Doctor Who_ Grave Matter Part 13

'Oh yes. You came here to confirm your suspicions that there was something odd going on.' He pushed the coffin lid over and it toppled down the mound of earth and slid into the grave. The Doctor started shovelling earth on top of it. 'And I think we've proved there is something distinctly strange happening here,' he said matter-of-factly. 'In spades.'

She was dreaming about the figures. They spun and twisted and danced in her head. Janet Spillsbury had been going over the latest batch of results before she went to bed, and now she was caught in a semi-conscious world where everything that happened did so in the context of a mathematical equation.

She was aware that she was thirsty, but could not see the square in the table of numbers that contained a drink. She could hear a banging sound from somewhere, but could not tell what number it was making the noise.

The noise was a monotonous rhythm. Like the way the numbers flowed past her tired eyes as she ran her finger down the page. And suddenly she was awake, and she knew that not everything was related to the numbers, to the results, to the experiment.

The sound was real. It was insistent, regular and constant.

It was coming from downstairs. She struggled blearily into her dressing gown, wondering why n.o.body else had heard it.

Where was Rogers, or Packwood? She knew Packwood was a light sleeper.

As she picked her way down the stairs she realised that it was someone knocking at the front door. Rogers slept at the back of the house, so perhaps he could not hear it. But Packwood's room was over the entrance hall. She thought she could hear him stirring above as she reached the front door.

Outside, the first streaks of dawn were cracking across the night sky. It looked like it was going to be a lovely day. It had been cold the night before, she knew. She had heard the rain and the ground was damp. There was a crispness to the morning and it was still very cold. Her breath froze as a mist in the air as Janet exhaled. She stifled a cry and stepped backwards, letting the door swing fully open.

The figure in the doorway lurched forwards. Water was pooling at its feet. The suit it wore was sodden and torn. A strip of seaweed wound round one leg as it took another lurching step. The wide, staring, impossibly pale eyes bored into Janet as she took another step backwards, still unable to shout or scream. The face was a pasty ma.s.s of flaccid skin, scratched and weeping seawater. The hair was plastered to the skull.

At last, Janet turned to run. And found that Logan Packwood was standing right behind her. He was fully dressed.

'Oh thank G.o.d, Logan,' she managed to say. 'It's -'

'So I see,' he said. His head was tilted slightly to one side as he took in the situation. The walking corpse seemed to have stopped now, as if waiting just inside the doorway.

Packwood sighed. 'I suppose we should have foreseen this,' he said, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.

'Foreseen it?' Janet hissed. 'It's...' she struggled to find a word. 'Grotesque.'

'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I suppose it is.' Then bizarrely, incongruously, he smiled. 'But then this whole thing is rather bizarre, don't you think? Thus is real progress made.' He stepped up to the thing on the threshold and examined it with interest, oblivious to Janet's look of disgust.

'I think I'm going to be sick,' she mumbled, hand to mouth as the smell reached her through the cold air.

'Yes.' Packwood said, obviously not listening. 'We need to decide what we should do with this...' He reached out and pinched the limp skin of the cheek, rubbing his finger and thumb over it, pulling it back from the jaw so the blackened teeth emerged in a rictus grin. 'This side effect.'

Janet cupped her hand under her mouth as she ran.

Chapter Eight.

Delivery She pushed her breakfast round the plate, not really hungry. It was difficult to conjure up an appet.i.te after the shock. Coffee, she could manage. Solid food was something else.

'Not eating?' Packwood asked as he devoured his bacon and egg with gusto.

Janet pushed the plate away and shook her head.

'How are you getting on with a.n.a.lysing the results?'

She stared at the plate. 'OK,' she said. 'But I don't suppose it matters.'

'Because of our fisherman friend?' Packwood gave a short howl of laughter. 'I wouldn't let him put you off your breakfast. Teething problems, no more.'

'Teething problems?' Janet stared at him. 'A walking corpse knocks at the door in the small hours and you call it a teething problem?'

Packwood shrugged, dabbing at his full lips with a napkin.

'What would you call it?'

'Sickening,' she murmured, remembering.

Packwood was standing up now, extracting himself from the chair and pushing it back far enough to allow his more than ample bulk to emerge from behind the table. 'I'd like you to finish up this morning if you can. There's something I want you to do at lunchtime.'

'We're going on?' she asked in surprise. 'Despite -'

'Despite nothing,' he snapped. 'Of course we're going on.

We can't stop now, Janet. Think what this means. Think what we shall achieve. For everyone.'

'But we can't,' she protested. 'Surely we can't -'

'We must must,' he hissed at her, leaning forwards, hands resting heavily on the surface of the table. 'For Christopher if for no other reason.' He straightened up. 'You of all people should appreciate that,' he said quietly.

She sat in silence for a moment, her head in her hands, staring at the table mat where her plate had been. Seeing every detail and blemish of the plain burgundy finish, the gold outlines of the edge. 'What do you want me to do?' she asked at last.

'That's better.' There was a hint of relief in his voice. 'We need you, Janet. I need you.' He was behind her, though she had not heard him approach. His huge hand clapped down on her shoulder, squeezing, pulling her back in the chair so she looked up at him towering above her. 'Leave the a.n.a.lysis for now,' he said. 'But I think it would be a good idea if you went over to the main island. Have lunch at the pub. Take a bit of a break. Fresh air.'

'Thank you,' she murmured, wondering what was behind this. She soon knew.

'And while you're there, keep your ears open. I need to know if anyone saw...saw our friend last night.' He let go of her shoulder, his great hand lifting, then coming down heavily as he patted her. 'Let's find out if we're clean on this, or whether there's any damage limitation to be done.'

She nodded slowly as he walked away. 'All right. I'll see what I can do.'

Packwood paused at the door. He tapped a pudgy finger against his chin. 'That strange Doctor who was here yesterday...'

'What about him?'

'A monitor, do you think? Checking? I'd like to know more about him.'

Janet nodded. 'Could be,' she agreed. 'He wanted to see Christopher. Maybe he knows. I mean, maybe he really does know.'

Packwood was stroking his chin now, deep in thought. He shook his head. 'He doesn't know. He might guess. But n.o.body knows. Only you and I.'

'And Rogers.'

Packwood nodded. 'And Christopher Sheldon.' He closed the door behind him, so that his last words were almost lost.

But she heard. 'Not that he matters now, of course.'

Surgery ran from ten in the morning until noon. Dave Madsen had made it clear that he was always on call, always available.

But with no telephones he was also keen to keep anything other than emergencies within certain scheduling limits. So for two hours every morning, except Sunday (when anyone could catch him after church if they needed) he sat in his consulting room and waited to see if anyone knocked at the door. Usually he saw someone, often several people, during the morning.

When there was a bug going round then there was often a queue. He had no receptionist, so it was up to the villagers to organise a sensible system.

It was only a quarter to ten when his first caller arrived.

Madsen was carrying a steaming cup of coffee carefully to his desk. He had filled it too full, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the cup. The knock at the door startled him and scalding coffee dripped on to his hand as he set down the cup. 'd.a.m.n!' he said as he shook the hot liquid off his hand.

'Just a minute,' he called out.

He was at the sink now, running his scalded fingers under the cold tap. The door opened anyway, he heard it and turned sharply. 'I said -' he started. Then he broke off and smiled.

'Oh, it's you. I'm sorry. I thought it was a punter arrived early with a snotty nose or something.'

Liz Trefoil smiled thinly. 'No,' she said. 'It's me.'

'So I see.' He dried his hand on the towel hooked over the rail by the sink and crossed to her quickly. He hesitated as he reached her. She was not returning his smile. In fact she looked tired and worn. 'You're not ill, are you?' he asked. It sounded odd as soon as he said it.

But it drew a faint smile from her. 'No. I'm not ill.'

'Good,' he said. 'Then I won't catch anything.' He pulled her close, arm round her as he went to kiss her.

'Silly,' she said, pulling back. But she didn't resist for more than a moment. They kissed for several seconds before she again pulled away.

'Are you all right?' Madsen asked, sensing she was nervous, tense.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'I just want to know why you lied.'

'Why I what?'

'I've been thinking about it. All yesterday. I kept hearing your voice, hearing you saying it.'

'Saying what?' Madsen shook his head. 'I'm sorry I didn't see you yesterday. But I was telling the truth. I meant what I said when -'

'Not to me,' she interrupted. 'You lied about Bill Neville.'

He blinked. Felt his stomach lurch and the blood drain from his face. 'Bill Neville.'

'You told Sir Edward that his arm was just sprained.'

'That's right.'

She stared at him, head to one side, hands tight at her sides. 'You know his arm was broken, Dave. It's not like it was a mistake, was it? So why did you lie?'

'Liz.' He shook his head.

'I was here when they brought him in, remember? That afternoon.'

He nodded quickly. 'I remember. Of course I remember, darling.'

'And I saw him.' Her lower lip quivered. 'I saw his arm, bent round. The bone sticking...' She swallowed. 'Sticking...'

A sob escaped from her lips and she turned away quickly.

He held her from behind, arms tight round her. 'I know,'

he breathed. 'Darling, I know.'

She pulled away and spun round. The tears glistened on her cheeks. 'So why lie about it, Dave? What's going on?' She waited several seconds. 'Tell me!' she demanded.

His own breath was ragged and uneven now as he tried to keep his voice level, reasonable. 'Look, Liz - darling. I would.

If I could tell you, I would. Really.'

She just stared at him. Then she looked away. 'Fine,' she said quietly.

'No,' he sighed. 'It's not fine. It's just that...Well, that -'

'That what?' she shouted. 'What, for G.o.d's sake? That you love me but you don't trust me, is that it?' She was shaking her head. Her lip was going again. But before the tears started once more she turned and ran from the room.

He stood absolutely still, his mouth half open. When the outside door slammed shut, he flinched. He walked slowly to his desk and sat down on the chair behind it. He cupped his hands round the mug of coffee, scalded fingers forgotten in the heat of the situation. He stared into the misty brown liquid, surprised more than anything when the first tear splashed into the mug.

He left a sign on the door apologising that surgery would be at three in the afternoon today. Then he walked briskly up to the quay and untied Bob Trefoil's rowing boat. Liz's father wouldn't mind, he was sure. Especially given the circ.u.mstances.

By the time he reached the smaller island, Dave Madsen was sweating. He was drained, physically and emotionally.

But his muscles did not ache as much as he had expected.

Perhaps he was getting used to rowing, although he did very little of it really. Usually Rogers came for him when he had an appointment. But not today. Today was not an appointment.

But what he had to say was too important to wait.

The imperturbable Rogers made no comment on Madsen's appearance - either the fact he was there or the state he was in.

He showed him into the drawing room and left, saying he would fetch Mr Packwood.