Dr. Who - BBC New Series 25 (6 page)

Daker jerked to his feet so violently that he spilled his drink. ‘What the devil is happening now?’

Someone pounded on the door of the mess. McMahon put his drink down and hurried across the room to open it.

Bathed in the powerful night-lights that shone across the barrack grounds were a huddle of army privates, most of whom had evidently just been roused from sleep. The squaddies were all in their late teens or early twenties, though at that moment, hair awry and eyes wide, they looked like a bunch of schoolboys scared witless by spooky stories.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Daker bellowed, his face reddening. ‘Get back to your beds at once!’

One of the young privates stepped forward.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but … well, it’s Tommy Fox and Alfred Swift, sir. They’ve been taken.’

‘
Taken?’ Daker repeated in a strangled voice. ‘What in God’s name are you babbling about, Wilkins?’

Private Wilkins glanced at his colleagues, who offered silent encouragement with nods and raised eyebrows.

Wilkins said, ‘Well, sir, my bed is next to Tommy’s, sir. I heard a noise and woke up to see someone standing by his bed. I sat up, and that’s when I noticed another figure, leaning over Alf’s bed. I shouted out, which woke up a few of the other lads, sir. And then there was this… sort of flash. And the next second the two figures had gone, but so had Tommy and Alf. Their beds were just…empty.’

Behind Wilkins the other soldiers were nodding. One of them, a square-set private with pock-marked cheeks, said, ‘It’s true, sir, every word. I saw the figures too. And I also saw them disappear, sir. They just vanished into thin air, taking Tommy and Alf with them.’

‘
Preposterous!’ barked Daker.

In a calmer voice, McMahon asked, ‘What did these

figures look like?’

Again Wilkins glanced at his colleagues. ‘Well, sir, they… they looked like ghosts.’

‘
Ghosts?’ exclaimed Daker.

‘Yes, sir. They were white, sir. Chalky white. And their faces were… sort of unfinished, sir.’ He shuddered.

‘And you were so frightened that you ran like children!’ sneered Daker. ‘A dozen members of His Majesty’s so-called elite fighting force. It’s an utter disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wilkins mumbled. ‘Only…’

‘Only what? Spit it out, private,’ ordered McMahon.

‘Well, sir, we… we didn’t run when the figures vanished, sir. We ran when they came back.’

‘What?’ Daker snapped. ‘You mean these damned “ghosts” of yours are still there?’

‘They… they might be, sir.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, you stupid boy?’ Not for the first time that day Daker drew his service revolver. ‘Come on, McMahon, let’s sort this out.

You lot wait inside. I’ll deal with you later.’

He stalked off, McMahon in tow. The squaddies’

sleeping quarters were behind the main HQ building and administration offices, in a dozen wooden huts arranged in twin rows of six. Each hut contained sixteen beds, eight on each side, with a narrow central aisle. The hut from which Wilkins and his colleagues had fled was on the second row on the far right. It was the hut that was closest to (though still some distance from) the perimeter fence.

Behind the huts a carpet of thick undergrowth led to a

dense screen of bamboo trees.

As Daker and McMahon bypassed the first row of huts and approached the second, they saw that the door to the now-empty hut was gaping open. A light above the door threw a pool of illumination onto the ground.

‘I would advise caution, sir,’ said McMahon as Daker strode brazenly forward, revolver at the ready.

‘Don’t tell me you believe this ridiculous ghost story, McMahon,’ Daker retorted, making no attempt to lower his voice.

‘Not as such, sir, though it seems likely enough that we’ve had intruders of some kind.’

‘If they’re made of flesh and blood, then I’d like to see them try to defy a bullet.’

‘They might be armed themselves, sir,’ McMahon pointed out.

‘Hmph,’ Daker said, though he changed direction and skirted the pool of light, using the shadows as cover.

McMahon approached the door from the opposite side, his gun also drawn. When the two officers were pressed against the wooden wall on either side of the doorway, Daker nodded and pointed at himself, mouthing, ‘Me first.’ The instant McMahon nodded, Daker went in, fast and low, gun held out before him.

The hut was empty, and aside from two rows of beds which had evidently been vacated in a hurry, there was nothing to suggest that anything untoward had occurred.

Both officers examined the beds of the men who had allegedly vanished. The sheets were rumpled, and a pillow from one of the beds had fallen to the floor, but there were

no other signs of a struggle – no muddy footprints, no bloodstains, nothing damaged or knocked over.

Daker frowned. ‘What do you think, McMahon? Mass hysteria?’

McMahon shrugged. ‘Could be, sir, but these lads are pretty level-headed. Plus it still doesn’t account for the disappearance of Fox and Swift.’

‘Hmm,’ said Daker. ‘Perhaps we’d better have a quick poke about outside. You head east, I’ll head west. We’ll move inwards and meet in the middle.’

‘Understood, sir.’

The two men vacated the hut and headed off in opposite directions. Most of the fenced area housing the army barracks was well-lit at night, though the sizeable patch of ground behind the huts was cloaked in shadow.

Daker again rubbed at the sore spot behind his ear. The skin felt raised there, as if some insect had bitten him.

Typical if he contracted something nasty less than a month before he was due to head home.

Aside from the endless racket of frogs and insects, the night was quiet. None of the sleeping occupants of the other huts seemed to have been bothered by the so-called ‘ghosts’. In truth, Daker half-expected to stumble across the two missing privates in the thick undergrowth behind the huts. Perhaps they were playing a prank on their mates, or maybe one had been sleepwalking and wandered off, and the other had gone looking for him. Inexplicable as the soldiers’ story seemed, Daker felt sure there would be a reasonable explanation. It could even be that a couple of coolies had painted themselves white and kidnapped

the young men with a view to holding them for ransom, or in revenge for what they claimed were the British Army’s heavy-handed tactics during the recent troubles. If so, Daker would find the perpetrators and come down hard on them. He tightened his grip on his revolver, as if he already had them in his sights.

He moved methodically through the undergrowth behind the huts, wary of snakes. He peered hard at every shadow, trying to remain alert, though the heat seemed greater back here, as if the thick, fleshy leaves of the plants had soaked it up during the day and were now releasing it in waves. As a result, his thoughts felt slow and muzzy; the patch behind his ear itched.

He snapped back to full attention when he heard a cry, followed by a gunshot.

‘McMahon,’ Daker shouted and ran towards the sound.

It was hard going through the thick foliage, but less than ten seconds later he rounded a clump of flowering bushes and saw, fifty yards ahead, McMahon grappling with two men. Shouting the captain’s name a second time, Daker ran towards the trio. He was no more than twenty yards away when there was a silvery shimmer in the air, like the ripple of a heat haze on a summer’s day, and suddenly there was only one man standing where three had been a second before.

Daker was so shocked that he stumbled and almost fell to his knees. Recovering himself, he pointed his gun at the lone figure.

‘Hands in the air,’ he ordered.

The figure did not respond.

‘Hands in the air or I fire.’

Instead of obeying, the figure began to walk purposefully towards him. As it emerged from the shadows, Daker saw that it was stripped to the waist, wearing nothing but a pair of loose salwar pants, of a type similar to those favoured by many Indians. However, one thing was instantly clear to the Major: this was no local man. The closer it got to him, the more he began to doubt that the creature was even human.

It was man-shaped, certainly, but its skin was a ghastly, fish-belly white, and perfectly smooth and hairless, like polished marble. Even more unsettling was its face, which had the hideously blank expression of a death-mask. It was not until the creature was just a few yards away, however, that Daker became aware of the most horrifying detail of all.

The thing had no eyes. Where its eyes have been there were nothing but smooth hollows filled with grey shadow.

‘
Halt!’ He almost screamed the word this time. The figure, though, simply kept on coming. In a feverish panic Daker fired. The gun roared and he saw a neat black hole appear in the creature’s chest. It staggered back a few steps, then straightened up.

Daker fired again. A second hole appeared a few inches to the right of the first. Once again the figure staggered, then straightened. It stood for a moment, as if contemplating its next move – and then Daker became aware of another strange silvery shimmer. For a moment he was blinded, as if he had walked out of a darkened room into the smeary glare of the sun. When he blinked

the light from his eyes a moment later, the creature was gone.

Adelaide stepped forward. ‘Mr Gandhi,’ she said, a tremor in her voice.

The little man came to a halt and smiled. People were still crowding around him, but no one was pushing or shoving. They all seemed content to wait their turn to touch his sandalled feet, or his arm, or his simple homespun robe. Some even seemed happy merely to touch his footprints in the dust.

Gandhi pressed his palms together in the traditional Hindu greeting and nodded first to Adelaide and then to the Doctor. They returned the greeting, the Doctor making no attempt to hide the soppy smile on his face.

‘It’s … a pleasure to meet you, sir,’ Adelaide stammered.

‘Oh, and quite definitely an honour,’ added the Doctor, stepping forward. ‘And I know you’re not into being idolised and all that, which, ironically, is one of the most brilliant things about you, but can I just say, for the record, cos this might be my only chance, that you, Mr Mohandas Gandhi, are one of
the
most amazing human beings who has ever lived, and who ever
will
live, and for my money you’re right up there with Will Shakespeare, Mother Teresa and Arthur Thorndike, the janitor from Basingstoke, who… oh, hang on, scratch that, he hasn’t been born yet.’ He opened his mouth to say more, but then caught Adelaide’s eye and grinned sheepishly. ‘Whoops, sorry. Babbling a bit. Always get like that when I’m

overexcited. Ooh, still doing it. Sorry. OK, finished now.’

He closed his mouth and pulled his fingers across his lips in a zipping motion.

Gandhi bowed again and said, ‘Thank you for your greeting. Your words greatly honour me – but I’m afraid I don’t deserve them.’

‘Course you do,’ said the Doctor, ‘but let’s not bang on about it. I know what fans can be like. Except, can I just say, the Salt March in 1930… brilliant. Stroke of genius.’

Gandhi smiled. ‘Actually, what I did was a very ordinary thing. I simply let the British know that they could not order me about in my own country.’

‘Yeah, but it was the
way
you did it,’ said the Doctor.

‘Non-violent, non-confrontational, non-cooperation.

Amazing.’

‘Forgive me,’ said Adelaide, ‘but what
was
the Salt March?’

The Doctor boggled at her. ‘Where have you been living? On the moon?’

Adelaide blushed. ‘Oh, I’m aware of Mr Gandhi, and of his ongoing campaign. But I was only five years old in 1930, Dr Smith. I’m afraid my knowledge of the details of Mr Gandhi’s early life are a little rusty.’

‘Sorry,’ said the Doctor, realising he had embarrassed Adelaide. ‘Didn’t mean to be rude. The British declared it illegal for Indians to possess salt from anywhere other than the government’s salt monopoly – which was grossly unfair. After all, salt’s an abundant, readily available mineral. Why should people who have barely got two grains of rice to rub together have to pay for it? So

Mohandas and a few of his mates… oh, do you mind if I call you Mohandas?’

Gandhi laughed delightedly. ‘Not at all. First names are an indicator of friendship, are they not?’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor, grinning. ‘Yes, they are.’

‘In which case, we should tell you ours,’ said Adelaide.

‘This is Dr John Smith and I’m Adelaide Campbell.’

‘But all my
best
friends just call me Doctor,’ said the Doctor quickly, and went on without a pause, ‘so anyway Mohandas here walked across India, picking up followers along the way. He walked two hundred miles in twenty-four days, all the way from Sabarmati to the coast at Dandi. By the time he got there, he had thousands of people with him. He went down to the beach and picked up a handful of salt that had been left by the tide. It was a brilliantly simple act of defiance against a stupid rule, and it riveted the whole of India. Millions followed his example. Right across the country, people of all castes started to make and sell their own salt. A hundred thousand were arrested and imprisoned. The authorities couldn’t cope. Within a few weeks of Mohandas picking up those few grains of salt, the whole of India was in revolt.’