Doctor Who_ Deep Blue Part 9

The Doctor was already leaning over the body, a concentrated frown on his face. After a few seconds he looked up at the little man, who was hovering on the periphery of the group. 'Do you have any surgical gloves, Mr...'

'Booth,' said the man, 'Yes, sir, I'll just get you some.'

He scuttled away and returned moments later. The Doctor thanked him, pulled on the gloves and began to examine the dead man more closely, touching the spines on his chest and arms, prodding the surrounding flesh. 'I understand the man died of blood loss due to his injuries?'

'Yes, sir. He was stabbed four times.' Booth indicated the now bloodless purple-black slits in the man's abdomen.

'Hmm. Was anyone else involved in this incident treated for injuries at this hospital?'

'Yes, sir. Several people.'

'And did they exhibit similar... afflictions?'

'I'm not sure, sir. I could find out for you.'

'I'd be grateful if you would,' said the Doctor and straightened up, looking down at the corpse curiously. 'He seems to be lying rather awkwardly.'

'Yes, sir,' said Booth. Tie's a hunchback.'

'Do you mind if we have a look?'

'No, sir. I'll give you a hand.'

They heaved the corpse over on to its side. Now they could all see the peculiar double-hump, almost like vestigial wings, on the man's back.

'Interesting,' breathed the Doctor.

'Well, Doctor?' said the Brigadier. What do you think?'

The Doctor looked round at the three UNIT men.

'Metamorphosis,' he said.

'Meta-what?' said Benton.

'The people of Tayborough Sands are changing, Sergeant,'

the Doctor replied. Then he looked thoughtful and his voice dropped an octave. 'The question is - into what?'

The ringing of the telephone jerked Edith Perry from a dream about her long-dead husband Harold and his pigeons. The pigeons had been changing into little trains with wings, and Harold had been waving his fists in the air and ranting, 'It's that boy what's done this. Where is he? I'll tan him, I will.'

The ringing made her heart flutter like a dying bird in her paper-thin chest. She swung her legs slowly from the bed, confused and alarmed, wondering who could possibly be calling at such an hour.

Then she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 7 a.m. What was going on? Why hadn't Jack brought her her early morning cup of tea before slipping out to work? Surely he hadn't overslept for the first time in his life?

The sultry night had given way to an already muggy morning, but she shivered as she crossed the room to the dressing-gown hung on the back of her door. In the past five years or so she had become p.r.o.ne to an inner chill that only old people seemed afflicted by. It made her wake each morning with stiff limbs, made her feel as though her blood had congealed to cold jelly in the night.

She pulled her dressing-gown around her bony shoulders, rubbed her aching, arthritic wrists and moved sluggishly out on to the landing. The ringing of the phone went on and on, setting her teeth on edge. 'All right, all right,' she croaked, 'I'm coming'

She wondered why Jack hadn't been roused by the noise as she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

'h.e.l.lo?' she said a little suspiciously.

'Mrs Perry?'

'Yes.'

'Good morning, Mrs Perry. My name's Gordon Cleeve. I'm Jack's boss. I was just calling to find out what's happened to him this morning.'

'Happened to him?' said Edith.

'Yes. I mean, he didn't turn up for work.'

'Didn't he?'

'No, he didn't.' There was a pause, then Cleeve asked cautiously, 'I take it that Jack's not there with you then?'

'He's not with me at this moment, no,' said Edith, 'but I can't say for certain that he isn't in the house. I haven't had the chance to look yet, you see. Your phone call woke me up.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

'No, no, that's quite all right. I'm usually a much earlier bird than this. I don't sleep well, you know. Haven't done since my husband died.'

It was evident that Cleeve didn't quite know how to respond to this. 'Um... sorry to hear that,' he mumbled. Was it... was it recent? Your husband's death, I mean?'

'Good lord, no! 1959 it was. A stroke, you know.'

'Ah,' said Cleeve. Well, if you could get Jack to call me at his earliest convenience, Mrs Perry?'

'I'll go up straight away and see if he's here. Find out what's ailing him. To be honest he has seemed a little off-colour this week. Perhaps he's got a touch of summer flu.'

'I'm sure you're right, Mrs Perry. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' Edith said.

She put the phone down and shuffled to the bottom of the stairs. 'Jack,' she called up, her voice high and splintery.

'Jack, are you there?'

There was no reply. Edith frowned and tried to recall the last time she had seen her son. Her short-term memory was terrible these days. She could remember events from ten, twenty, even fifty years ago with crystal clarity, but attempting to place recent events into some semblance of order never failed to get her into a dreadful muddle.

Had she seen him yesterday? Hadn't they sat down together to a supper of baked salmon and broad beans? They usually ate together, so surely she would have remembered if they hadn't? Wasn't it yesterday that he had been quiet, almost surly? Hadn't he left his food untouched, then stumped upstairs without a word?

She began to climb the stairs, slowed down by her aching joints. She hoped he wasn't in trouble. Though what sort of trouble could could he be in? He never saw anyone, never went anywhere, except for the railway station on a Sunday to help out. He was a good boy, Jack. He had always looked after her. Not that she had asked him to, of course; everything he'd done had always been his own decision. he be in? He never saw anyone, never went anywhere, except for the railway station on a Sunday to help out. He was a good boy, Jack. He had always looked after her. Not that she had asked him to, of course; everything he'd done had always been his own decision.

She reached the top landing, breath wheezing thinly in her throat. Jack's door was closed. She moved across to it and tapped lightly.

'Jack, love, are you all right?'

Silence.

She grasped the handle in both hands and pushed it down.

The door opened with a grinding clunk. She stepped into the room - and instantly recoiled. The smell in here was terrible.

It was like the fish market on a Friday, but somehow darker, heavier.

She looked towards the bed, across which lay a bar of sunlight from a gap in the curtains. The bed was clearly not empty, but she could not see its occupant. Something was moving beneath the brown sheet which was all Jack had been sleeping under since the nights had turned humid. The movements were slow, almost sinuous, making her think of coiling snakes. Wrinkling her nose against the awful smell, she took another step into the room.

'Jack?' she said uncertainly. 'Jack, is that you?'

The figure in the bed stopped moving, but it neither responded nor emerged from beneath the sheet.

Edith felt a little tic start up at the side of her eye and a nervous curling in her stomach. She wanted to retreat from the room, but a part of her was concerned for her son.

'Jack, please come out from under there,' she pleaded.

Still no response.

'Right,' she muttered, and with a flash of irritation she hobbled across the room, grasped the bed sheet and yanked it away.

Jack was sitting, naked, cross-legged, eyes closed, hands dangling loosely in his lap. Yet despite his apparently relaxed stance there was something terribly wrong with him. His fleshy, usually hairless chest, chubby arms and rounded shoulders were covered in tiny black spines which made him look like a human cactus. Even more alarming were the humps on his back, which were moving, moving, as if something was alive in there. as if something was alive in there.

'Oh Jack,' Edith said, her voice little more than a whisper.

He opened his eyes. They were as black as tar.

Edith tried to scream, but could manage nothing more than a squeak. She stumbled backwards, nearly fell. Jack turned his head and hissed hissed at her. at her.

The hump on his back surged surged and abruptly, with a wet tearing sound, it split open. Before Edith's horrified gaze, six large, long, jointed, crablike legs unfurled themselves. They probed blindly at the air for a moment before finding purchase on the walls and bed. Pain flared in Edith's chest; she was finding it hard to breathe. Jack gave a savage grin and, using his newly-hatched limbs, scuttled across the room towards her. and abruptly, with a wet tearing sound, it split open. Before Edith's horrified gaze, six large, long, jointed, crablike legs unfurled themselves. They probed blindly at the air for a moment before finding purchase on the walls and bed. Pain flared in Edith's chest; she was finding it hard to breathe. Jack gave a savage grin and, using his newly-hatched limbs, scuttled across the room towards her.

The Doctor wanted something to thump, but the lab benches were smothered with a complex array of delicate scientific equipment, so he had to be content with spinning on his heels and smiting his brow in frustration. Three hours ago he had thought that a.n.a.lysing the cell samples taken from the dead man in the hospital mortuary would be a relatively simple task; he had even been blithely confident of coming up with an antidote to the metamorphic processes unleashing themselves on Tayborough Sands's inhabitants.

But the cell samples, despite his best efforts, were stubbornly refusing to identify themselves. He'd tried everything he could think of, using the technology of countless civilisations.

Now, temporarily defeated, he glared at the eclectic jumble of equipment beeping and whirring around him, and hoped that his more long-term endeavours would provide the breakthrough he was looking for. He perfunctorily checked a multi-rack of test tubes in which samples of the infected man's blood had been mixed with a variety of potential neutralising agents, and a row of petri dishes in which various cultures were growing, then he trudged out of the laboratory and out of the TARDIS, and remained lost in thought and almost oblivious to his surroundings until he reached the Lombard Hotel.

'Where've you been?' Turlough asked a little plaintively, throwing open his door before the Doctor had finished knocking on it.

'Here and there,' said the Doctor briskly. 'Where's Tegan?

She didn't answer my knock.'

'She's gone out, again,' said Turlough, as if he disapproved.

'Out? Out where?'

'She said she had a date.'

The Doctor stared at Turlough as if searching for signs of duplicity. Turlough shrugged, looking sulky, 'Someone she met last night apparently. She said she'd be back later.'

'I see,' murmured the Doctor, looking concerned. 'I do hope she'll be careful.'

Turlough raised his eyebrows. 'I'm sure Tegan is quite capable of looking after herself, Doctor.'

'Oh, I'm sure she is, in the normal run of things,' the Doctor said, 'but there are some dangers that are not immediately apparent.' Abruptly he bustled past Turlough and into his room. Crossing to the dressing table, he pulled open the top left-hand drawer and began rooting through it.

Turlough looked indignant and, despite himself, somewhat guilty, 'What are you looking for?'

'Nothing incriminating,' said the Doctor pointedly. 'Ah!'

Turlough was still blushing at the oblique reference to his past as the Doctor pulled out a sheet of writing paper and a pen, both emblazoned with the hotel's name. His hand moved in a blur as he applied pen to paper. Even as Turlough was opening his mouth to ask, 'What are you doing?', the Doctor was folding the sheet neatly in half and striding back to the door.

'Come along, Turlough,' he said before his companion could speak.

Turlough spluttered a little, then his voice became plaintive again. 'Where are we going?'

'I've an appointment with some old friends of mine.' The Doctor offered a disarming grin. 'One of them's an old friend of yours too.'

Turlough hated these manic bursts of energy that gripped the Doctor sometimes. All he could do was scurry along in his wake, wishing he knew what was going on. By the time he had reached the ground floor - the Doctor having bounded down the stairs ahead of him, of course, too impatient to wait for the lift - Turlough was wheezing and gasping like an asthmatic.

In the reception area, the Doctor's straight, blond hair whipped about his face as he looked quickly around. Seconds later he was striding towards a trio of payphones in an alcove beside the main doors. As the Doctor made a call, Turlough took the opportunity to recover his breath. He dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with a white handkerchief as he watched the Doctor speak rapidly into the phone, put it down, cross to the reception desk and hand the receptionist the folded sheet of paper before re-joining him.

'Why all the subterfuge, Doctor?' Turlough protested.

The Doctor looked puzzled. 'Subterfuge?'

'Why won't you tell me what's going on?'