Doctor Who_ The Nightmare of Black Island - Mike Tucker [30]
‘Not entirely sure.’
The Doctor tapped his teeth with the handle of his sonic screw71 driver, then pointed at a small panel.
‘This bit’s a behaviour inhibitor, usually used on farming planets to keep the livestock under control. Induces extreme anxiety if they stray too far from their fields. Probably why the locals are so reluctant to get anyone in to sort out their problems. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to stop them calling for help.’
‘You going to turn it off, then?’
‘Ah, well, that might be a bit hasty. Whoever put this here did so because they can cover the entire village from this spot.’
The Doctor crouched down, peering through a grille.
‘This is a wide-beam transmitter of some kind. Or receiver. But I’m not entirely sure what it does, and I hate to go around poking at things until I know what they do. Could cause untold damage. Besides, there’s lots of power going in. Lots and lots of power.’ He frowned. ‘Ridiculous amounts of power, in fact. That little spacecraft must be working flat out when this thing is going at full tilt.’
‘Is it safe? I mean, are we safe?’
‘Oh yes.’ The Doctor nodded vigorously. ‘This thing’s just on tickover.’ He tapped at a dial. ‘No worries while the power is down at this level.’
There was a sharp click. Lights sprang to life all across the machine. The low hum started to rise in pitch.
‘Ah,’ said the Doctor.
Rose lowered herself gently on to the floor of the cellar, listening for any sign that her entrance into the house had been heard. She let the window swing shut gently and peered through the dusty gloom. Distant muffled footsteps could be heard from overhead and there was the soft, low throb of machinery, generators of some kind, she supposed, but other than that it was silent. Rose crossed to the bag, pulling it out from under the tarpaulins. The fishing rods had been pushed in hurriedly without breaking them down properly, fishing line wound round everything in an untidy knot. Seeing the glint of fish hooks in the dim light from the bare bulb, Rose dragged the bag over to the window, determined to get a better look. Her fingers touched 72
something sticky. She held her hand up to the light and swallowed hard. Dark red stains smeared her fingertips. Blood. Grimacing, she wiped her fingers on the damp canvas of the bag and opened the zipper carefully. It was what you would expect of a bag packed for a fishing trip: reels of line, cans of bait, carefully packed sections of various styles of fishing rod. A peaked cap and a stainless-steel Thermos flask were stuffed into a wide pocket at one end and there was a scrap of paper, an advert for holidays at Ynys Du. Rose unfolded it, looking at the cheery sunlit pictures of the harbour and the lighthouse. ‘You’ll never want to leave,’ read the cheery headline.
‘Yeah. Right.’
Rose stuffed the advert back into the bag, zipped it closed and dragged it back to where she had found it. She needed more evidence than this. She needed something that identified the man. It had been a vain hope that Morton and his cronies would have left anything that incriminating just lying about. She looked around the cellar in frustration. There was nothing.
The background hum of the generators suddenly changed in pitch, deepening, the vibration setting the wine bottles rattling in their frames. Rose frowned. The noise was rhythmic and regular, almost like a heartbeat; she could feel the vibrations deep in her stomach. Another sound cut above the vibration, a high-pitched chattering and beeping.
‘That’s not a generator,’ Rose murmured.
On the far side of the cellar a set of steps led up to the only door. It was slightly ajar. Rose crossed to it, climbing the short set of stone steps and pressing her eye to the gap.
The door opened into a tall, vaulted corridor lined with pillars and arches. There was a dark wooden staircase against one end. The corridor was empty. Easing the door open, Rose slipped out. The cellars were more extensive than she had thought. Each arch led off to another room piled high with junk.