Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [0]
By Mark Morris
This is for David Howe, for getting me the gig in the first place.
Thanks, as always, to my wife, Nel, for her love and support, and to my children, David and Polly, for being there.
Thanks also to the Sam squad - Jon Blum, Kate Orman, and Paul Leonard
- for their generosity, enthusiasm - and input.
Chapter 1
Fire and Brimstone
By rights the man in the corner of the room should not have been there at all. Yet as Jack Howe entered the tavern, accompanied by his colleague, Albert Rudge, he saw him sitting in what of late had become his accustomed place. Bold as brass he was as always, done up to the nines in his expensive overcoat, top hat, and thick muffler. His lily-white hands rested on the solid-silver lion's head that topped the cane he always carried. He sat there, quite still and calm in the stink and the squalor, amid the thieves and the cutthroats, the horribly diseased, and the hopelessly drunk.
Oh yes, he was a proper gentleman, no doubting that. In the filthy Whitechapel tavern populated by Jack and his cronies, he stuck out like a diamond on a plate of kippers. Jack thought it a miracle that the man had not been found garrotted in an alleyway before now, his pale, scented, well-fed body stripped of its clothes and valuables. He was asking for trouble coming here night after night as he did. And yet... there was something about him that made even big Jack Howe uneasy, something he couldn't quite put his finger on - not that he would ever have admitted that to Albert, who was nervous enough at the best of times.
Perhaps it was simply that the man was so... watchful. So still. When he moved it was in slick little movements, like a snake. Or perhaps it was something about his eyes, which were the only part of his face the man ever revealed, keeping his hat on at all times and his muffler pulled up over his mouth and nose.Yes, that might have been it. There was a queer cast about his eyes. Sometimes they seemed silver, and once or twice Jack could have sworn that he had seen them flash orange, as if the man had a fire inside him.
Harry Fish, the landlord, was polishing glasses with spit and a grubby rag.
Jack ordered gin for himself and Albert, then the two men made their way through the ragged, smelly, drunken crowd to join the silent man in the corner.
He did not look up, or even move, until Jack and Albert were seated at his table.Then he raised his cold grey eyes and regarded them for a moment.
Jack took a gulp of gin in an effort to repress a shudder. Six years ago Jolly Jack had been carving up the working girls of this parish, and the local word then had been that it was a toff doing the killings. Jack had never believed the rumour, had never thought a gentleman would have the mettle for such business. Now, however, looking into this man's stone-cold eyes, he wasn't so sure.
The man spoke, and his voice was a soft murmur. 'Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you have the merchandise?'
Jack nodded, and tried to make his voice as brusque as possible.'We do, mister.'
The man blinked slowly. 'Splendid. I'd like to view it if I may.'
It was always the same - no pleasantries, no preamble, straight down to business. Not that Jack minded. He didn't want to spend any more time with this man than was necessary, however well he paid. He tilted his head back and finished his gin, savouring the acrid burn in his throat and gut.Then he gave a swift nod and stood up, followed immediately by Albert, who jumped to his feet as if he was afraid Jack would leave him alone with the man.
The man rose smoothly, and allowed Jack and Albert to lead him to the door. Jack couldn't help noticing that most people, hard-bitten East Enders though they were, glanced at the man with fearful eyes and gave him a wide berth. Yes, there was something mighty queer about him, all right.
He,Albert, and the man who had never given them his name stepped out on to a cobbled street, caked with the bodily waste of dogs, horses and humans alike. The streets were only ever