Doctor Who: The Reign of Terror (9 page)

The Doctor sat by the roadside on a
lopsided block of stone set into the grass verge and half concealed
by thorn bushes. He mopped his face and then peered between his knees
at the upside down figures carved into the stone.

'Paris ... Five kilometres,' he
panted. Rousing himself with great difficulty, he clambered up the
steep bank and parted the tangled hedge with his stick. Shimmering in
the late afternoon haze he saw the city of Paris spread out before
him like a picture from a history book. He recognised the spires of
Notre Dame and the glittering ribbon of the River Seine and in the
distance the green foliage of the Bois de Boulogne. But something was
missing. The Doctor's eyes narrowed and his nostrils dilated with
irrepressible curiosity. That was it! The Bastille. The great
fortress prison. It was not there!

The Doctor frowned with disappointment.
'Pity ... ' he muttered. 'I always enjoy the storming of the
Bastille ...' Then he remembered that this was no time for
frivolity. Somewhere in that tense and tyrannised city, Susan and
Barbara and Ian were in deep trouble.

The Doctor slithered back down onto the
road and set off towards Paris with renewed vigour. An hour later he
was walking cautiously through the suburbs, keeping as inconspicuous
as possible and bracing himself for whatever fate held in store for
him in the capital.

Ian was still slumped on the bed in
despair when he heard the gaoler clattering around outside with bowls
of food and tin jugs of water. The bunch of keys was banged violently
against the lock and the gaoler's baleful eye appeared squinting
through the grille.

'If you want something to eat you'd
better get back against the wall and stay there,' he snarled.

Ian obeyed. The gaoler balanced the
bowls on one arm and grasped the handles of several jugs with the
same hand as he tried to select the correct key with his free hand
while gripping the key ring in his teeth.
Eventually he found the key and forced it into the lock. The rusty
mechanism squealed horribly as the door opened. Keeping his eyes on
Ian, the gaoler placed a bowl of grey mush and a jug of brackish
water on the floor and shoved them inside with his foot. Then he
slammed the door shut and attempted to lock it, still balancing the
other jugs and bowls precariously.

'Gaoler?'

Lemaitre's powerful voice rang out so
unexpectedly that the inebriated ruffian almost jumped right out of
his boots. He fumbled furiously with the jammed lock and struggled to
keep hold of all the jugs and bowls.

'Yes, what is it, Citizen?' he shouted
nervously, twisting the key with feverish fingers.

Lemaitre was standing impassively at
the foot of the steps from the courtyard at the end of the vault.
'Come here at once!' he commanded, slashing at the wall with his
cane.

The gaoler swore under his breath and
fought to turn the key, but the lock seemed completely immovable.
'Coming, Citizen ... Coming ... ' he panted, trying to extricate
the key from the lock without success.

Lemaitre strode towards the alcove.
'Gaoler, I ordered you to come here immediately!'

His cold steely voice seemed to strike
terror into the flustered gaoler. Abandoning the jammed key in the
lock, the fumbling bully clutched at his overflowing bowls and jugs
and scuttled across to his table where Lemaitre was waiting for him,
his eyes flashing with fury.

'Perhaps you did not hear me calling .
. . ?' Lemaitre said with menacing sarcasm.

The gaoler dumped the bowls and jugs on
the table. 'I'm truly sorry, Citizen,' he burbled. 'I
came as fast as I could. I was busy with the food and ... '

Lemaitre's cane cut through the air
like a scimitar and sent the bowls and jugs and spoons flying,
spilling their unappetising contents all over the walls and floor.
'The prisoners' food is not important!' he hissed.

The gaoler bowed his flea-ridden head
in abject submission.

Lemaitre stared at him in contemptuous
distaste. 'You realise do you not, goaler, that Citizen Robespierre
will be asking to see the weekly execution figures?'

'I have them ready Citizen,' the gaoler
mumbled ingratiatingly, rummaging through the mass of papers on the
table and wiping off bits of spilt food with his frayed cuff.

Lemaitre sat in the chair and studied
the schedules with a critical frown. 'I hope for your sake that they
are satisfactory,' he warned. 'Otherwise, you might well find
yourself on the list.'

The trembling gaoler hovered anxiously
at Lemaitre's shoulder, glancing from the execution schedules to
Lemaitre's noble profile in the hope of seeing some hint as to
whether the authorities would consider his quotas to be satisfactory.

As soon as the gaoler had scuttled
away, Ian hurried over to the door and stood on tiptoe to try to look
through the grille at the outside of the lock. He could just see the
end of the jammed key and the iron ring hanging from it. He looked
from side to side as far as he could and listened to make sure no-one
was nearby. Then he reached through the grille and fiddled cautiously
with the end of the key, trying to unjam it. The jangling of the keys
at the bottom of the ring made quite a racket and he had to be very
careful to work quietly as well as quickly. As a science teacher he
knew something about mechanical levers and by gently moving the end
of the key around and easing it in and out he was gradually able to
free it.

Trembling with excitement, he turned
the key to lock the door properly and then removed the key from the
lock and lifted the key ring in through the grille. He was delighted
to discover that the iron ring had a break in it where keys could be
added or replaced. Exerting all his strength, Ian managed to open the
ring up just enough to remove the key to his own cell. He put the
precious key into the pocket of his breeches and then quickly closed
the ring up again by leaning on it against the wall. Finally he
selected a key on the ring resembling the one he had removed.
Reaching through the grille on tiptoe, he tried to insert the key
into the lock. It was very awkward, working blind and with his arm at
such an angle between the bars, and several times he almost dropped
the entire bunch of keys onto the flagstones.

At last he found the hole and forced
the wrong key into the lock, twisting it as hard as he could so that
it jammed tight, just as the proper key had done. Wiping the sweat
out of his eyes and sighing with relief, Ian picked up the dish of
grey gruel and the jug of warm stale water which the gaoler had left
on the floor. Throwing himself down on the bed opposite the door, he
began to wolf down the cold food with ravenous relish.

Citizen Lemaitre rolled up the
execution schedules and slipped a tricolour ribbon round them.
'Excellent,' he said with a nod of approval.

The gaoler beamed. 'Thank you, Citizen.
My only desire is to serve the cause of the People to the best of my
ability.'

Lemaitre rose gravely. 'Nevertheless,
loyalty should not go unrewarded.' he declared. The crafty gaoler
pulled a face of mock dismay. 'Reward, Citizen?' he protested. 'But I
seek no reward.'

Lemaitre smiled bleakly. 'That is as
it should be,' he murmured thoughtfully. 'But I shall see to it that
your name is mentioned in the appropriate quarter.' With a lofty wave
of his gloved hand, Lemaitre dismissed the grovelling gaoler and
strode away.

Grinning with self-importance, the
gaoler strutted along the vault checking the cell doors
and inspecting the remaining inmates through the
spyholes and grilles. Suddenly his podgy features contorted in
horror. His hands flew to his belt where the key ring normally hung.
With a whimper of panic he turned and ran back to Ian Chester-Ion's
cell at the other end of the vault. He gasped with relief when he saw
the keys still in place in the lock where he had left them. Peering
through the grille, he saw the occupant sitting quietly on the bed
eating. The thankful gaoler rattled the key to and fro and finally
managed to dislodge it. He checked that the door was securely locked
and hooked the ring back onto his belt. Puffing out his chest with
pride, he swaggered back to his alcove and sat down at the table.

Plucking off his moth-eaten hat, he
used it to soak the sweat off his face and to wipe the gruelly stew
from the table. Then he took a fresh bottle of cognac out of the
drawer, uncorked it and raised it in a smug toast to himself.

Jules and Jean tightened their grip on
their muskets and drew back into the shadows at the mouth of the
alleyway as they watched the creaking tumbril shudder to a halt in
the narrow street. The old horse stood obstinately between the
shafts, refusing to move in spite of the lashing of the driver's whip
and the prodding of the escorting soldiers' bayonets Barbara and
Susan stood crushed together with the other prisoners in the back,
dodging the fusillade of rotten fruit, eggs, vegetables and other
even less pleasant missiles being thrown by the barefoot urchins in
the street and by people from their windows along the route to the
Place de la Revolution.

Eventually a couple of soldiers
gathered round one of the nag's back legs, gesticulating and shaking
their heads.

'I think they're saying that the horse
has thrown a shoe. Barbara told Susan out of the side of her mouth.
'If they unhitch it, we could try and make a break for it...

Susan looked very queasy after their
juddering and unbearably cramped journey in the cart. 'I'm sorry, I
don't think I could run ... I don't feel at all well ... ' she
mumbled tearfully.

Barbara grasped her arm firmly.
'Listen, I'll help you, but you really must make an effort ... '
she scolded sternly.

They watched the driver clamber down
and start unstrapping the harness while the five soldiers stood
around leaning on their muskets, arguing and giving advice.

Barbara dodged just in time to avoid a
large soggy cabbage that had been hurled from an upstairs window.

'I'll do my best,' Susan promised
feebly.

'Good girl,' Barbara smiled, just as if
she were in the classroom. 'Now, as soon as they start to lead the
horse away... '

In the alley, Jules Renan peered
cautiously round th< corner of the wall. 'Trouble with the horse.
No wonder they were so late,' he whispered.

Jean nodded, his eyes bright with
anticipation. 'There are only five of them today,' he murmured.
'I'll take the two on the other side of the cart.'

Jules grunted his approval. 'Wait until
I give the word.'

As the driver and one of the soldiers
dragged the reluctant horse out of the shafts and turned it round,
Barbara nudged Susan. 'Ready, Susan?' she whispered. 'I think we can
just about squeeze through the bars ... '

But Susan looked dreadful. Her eyes
were glazed and her complexion resembled pale sweaty cheese. 'It's no
good,' she moaned. 'I feel awful. I feel sick and I've got a
splitting headache. Perhaps it was that nasty food ... '

'Pull yourself together, Susan
Foreman!' Barbara snapped just as if they were in the classroom at
Coal Hill School. 'Crouch down and just follow me ... ' As the
soldier and the driver tried to persuade the horse to move away,
Jules nodded to Jean. They both broke cover and ran into the street.
Jules dropped on one knee, took aim and shot one of the soldiers who
was leaning against the tumbril. Jean immediately flung his musket to
his friend and whipped out his pistols as he ran round in front of
the tumbril. Before the two militiamen on the far side could raise
their weapons, Jean shot them and they both dropped like sacks of
flour onto the cobbles. But before Jules could aim the second musket
properly, the fourth soldier levelled his own gun.

'Look out, Jules!' Jean yelled,
distracting the soldier's attention.

Jules flung himself to one side at the
same instant as the soldier fired. The ball missed him by millimetres
and ricocheted off walls and cobblestones before flying into the
fleeing rabble of spectators. Jules took aim and fired and shot the
militiamen in the arm. Screaming with pain the man fled in the wake
of the terrified, rearing horse and the struggling driver. The fifth
soldier came running back down the street, his musket levelled at
Jules's head. But Jules just managed to whip out both his pistols and
fire and the last soldier fell under the tumbril, mortally wounded.

The prisoners had been so shocked by
the unexpected rescue that at first they simply cowered in the cage
trying to keep out of the line of fire. But as soon as the shooting stopped they surged forward and broke
down the gate at the back of the tumbril. Jumping down, they
instantly vanished in all directions in the network of alleyways and
back streets.

Barbara held the terrified Susan
against her to prevent her being trampled underfoot in the stampede.
Jules and Jean ran over and helped them both down onto the cobbles.
Unsure who their rescuers were or what would happen to them now,
Barbara and Susan let themselves be led away by the two strangers
into the bewildering maze of alleys.

Overhead, the thunder trampled sullenly
round the sky, as if the forces of some gigantic storm were beginning
to gather before unleashing themselves in a cataclysmic upheaval.

Ian had watched the light outside the
grilled window fade as black clouds and evening closed over Paris. He
had listened to the prison noises fading too. The gaoler had been
singing drunkenly for a while but he seemed to have dozed off,
succumbing to the effects of alcohol and the insufferably sticky
heat. The guards appeared to have abandoned their regular sentry
patrols and Ian imagined them dozing at their posts under the heavy
humid pall. For him the air was charged with tension and electric
excitement. He went over to the door and peered through the grille.
The torches flickered smokily, casting oddly flapping shadows across
the walls of the long, gloomy vault. Ian took the key out of his
pocket and almost caressed it. It was the symbol of freedom and the
means to it.