Doctor Who_ Ghost Ship - Keith Topping [19]
Alone in the console room, I began darkly to speculate on what terrible force could have infested the ship in such an all-encompassing manner, held her in this place, against the dramatic and apocalyptic forces of time and relative dimensions. The TARDIS should have been able to break through any force field, any barrier, any obstacle. It was, after all, a space and time machine, a craft capable of travel to the farthest reaches of whatever concepts of universal laws the mind could imagine, and then a bit further, if needed.
'I do not believe in ghosts,' I said, aloud. I think I was speaking to the TARDIS, now. Trying to encourage her to get a grip on herself and get me out of this place. 'I do not believe in ghosts, I do not believe in ghosts, I do not believe in ghosts ... '
Still we remained, marooned on the Queen Mary, pinned, like a butterfly in a display case. I sank to my haunches, hugging my knees to my chest, my hands bunched in front of my face, tightly. I felt as miserable then, at that moment, as I have ever felt.
'I do not believe in ghosts,' I repeated. 'They always, always turn out to be the result of timeslips or anomalies or somesuch.' They had always done in my past experiences, that was perfectly true. 'I do not believe in ghosts.' But I did not sound at all reassured.
This was different from the manifestations at Auderley House, the pulse spirits in the Cave of Horrors on Cassuragi III or haunted castles on the planet of Kambalana.
Vastly different.
With escape no longer a viable option, at least for the time being, I decided that this was clearly fate's revenge on me for ever doubting its existence.
Once more, with a heavy heart or two, I opened the TARDIS doors and returned to the ship of ghosts.
CHAPTER FIVE
ATLANTIC OCEAN DRIFT
Alone, alone, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a soul took pity on me, my soul in agony.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT
MARINER
FRUSTRATED, I WAS LEFT TO WANDER THE SHIP AGAIN, WONDERING if, like Coleridge's Mariner, I was to remain trapped within a nightmare of my own imaginings for all eternity. Alone and vulnerable on this ship upon a wide and pitiless painted ocean.
I found myself, once again, at the ship's bow, watching the waves. An unrelenting darkness was encroaching on the horizon, threatening to smother the twilight. Another night of troubles and storms was heading our way.
The sky was bleeding, streaks of scarlet scoring the distant horizon beneath banks of swirling cloud. Under this angry, vicious sky came the ocean, the setting sun's reflection spray-painting the lapping waters gold.
I was in a highly alert, nervous state that I had experienced on only a few occasions before. There was a slight trembling of the fingers, a quickening of the pulse. Words seem inadequate when describing it now. Perhaps the total response would find its best expression in the chords and harmonies of dramatic music. In a condition such as this, all the senses tend to become heightened. Behind my back I heard the faint noise of pursuit. It was simultaneously the feather-light tread of the panther, the hiss of the blade, the soft and deadly flap of the wings of an angel of death.
I somehow managed not to turn around. To do so would, in ways that
border on the ridiculous, have cheapened the clinical perfection of the moment. Made it less beautiful in its completeness.
'Here's a penny for your thoughts,' said a bright female voice from behind me.
So transfixed had I been on the surging, frothing and foaming ocean that I had momentarily forgotten that there were, in fact, other people around me. Real people. Living people.
'Thank you, but I'm afraid I don't have any change to give you.'
I heard soft laughter and finally turned – a little light-headedly, so long had I been staring at the azure ripples and spit-white spray. I squinted, my eyes momentarily blinded by the brilliant dying sunlight. Haloed