Doctor Who_ Wooden Heart - Martin Day [36]
‘I might not!’
The door began to roll open, showing another bland stretch of corridor beyond. Safety, away from the possibility of encroaching forest. But then the walls around Martha began to flicker again – the trees coming back into view all around them. Only the area beyond the door was clear and safe. Looking back, Martha could see the creature on the far side of the clearing, but Saul seemed to have fallen to the ground. For the first time, the beast was making a triumphant, hissing sound – its huge mouth stretched open, its spiked tail ready to strike.
Of Jude there was absolutely no sign.
‘Doctor, we’ve got to help them!’
The Doctor had fully opened the door now and was stepping through. He reached out a hand to encourage Martha to follow him. ‘Everything you see could cease to exist at any moment,’ he observed. ‘But you’ve got to go through this door to where it’s safe. I can’t keep the link between the worlds open much longer!’
Martha looked at the Doctor, then stared back at Saul, crumpled before the might of the squealing beast. Around her, the corridor kept slamming into focus, and then blinking away again. Corridor. Forest. Corridor. Forest.
The dragon swung its tail up over its head one last time.
‘Sorry!’ she breathed, letting go of the Doctor’s hand and running as fast as she could towards Saul.
If the Doctor made a sound, she could not hear it over the noise of the door grinding shut. She glanced back, over her shoulder – the space station had entirely vanished, leaving only the faintest imprint on the trees and ground around her.
She was back in the forest. She was on her own.
And the creature was about to kill Saul.
NINE
Jens rolled uncertainly out of the inn, torch in hand. In the last hour, the fog had thickened and clotted until it gripped the edge of every building and pathway, dulling them and replacing familiar lines and spaces with subtle gradations of grey. Even more alarming was the change in temperature. It had seemed quite mild when Jens had staggered into the warm, embracing bosom of the inn – he’d left his scarf and his thickest cloak at home, partly because he was sure he’d not need them, and partly because speed had been of the essence and he’d wanted to get away as quickly as possible. But now the air was as keen as a shard of ice.
Jens shivered, fumbling at the torch with his great, gloved hands, while a voice nagged in his mind. I told you it was going to turn cold, but did you listen? No, nothing must come between the big man and his drink – not storm, not cold, not common sense! I sometimes wonder why I put up with you, Jens, really I do…
He paused, wondering for a moment if there was time to duck back into the inn and order one last flagon, but shuffled footsteps and scraped chairs from within indicated that Shih and her diminutive husband had decided to call it a night. Torch now sullenly lit, Jens started to walk away; he did not turn and bid the others farewell, nor did they call good wishes after him. Almost all had sat within the inn simply to escape from the outside world; none of them now seemed pleased to be returning to it.
Soon Jens was on his own, treading familiar streets in fogged silence. The alcohol sat heavy in his stomach, and he struggled desperately to control his runaway thoughts; it was ironic, he supposed, that he drank to forget, and all it did was make the memories and the guilt ever stronger. ‘Why don’t you come back?’ he found himself whispering – or maybe he was shouting like a drunkard and the sound was simply muffled by the fog.
Cursing his own stupidity, he paused for a moment, breathing heavily. He’d have to creep in discreetly, not crash through his home like a fat skittle knocked aside by a ball. ‘Shh,’ he told himself. ‘Nice and easy does it.’
He looked around – he was close to the metalsmith’s workshop, its precise walls studded with windows and flaps that helped the big, brutish fellow keep the furnace at just the right temperature.