Part 10 (1/2)

Gaskin was giving her a quizzical look, seeing her hesitation. 'Is there anything else I can help you with?'

She had to say something.

'It's the well. . .

there's something strange about it. You must know something something, Mr Gaskin. You said yourself there are stories about treasure and monsters.'

'Neither of which I grant the slightest credence,' said Gaskin. 'As I said, they are simply stories stories my dear.' my dear.'

The Doctor slid deeper into the darkness.

Whenever he tried to move himself, the white weed gripped him more tightly. As far as he could tell it was an involuntary reflex. He'd tried talking again, calling, shouting, even low-level telepathy, but there was no response. Nothing. Just a deep, black abyss full of this pale, grasping undergrowth.

Nevertheless, he was moving, due to some kind of peristaltic motion. Every so often the grip of the luminous roots s.h.i.+fted, and he was moved further down the gullet of the well. He only wondered what he was heading for and what would happen when he got there.

He wished he'd brought a book with him so he could have read while he waited the dismal glow of the white weed was just about good enough.

It was getting very cold now, and he was starting to imagine things in the blackness a glowing movement in the corner of his eye which disappeared when he looked, or the distant sound of whispering, or a thudding, alien heartbeat. He kept hearing that heartbeat, although it seemed to come and go. It was always distant, but there was a definite thud. . . thud. . . thud. . . thud. . . thud. . . thud. . . coming from somewhere. It wasn't a regular double beat like a human's, or anything else that he recognised. It was slow and strangely irregular; it brought to mind a sick, diseased heart straining to ek out the last hours of life. Or was that just his imagination? coming from somewhere. It wasn't a regular double beat like a human's, or anything else that he recognised. It was slow and strangely irregular; it brought to mind a sick, diseased heart straining to ek out the last hours of life. Or was that just his imagination?

Whatever it was, it was getting louder. Nearer.

With a sudden, unexpected gulp of the weeds around him, the Doctor was pushed down into a dark chamber. He tumbled out of the grasp of the weeds and hit something soft.

There was just room enough to stand up, but he had to be careful because the ground underfoot kept moving. His trainers fought to keep a grip on a blubbery surface coated with slime. Gingerly he dusted his suit down, removing the last traces of any weed that had got caught on his way down here.

'h.e.l.lo?' His voice echoed dully but the only reply was an empty silence. 'Anyone home?'

Then he became aware of something moving in the darkness something slow and fluid, uncoiling in the darkness as if awakening from a deep sleep.

Then, slowly and ominously, a number of pale lights opened like eyes in the darkness. They stared balefully at the Doctor and he stared back.

The eyes watched him unblinkingly for several seconds. Then, for want of anything else to do, the Doctor tried his best and brightest smile and said, 'h.e.l.lo!' again.

No response. The eyes stared. There were several, of various sizes, but the Doctor knew instinctively that t hey all belonged to the same creature. Just like he knew, instinctively, that behind the eyes there was not a shred of compa.s.sion or intelligence.

Just a cold, malevolent hatred.

Because now he knew what it was.[image]

Martha found Angela quietly fuming by the Land-Rover. 'I told you coming here would be a complete waste of time,' the old lady complained bitterly. She kicked at the gravel which covered Gaskin's driveway. 'That man's got such a nerve. I hate him!'

Martha didn't say anything. It seemed safer to remain diplomatic about the whole thing.

'I suppose he was telling you all about Roger,' Angela muttered. 'His version of events at least.'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Martha conceded. 'But he can't help us with the Doctor anyway.'

'Rubbish. Of course he can.' Abruptly Angela set off on foot, walking around the outside of the manor. With an anxious glance back at the front door, Martha hurried after her, boots crunching across the gravel. 'He's got all kinds of equipment back here,' Angela said. 'We'll just go and help ourselves.'

'We can't do that,' Martha protested, trying not to shout. 'It's tres-pa.s.sing!'

But then they both stopped in their tracks. At the side of the house was a series of willow trees leading to a terrace overlooking the gardens at the rear. Martha was dimly aware of a series of beautiful lawns and woodland stretching away behind the manor, but what grabbed her attention was much closer to hand.

Lying on the terrace was the body of a man.

Instinct took over and Martha ran towards him. Without touching him or turning him over, she quickly checked that he was still alive and breathing. 'h.e.l.lo?'

The man groaned and turned over.

'h.e.l.l's bells,' exclaimed Angela. 'It's Nigel Carson. What the heck is he doing here?'

'He's fainted, or something,' Martha said. She made sure his airway was clear and helped him into a comfortable position. 'Nigel? Can you hear me? What's happened?'

Suddenly the French windows opened onto the terrace and a black and white blur ran out, barking madly. Jess skidded around the little group, jumping back and forth. Gaskin followed the dog out of the house, his face like thunder. 'What the devil's going on, Jess? Great Scott, what are you two doing here? I thought you'd just left!'

Martha was helping Nigel to his feet. 'We've just found this man collapsed on your patio,' she said. 'Can we take him inside?'

'What? Yes, I suppose so. Jess, stop making that d.a.m.ned noise!'

'Here,' said Angela, helping Martha with Nigel. 'Let me take him.'

Jess was still barking like she'd cornered a cat, but she wasn't interested in Nigel Carson. There was something else, just under the trailing edge of the rhododendrons, that held her attention.

'Jess!' shouted Gaskin. 'Inside!'

But the dog was having none of it. Martha knelt down beside her.

'What is it? What have you found?'

Lying on the flagstone was a rock the size of a lemon. Martha picked it up while Gaskin grabbed his dog by the collar and hauled her back.

'What's this?' Martha wondered, looking at the rock. It was heavy, but on closer examination it wasn't actually a rock. The surface was translucent, but scored with hundreds of tiny little whirls like finger-prints. It felt warm in her hand.

'Martha!' called Angela. 'You'd better come and see this.' She ran back into the conservatory, where Angela had sat Nigel Carson down in a wicker chair. He looked gaunt and grey, hair dishevelled and his eyes roaming wildly. Martha wondered if he was drunk, but Angela was pointing to his hands.

The palms and fingers were stained with blood.

'I don't know what he's been doing,' said Angela, 'but I'd say we've caught him red-handed.'

Martha checked his hands. It wasn't easy because they were clenching and unclenching, but she could see that the skin was peppered with tiny cuts. 'The blood's his,' she told them. She turned to Gaskin, who was still struggling with Jess. 'Can we have some warm water and clean towels? Any kind of First Aid kit you have would be a help.'

'I'll see what I can find,' Gaskin said, pus.h.i.+ng Jess back out into the garden and closing the doors. She continued to bark and fuss outside, but at least it was quieter. 'I don' know what's got into her,' Gaskin muttered.

Martha held up the stone. 'It's this. She doesn't like it.'

'What is it?' wondered Angela.

Nigel suddenly reared up out of his seat and grabbed the stone out of Martha's hands. 'That's mine!' he yelled. 'Give it to me!'

He sank back into the chair, hugging the thing to his chest.