Doctor Who_ Wetworld - Mark Michalowski [34]
‘Tell them I’m sorry,’ he said, lowering his eyes until he was staring straight at her.
‘For what?’ ‘For letting it find out.’
‘Find out about what? Col, what are you talking about?’
‘Pallister,’ Col said, a look of intense sadness on his face. ‘Pallister’s who it needs. Oh Candy. . . what have I –’
‘Forget Pallister. Col, we’ve got to get out of here.’
But Col stayed where he was. Slowly, painfully, as if every movement was agony, he reached back behind his head with both hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Tell them I couldn’t help it. Tell them.’
And then he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.
Only then did Candy realise what he was going to do – and that it was too late to stop him.
She didn’t close her eyes quickly enough to block out the sight of Col wrenching the vile, alien tendril from the back of his head; not quickly enough to prevent her seeing the spray of glutinous ichor that poured out of the severed end; and not quickly enough to miss the look of peace and serenity that passed across his face just before he died.
The Doctor arrived back at the zoo lab to find Ty and Orlo fastening the cage door on their newest recruit.
‘Doctor!’ cried Ty with relief, flinging herself at him and giving him a huge bear hug.
‘Numbers eight and. . . nine,’ he managed to gasp.
‘Eight and nine what?’ she said, letting him go.
‘Ribs – that you’ve just broken,’ the Doctor gasped, rubbing his sides.
Ty began to apologise, but he just grinned and waved her away.
‘They’ll heal. Now we’ve got work to do. How is he?’ He gestured at the otter, still snoring away.
‘Seems fine – should be coming round in about half an hour.’
‘Good, good,’ the Doctor said thoughtfully. ‘Now-this. . . ’ He quickly grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from the desk and began scribbling. ‘. . . is what I need, equipment-wise. Think you can rustle this up for me? Or at least point me in the right direction.’
He shoved the paper into Ty’s hand and strode over to inspect the new otter.
‘We’ve got to work fast,’ he said. ‘The otters are demonstrating if not intelligence, then distinctly purposeful behaviour. We already have that –’ He indicated the scratched outline of his ship on the wall ‘– to prove that they’re aware of the TARDIS. And I’ve just seen them going into one of the exposed buildings from the first settlements. A whole cartload of them – cartload? Is that the word? What’s the collective noun for otters?’ He clicked his fingers in the air repeatedly and then beamed a huge grin.’ Romp! That’s the word. Romp! Well,’ he added,
‘one of them at least – but certainly my favourite. Isn’t that lovely? “A romp of otters”.’
He stared at their blank faces.
‘Please yourselves. Anyway,’ he turned and addressed the otter.
‘We’ve got to have a good look at you. How you getting on with the list, Ty?’
She scratched her head.
‘What’s a “planar thesiogram”? And this one. . . ’ She pointed with a finger. ‘A “follengular beam. . . beamcaster”?’ She looked up at him.
‘Oh that?’ said the Doctor, looking slightly guilty. ‘Scuse my hand-writing. Feeling a bit peckish. . . that’s a “full English breakfast”. First of all, though, I need to check on Martha.’
‘Are these really necessary?’ demanded the Doctor, pointing at the leather restraints that fastened Martha’s wrists and ankles to the bed.
He couldn’t bear to see anyone shackled or tied down, let alone Martha. In her sleep, she growled and thrashed her head from side to side. Her face was slick with sweat.
‘It’s for her own safety as much as anyone else’s,’ Sam Hashmi said apologetically. ‘She was. . . ’ he stumbled for words.
‘Like an animal?’ suggested the Doctor.
Sam nodded.
The Doctor shook his head. He’d brought Martha to Sunday and he should have taken better care of her. If only he’d gone straight back to find the TARDIS instead of messing around in the zoo lab, this might never have happened. Sometimes