Doctor Who_ The Nightmare of Black Island - Mike Tucker [9]
Rose looked over at the Doctor. ‘Listen.’
The Doctor had heard it too.
‘Yes.’
The man in the dressing gown took a tentative step towards them.
‘What are you doing out there?’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you realise how late it is?’
More lights were coming on all over the estate now, more curtains twitching. The Doctor started to make his way down the hill towards the harbour. He turned to Rose.
‘Come on. We’d better make ourselves scarce. Probably not a good idea to stay outside.’
Rose hurried to catch him up. ‘You think those things are still going to be around? I thought you’d got rid of them.’
‘The noise seemed to scare them off, but I’ve got no idea where they went. And I certainly don’t know where they came from.’
The faceless modern style of the estate gave way to a more rustic flavour, with small stone cottages, shops full of postcards and tourist paraphernalia, tearooms with posters advertising trips around the bay in their windows. Fishing boats and small yachts bobbed in the harbour, halyards clanking in the wind. 23
The Doctor strode down to the harbour wall, hands thrust into the pockets of his coat, and stared out across the water.
‘That’s one bit of the puzzle, out there. Sure of it.’
Rose followed his gaze. ‘The lighthouse?’
‘Yeah. Maybe. Thought I caught a glimpse of a light out there when we were up on the cliff top, just before we went into the woods.’
‘And that’s what’s causing the creatures?’
‘Could be. Need to get out there and have a gander at some point.’
Rose peered over the wall at the churning water. ‘Bit cold for a dip.’
‘I was thinking a nice little boat trip.’
‘You can’t just nick someone’s boat!’
‘I wasn’t going to!’ The Doctor looked indignant. ‘I was going to use my boyish charm to persuade one of the locals to take me out there.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Rose stifled a smile. ‘And where were you hoping to tryout this “boyish charm” of yours. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the middle of the night and the place is deserted.’
The Doctor turned and nodded at the large, imposing building that dominated the seafront.
‘The pub.’
‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’
‘Lights are still on. Perhaps they’re having a lock-in. Come on.’
Beth Hardy was changing over the bottle of single malt, trying to ignore the noises that floated on the wind outside. The spirits had been going down fast since. . . since it all started. She’d have to get another order in with the wholesalers, make up another excuse about why her order had almost doubled in the last month. Not that they were complaining about it, of course. The Red Lion had become their favourite client of late.
The public bar was full as usual, but there was none of the usual chatter that you’d associate with a busy pub. Groups of people sat hunched over their pints and glasses, silent and grim-faced, occasionally looking up if some distant noise reached them from outside. Upstairs she could hear the sobs of her daughter, Ali, and the deep rich tones of her husband, soothing her, calming her. It was the same 24
every evening as Ali’s bedtime approached, the false bravado that came as night started to fall, then the anger that there was nothing that her parents could do, and finally the tears as sleep slowly started to take a hold of her.
Beth could see the pain in the faces of a dozen men at the bar, knowing that they, like her, had reached a point where they just didn’t know what to do any more and had found other ways of shutting the heartache out.
From the other side of the bar, in the restaurant area, came the sound of raised voices: accusations and counter-accusations. She could hear Bob Perry, the harbour master, followed by the dulcet tones of Reverend Hall appealing for calm. Beth shook her head. Nothing good ever came of these village meetings. Old arguments reared their head time after time, the parents like herself desperately looking for answers and the vicar repeating