Falls the Shadow (11 page)

‘Thanks,’ Ace said, rubbing her shoulders.

‘You can get to the cellar under your own steam. Don’t try anything.

‘I won’t, believe me.’

‘I do.’

‘You know I didn’t attack you,’ Ace asked, hoping for a positive answer.

‘I’ve no proof you didn’t, but I don’t think you did,’ Sandra told her. Positive enough.

It would be easy to give her the slip, but it wouldn’t be right. It’d be proof of her guilt, wouldn’t it? Not that she was keen on the prospect of being cooped up in a cell for the best part of the night. Not enough action.

‘I hope Truman didn’t hurt you too much,’ Sandra made small talk. ‘He gets a bit carried away. Most of the time he’s gentle, sweet.’

‘Are we talking about the same Truman?’ Ace asked, slipping into sarcasm overdrive. ‘Tall bloke, wears a mask, smiles a lot, psychotic tendencies? Very sweet, very gentle.’

‘Well, I’m looking at it from my perspective. He’d chew his arms off to get into bed with me.’

‘And has he?’

‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

‘Why does he wear that mask?’

‘He’s scarred. He had an accident about three years ago, screwed up his face, his life, everything. I don’t know the details.’

‘Maybe I’ve been a bit…’ Sandra tugged on her shoulder, pulling her into the darkness of the stairwell. She had a silencing finger raised to her lips, another pointing down the stairs to the landing below.

A dark shape was moving there. It looked like a woman. It moved like a hunter, like so many killers Ace had known. She knew, instinctively, that this woman was bad news.

The hunter slid open a door on the landing and slipped inside. The door closed and Ace felt safe to breathe again.

‘That’s her,’ Sandra whispered, with certainty and conviction. ‘She’s the one who attacked me, I recognize her. D’you think we should go after her?’

‘Not a good idea,’ Ace said simply, out of a sense of self‐
preservation. ‘It was definitely her?’

‘Definitely, positively, absolutely not you,’ Sandra whispered. ‘So who the hell are you anyway?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ Ace said, wondering why everyone she met managed to gravitate to that question eventually. It had ruined several good relationships in the past.

‘I’m broad minded. Try me.’

‘You’d have to see it to believe it.’

‘Show me.’ Sandra hissed insistently, clinging to the question more tenaciously than anyone Ace had known. Leech‐
like.

Ace looked at her and made a decision.

‘Okay.’ She dug her hands deep into her jacket pocket and produced a small metal item which she held out for Sandra’s inspection. The other woman looked at it without comprehension.

‘We’ll need this.’ Ace told her. ‘I, uh, stole it from a friend. Lifted it from his pockets.’

‘What is it?’

‘TARDIS key.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll see.’ Ace pocketed the key and smiled with sadistic expectation.

The corpse of the grey man grew cold on the path. The rain lashed harsher, droplets of water mingling with congealing blood. Tears of rain ran down the dead cheeks.

The air stirred by the pathway.

Quantum particles buzzed with expectancy. A pulse disturbed the surface of reality. The quanta interacted, weaving patterns, changing the shape of the world. The pulse grew. It reached the atomic level, shifting electrons off their orbits, sending atoms colliding against each other, molecules knitting together.

As the pulse took physical shape, so it took on a mental shape. It began to form a cohesive unity, a whole that meshed with its past experience. The pulse
remembered
its self, its shape, its identity.

Atoms bonded together, forming minute architecture, growing ever more ambitious. More matter was drawn together by the pulse, imploding round a single core. The process was agonizingly slow.

In slightly less than two seconds, the pulse had built a body for itself. The body was full‐
grown, clothed, self‐
aware, physically identical to the being it had once been.

The grey man stared down at the corpse that had once been his body. Respectfully, he stripped it of its hat, coat and dark glasses.

The old body dissolved. Nothing was left but a few fragments of metal. The grey man did not care to inspect them. He knew what they were.

He pulled on the coat and hat over his new but identical clothes, head, hair. He slipped the glasses over a pair of hollow, ancient eyes – they were always unique. Feeling whole again, he set off for the house.

He had miscalculated again. He’d not expected any further external disruption, and consequently he’d lost another body.

A sudden thrill shot down his spine. They were gone. The malignance had shrivelled up and died. The house was free. He hadn’t been needed after all.

Maybe the Time Lord…

No. That was too easy. The forces had moved on. They must have gained some mobility, maybe even physicality. This was disturbingly predictable. Each time he approached the house, he carried a set of assumptions that were immediately cut away from beneath him.

If they weren’t in the house, where were they? The grey man cast round, locating the distortions. Shapes moved through the grounds in the twilight.
Human
shapes, with the aura he had already encountered. Hoping they hadn’t seen him, he crouched down behind a bush and listened for their approach.

There were two, speaking in human voices, human language. English. They sounded young but adult. One male, one female. Cultured tones.

‘They’re going to have to go.’ Female.

‘Possibly.’ Male. ‘You really think they’re a threat?’

‘On their own, perhaps. Together…’ the female left the threat hanging. ‘They’re devious sods, and scientists – men of reason – for all that means.’

‘Nice garden.’

‘Possibly? Greenfly?’

‘In November?’

‘The women are a bit dangerous.’

‘Individually. Not as a cohesive group. Lovely shrubbery. Pink.’

‘Two borderline psychotics, a cripple and an irresponsible freeloader who claims to be an archaeology professor.’

‘Our sort of people.’

‘Uh huh. Lovely statue. Let’s vandalize it.’

There was a static buzz. The air filled with the stench of molten metal.

‘I think we should kill some plants.’

‘I wouldn’t. You might disturb the god hiding behind that bush.’

‘Perhaps you’re right. I say we go sit on the hill, soak up some atmosphere and wait for the end of the world. What say you?’

‘As you will so mote it be!’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘I love this language. So many consonants, so many syllables!’

There was a rustling as the creatures forced their way through the hedge. Then nothing. Certain they were gone, the grey man emerged from hiding. He had registered everything the couple said, but understood little. Nor did he know how much of it could be taken on face value. They had known he was listening. Perhaps that was inevitable. He’d have to wait and watch events unfold. Perhaps that
was
inevitable.

He felt impotent.

The statue stood before him, changed. It was melting. Michael’s arms were moulding into Lucifer’s back. Michael’s wings dripped onto the ground. Lucifer’s face stretched, welling tear‐
like towards the ground. The rain sizzled against it, turning instantly to steam.

The grey man stared at the mess, wondering why he felt sad. He wondered what had happened to Rose’s brother. On the hill creatures were waiting for Armageddon.

He was afraid their wait might not be long.

‘A scientist?’ Winterdawn was saying. His eyes narrowed with concentration, his brow furrowed. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘Yes. I don’t know if it’s true,’ Wedderburn replied, anxious to return to the point. ‘Look, is he genuine or isn’t he?’

‘No,’ Winterdawn replied, sinking back in his chair and humming thoughtfully between words. ‘No, I know the present research team and besides, Claire would tell me if she was sending someone up.’

‘Maybe it slipped her mind.’

‘Nothing slips her mind.’ Winterdawn tried to suppress a smile. ‘No, you’ve been taken for a ride.’

‘I say we go and find him before he gets away.’

‘No point, Truman’s already gone for him.’

‘Then what? The police?’ Wedderburn asked hopefully. He knew what Winterdawn’s reply would be. There was a fanatical light in Jeremy’s eyes. That light had once shone in his own eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ Winterdawn mused. ‘A scientist? Is that what he said?’

The Doctor kept a lone, silent vigil over Bernice, distracted by nothing, not even the burblings of the deranged individual in the corner. He was certain that Benny would be all right – she hadn’t lost that much blood – but if something happened and he wasn’t there…

Benny murmured something, shifting uneasily on the bed. Her eyelids flickered. The Doctor felt something akin to relief.

‘Cellar,’ she muttered and tried to roll onto her front. She groaned, letting her eyelids float open. The Doctor leaned forward.

‘Don’t try to move yet,’ he advised – no point keeping her in the dark. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. One, maybe two pints.’

‘A couple of pints?’ Benny’s strained voice conveyed good‐
natured horror. ‘That’s very nearly a couple of armfuls. Good thing it wasn’t any more, because I’ve run out of arms. Doctor?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you ever have one of those days when you feel it was a real waste of time getting out of bed?’ She managed a weak grin.

‘Frequently.’ The Doctor managed a stronger grin. It faded as he heard the door handle turn behind him. He leaned forward and whispered in Benny’s nearest ear:

‘Act dead.’

‘Who needs to act?’ she whispered back, but let her eyelids drift shut.

The Doctor turned, recognizing the figure in the opening doorway. The man in the mask, minus his video equipment, but still instantly recognizable. The mask smiled at the Doctor with an air of self‐
satisfaction. The man behind the mask seemed unsurprised by the Doctor’s presence – without expression it was difficult to tell. The Doctor distrusted people who wore masks. He couldn’t see what they were thinking. He wanted to know what they had to hide.

There was something unnervingly familiar about the newcomer, something about the way he moved.

‘Doctor,’ the mask addressed him.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure.’

‘Harry Truman.’ The chill in his voice was belied by his smile.

‘Oh yes, I think we’ve met. We had a lively debate about a place called Manhattan. Something about the ethics of using fission weaponry on civilian populations?’ He smiled at Truman, receiving a grin in return. He doubted it was sincere.

‘You will come with me please,’ Truman continued. ‘And your friend.’ The Doctor dropped his bluff, became defensive.

‘Benny stays here. She’s lost a lot of blood, as Wedderburn will attest if you want to ask him. I don’t think she should be moved.’ He waved in the general direction of the corner where Justin sat, his arms crossed guardedly. ‘Your friend can keep an eye on her.’

‘Very well,’ Truman conceded, with a speed the Doctor wasn’t expecting.

‘Let me check on her before I go,’ the Doctor asked.

‘By all means. Be quick.’

The Doctor turned away, deeply irritated. Truman’s concessions were less altruistic than they appeared. If he’d been argumentative, the Doctor could have stalled him for half an hour.

‘I’ll be back,’ he hissed into Benny’s ear.

‘Doctor,’ Bernice murmured. ‘His body language. Wrong. Not natural.’

‘Thanks. Try not to move,’ the Doctor whispered, straightening up and quietly digesting the implications of Benny’s advice.

‘Are you ready?’ The Doctor nodded, making for the door.

The door was blocked.

Specifically, the door was blocked by a woman. A woman in her mid‐
twenties, wrapped in a trench‐
coatshaped section of night. Her angular features were topped by a high expanse of forehead and a mess of dark hair, slightly muddy. Her hair had been artificially darkened; her blonde roots were showing. A pair of deep blue pupils stared from beneath a pair of moon‐
shaped Lennon‐
glasses.

The detail which stood out more than most was the stubby gun clenched tight in her fist, one finger itching on the trigger. The wrong end of the gun was pushed directly into the Doctor’s face.

‘Now that I have your attention,’ the woman said, ‘which one of you is Professor Jeremy Winterdawn?’

Jane Page loved guns. She loved the feel of hard metal crushed into her small hands. She loved the reactions of her targets – counting the seconds of life they had left to them. She loved the shock that passed through her as the bullets exploded from the barrel. She loved the mess – the chunks torn from the victims’ bodies, chipping away at flesh and bone like a sculptor working on marble. She loved that.

She loved the power, the kick, the gun.

Her eyes clicked between the three men before her. The thin‐
faced man squatting in the corner didn’t seem to be bothered. He had noticed the gun and simply didn’t care. Disappointing.

The masked man was more predictable. He hovered in the background, unprepared to attack. She could read his eyes. He didn’t have the nerve.

The third man stood on the receiving end. If he tried anything, he’d lose most of his face. But there was nothing in his eyes that suggested fear. There was
reserve. Patience.
His eyes – inscrutable pools in hollow sockets – were defiant. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t even shaking. Page felt fazed.

Make some distance.

‘Move back slowly, until you’re standing against the wall,’ she said – a request, not an order. They moved anyway. She couldn’t see the small man’s eyes so clearly now, and felt better for it. Relaxing, she noticed a fourth target, a woman lying flat on the bed apparently asleep – no threat. The woman’s clothes were blood‐
stained. Page noticed the large stain dried into the small man’s shirt. Curiouser and curiouser.

She returned her gaze to the men. Any one of them could have been Winterdawn. She didn’t have a description – she didn’t need one normally.

‘This,’ she said confidently, holding up her gun, ‘is the Siddley “Churchill” Automatic. It fires an explosive bullet that can perforate steel plate. The effect on the human body is
unfortunate
. I am prepared to use this weapon on each and every one of you, if it means I get Winterdawn in the process. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Pull the trigger,’ the small man said suddenly; his voice had the texture of gravel and was full of persuasive charm. ‘Take our lives.’

‘Don’t give her ideas, you stupid bastard,’ the mask hissed. Page’s lips twitched into a smile shape.

‘Pull the trigger. Now.’

‘I’m tempted,’ Page said, without humour. She dropped the smile. ‘I’m not a thug from a cheap movie. I don’t gloat. I don’t weaken. I will, if necessary, leave this house cold, dark and empty. Believe me.’

The silence that followed was intense and frustrating. Page ached to tighten her hand. Just slightly. The small man stared at her, his eyes buried by shadow. Between the shadows, Page could see a cross‐
hair target.

Tighten. Now.

The man blinked and turned his head slightly. Page’s smile mixed relief and anticlimax. She brushed a casual hand through her hair, training her gun on the silent, mask‐
less man. He stared back with a baby‐
eyed expression. ‘You! Are you Winterdawn?’

‘His name is Justin Cranleigh,’ the masked man droned with withering disapproval but little resistance. ‘He’s not a well man. You can’t…’

‘I can,’ Page whispered. No one could have heard her, but the small man suddenly turned and caught her gaze again.

‘He’s right. My name is Justin,’ her target confirmed, voice meandering. ‘On the right occasions, when the moon is high and I feel fine. I’m the lord of creation, but don’t spread it around – they don’t
like
me up there.’

Page scowled. There was always some joker who thought he’d be clever.

‘I’m not impressed,’ she said. ‘Really.’

Cranleigh stepped forward, pressing his palms together in prayer. He raised his head to the ceiling, his eyes rolling with manic light.

‘I had a gun once, but Nancy broke it. Should have stuck to her dolls. I never forgave her that. And then she died. Amen.’

He drifted aimlessly round the room before collapsing onto the carpet by the bed. The woman on the bed moaned something incomprehensible in response.

Had her hands been free, Page would have clapped. Slowly.

‘How about you?’ she asked, bringing the gun round to bear on the short man. ‘No games. The truth.’

‘Truth?’ The man’s thick eyebrows quivered and he spoke smoothly: ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anything like the truth.’

Page smiled generously, ignoring the urge to squeeze.

‘Try me.’

The short man nodded, breaking eye contact. He had found something fascinating about his feet.

‘Call me the Doctor. I am a wanderer. I was born on the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborus. I travel in time and space in a machine called the TARDIS. I arrived here by accident, drawn by an alien force. I’ve never met Winterdawn; there are a lot of questions I want to ask him.’

‘Three out of ten. Not as convincing as Cranleigh,’ Page told him, stifling an ersatz yawn. She jerked the gun round so it aimed between the eyeholes of the masked man. ‘How about you?’

‘My name is Harry Truman…’

‘Mister President, this is a surprise.’

‘
Really
.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m twenty‐
seven. I was born in Bromley. My twin sister Nancy… died three days after she was born. I was academically excellent. When I was eighteen, I started a degree in English at Cambridge. My girlfriend, Laura, was also studying English. We were going to get married…

‘Stop it.’ Cranleigh was climbing to his feet, staring malevolently at Truman. Warily, Page shifted her gaze to the fruitcake.

‘…She died unexpectedly. I left Cambridge and joined a firm of…’ Truman continued oblivious.

‘Stop it!’ Cranleigh roared, his hands pressed to his temples. Truman’s voice wavered.

‘That’s me,’ Cranleigh whispered, tears streaming down his face.

He hurled himself at Truman, hands locking round his throat. Their combined bulks smashed against the wall, a mass of thrashing limbs and violent blows. Cranleigh was single‐
minded in his attack, Truman in his defence.

This was genuine. It was spontaneous. Page felt her grip on the situation slipping away. The threat of the gun was useless. No one cared about the weapon clasped limply in her hands. She felt useless.

‘Excuse me!’ The woman on the bed was sitting upright and beaming at her happily. Page spun, pushing the gun at her. ‘Don’t point that thing at me, I don’t know where it’s been.’

Then there were hands against her shoulder, tearing at her gun‐
arm, jerking it upwards.

‘Benny!’ a gravel voice was yelling by her ear. ‘Help Truman!’

Adrenalin surged. Page’s fingers clenched.

There were explosions. Gunfire blowing chunks out of the ceiling. Page’s body thrilled as the shots pulsed through her. A hand was wrenching the gun from her fingers. Another hand pressed against her neck, fingertips pushing nerves – a light touch, but significant.

Page took a deep breath and fell into unconsciousness.

The Doctor coaxed the gun from the woman’s limp fingers. He let the arm drop softly.

The gun in his hand was harsh. Physically it was warm, but it had a cold lining that stabbed at the Doctor’s soul. It was not an object he cared to hold. It was
tainted
. He buried the loathsome item under a pile of T-shirts in the wardrobe. Then he did his best to expel it from his mind.

Truman was unconscious, half‐
slumped against the wall. The Doctor’s immediate fears – that Cranleigh might have killed him in his frenzy – were assuaged by the regular movements of his chest. Cranleigh himself was paralysed, staring at the man he’d been throttling not a minute ago. Either Benny was more persuasive than the Doctor had thought, or Cranleigh had shifted back onto a diffident gear.

Benny also crouched beside Truman; unlike Cranleigh she was active, her hands fumbling at the back of Truman’s head. She was unfastening his mask – the archaeologist’s curiosity was active. The Doctor felt that she was disturbing something that should be left hidden. He moved forward, perhaps to stop her – too late. The mask came loose.

The Doctor paused, realizing that he, too, was curious about the face behind the mask. Besides if Benny’s enquiring spirit was on the prowl once more, it meant she really had recovered.

Bernice flashed a brief thumbs‐
up sign at him and pulled the mask away completely.

Beneath the mask was an unexpected, horrific face.

Bernice Summerfield stared. The mask was forgotten, clasped between her hands.

Justin Cranleigh reacted violently. He shrieked, hurling himself across the room, hiding behind the bed and moaning pitifully.

The Doctor recovered quickly. He plucked the mask from Benny’s hands, lowering it back over Truman’s face.

Then everyone felt a lot better.

Ace led Sandra into the TARDIS console room – still and impressive despite the shroud of darkness – and waited for the inevitable display of weak‐
jawed, wordless wonder.

Probably something sadistic about that, but why not? She’d gone through it just like Mel and Benny and everyone else. She had never forgotten her first sight of the TARDIS. It was something that was going with her, inexorably, to the grave.

Sandra stood in the doorway and stared. Ace failed to suppress a smile.

Wide‐
eyed, Sandra wheeled round and began to enthuse in Ace’s direction.

‘It’s big,’ she exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Jesus, why didn’t you tell Dad?’

‘You want a serious answer?’

Ace was smiling, disturbed. There was something wrong about this reaction. Okay, there was the surprise, the shock, the astonishment, the mind‐
dulling incomprehension – all this and more. No, there was something that rang false. It was the
enthusiasm
.

‘You should have told us. He’ll love this. He’s never done anything on this scale.’ Ace’s smile lost its sadistic sheen, giving way to an uncomfortable grin.

‘I mean,’ Sandra warbled, ‘I don’t get the theory, but Dad’s always going on about size. Anything larger than a tea chest and we get “dimensional regression feedback”. Sounds crap, but I assume I know what he’s on about.’ She turned back to Ace. ‘Why’d you put it in the cellar?’

Ace’s jaw made up‐
down motions, but she had nothing to say.

‘I mean, you brought this to show Dad?’ Sandra continued, acquiring a confused slowness. ‘I assume this is stuff you’ve done parallel to his work. Dimensional transcendentalism? Yes?’

‘Shit.’ Ace forced her heavy tongue into the shape of words. ‘You’ve seen stuff like this before?’

‘Yeah!’ Sandra nodded, frowning uneasily. ‘Yes.’

Ace wandered out of the TARDIS pondering on her feelings of frustration. Not frustration, perhaps. Unease. If Sandra was right – if Winterdawn had devised something on the same principles as the TARDIS – it followed that he could have brought the TARDIS to the house.

Couldn’t he?

She felt like a little kid, going off to a birthday party in a new set of clothes, to find that everyone else dressed identically. She felt hollow, a sense of lost purpose.

Sandra followed her, hugging herself in the cold of the cellar. Like Ace, she seemed at a loose end.

‘Run this by me one more time,’ Ace said weakly. ‘Your dad’s done something like this. Bigger on the inside than the out, dimensionally transcendental shit.’

Sandra was nodding.

‘Very small working models, as a sideline of his main work. I don’t understand it – I’ve a BA in English, I’m not a quantum weirdo.’

Ace looked up at her, suddenly finding a new purpose.

‘You don’t have to understand it. Tell me about it.’

Sandra smiled awkwardly, a lop‐
sided sort of smile. A smile loaded with the same sadism which Ace had felt herself, quite recently.

‘I can show you,’ she replied.

There was a man and a woman on a hill, sometimes talking, sometimes thinking, sometimes watching the house below them.

‘I think,’ the man said, ‘that everything should be perfect for our arrival. We don’t want rogue elements running around confusing everything.’

‘Not at first,’ his companion responded. ‘You mean the woman.’

‘Don’t state the obvious – of course I mean the woman. What do you suggest?’

‘Temporal dislocation. She’s not doing anything now and we can always stick her back in if things get boring.’

‘It’s done.’

Their laughter drifted down the hill to the grey man who was crouched in a nearby hollow. He wondered what they were talking about.