Doctor Who_ The Bodysnatchers - Mark Morris [73]
Bowman knew only too well that December through to February were the truly savage months. Any infant or oldster still breathing by the time the first buds of spring appeared was considered hardy indeed. Many a time Harry and his colleagues had found entire groups of street urchins, having attempted to huddle together like puppies for warmth, frozen to death. The more privileged classes believed that this was merely nature's way of culling the surplus population, but they were not the ones who had the task of prising apart the rigid bodies of dead children.
It was just after 2 a.m. when Harry spied the body. At first he thought it was just a heap of old sacking washed up on the shingle below the towpath. He lowered his lantern over the edge for a closer look, but the fog was thick as soup. He was about to move on when the fog parted, only momentarily but enough for Harry to make out a white hand.
'My oath,' he muttered, and stumbled down the nearest set of slippery stone steps to the narrow bank. He hurried across to the body, which was lying on its face, half in and half out of the water. Floaters were not uncommon around these parts, but this fellow looked well dressed, which immediately suggested the possibility of foul play. Placing his lantern on the shingle, Harry grasped the body's sodden shoulder and turned it over.
Immediately he jerked back in shock. Good Lord, but he knew this fellow! It was Professor George Litefoot, eminent physician and police pathologist.The man was popular and well respected among rich and poor alike, and Harry wondered what could possibly have happened for him to have ended his days like this. It surely couldn't be suicide? No, more likely he'd been attacked and robbed while on an errand of mercy, and his body, dead or unconscious, dumped in the Thames.
Poor old duffer, Harry thought, looking at the man's grey hair plastered across his white face and his wide-open mouth dribbling river water. No one deserves to die like this.
Then Litefoot's body spasmed and he turned on to his side, retching. Next instant what looked like gallons of brownish water were spurting from his mouth.
Harry gaped at him for a moment, then did what he could to help. Litefoot's eyelids were flickering now, though he barely seemed conscious. When Litefoot had done vomiting, Harry dragged his body fully out of the water, and then, despite the rain, peeled off his wind-cheater and draped it over him. 'Professor,' he said urgently, 'I don't know if you can hear me, but you're safe now. I'm going to get you to a hospital. You just hold on there, sir.'
With one arm draped protectively around his charge, Harry pulled out his whistle, placed it in his mouth, and blew as hard as he could.
***
The Doctor pushed down through the murky water with powerful strokes.
He constantly checked the device on his wrist, altering his course in accordance with the readings. The purpose of the device was to track the source of the Zygons' energy emissions and therefore lead him directly to their base. Despite his excellent sense of direction, the Doctor would have been hopelessly lost without it. The water was so filthy with raw sewage and rubbish and industrial waste that he could see no further than an arm's length ahead of him.
He had been swimming for long enough to make his arms and legs ache when he saw what appeared to be a huge dark shape looming up through the murk below. He paused for a moment, trying to keep as still as possible. The readings on his wrist monitor told him that the Zygon ship must now be very close, but that only made it all the more likely that this could be a patrolling Skarasen. He waited for several minutes, but the shape remained still. Finally, cautiously, he began to swim down towards it.
He had to get very close before he could verify that it was indeed the Zygon base.
It was an awesome sight. Nestling on the river bed, it looked more like a living creature than a spacecraft. Vast and barnacled and fibrous,