Doctor Who: The Many Hands (11 page)

'Will it be friendly?' McAllister asked.

The smile disappeared from the Doctor's face.

'We should follow them,' he said, 'shouldn't we?'

McAllister was already running: he remembered
where their raft had been abandoned, and hoped
fervently that the creatures hadn't scuttled it before
massing on the church. He could see the wake of the
bear-creatures as they swam through the brackish
waters. They were already some yards from the shore,
and McAllister was still some yards behind them.
There could be no doubt of their destination.

'A colonial revolution?' McAllister said as they ran.

'Forget I said that,' the Doctor answered.

And they ran.

Martha ran, clutching onto Monro's hand with
one hand, and holding what she knew was also
Monro's hand with the other.

The doorway at the back of the stage led around
to the corridor she had walked down, and there were
still hands scuttling and scurrying down it but not so
many that it was impossible to escape. The hand she
was clutching struggled and fought, wanting to join
the rest of them, but she clung on tight. She wasn't
going to let it go easily: the Doctor would need to see
it if he was going to work out exactly was going on
here and stop it.

Monro was panting hard behind her, his free hand
pressed to his chest.

'Leave me,' he told her.

Martha kept pulling him along. She'd heard that
line in films more than once, and knew where it
led. No: they would both escape the Surgeon's Hall,
or they'd face the monster together. Alexander. Not
the monster. Somewhere inside all those hands,
Alexander was still there. The same man who was
panting and puffing behind her, except not the same
man as well. She'd grown up with the idea of cloning
thanks to Dolly the Sheep: what must it be like for
Monro, having seemingly discovered it out of the
blue?

'When we get outside,' Martha called over her
shoulder, 'we're going to keep running, OK? We're
going to have to get to the Castle, only I don't know
where I am so you're going to have to lead the way.
All right?'

Monro didn't answer immediately, and Martha
risked a quick look over her shoulder. The old
anatomist was starting to go very red in the face, a
purpley-bruisy kind of red, but he was nodding as he
fought for breath.

Martha wondered just how long he could keep
up this kind of pace. Maybe they'd be lucky: maybe
the thing that had once been Alexander wouldn't be
interested in chasing them. Because that was always
how things had gone since she met the Doctor...

'If you start to feel shooting pains going up and
down your arms, you tell me, OK?' Martha said, and
pulled Monro onwards.

The corridor was empty of hands now. They ran
past the hidden door in the wall, which had been
ripped from its hinges by what Martha assumed
was the combined strength of hundreds of the little
hands. She glanced behind her again, but this time
not at Monro. There were a few hands behind them,
skidding to a halt and trembling as if suddenly unsure
of where they had been going in such a hurry. Perhaps
they had just changed their minds about becoming
one massive creature.

She could hear the heavy footfalls of something
following them.

Something gigantic.

'Can we lock the door?' Martha asked.

'The door?' Monro panted.

'The front door! Have you got a key?'

Monro suddenly stopped running.

'I don't...' he panted. 'I can't... He wouldn't hurt
me. It's me, don't you understand? I wouldn't hurt
anyone!'

Martha's heart did a little quick-step in her chest,
and she gave Monro's hand a gentle squeeze. For just
a moment, she saw the poor frightened child who just
wanted his father back to look after him.

'He's not you,' Martha said gently. 'He's just a bad
copy, that's all. And at the minute, he's not even that.
He's just whatever these hands are. But I've got this
friend, and if anyone can bring Alexander back, it's
him. But we've got to get to him first. We can't stand
around here. OK?'

The hands in the corridor suddenly turned and
started to run towards Martha and Monro. She saw
them coming, but Monro still wasn't running and
so neither was she. They would both escape the
Surgeon's Hall, or they'd face the monster together,
and that was just the end of it. The sound of the
footsteps was growing nearer, shaking the floor as
if a herd of elephants was giving chase. Martha gave
Monro a smile.

There was a loud roar behind them.

Martha saw the fear flash in Monro's eyes, and
suddenly they were running again. The door was
just ahead of them, closed but hopefully unlocked.
Looking over her shoulder, Martha saw the other end
of the corridor: a large mass of grey flesh filled it from
floor to ceiling, almost like a man with indistinct
legs, arms and even a head. The only things that she
could make out clearly were its two eyes. They were
two black holes of nothingness, made by the curve of
four fingers and a thumb. They scanned the corridor
angrily, and a hole of a mouth gave another roar as
the empty eyes impossibly saw them.

'Come on,' shouted Martha, and pulled Monro a
little faster.

The monster gave chase once more.

Alexander Monro ran, forcing his feet to fall in a steady
rhythm lest he lose his step and fall to the ground to
wait to die. The girl Martha was running behind him.
She was younger and fitter, and he knew that she
would have gone faster but for him. He was leading
the way, out of the Surgeon's Hall courtyard and up
onto the main road. He hoped that once they were
back onto the High Street, she would know the way
to the Castle and her friend: if he had to be the one to
lead them, then the creature at their heels would have
them for certain.

Alexander.

The creature was no creature. It was him, but for
the grace of providence. He should not think of it as
inhuman. He should not be afraid of it. He should
not run from it, but turn and embrace what he had
become. And yet he kept on running, leading Martha
behind him. He told himself that she needed leading,
before he could do what he should.

'Move! Run!' Martha shouted as they ran. 'Get out
the way!'

The people on the street ignored her, or at the very
most glanced her way and tutted to themselves. As
Alexander appeared behind them, however, they soon
took heed. Poor Alexander: his flesh was completely
obscured by the grey hands now, and they had taken
on a rudimentary human form. Was he still under
there, buried? Or had they simply used him as the
template for their design and then subsumed him?
He ran as fast as he could in pursuit of them, but his
size and the panic of the people he barged heedlessly
through slowed him down as much as Monro's age
slowed him.

But Monro knew which of them could keep up this
pace the longest.

'Ah!' Martha called suddenly. 'I know this bit. Come
on!'

And she turned suddenly, leading them up the slope
of the so-called Royal Mile. Monro found himself
behind her again, being dragged as much as he was
running up the street. Climbing the hill fast took its
toll, however, and his breaths became more ragged,
sharper. He felt a little stab with each inhalation, and
a stitch was growing in his right-hand side. He knew
with cold certainty that he couldn't make the brow of
the hill.

He stopped and panted.

Alexander wasn't behind them, but the screams
grew louder.

He would not be far away.

They ran on, but Monro knew it would only be
a matter of time. Martha could escape without him
slowing her down, he had no doubt, but he also
knew that she would not leave him. He would be the
cause of her capture twice over, first by slowing her
down and once again because it was himself that was
pursuing them. It was an impossible situation: the
only thing he could think was to force her to throw
down the hand that she held and let it scamper back
to join Alexander, but in his present state he could
barely force the breath into his body, let alone force
a young girl in the prime of her life to do what she
didn't wish to.

The Royal Exchange was looming up on their
right.

He had an idea.

'This way,' he called to Martha.

She looked over her shoulder, but didn't seem
inclined to follow him. He didn't leave her much
choice, and hurried over to the Exchange's stone
pillars. Between them, he could see the courtyard and
the dark arches of the actual exchange beyond it, but
it was not the building he was aiming for. He glanced
in Martha's direction, and was pleased to see that after
a moment of indecision she had opted to follow him.
He had been right that she wouldn't leave him, then.

The arch of Warriston's Close appeared on their
right, and Monro hobbled down it, Martha close
behind him. They both heard the screams and shouts
from the street take a louder pitch: Alexander had
made it onto the High Street. Monro only hoped that
he had not seen where they had gone, and they could
lose him for long enough to regain their breath. He
pushed on through Writer's Court and the dusty,
closed doorway waiting there. If it was locked, then
all was lost.

'In there?' Martha asked. 'We can't hide in a building.
We'll be trapped.'

Monro ignored her and tried the door. It complained
loudly, but it swung open. Fortune was with them.
A long flight of stairs descending into darkness was
revealed, and Monro motioned for Martha to take
them. She looked at him uncertainly, and wasted
precious time.

'Mary King's Close,' Monro repeated, ushering
her inside. 'It was sealed at this end when they built
the Royal Exchange over it, but it is still open at the
Nor' Loch end. If we hurry, Alexander will not think
to follow, and we can follow the Loch to the Castle at
our own pace. Please. If he sees us descend, he will
follow.'

Martha looked over her shoulder nervously.

'You're sure Alexander won't think of it?' she asked.
'He is you, you know.'

'Martha, please!'

And so she descended.

Martha kept her hand against the wall as she walked
unsteadily down the rough steps: one false move, and
she would be going head over heels, and the staircase
was so dark that she had no idea how far it was to
the bottom. In fact, she had no idea how far it was
to the next step. All she could do was place one foot
carefully after the next, and listen to the rasping of
Monro's breath behind her.

She hoped he had shut the door behind them.

'Keep going,' Monro encouraged behind her. 'It is
not far.'

Martha stumbled as she hit the last step and tried
to move down to the next, and she almost found the
ground with her face. Monro put out his arms and
caught her, but she had already steadied herself. She
gave him a smile of thanks, and then took a glance
around her. They were in a small alleyway with a
dusty dirt floor that led away from the stairs and into
the gloom. If this was Mary King's Close, then they
were going to die here.

'This is just the entranceway,' Monro assured her,
reading her mind. 'The Close is further in, and there
will be places to hide and catch our breath. Move
down a little way, and you'll see.'

Martha did as she was told, and found that the
alleyway did bend round to the left. As she reached
the turning, she could look down and see the Close
spread out before her.

It ran down the side of the hill, the same dirt floor
dropping away alarmingly fast as it went down to the
Loch below: she wondered how many people had
tripped at the top and found themselves suddenly
at the bottom before they'd sealed it off. Looking
up, the sky was blocked by rough wooden slats that
she could only assume were the foundations of the
Royal Exchange above her. Martha had seen some
pretty strange things on her travels with the Doctor,
but somehow the idea of an underground street
somewhere as close to home as Edinburgh was almost
as unsettling.

'I don't suppose they left us any lights down here,
did they?' Martha asked, looking around.

'There may be some gas lamps in one of the
turnpike houses,' Monro suggested. 'The merchants
were required to put them out on the streets. Even
before they built the exchange above us, it was usually
this dark down here.'

'Really?' Martha asked.

'The houses go so far up,' Monro explained, 'they
block out most of the light. And then when the
washing is hung between the houses...'

Martha took a few steps down the Close and
looked up, and realised what he meant: as the road
sloped quickly away, the houses all remained on the
same level, extra storeys appearing every few steps.
The houses seemed to be much lower than she would
have expected, and the only way to get up to the higher
rooms was by a rickety spiral staircase that ran up
the outside of the building. Martha couldn't imagine
what you did if you lived in the top house and met
someone going in the opposite direction when you
were halfway up.

The disembodied hand twitched uncomfortably in
her grasp.

'Was that why they closed them off?' Martha
asked.

'I don't understand,' Monro said.

She looked around her.

'People couldn't live here,' she said.

'They still do by the Lochside,' Monro answered. He
pointed down to where the gloom seemed to lighten
just a little a few yards down the slope. 'All the Closes
are the same. We wouldn't have the room without the
turnpike houses.'

Martha looked again at the low little houses, piled
up on top of each other and crumbling so badly they
looked like they wouldn't last another few weeks.
There was a foul smell in the air, which she was almost
certain was the Loch at the bottom of the slope. She
couldn't imagine anyone living here of their own free
will: it was worse than the worst London had to offer,
and that was bad enough.

She heard a noise behind them.

'The houses are empty,' Monro whispered, his eyes
wide. 'We should be able to get through to the next
Close. We can rest there.'

Martha nodded, and let Monro lead the way. She
held her free hand out to him, and was glad that he
had taken it the moment he led them inside the first
house. She had to duck to avoid knocking her head on
the ceiling, and without lights or lamps the room was
in almost pitch darkness. For a moment, she nearly
dropped the struggling hand she was holding to reach
out for the light switch. Then she remembered.