were embedded in the soil. ‘It’s all around here.’

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‘Perhaps it’s the remains of a dead tree or something.’ Duncan suggested.

‘I still don’t like the look of them,’ Ben admitted. ‘If you watch closely, it’s like they’re sort of. . . creeping.’

But something else had caught Duncan’s eye. He moved back to the skeleton in the corner and knelt down. ‘That stuff’s all over the place, now you mention it,’ he remarked. ‘I didn’t notice it before, but it’s here too, all around Joe Bones.’

‘It must have been there all along.’

Duncan shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ He reached out and pulled at some of the strands. Then he made a face. ‘It feels really odd. Like it’s warm.

Touch it.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Wait a sec. Switch the torch off a minute.’

‘Why?’

‘Just switch it off – and the other lamp.’

Ben sighed and switched off the lights. Immediately the tunnel went dark – but not so dark that they couldn’t see each other. Ben could clearly make out Duncan, squatting down by the skeleton, lit by a faint green glow.

‘It’s luminous,’ Ben realised. ‘The weed glows in the dark!’

‘You mean it glows in the dark while it grows in the dark,’ smiled Duncan. He peered down at Joe Bones. The thin web of glowing strands picked out the man’s skull in ghostly detail. ‘Now that’s scary,’

he whispered to himself.

And then froze as the skull turned slowly to look at him.

Duncan felt his heart miss several beats, and then, jus I as he opened his mouth to call out to Ben, the skeleton’s outstretched hand whipped up and grabbed him by the throat.

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Theearlypartofthetunnelwasingoodrepair,thewallsbrickedand the floor cut into a series of steps. The light from outside made it easy for Martha to see where she was going at first, but the further she went, the more the shadows deepened, and soon the entrance arch was no more than a distant white spot behind her. For a moment she hesitated, wondering if she should go back for a torch after all, but then decided against it. She had no more time to lose now.

Her eyes gradually got used to the dark but she had to move more slowly, feeling her way down each step. She didn’t particularly want to touch the moss-covered walls, so she folded her arms and tried to make sure she didn’t stumble.

It grew very cold and damp. The rich, peaty smell of earth was all around her now and guessed that this part of the tunnel didn’t have brick-lined walls. She could hear her own breathing very loudly in the confined space.
Keep calm
, she told herself.
Just carry on. Duncan and
Ben are at the end of the tunnel.

She began to see a faint light ahead of her. Spurred on by this, she sensed the tunnel was levelling out, but there was less headroom and she had to duck under the heavy wooden support joists that were just becoming visible in the gloom. The ground was getting noticeably 99

rougher, She guessed she had reached the newest section of the tunnel because soon there were plenty of loose earth and stones underfoot and she had to be careful not to trip or twist an ankle.

With a surge of relief she realised that Duncan and Ben must be just ahead, where the light was coming from. Then she frowned, hearing the sounds of some kind of commotion.

‘Duncan?’ she called. ‘Ben? Is that you?’

With a choked gasp of pure horror, Duncan felt the cold fingers grip his throat. Before he could pull away, the skeleton’s other hand joined the first and Duncan was completely unable to breathe.

Ben saw what was happening from the far side of the tunnel. As Duncan fell backwards, dragging the cadaver with him, Ben suddenly felt galvanised into action. He dived towards his friend and tried to drag the skeleton off him. Duncan’s face was twisted into a mask of fear and pain as the dead hands remained fastened on his windpipe.

Ben, whimpering with fear but compelled to help, grabbed hold of the bony forearms. For a few seconds the three figures struggled in the middle of the tunnel. The skeleton’s grip was impossibly strong, and Duncan’s face was turning an ugly colour in the lamplight. The veins bulged on his forehead as he fought for breath.

Ben couldn’t even begin to think about what was happening, but suddenly he knew things were turning from very bad to much, much worse.

A spark of green energy leapt from the skull’s open jaws towards Duncan. For a moment, he was illuminated in the strange, crackling glow. And then he let out a long, awful groan from somewhere deep inside him.

The sound was so unnatural, so inhuman, that Ben automatically let go. The skeleton gave one last convulsive rattle and then seemed to disintegrate, collapsing into a pile of dust and bones. The skull landed with a hollow thud and rolled to a stop by his feet, grinning sightlessly up at him.

But Duncan was changing. He was standing in the middle of the tunnel, hands still grasping at his own throat as he fought for breath.

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Even without the skeleton throttling him, he was suffocating. His lips pulled back in a terrible grimace, revealing long, sharpened grey fangs. His eyes bulged from his head, shot with blood, brimming with fear.

Gradually Duncan’s clawed fingers pulled away from his neck. The skin beneath was webbed with thick, pulsing grey veins which seemed to move beneath the flesh like living things.

‘Duncan. . . ’ groaned Ben, backing away until he met the tunnel wall. ‘What. . . what’s happened?’

Duncan turned to look at him, and Ben could see nothing of his friend in the cold and inhuman gaze.

‘Dunc. . . ?’

Silently, inexorably, the thing that had been Dun all moved towards Ben, hands outstretched.

Martha heard the scream first and ran towards it. That was a reflex now. Before the scream had even finished, Martha reached the end of tunnel and found Duncan Goode strangling Ben Seddon.

Although it wasn’t Duncan. Not really. The thing that held Ben by the throat was wearing Duncan’s clothes, and bore a superficial resemblance to the young Welshman, but that was as far as it went.

Martha glimpsed the distorted features, the writhing veins beneath the grey flesh, but then realised that she was actually witnessing a murder.

Green energy crackled out of Duncan’s open mouth, spreading over Ben’s face and neck, and the skin beneath started to twist and blacken.

Martha watched in horror as Ben’s flesh seemed to break apart and then, with a final shriek of pain and terror, he crumbled into dust.