Doctor Who_ Island of Death - Barry Letts [9]
- she’d fallen straight into an exhausted sleep, only to wake up half an hour later, shivering, her heart pumping, convinced she was being attacked by the fearsome creature she’d seen at the commune. She’d pulled the bed-clothes over her head and curled up small, just as she used to as a six-year-old plagued by nightmares, so long ago.
And then, like Alice finding that she wasn’t in the sheep’s shop but in a rowing boat, Sarah had found herself in a Technicolour paradise, surrounded by a full complement of Indian dancing girls. An all-singing, all-dancing Bollywood dream - with the image of a golden Skang looking on benignly and oh-so-lovingly - that had lulled her into a deep slumber that more or less wiped away the horror of her encounter on the Heath.
After all, she thought as she closed the window the next morning - why had she left it open to that cold north wind? -
the old man would have said if he’d seen some sort of monster, wouldn’t he? It must have been her obsession with the Skang that made her think... oh God, she hadn’t set the alarm! It was gone half past nine!
Her usual morning routine: the jog around the Heath, the leisurely breakfast of wholemeal toast and banana - or a real fry-up, if she was feeling bolshie - and the skim through the Guardian and the Mail (to get a balanced view); all had to go by the wayside. There was barely time for the essential cup of coffee.
What did come back ‘in the morning’ mean? About ten o’clock, probably. But by the time she’d finished tidying up the cobbled-together fish article (inspired by Gary the goldfish: Would You Eat Your Best Friend? - a plea for stricter vegetarianism) and delivered it to the office, it was getting on for eleven-thirty when she walked into the Doctor’s lab... to be greeted by what seemed to be some sort of row.
‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ the Brigadier was saying, I’ve just spent the best part of a month trying to prevent Geneva from cutting my budget by twenty-five per cent. I just can’t afford a wild-goose chase. If we went after every wacky cult in the country, UNIT UK would be broke in a fortnight.’
Here we go again, thought Sarah. They seemed to respect each other - almost to be friends - but they could never agree on the best thing to do.
The Doctor held up the little screw-top aspirin bottle. ‘This tastes like fruit juice, mixed fruit juice - exactly what it is, no doubt. Nevertheless, it contains some three per cent of an extremely powerful drug. One that I don’t recognise, but judging by its structure it’s probably psychotropic.’
‘Drugs? LSD and all that caper? Just what the police are for, I should have thought.’
‘And how well did the police cope with the Yeti? Or the Autons? Or the Cybermen for that matter?’
‘Are you saying...?’
‘Show him your photograph, Sarah.’
The Brigadier, giving her a suspicious look, took the Polaroid print and inspected it. ‘Ah... See what you mean.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Wouldn’t do any harm to take a look, I suppose...’
But they were too late. Frustrated by the unanswered bell, the Brigadier resorted to thumping on the door.
‘No good making that racket,’ said a hoarse voice from beneath their feet. ‘They’ve gawn.’ A craggy little man had emerged from a door in the basement area.
‘Gone? Gone where?’ said the Doctor.
‘Don’ ask me. Piled into a coach just after seven o’clock this morning. The whole shooting match, including the high and mighty Brother Alex. Good riddance. Rahnd the bend, the lot of them.’
With a little persuasion, aided by a discreetly folded note, the caretaker let them in to have a look round.
Mary Celeste time, thought Sarah. Well, not quite. There were no half-eaten meals, or abandoned, unmade beds. On the contrary, everything was clean and neat and ordered. The food in the kitchen was tidily put away - but there were seven loaves of sliced bread, one of them three-quarters eaten; four and a half dozen eggs in the larder; several pints of