Doctor Who - I Am a Dalek (2 page)

He stopped talking and played some music. ‘This is Anne Murray,

“Snowbird”.’

Kate knew it was deadly, a song designed specifically to stop people getting out of bed and going to work. It was a drowsy, yawny song.

But she couldn’t resist, and she turned her face into a deep fold of pillow, closed her eyes and felt that, like the snowbird, she too should spread her tiny wings and flyaway.

A second later she heard another voice. A Scottish voice. Ken Bruce.

Wogan was handing over to Ken Bruce – which could only mean it wasn’t a second later but half past nine.

Kate sat up in bed and checked the clock. ‘What?’ she screamed.

‘How
can
it be? What happened to those ninety minutes?’

She threw back her duvet and ran for the bathroom, tore off her pyjamas, rolled a deodorant under her arms, grabbed a creased blouse from the airing cupboard, slipped into her work skirt and shoes, and hurtled downstairs. A letter lay on the mat for her: another credit 5

card statement that she could add to the tear-stained folder under her bed. She threw it over her shoulder, grabbed her bag, stuffed half a croissant her mum had left on the phone table into her mouth, and bolted through the front door, into what was often described as one of the most beautiful villages in the UK. But for Kate, Winchelham was only a beautiful trap.

Because she was twenty-eight and back. Back in the room she’d grown up in, waking each morning in the same single bed where, as a teenager, she’d dreamed of leaving. Creeping round the village for fear of bumping into someone from school and having to explain why she was here. The girl with the big-city dreams, returned from London under a cloud of debt, living with her mum and dad. Sorting her life out while working in a call centre by the nature reserve, at a corner desk facing away from the curlews and kingfishers, with a view on to some rubbish bins and the car park.

Thoughts of the call centre quickened Kate’s pace down the winding street towards the green. Her boss, Serena, would right now be looking at the empty corner desk, pulling her cardigan over her enor-mous, unforgiving breasts and tutting. Serena, who wouldn’t open filing cabinets in case she broke her nails. Serena, who disapproved of Kate’s personal calls, yet seemed to spend half her working day ringing her friend Sheila to discuss her wayward husband in a flat, dull tone. ‘I said, “If she’s out of your bed and out of your life, how come there are two tickets to the Gambia in your dresser drawer?”’

Calls came from people across the country, furious that their beds hadn’t been delivered as promised, or had turned up with no head-board or without wheels. Those calls would now be going to voice-mail.

Kate couldn’t believe she was actually running
towards
Serena, running
towards
the angry voices.

The village she knew in every detail – every lamp-post, every dodgy paving stone, every litter bin mocking her screwed-up life – blurred past her as she ran to the green and the 9.40 bus. It was now 9.39.

The buses were always late, but Kate just knew that this particular bus would be turning the corner by the church exactly on time, about 6

now. That would mean a long walk to work along a shady, muddy lane.

So she ran even faster.

Rose climbed out of her spacesuit. She could hear sounds of movement coming from upstairs. The last thing she wanted right now was to have to explain herself to the landlord, so she unlocked a window, hauled it open and squeezed herself through the gap on to the sunny, empty village street.

She knew the Doctor wouldn’t have abandoned her willingly. He’d be back soon with some bizarre and technical explanation. But then she thought of the Dalek on the mosaic. Surely there had to be some connection between it and the Doctor’s sudden disappearance. . .

She was distracted from these dark thoughts by the prettiness of what lay before her. The clouds were moving away now and the light blue May sky framed an idyllic scene: post-office, a little museum, village green and church. The Doctor had been right – beyond the church and over some low hills she caught a glimpse of the sea. A single-decker bus pulled round the corner of the green by the church and drove slowly along. It seemed impossible that the Doctor’s hectic, dangerous life could affect such a place, where things were carrying on much as they had for hundreds of years.

Rose sat on a bench and took the TARDIS key from the pocket of her jeans, waiting for it to glow and alert her to the Doctor’s return.

In the distance she heard the sound of high heels running. Someone was in a hurry.

Kate whizzed round the corner on to the village green as she had done a million times before, sending a rinsed milk bottle left by somebody’s front gate flying. She could hear the bus’s engine off to the left and knew in her heart she was too late, but still she kept running.

A big ball of bitterness, caused only partly by the croissant she had just eaten, formed in her stomach. Was this it? A year ago she’d been in London, selling her flip-flops in Camden Market, so confident about repaying her business loan to the bank that she was using her credit 7

card to pay her rent. She’d thought she was just getting started. What if she’d already finished, had crashed and burnt? What if she was just useless? What if life was useless?

She saw the back of the bus, on the other side of the green by the pub, rolling smugly away. She crashed to a halt in the middle of the road. A fraction of a second later a bright red sports car zoomed round the corner and smashed into her.

She had one tiny moment to realise that she was about to die. The credit card bill was never going to be paid off. She would never walk down the long muddy lane in heels, catkins catching on her jacket.

Serena would never tell her off for being two hours late. She’d never get to do any of the wonderful things she’d planned. This was the end of it all. A stupid, silly accident.

She thumped down on to the hard tarmac as the car screeched to a halt. The milk bottle jingled by.

The dull smack of metal on flesh caught at Rose’s heart. There was no other sound like it – like a soul leaving the body. Her head full of thoughts of her dad, she sprang from the bench and raced across the green.

The driver of the sports car was standing, stunned, by the body of a red-haired young woman. ‘I didn’t see her,’ he called to Rose in a dead voice. ‘She just ran out and stopped. . . ’

‘Call an ambulance!’ shouted Rose.

The driver got out his mobile and started dialling.

Rose knelt by the young woman and took her hand. The woman’s eyelids were fluttering. There might still be a chance. She remembered watching a first aid video from her old job; after an accident, you have to keep the person talking. ‘Listen! Talk to me. My name’s Rose Tyler. What’s your name?’

The woman said faintly, ‘Kate. . . ’

‘What’s your second name? Kate, what’s your surname? Talk to me!

Everything’s gonna be fine. There’s an ambulance coming.’

Rose clenched the hand in hers, but the middle of Kate’s body was horribly twisted, and a deep purple stain of blood was colouring her 8

blouse.

Rose squeezed her hand hard, so hard it hurt. ‘Kate!’

Her eyes rolled. ‘Yates. . . I’m Kate Yates. . . ’ Then Rose saw the light go out of her eyes.

Suddenly something stung Rose’s hand. She flinched and drew it back. At the same time, Kate’s body twitched and shook. Her back arched. A green aura spread out from the wound, rolling out to cover her whole body. Rose swallowed. The air around Kate had the tang of a thunderstorm; she was crackling with power.

The aura disappeared as quickly as it had come, as if flicked off by a switch.

Kate’s red hair was now blonde.

Rose leaned forward. ‘Kate?’

Her blouse still stained, Kate calmly stood and picked up her bag.

Rose looked down at where she’d lain, at the pool of fresh blood.

‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m fine,’ said Kate.

9

THE DOCTOR LOOKED UP at the grinding central column of the TARDIS. As soon as he’d touched the controls, the doors had shut and the craft had decided to take off. ‘Hello! There should be two passengers on this ship!’ he cried.

He crossed to the scanner screen, which was filled with a strange set of symbols he hadn’t seen before. He knew one thing for sure, though: the TARDIS was not under the control of an outside influence. It had changed course from the moon and brought them to Earth. Now it was taking him somewhere else. Even after nine centuries of travel through space and time, it could still surprise him.

‘What are you trying to tell me? Don’t go all cryptic. Can’t you just
say
? And where are we going now – Northampton?’ He flicked a few buttons with no result. ‘Stop, stop!’

A second later the column shuddered to a halt, the big room tilting and knocking him off his feet. He switched the screen to an outside view of his new location. It showed a dark, empty concrete chamber.

He stripped off his spacesuit and took his pinstripe suit jacket from a peg. Putting it on, he grabbed a torch from a locker, then swung the doors open and strode out. Wherever the TARDIS had taken him, and for whatever reason, it had only been in flight for a few seconds. He couldn’t be very far from where he’d left Rose.

It certainly looked and smelt very different from the last stop. The air was damp and decayed, with that special flat coolness you only find underground. The beam of his torch pierced through the pitch blackness. It passed over bare concrete pillars to settle on a metal sign with AREA 3 written on it in stark, official lettering. Next to it was a bracket where a fire extinguisher would once have fitted.

Beside that was a huge studded dark green metal door, swung wide open. He walked through it into a long, bare corridor. ‘Hello. Any-11

one about?’ he called, not expecting an answer. The place seemed deserted, abandoned.

He walked a little further down the corridor and turned into another room. The torch lit up two lines of old, rusting iron beds. On the wall by the door was a phone; the Doctor lifted it and listened.

It was dead. The sole of his shoe scuffed against something on the floor. He knelt down and picked up a tattered booklet with the title

‘Protect and Survive’ and a date of 1980. ‘“Eat only tinned food,”’ he read from it.

‘“If you live in a caravan or other similar accommodation which provides very little protection against fall-out, your local authority will be able to advise you on what to do.”’ He laughed to himself.

‘Hello. It’s the council and we advise you to run like hell.’

So he was in a nuclear bunker, a disused one by the look of it. But why had the TARDIS brought him here?

Before he had time to think about it any further, he heard something he was not expecting. He strained to listen. Yes, he was right.

Somebody, somewhere in this bunker, was listening to the radio.

He set off in search of that person.

Frank Openshaw sat back proudly in his chair, watching the dig, tapping his toes to the song on the radio. The slow, patient business of his greatest project yet was spread out before him. Volunteers, mostly students from the local farming college, were working carefully down in the pit, which was lit by several huge lamps. He took a swig of coffee from the cup of his thermos flask, feeling secure and successful.

This site was going to make his name. He didn’t care too much about the fame, but the security of guaranteed work was another matter.

He’d never let Sandra down again.

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, can I borrow your phone?’ asked a voice in a slightly odd, London-but-not-quite-London accent.

Frank looked up. The owner of the voice was too old to be a student; he was tall and very thin, dark-haired, dressed in a slightly scruffy suit. Frank blinked. It was as if someone had switched on 12

a bright light. The stranger shone with confidence and enthusiasm, and he found himself handing over his mobile phone without even thinking about it.

‘You won’t get a signal down here,’ Frank warned him.

‘Bet I will,’ said the stranger. He took a slender metal tube from his pocket, flicked a switch on its side and held its tip to the side of the phone. Then he dialled.

Frank looked on fascinated.

He heard a woman’s voice on the phone. ‘OK, what happened?’

‘I’m blaming the TARDIS,’ said the stranger.

‘Yeah, it’s all the

TARDIS’s fault. It’s got all these emergency systems. I turned them all off years ago. They kept going off and I couldn’t hear myself think.

Must have come back on. I’m at –’ he looked at Frank – ‘Where am I?’

‘Crediton Vale,’ said Frank.

‘Crediton Vale, disused bunker, must be about a mile and a half away. Lovely walk for you. I’m jealous. See you in a bit.’

‘Hold on, Doctor,’ said the woman’s voice urgently. ‘Something really weird and important. Two things actually. First, there’s this dig, and they’ve –’

‘Yeah, I’m there now. See you later. I can’t talk because I’m on someone else’s phone.’ He snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Frank. Then he rubbed his hands and looked down into the pit. ‘Digging,’ he said. ‘Don’t know if I like digging. Digging can be good, digging can be bad. Depending on what the diggers are digging up.’ He turned to Frank and gave a wide, wide smile. ‘I know. Shall I stop talking for a bit?’

Frank was looking at his phone’s screen. No bars. ‘The signal’s gone,’ he said.

‘Has it?’ replied the stranger innocently.

Frank pointed to the metal tube in the stranger’s hand. ‘What’s that? How did it do that?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said the stranger. ‘Birthday present from my sister-in-law. I wanted a tie.’ He pointed over Frank’s shoulder to a long piece of rotted wood, one of their biggest finds so far, which was tagged and laid out on a long work table. ‘That’s the turning spike 13

from a Roman well, about AD 70. Tie your horse there, round and round it goes. Five minutes later one nice bucket of water, one very dizzy horse.’