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By Root 361 0

within it flared then died. Finally it turned to a twisted knot of fleshy, trumpet-like growths jutting from the wall and began to squeeze and twist them in delicate, almost ritualistic movements. Instantly dozens of thick fibrous tentacles shot from apertures in the walls, ceiling and floor of the cubicle and entwined themselves tightly around the Doctor, holding his body rigid.The Doctor sighed, not even bothering to struggle, as the fleshy cowl, pulsing and veined like a flattened heart, came down from the ceiling and closed over his head. It was an unpleasant sensation: the cowl was cold and clammy, and moulded itself to the shape of his head, oozing down over his face to cover his eyes, cheeks, ears and the bridge of his nose. He could feel it pulsing against his eyelids. His nostrils twitched; it had the pungent, brackish smell of old, raw tripe. He hoped that Sam and Litefoot wouldn't find the sensation too unbearable.

'Try to relax,' he shouted for their benefit. 'Sam, George, don't struggle and try not to panic. Just close your eyes and relax. Empty your minds.'

He felt a tugging sensation, not on his head but inside it, as if the cowl was a giant leech that had gnawed through his skull into his brain. He gritted his teeth, fought back against the mental pressure, and instantly it went away.

A moment later it was back, however, redoubled. The Doctor sent it away again. Over the course of the next few minutes the tugging sensation increased until it became uncomfortable, and then, as he continued to fight back, increased again, until gradually, inevitably, it escalated into tearing, white-hot pain.

And still the Doctor fought on, his body shuddering, drenched in sweat, his face contorted with agony. Now it felt as if his skull was open, as if hands were reaching into it, pushing thick, meaty fingers down the sides, trying to wrench his brain from its moorings. Not until he felt black speckles of unconsciousness creeping through his defences, however, did he accept that the battle - though not the war, never the war - was lost. He let go, mentally jumping feet first into the too-familiar long black tunnel. So many times throughout his long lives had he been rendered unconscious that he couldn't help but think he was about to reacquaint himself with an old but dubious friend.

***

Though he knew he was being foolish, Albert Rudge could not rid himself of the notion that their employer knew exactly what he and Jack were planning. Every time the man had looked at him this evening, Albert had felt sure he could feel those grey eyes boring into his skull. Once he had even found himself putting his hand up as if to shield his forehead; on another occasion the man had stared at him with such intent that Albert had had to bite his lip to prevent himself blurting out both a confession and a plea for forgiveness.

Now Albert was on his knees, scrabbling among the muddy cobbles for the coins that their employer had tossed carelessly, even contemptuously, to the ground, just as he did every evening. The sulphur-choked air was thick with drizzle, and though Albert's fingers and face were frozen, his heart felt like a red-hot poker stabbing repeatedly into his chest. He was alone for the moment, though a few seconds before he had still been able to hear the fading rattle of their employer's cart trundling over the cobbles. The instant the cart had disappeared into the mist, Jack had scampered hot-foot in the opposite direction, to retrieve the nag that he had bullied Ned Cockles into lending them for the night.

'Hurry it up there,Albert,' a voice hissed suddenly.'We need to be away if we're not to lose our quarry.'

Albert jumped, certain for a moment that their employer had returned on foot to tear the truth out of him. Then the meaning of the words permeated his fear-sodden mind, and, looking up, he saw Jack emerging from the mist, his familiar meaty frame swathed in several layers of stained and ragged clothing.

Painfully Albert rose to his feet. As he eyed the horse that Jack was leading on a piece