Doctor Who BBCN19 - Wishing Well (2 page)

BOOK: Doctor Who BBCN19 - Wishing Well
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It still frightened him when he did this, when he tried to commu-nicate with this lifeless lump of rock. He could feel his pulse quick-ening, his breath growing shallow, his skin prickling with sweat. It always felt as if he shouldn’t be doing this, as if he was attempting something that was strictly forbidden and incredibly dangerous. But, unfortunately for Nigel Carson, that was exactly the kind of feeling that spurred him on.

Slowly, slowly, the warmth entered his mind and, without warning, suddenly gave way to a piercing coldness, as if a steel blade was being inserted into his brain.

–very close–

Nigel opened his eyes. ‘It’s here, isn’t it?’

–just a little further–

‘What will I find? What is it?’

–treasure–

‘Yes, I know, but. . . ’ Nigel swallowed. ‘There has to be more, doesn’t there?’

–there is more–

A smile began to spread across Nigel’s lips. But it wasn’t his smile.

It was the smile of the stone.

–much more–

4

‘It won’t be long now,’ Nigel assured it.

–the rising is near–

Nigel didn’t understand half of what the stone said to him, but it didn’t seem to matter. Yes, it scared him. Yes, it sometimes felt as though he was going mad and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But no, he wouldn’t have stopped even if he could.

Not even when the stone forced its way deep inside his mind and made him fill the empty tunnel with a dark, desperate scream of pain.

5

‘I wish every day could be like this,’ said Martha Jones.

She was walking through the woods, occasionally feeling the heat of the sun on her skin as it dropped down through the bright green leaves above, listening to the sound of the birds singing from the branches and the soft buzz of insects in the undergrowth. It was a lovely day to be on Earth.

Martha Jones had visited the past and the future and alien worlds in distant galaxies. She loved her life, she loved seeing new times and places, but she never minded when the TARDIS brought her back home, as it sometimes did, to England in the early twenty-first century.

And that was because Martha knew that it didn’t really matter where –or when – you found yourself; what mattered was who you were with.

The Doctor and Martha had already dropped in on the Italian Re-naissance, hopped from world to world across the Vega Opsis system, and then visited the Frozen Castles of the Ice Warriors before finally deciding that the day could best be rounded off by a traditional English cream tea.

‘With scones,’ the Doctor had announced with his customary enthu-siasm. ‘We must have scones, with strawberry jam and clotted cream!

7

I know just the place.’ And so he’d sent the TARDIS hurtling through the Time Vortex to materialise in this very spot.

And it was, as Martha had already commented, absolutely perfect.

At the moment, she simply couldn’t wish for anything better.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ the Doctor commented.

His hands were stuffed in the trouser pockets of his pinstriped suit as he strolled along.

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t imagine ever wanting every day to be the same.’

Smiling in agreement, Martha took him by the arm and pulled him closer. ‘Come on, you, I’m hungry. It’s nearly teatime and I need clotted cream.’

They were walking down a slope of woody earth that led to a narrow road. A short wade through some ferns brought them to a cross-roads. There was a signpost.

‘Creighton Mere one mile that way,’ read Martha, pointing down the road, ‘Ickley five miles that way.’

‘Which d’you think?’ the Doctor asked her. ‘I quite like the sound of Ickley.’

‘Nearer the better as far as I’m concerned. Let’s try Creighton Mere.’

‘I’d keep away from that one if I were you,’ said an old, dry voice from the roadside.

There was a man sitting on a stile, half hidden by the hedgerow. He was wearing filthy old boots and a worn-out parka. He was old, with weathered brown skin and matted hair, and sharp eyes peering out from beneath bushy grey eyebrows.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Martha said politely.

‘Creighton Mere,’ the old man said. ‘Wouldn’t bother with it if I were you.’ At least, that’s what she thought he said. It was difficult to tell, because the huge, tangled beard which surrounded his mouth muffled half of what he was saying.

‘Why not?’ asked the Doctor.

The old man pulled a face, his lips shining wetly. ‘It’s not a very nice place to live.’

8

‘We don’t want to live there,’ said Martha. ‘We’re only visiting.’

‘Hmph,’ said the man.

‘Besides, it’s too far to Ickley,’ Martha added. ‘And we’re walking.’

‘You’re not walkers,’ the old man noted. ‘You’re not dressed for walkin’, either of you.’ He pointed an old stick at their feet. ‘You got nice shoes on, an’ he’s got trainers. So you must have a car somewhere.’

‘We don’t have a car,’ Martha said.

‘We have a police box,’ the Doctor added.

The man’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Police box?’

‘Yep. Big blue one, parked back there. It’s better for the environment than a car.’

The old man’s eyes twinkled at this. ‘You could have a point there.’

‘So what’s wrong with Creighton Mere, anyway?’

The lips pursed inside the beard. ‘Nothing much, I suppose,’ he said slowly. ‘To look at.’

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, we’re probably not going to do much more than look at it, are we, Martha?’ Martha was about to say that a cup of tea and a slice of cake wouldn’t go amiss, but then thought that might sound a bit unfair to a vagrant.

‘Please yourselves, then,’ the old man said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

‘Warn us?’ Martha repeated. ‘About what?’

‘About Creighton Mere.’

‘You haven’t actually warned us about anything specific.’

‘Well, there ain’t anything specific I can warn you about. It’s more of a feelin’.’

‘Ah!’ the Doctor nodded as if he understood perfectly.

‘What I’m feeling at the moment is hungry,’ Martha said. She turned to the Doctor. ‘Let’s carry on.’

‘Just take care of yourselves,’ the old man said, not unkindly. ‘In Creighton Mere.’

‘Thanks, anyway,’ Martha said. She gave the man a little wave, and he nodded at her as they turned to go.

9

‘What was all that about?’ Martha demanded when they were out of earshot.

‘Oh, take no notice,’ the Doctor said airily. ‘He’s probably been moved on by the locals or something and he’s got a grudge against the village.’

Martha shivered, remembering the man’s sharp little eyes. They had seemed to look right through her at the end, almost as if he was committing every detail of her to memory.

10

They had walked another mile or so when a Land-Rover roared around the corner behind them and gave a blast on its horn. The Doctor and Martha jumped out of the way as the battered old vehicle skidded to a halt beside them. In the driver’s seat was a beaky-nosed old woman in a bush hat and camouflage jacket.

‘Lost?’ she demanded through the open side window. The Land-Rover was old and muddy, with wiper-shaped holes in the grime covering the windscreen.

‘Er. . . ’ said Martha.

‘On our way to Creighton Mere,’ said the Doctor.

‘Well, you’re on the right track then,’ advised the woman. ‘Hop in if you want a lift!’

They climbed in and the woman pulled off before they had properly sat down.

‘In a hurry?’ Martha asked, wriggling her bottom into the worn canvas of the old passenger seat. The interior of the off-reader was no better than its exterior. Martha guessed the vehicle was genuinely ex-military.

‘I’m 83,’ announced the woman. ‘No time to lose.’

11

‘I like your style,’ said the Doctor.

He introduced himself and

Martha.

‘Angela Hook,’ the woman responded, swinging the Land-Rover wildly around a sharp bend in the road. She changed gear with precision – Martha noticed that the gear stick was just that; a long, plain metal stick poking out of the muddy footwell – and then floored the accelerator. The vehicle surged forward with a loyal roar and they bounced and bumped over a series of traffic-calming ramps.

‘Blasted humps,’ growled Angela, jerking in and out of the driver’s seat with bone-breaking force.

‘I think they’re supposed to slow you down,’ Martha yelled over all the rattling.

‘Rubbish! I preferred it when they called ’em sleeping policemen,’

Angela said. ‘They just make me want to speed up!’

The Land-Rover rumbled around another bend, and shot through a large brown puddle sending up a spectacular spray of mud.

‘We met an old man before,’ said Martha. ‘A right old scruff. . . ’

‘Probably Old Barney,’ said Angela without taking her eyes off the road. ‘He’s been wandering around these parts for years. Harmless but smelly.’

‘He tried to put us off coming to Creighton Mere.’

‘Did he, indeed? I’ll have words with him! Creighton Mere’s a lovely place. Miserable old sod.’

‘Do you live in Creighton Mere?’ enquired the Doctor.

‘Born and bred, love, born and bred.’

‘Are there any tea rooms there?’ Martha asked.

‘Not yet,’ Angela said, glancing across at her passengers, as if checking them out for the first time. ‘But we’re working on it. Are you tourists?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Good! You’re just the kind of people we want!’

‘Really?’

The Land-Rover emerged from beneath a leafy tunnel into the centre of a small village. Martha glimpsed a large, well-kept rectangular lawn and war memorial, with an old-fashioned red phone box in front 12

of a nice-looking pub, a baker’s shop and a convenience store. The steeple of a church was visible above the tops of some trees, and then there was a rather grand-looking house which overlooked everything.

Actually, it was more than a house: behind elegant wrought-iron gates, a gravelled drive led up to the impressive portico of a Georgian manor. Martha got quite a shock when Angela deliberately swerved the Land-Rover past the gates and gave it a series of harsh honks on the horn.

Martha glanced at the Doctor, who gave an amused shrug.

‘Sorry about that,’ laughed Angela. ‘Force of habit! That’s Henry Gaskin’s place and it’s my sworn duty to be as big a nuisance as possible to him whenever I pass by.’

‘Ah,’ said the Doctor and Martha together, as if this explained everything.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Angela said. ‘Henry Gaskin is a right royal pain in the backside, and he’d do the same to me any day of the week.

I’m just returning the favour.’

The Land-Rover skidded to a halt at one corner of the village green and Angela switched off the engine. The vehicle settled with a cough and a rattle and Martha followed the Doctor gingerly out. Her legs were shaking.

‘Here we are,’ announced Angela briskly. ‘Creighton Mere.’ She pointed a long bony finger in various directions. ‘That was the manor, obviously. There’s the pub, opposite the cross. It’s called the Drinking Hole, which is a sort of joke.’

The Doctor and Martha exchanged another shrug.

‘Those are the shops, for what they’re worth,’ Angela continued,

‘and that’s where the Post Office used to be until they closed it down last year due to cutbacks. Damned fools. That Post Office was the nerve centre of the village; it’s like cutting out its heart.’

‘Oh,’ said Martha, her gaze alighting on something nearer to hand.

‘What’s that?’

‘Ah,’ said Angela with a little clap of her hands, as if she’d been saving the best for last. ‘That’s what I’m here for. That’s the well.’

It looked to Martha exactly as it should – an old village well, albeit 13

in a state of disrepair. It was quite big, about two metres in diameter, with a circular wall around it to about waist height. The brickwork was crumbling in places, and there were patches of lichen and moss clinging to the stones. Two stout wooden pillars stood on opposite sides of the parapet, holding a heavy-looking windlass. There was no rope and certainly no bucket, though. Martha guessed it had been a long time since anyone had drawn water from this well. It looked to have once possessed a little roof of some sort, but no longer.

BOOK: Doctor Who BBCN19 - Wishing Well
12.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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