Winner Takes All (3 page)

‘Brilliant!' said the Doctor.

Mickey leaned forward and looked across at him. ‘Come off it, you do this stuff for real! What's so exciting about playing a game?'

The Doctor leaned back on his chair. ‘Yeah, well, the thing about games as opposed to real life is, one, you're honing your reflexes, right, two, you're practising strategic thinking, and three, you've usually got a cup of tea and a packet of HobNobs at hand.'

‘And four, real aliens aren't trying to bite your head off, right?'

The Doctor grinned. ‘Yeah, I s'pose there's a downside as well. So, about that cuppa then . . .'

‘You just had two cups at my mum's,' said Rose.
‘And three sandwiches and two cakes.'

‘Don't tell me England's got a tea-restriction law these days,' the Doctor said. ‘If it has, I'll probably have to take down the government. Again.'

Mickey shrugged. ‘Whatever, the milk's probably off, and there won't be any biscuits.'

‘Not since I stopped doing your shopping for you,' Rose put it.

He bridled. ‘I never asked you to do my shopping!'

She nodded. ‘You're right. You never asked. You just gazed at me like a hungry puppy till I felt sorry for you.'

Mickey grinned and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Woof woof.'

Not looking up from the screen, the Doctor said, ‘There's some cash in my pocket. Go and get us some milk and biscuits, will you, Rose? Oh, and some Winalot for the Jack Russell over there.'

With an affected sigh, Rose helped herself to a handful of change from the pocket of his battered leather jacket, weeding out a couple of Roman sesterces and a £10 coin which claimed to show the head of William V. She slid off the chair arm, nearly tripping over the wires that connected the control pad to the games console. ‘Don't miss me too much,' she said.

The Doctor kept his eyes on the screen. ‘Missing you already,' he said.

THREE

R
ose could see down to the shop from the walkway by Mickey's flat. There was hardly anyone around. Maybe they were all indoors playing computer games, like Mickey, hoping to win the prize. Or maybe they'd seen Darren Pye leaning against the wall and decided to steer clear.

She recognised him at once, even though she hadn't seen him since he left school – well, since he stopped coming to school – and that was years ago. She'd attracted his attention a few times, because if you were an individual and stood up for things and refused to be a victim, then some people wanted to make you into a victim. But it'd never been bad, not like it had for some.

And she wasn't going to let a thug like that stop her from going to the shop. She walked down the stairs, out into the courtyard. She virtually saw his ears prick up as her footsteps sounded, and he lazily swung his head round.

‘Oi! Oi, you!'

She ignored him, kept walking past.

‘I'm talking to you, slag.'

Ignored him.

‘Oi, slag, heard your boyfriend done you in.'

So he knew who she was. ‘Don't believe everything you read in the
Beano
,' she called back. She'd faced aliens and goodness knows what; she wasn't going to let an immature thug get to her. It was surprisingly easy. Sticks and stones, she thought.

‘Thought it ran in families,' he said. ‘I heard your slag of a mother did in her husband.'

That made her flush with anger, anger for her mother and her long-dead father, but then she thought again about the aliens she'd faced, and imagined Darren Pye wetting himself if he came face to face with the Nestene Consciousness or something, and that made her smile instead.

She went into the shop and browsed the shelves, picking up a two-pinter of semi-skimmed, a packet of custard creams and, to be on the safe side, a box of teabags as well. ‘Thanks,' she said to Maureen behind the counter, as everything went into a blue plastic bag. ‘Do I get one of them scratchcards, then?'

Maureen snorted. ‘No you don't. Bloomin' things. Everyone's going down the road just so as they can get some stupid prize, even if they only want a loaf of bread. I know mine might be a few pence dearer, but it's £1.20 bus fare on top, which makes my bread a lot cheaper overall, and you can just tell your mum that, young Rose.'

Rose laughed. ‘Come off it, like she'd listen! Any chance of something for nothing and my mum'll be in there, and she's got a bus pass anyway.' She picked up the carrier bag and smiled a farewell.

And she was just turning to leave when she heard the cry. It was the sound of someone in pain, and it was followed by laughter.

She'd never been the sort of person who hesitated when someone was in trouble – mistakenly, sometimes, ‘Rose jumps in with both feet,' her mum had said, sometimes proudly, more often pityingly.

So she ran out of the shop, towards the cry. Not that she had to go far: there was Mrs Desai right in front of her, both hands clutched to her temples as if warding off a blow. There was a little trickle of blood just creeping between her fingers, and behind her Darren Pye had picked up another stone ready to throw. Sticks and stones, she thought again. They hurt.

Rose launched herself at him. It wasn't sensible, and it certainly didn't fit in with her policy of ignoring him, but she did it anyway. ‘Don't you dare!' she yelled. ‘Don't you dare!' She swung the blue carrier bag at him. He dropped the stone, and there was a satisfying ‘whumph' as the plastic bottle of milk split on impact, showering him with white droplets. He shook it out of his hair like a dog.

‘Big mistake,' he said to her, grabbing her by the hood of her top and yanking her off balance. ‘Little girl wants to be a hero.

She twisted out of his grasp. ‘I've dealt with a lot bigger than you. Not uglier, though, and that's saying plenty if you've ever seen a Slitheen.'

Darren gave her a shove. ‘Bigger mistake.' And he pulled out a knife.

For a split second, Rose could see nothing but the knife.

Then a leather-clad arm descended over Darren's shoulder and twisted his wrist, and the knife clattered to the ground. ‘Naughty naughty,' said the Doctor, shoving Darren away. The lad stumbled a few steps, then caught his balance and picked up the knife again. The Doctor stood his ground, strong and imposing. ‘Really wanna risk it?'

To Rose's relief, Darren thought better of it. He glared at them both, but then turned and swaggered off, milk still dribbling down his neck.

Once he was round the corner, out of sight, the Doctor turned to Rose. ‘And you thought it was a good idea to take on, single-handedly, someone who's twice your size and carrying a knife,' he said.

She shrugged, torn between relief, embarrassment and bravado. ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.'

He glanced down at the dripping carrier bag. ‘You've got a lotta bottle, I'll say that for you.'

‘Just call me the dairy avenger.'

‘Queen of the cream.'

She grinned. ‘They'll do me for assault and buttery.'

Mrs Desai and Maureen came out of the shop, from where they'd clearly been watching the show. ‘Good on yer, Rose,' called out Maureen. Mrs Desai waved her shy thanks.

‘I'd go get that checked out in casualty if I were you, Mrs Desai,' Rose called back.

‘No, you wouldn't,' whispered the Doctor in an aside. ‘You'd carry on like a brave little soldier.'

She threw him a withering look. ‘What are you doing out here anyway? Did your biscuit cravings get the better of you?' She pulled the milk-sodden, now-crushed packet of custard creams out of the bag and waved it in his face. He took it, opened it and put a whole one in his mouth.

‘My fpider fenfe waf tingling,' he said round a mouthful of crumbs and cream filling.

‘Be serious,' she said. ‘And it's rude to talk with your mouth full.'

He swallowed the biscuit. ‘I'm being serious! I'm attuned to your distress cries. They come in on a certain wavelength.' He wiggled his fingers at his head, miming a frequency being received.

For a second, she actually considered that he might be telling the truth. After all, she had no idea how alien brains worked. But she knew he must be having her on really. It wasn't as if she'd even been making any distress cries.

She sniffed dismissively, and he grinned. ‘I got bored with the game,' he said. ‘No challenge for a mind like mine.'

‘Did you beat Mickey's score?' she asked.

‘What d'you think? Course I did. By several thousand points, too. It might have been round about when I was doing the victory yell that he invited me to leave.'

Rose laughed incredulously. ‘You let Mickey Smith chuck you out?'

The Doctor looked very slightly embarrassed. ‘Told you, I'd had enough of the game,' he said. ‘Come on, let's go and do something less boring instead.'

It was the least deserted part of the planet Toop, because it had two structures built on it. One resembled a giant pyramid that had had its top sliced off, like a boiled egg. But whereas a pyramid has only one entrance, this had hundreds. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, it might look as if the building was inside a dome, an immense upturned bowl made of faint purple lines. But there again, that might be a trick of the light.

The other building had no visible doors at all. It would be called big, although it was much smaller than the truncated pyramid, square and solid, constructed with little finesse.

Inside this building were many rooms, including what was known as the main control room. And inside the main control room, there was uproar. Quevvils were running back and forth, checking monitors and dials and read-outs. ‘This is amazing!' squeaked one. ‘This controller has mastered the game! The speed, the skill . . .'

‘There is a long way to go yet,' said another, but his companions ignored the words of caution.

‘The carrier has penetrated another barrier,' called a third excitedly. ‘Victory! Victory approaches!'

A stocky Quevvil started shooing a group of his gleeful fellows into a series of booths. ‘Ready yourselves! Do not delay! At the exact moment of success, you will be transported into the Mantodean stronghold – prepare yourselves for slaughter.'

The spiny backs of each Quevvil bristled as they readied themselves for action. One small Quevvil let a quill fly in excitement; it pinged off the back of the teleport booth and the stocky Quevvil who was in charge swung round at the sound. ‘I . . . I'm sorry, Frinel,' the small Quevvil squeaked, terrified.

Frinel glowered. ‘If it were not that I must ready myself for the moment of victory – the moment when I, with a single touch on this button, bring victory to us all . . . then you would be punished for your indiscipline.' His clawed finger was hovering over a huge red button, the control of the teleporter. ‘Victory approaches . . .'

‘Er . . . er . . . victory's stopped approaching,' said another Quevvil nervously, claw tapping a dial to make certain of the reading.

‘The humans often pause for a while,' said another. ‘They have no stamina. They are not warriors.'

A murmur of agreement passed throughout the room.

‘No, the game's been shut off,' said the nervous Quevvil. ‘We just have to hope that the carrier survives until the game is resumed . . .'

There was a groan from a Quevvil watching a monitor. ‘Mantodeans in the sector . . .' he said. The others clustered around, even the Quevvils who had entered the teleport booths came out to see what was happening.

‘It might not see the carrier . . .'

‘No, two more coming round the corner . . . They've spotted it . . .'

‘The one on the left's going to get it . . . Stupid carrier, just standing there . . .'

‘It can't do anything else without a controller . . .'

‘And there it goes. Hook up another carrier, back at the beginning, for when the controller returns . . .'

The leader, Frinel, grunted. ‘I want that controller. No other has shown such skill! This is the controller who will bring us to our destiny at last! Track the signal. Send a message to our Earth agents. He will play the game for us – under our control.' He paused. ‘And talking of control . . .'

He lumbered round, till his back was facing the rest. Then with a swish, he sent a barrage of quills flying towards the hapless small Quevvil from the teleport booth. The Quevvil collapsed to the floor.

‘Discipline must be maintained,' said Frinel.

Mickey Smith was beginning to regret throwing out the Doctor, not because he wanted the smug git's company, but because it was obvious that Rose wasn't coming back with the milk and biscuits now her older man had left. He began an expedition through the kitchen cupboards, but there was nothing much except an old box of cereal and a giant jar of pickled onions that had been a recent present from Rose's mum. He unscrewed the lid, selected an onion and began to crunch thoughtfully.

So the Doctor was taller than him, and better-looking than him, and had saved the world more times than he had. He could cope with all that. But it was a bit much when the bloke even thrashed him at video games, because that was an Earth thing, a Mickey thing, and he should be allowed to win out there at least.

It was just because it was this new, weirdo game.
Grand Theft Auto,
or
Gran Turismo,
or even Sonic the bleedin' Hedgehog, and the Doctor wouldn't have stood a chance. But this game, with its jerky viewpoint and freaky graphics – it took time to get used to. Mickey hadn't played it nearly enough yet. Taking another onion, Mickey sauntered back into the other room and switched the games console back on. He was going to master this thing, and then next time the Doctor turned up on his doorstep he'd challenge him to a game – just a little game, Doctor, not scared I'll beat you, are you, Doctor? – and then he'd show the time-travelling show-off . . .