Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [77]
Though he didn’t look it. His appearance and the tone of his voice were more like a Turk. Or a Spaniard. The voice was...
the voice was...
‘Look at the keys, Wing Commander. There are eight of them. Where is the ninth? Let me see.’
The Master’s voice was warm and soothing. It was almost as though Whistler could see it. Its colour. Brown. A warm brown.
Whistler felt his befuddled mind clearing a little. He saw a huge canopy of blue sky and a beautiful, dusty landscape.
Vineyards and olive trees dotting the soil like cloves pressed into a Christmas orange. His plane was soaring overhead, giving a victory roll. Beneath, the crowds were cheering and cheering. It was all over. The war was finally over. Whistler smiled beneath his large goggles. His face was black with smoke and oil but he was happy. Happier than he’d ever been.
He’d got through it. Feeling inside his leather jacket, his fingers found the small, crystalline object he’d come upon that day in the grounds of Culverton aerodrome. The day after she’d been taken from him by the bloody bomb.
He cradled the thing in his palm now. It was warm to the touch...
The Master snapped his fingers in front of Whistler’s eyes and the old man started.
‘What? Where was...?’ he stammered.
‘Well?’ asked Bliss.
The Master smiled. ‘I know exactly where it is. Shall we go?’
Bliss’s chalky face split into an impossibly wide grin. ‘The configuration will be complete. The invasion can begin!’
Whistler sank back into his chair, feeling utterly worthless.
The Doctor threw off his smoking jacket and, quickly and efficiently emptied the unwashed dishes from Whistler’s sink.
He rolled up his sleeves and then looked up as Jo and Noah stumbled in from the garden, each carrying a bag of fertiliser.
Jo let hers flop to the tiled kitchen floor and groaned.
‘Mind telling us why we’re doing this, Doctor?’
The Doctor shook his head. ‘No time just now. Noah, go back out to the garden. There must be a potting shed of some kind. Bring back all the tools you can lay your hands on.’
Noah looked puzzled but shrugged and dashed out.
The Doctor turned both taps on and water thudded into the old, square porcelain sink.
Without looking at Jo, he began to speak. ‘We have to stop the villagers’ advance in order to help the Brigadier, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Jo.
‘But we can’t risk harming any of them. Yes?’
Jo sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘And what we want most of all is for those people to be free of the aliens’ influence.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Well,’ cried the Doctor happily. ‘If I’m right, this may be a way of killing two birds with one stone.’
Noah kicked open the gated kitchen door and came back inside, staggering under the weight of an old grey canvas bag.
He dropped it to the floor with a loud clunk. A quantity of hammers, files and nails spilled over the tiles.
‘Splendid,’ said the Doctor. He nodded towards the front room. ‘See how they’re getting on, would you?’
Noah raced from the kitchen. The Doctor rapidly sorted through the tools on the floor. ‘Right, Jo. You’re a practical sort of girl, aren’t you?’
Jo shrugged. ‘I like to think so.’
The Doctor pointed towards Mrs Toovey’s cooker. ‘Can you get that going? I need it heated to about two hundred degree.
‘OK.’ Jo moved towards the cooker. The Doctor pulled a chair from under the kitchen table. Its legs scraped over the tiles. Feeling inside the pockets of his abandoned smoking jacket, he retrieved his sonic screwdriver and a few other objects that Jo had never seen before. One of them appeared to be some sort of compact glass retort. He ransacked the tool bag, hurling a metal ruler and a hammer over his shoulder.
‘What’re you looking for, Doctor?’ asked Jo, bending over the cooker.
The Doctor didn’t look up. ‘If we’re out of luck, I’ll have to use a file to create my own – ah!’
He held up a jam jar filled with some black substance and beamed triumphantly. ‘I knew the Wing Commander wouldn’t let me down. He’s a tinkerer like me.’
Jo tried to make out what was inside the jar. ‘I