Doctor Who_ Amorality Tale Part 4

'I can't! Don't you understand that? I can't stop it!' the Doctor replied, his eyes blazing fiercely.

Sarah took a step back. She had never seen him like this before.

'Those people that die must die. It's history, it's already happened and there's nothing we can do to prevent it, Sarah.'

She was horrified by his fatalism. 'Then why did we come here at all?'

'To prevent a much greater tragedy, one that can still be undone.'

'I don't understand,' Sarah said. 'How can we stop one part of history but not another? Surely that's a a '

'Paradox?' the Doctor replied. 'Perhaps. But that doesn't stop it being real. Let me try to explain. We came from the future, where the events of the next few days have already happened. Thousands died and I had my picture taken alongside Tommy Ramsey. But I believe something far more terrible could happen in the coming days. That's why I have to be here, to try and prevent it. The photograph proves I will be here I just don't know what my role is to be.'

'A bit like a chess piece that can move itself,' Sarah said, beginning to understand his argument. 'Someone else is controlling the game '

'But I can still influence the outcome. My actions could save the lives of thousands or condemn them to a terrible, unnecessary death.' He smiled at her kindly. 'Now do you understand? I do care. I am involved. But it has to be at the right time and place, or all of mankind could suffer the consequences.'

Sarah nodded, feeling a little of the burden that he must be carrying. 'You're scared. You don't want to play G.o.d with people's lives.'

'Something like that.'

She gave the Doctor a hug. 'I'm sorry about what I said before. I didn't mean it really, I was just angry and frustrated.'

'I know.' He lifted her face up and looked into her eyes.

'People will get hurt, Sarah. People will die. We can't prevent that. But we must do all that we can...'

'To do the right thing.'

'Exactly.'

Sarah picked up her coat. 'Well, I'm going to have a bath before I go back to the boarding house for some sleep.

Tomorrow I have a job interview with the Ramsey Mob want to look my best for the new boss. What will you be doing?'

The Doctor returned to examining the troublesome circuitry.

'I am expecting another visit from Ramsey's thugs. I've become quite a thorn in their sides. Goodnight, Sarah.'

'Goodnight, Doctor.'

Thursday, December 4, 1952 Jim Harris blew into his cupped hands, trying to keep his fingers warm. He had been watching the Callum gang since dawn but had gathered little information of use. The youths had risen with the sun, stolen their breakfast from the window of a nearby bakery and lifted bottles of milk from an unattended cart. Hardly the work of a terrifying new force on the East End streets. Now they had returned to their condemned headquarters in Ironmonger Row.

Harris resented being given this job. By rights it should have gone to one of the Ramsey Mob's underlings, who were ever eager to catch the eye of the boss. But Tommy had insisted that a lieutenant study this new threat and Harris had drawn the short straw, thanks to his youthful features. How Tommy expected him to infiltrate this bunch of scruffy teenagers was a mystery!

Harris prided himself on his appearance, wearing the sharpest suits and finely woven silk shirts. Callum and his gang looked like they hadn't seen hot water for weeks.

Normally Harris would have been collecting information from his many contacts in the racing industry by now. Horses would be coming back from their early morning rides, some with old injuries flaring up, others fully fit again. That sort of intelligence was crucial in setting the right odds for local gamblers wanting a flutter. Harris prided himself on running the most profitable book in the East End. It helped having the full weight of the Ramsey Mob at your disposal when it came to collecting bets from reluctant payers. It also helped having a handful of the major trainers for both horses and greyhounds in your pocket, making sure races came in with the right result.

Like the other lieutenants in the Ramsey Mob, Harris had met Tommy during the war. Harris was the unofficial turf accountant for their unit, but the odds he offered were rarely to do with horses. He found soldiers were willing to bet on almost anything, even their own chances of surviving the next battle.

One soldier always bet against himself coming back alive. He claimed his bad luck at gambling would protect him when the bullets started to fly. It worked for five months. When his luck finally turned, Harris had shared the winnings around the unit so everyone could raise a gla.s.s to the dead man.

After the war, Harris had contemplated getting a straight job at a legitimate bookies, but he couldn't stick the hours. Nine to five was never his game. He liked the excitement of the dog track, the thrill of a fine filly emptying the pockets of his punters.

When Tommy took control of the streets around Sh.o.r.editch, Harris had been one of the first invited to join the Ramsey Mob.

It was among the proudest days of his life. So being asked to snoop on a bunch of unwashed teenagers with att.i.tude problems was not high on Harris's list of desired jobs for a chilly December morning.

Harris was contemplating sloping off for a cooked breakfast when he noticed someone was missing from the gang. A quick headcount confirmed his suspicions one of them had slipped away in the last few minutes. But which one? Harris was still scanning the faces of the gang when he heard the voice.

'Nice threads. Shame about the spying git wearing 'em.'

Harris swivelled to find Callum close behind him. 'What the ?!' 'You're not very observant for someone who's been watching us all morning. What's your name?'

Harris stared into the black, pitiless eyes of his interrogator.

'Harris. Jim Harris. You're in trouble, you and your gang.'

Callum grinned. 'How do you figure that?'

'Tommy Ramsey knows all about you. He'll crush you lot like bugs.'

'Is that right? Him and what army?' Callum's hand flashed forward and Harris caught a glimpse of something silver, shining brightly, along with the swish of fabric being sliced apart. He looked down and was shocked to see a burgeoning red stain across his stomach.

Callum shook his head ruefully. 'That's a nasty cut. You should get that seen to. Don't want to get an infection.' His hand flashed forwards again. This time the sound was more like pork being trimmed from the bone. Harris sat backwards on the ground, no longer able to catch his breath. Something damp and warm was running down the insides of his legs.

Callum leaned over and glared into Harris's eyes. 'I've got a message for your boss. If you're lucky, you might live long enough for him to get you to a hospital. But I doubt it. Here's the message.'

Callum whispered a few words into the left ear of the fallen lieutenant before walking away. He wiped the blood from his hands on to a brick wall. When he got back to the rest of the gang, Callum called Charlie and Billy over.

'There's a spy from the Ramsey Mob across the road, badly wounded. He'll probably try to stagger back to his boss. You two watch him. Let me know if anything interesting happens.'

The two brothers nodded in unison and made for the stricken gangster.

A small crowd had gathered outside a humble shop on Old Street, just east of St Luke's Church. Most were parishioners from the church's congregation, but some people from outside the local area were present. Mrs Ramsey was at the front of the crowd, glaring at the man standing behind a red ribbon with Father Simmons. The guest of honour was Derek Carver, Chief Superintendent for much of the East End. A robust, ruddy-faced man, he filled his immaculate uniform to bursting.

The police chief had been invited by Father Simmons to officially open the first Bread of Life retail outlet. But the priest had been distracted from beginning the ceremony by a local newspaper reporter eager to get his story before a fast approaching midday deadline.

'You see, this helps the community in two ways,' Father Simmons explained, 'The factory where we make the bread is run by local people who would not otherwise be able to get work. A lot of them have been laid off from the docks or by factories which are shifting out of the area. So Bread of Life gives these people a pay packet, even if it is only a small one so far. But more important than that, it gives them back their self-respect. Give a man a job and you give him a sense of purpose, a reason to get up in the morning.'

The reporter was rushing to scrawl down the quotes as shorthand in his notebook. 'And the other way? You said it helps the community...'

'Oh yes! Well, of course, it provides cheap food for those who can't afford very much. Bread is part of the staple diet of people in this part of London but many struggle to afford even such a basic foodstuff. So this shop helps them to buy bread cheaply, made locally. That's why we call it the Bread of Life.'

The priest was on a roll now, talking faster than the journalist could keep up with his meagre shorthand skills. 'It's about giving pride back to the East End really. This area was worst hit by the Blitz and it's still waiting for many of the bombed-out buildings to be cleared.'

Father Simmons was interrupted by a gentle nudge from Carver. 'Excuse me, but the err opening ceremony?'

The priest blushed with embarra.s.sment. 'I'm terribly sorry, Chief Superintendent! Once I start talking about this project I get completely carried away. You must forgive me for holding you up!'

The police chief waved away the apology. 'There's nothing to forgive. I like to see a man who is pa.s.sionate about doing good. We need more people like you to help get the East End back on its feet!'

Father Simmons nodded eagerly. 'I'm glad you said that. I have a proposal which I would like you to consider...'

'After the ceremony, perhaps?'

The priest blushed again. 'I'm terribly sorry, I'm doing it again. Let's get started, shall we?' Father Simmons clapped his hands together, getting the attention and the silence of the chattering crowd. 'Welcome, one and all to this very special occasion for the people of Old Street and the surrounding area.

As some of you may know, we have already begun selling the Bread of Life in parts of the East End, but this is our very first shop. If everything goes to plan, we hope to be opening similar shops across London in the coming weeks and months all with their own factories offering work to local people!'

The crowd applauded spontaneously. Chief Superintendent Carver was quite swept along by the priest's fervour. Simmons was a powerful and charismatic speaker, able to reach out to his audience as if speaking to each person individually. It was a rare gift, something Carver wished he possessed himself. But the policeman knew his rough voice and gruff words were never likely to move anybody to applause, let alone religious belief.

'I now invite Chief Superintendent Carver to officially open this shop!' Father Simmons handed a pair of scissors to the police chief before stepping aside. Carver gripped the red ribbon tied across the shop front in one hand and prepared to cut. He paused to allow the newspaper photographer to get a good angle, then sliced through the ribbon. It fell neatly aside and everyone surged toward the shop. Inside, workers from the factory were handing out slices of bread, laden with rich, creamy b.u.t.ter.

'I am the Bread of Life. He who eats of me shall live forever,' Father Simmons called out to the crowd as they entered the shop. 'Everybody's first loaf is free! Make sure you share this bounty with your family!'

Mrs Ramsey had been elbowed aside in the rush to get inside the shop. She cleared her throat loudly several times to get the attention of those around her. Once the others recognised her diminutive figure, they stepped hastily aside. In moments a path had cleared for her to reach the counter. Father Simmons thought it best resembled the Red Sea parting for Moses, but in this case the red came from the threat of b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance Tommy Ramsey would dispense if his mother was denied anything she wanted.

Jim Harris felt a hollowness in his chest, as if his very being was slowly oozing from the vicious wounds to his body. He couldn't die like this, lying in some alleyway, beaten by a smirking youth.

He had a message to deliver and he had never let Tommy down before. He wasn't going to start now, even as his life was dripping away between his fingers.

Somehow Harris pushed himself up against a brick wall, both hands clutching at his wounds. He steadied his shaking legs then began to stagger towards Old Street. If he could make it to a main road, he could wave down a car and get taken to hospital.

There was still time, if only he could make it to a main road. He took one hand away from his stomach and felt something shift inside, something not meant to move like that. It was all he could do to stop from throwing up. Choking down the bile, he staggered on, one b.l.o.o.d.y hand propping him up by leaning on the wall.

Brothers Billy and Charlie followed Harris at a discreet distance.

Chief Superintendent Carver finished his third slice of bread with unexpected enthusiasm. He looked around for more but was disappointed to discover the shop had run out of supplies after only an hour. Father Simmons saw the look on Carver's face and smiled.

'Chief Superintendent! You look unhappy I hope our bread isn't to blame,' the priest said.

'Quite the reverse. I was hoping to take some away with me very tasty. Very tasty,' Carver replied, licking his lips. His eyebrows rose in grat.i.tude as Father Simmons presented him with a wrapped loaf.

'I wouldn't want you to go away empty-handed,' the priest said. 'In fact, I have a proposition for you. How much do the East End police canteens pay for their bread?'

'I don't honestly know.'

'I'm guessing that Bread of Life can undercut whatever price you do pay. And, as you testify, our bread is the equal of any other loaf.'

Carver nodded enthusiastically. 'Better, I would say.'

'Well then, that's settled. I'll put your stations down as our first major business customers.'

The chief superintendent held up his hands in mock protest.

'I only came down to open a shop, Father!'

The priest looked crestfallen. 'I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent I hope I haven't offended you.'

'Not at all, I'm just not used to your American hard sell.'

Father Simmons nodded. 'Well, I wasn't always a man of the cloth. I used to be quite the wheeler dealer before I saw the light not always on the wrong side of the law, either. But those days are long behind me. Now I only want to spread the good word and do my Saviour's bidding.'

'Well, let's just say I'm very impressed by what you've managed to achieve here. I only wish we had more men like you,' Carver replied.

'And the bread supply contract?'

'You don't give up, do you?' the chief superintendent said with a smile. 'Alright, if you can match or better the price the canteens are currently paying, then the contract is yours on a trial basis.'

Father Simmons grabbed Carver's right hand and began to shake it enthusiastically. 'Thank you, thank you you won't regret this!'

Tabernacle Street was one of Sh.o.r.editch's side roads, close to the junction of Old Street and the City Road. Terraced housing lined both sides of the street. Few cars were parked on the road, except for a black Bentley outside number 15. All along the road women dressed in ap.r.o.ns were scrubbing the front steps of their humble homes. It was a local daily ritual, handed down by generations of East End wives and mothers to their daughters. A young woman approached the women, walking hesitantly down the footpath. One of the scrubbers stopped and looked up.

Mary Mills had lived in the same house on Tabernacle Street all her twenty-nine years. She had been born in her parents'

bedroom upstairs, the last of five daughters. Her mother had died soon after due to complications, a fact Mary's father had used as an excuse to beat his daughters every Sat.u.r.day night after he staggered home from The King's Arms. Each daughter left the house as soon as they could, marrying the first man to offer a chance of escape. The old man finally died of liver failure when Mary was sixteen. She inherited the crumbling house, red hair and freckles from her father but nothing else.

Life ever since had been a struggle. Mary got pregnant after a moment of pa.s.sion with a sailor during the Blitz. She was glad her parents were dead when it happened, as the shame would have killed them. But Mary refused to apologise for her behaviour and kept working at both of her cleaning jobs until the day before the baby was born. She named the child Jean after her mother. After that Mary took in laundry to meet the bills.

Two more fleeting romances led to two more girls Rita and Bette (Mary had always been fond of going to the pictures, when finances would allow). The family trait of only having daughters was as strong in Mary as it had been in her mother.

The three girls were all school age now and Mary found the days empty without one of them tugging at her ap.r.o.n strings.