Part 1 (1/2)

DOCTOR WHO.

MAWDRYN UNDEAD.

by Peter Grimwade.

1.

An Accidental Meeting.

Turlough hated it all: the routine, the discipline, the invented traditions and petty sn.o.bbery of a minor English public school.

'The Battle of Waterloo', quoted the Headmaster, one day during the boy's first term in the Sixth Form, 'was won on the playing fields of Eton.' And Turlough had screamed with derisive laughter.

Not that Brendon School was exactly Eton College, though it was an imposing enough place. The fine old Queen Anne mansion had hardly changed since the days when it was the country seat of the Mulle-Heskiths, though its circ.u.mstances had altered dramatically. Sold in 1922, on the death of old Sir Barrie Mulle-Heskith, the battle had raged fast and furious as to whether Brendon Court should l ecome an independent school for boys or an inst.i.tution for the criminally insane. Education had triumphed. (Though not notice-ably so, it was thought in the village.) On a fine summer's day in 1983 there was still something quintessentially British about the rolling park-land, from which drifted the sound of a cricket match (all games at Brendon compulsory), and the rose-gardens, arbors and wisteria pergola Of the old house (out of bounds to boys and a.s.sistant masters) all of it alien to Turlough.

He longed to escape. But how? He gazed up at the obelisk on the hill above the school an eccentric memorial to General Rufus Mulle-Heskith. Turlough was curiously drawn to the sombre pinnacle that dominated the horizon, silhouetted against the sky like the sword of some Angel of Death.

'Come on, Turlough! You've got to see the Brig's new car!'

He was startled from his revery by a group of fellow sixth-formers. Ibbotson, the boy who had spoken, presented a sharp contrast to his friend. Whereas Turlough was thin as a willow, his auburn hair, blue eyes and sharp-boned face investing him with an unworldly, pre-Raphaelite appearance, Ibbotson was a lump. It is the misfortune of some boys to be trapped, seemingly for ever, in the blubber and acne of adolescence; just such a one was Ibbotson.

'Hippo?'

The nickname was apt, but not flattering. Turlough's use of it, however, pleased Ibbotson as public evidence of their friends.h.i.+p. And Ibbotson needed friends; because Ibbotson was a bore.

'What car, Hippo?'

'A sixteen-fifty open tourer!'

The object of Ibbotson's admiration was parked behind the main building in the Masters' Car Park. There was something about the vintage Humber, with its immaculate paintwork, polished levers and k.n.o.bs, and soft luxurious upholstery that gave it a sense of belonging to the old Brendon Court, part of a bygone world of landed wealth and privilege, that made the Minis, the Saabs and the ancient Renault of the other masters seem positively upstart.

A group of boys had already gathered around the gleaming vehicle. Ibbotson pushed his way through the crowd. For a moment he gazed in silence, then moved reverently around the old car, caressing the smooth bodywork with his podgy hands, stroking the soft leatherware and fingering the knurled controls, all the while maintaining the most boring commentary.

'You realise, Turlough,' he droned anaesthetically on, 'that this car has the same cha.s.sis as a 3-litre Humber Super Snipe.'

Turlough watched him in silence. This was the Ibbotson he loved to mock and ridicule. He felt a stab of pleasure at the possibility of humiliating his friend. 'Crude, heavy and inefficient!' he sneered, genuinely contemptuous of such archaic technology.

'This car is a cla.s.sic, Turlough!'

'Dull, fat, and ugly just like you, Hippo!'

The other boys sn.i.g.g.e.red. Turlough kicked viciously at the bodywork of the car and contemplated kicking the wretched Ibbotson himself.

But Hippo's skin was as thick as the eponymous beast's.

Ignoring the jibe, he pulled out a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and set about polis.h.i.+ng the scuff from Turlough's shoe, as delicately as if he were tending a flesh wound. He continued his numbing dissertation on the pedigree of the Humber Tourer, waxing eloquent on the lost skills of double-declutching.

It was at this point that Turlough had a wonderful idea.

It had the double virtue of embarra.s.sing the pestiferous Ibbotson, and alleviating, if only for a moment, the boredom of his enforced stay at Brendon School. He flung open the door of the car. 'Get in, Hippo!'

Ibbotson was scandalised.

'We're going for a ride.'

'Turlough!'

'Come on!'

'We can't.' Ibbotson was stunned by the very idea.

'No one will know.'

'Turlough, we can't!'

'Oh come on, Hippo. Just to the end of the drive.'

Turlough sounded so reasonable as he pleaded with the boy. 'You're not afraid, are you?' His voice changed key.

Ibbotson flinched as he felt the cutting edge of Turlough's tongue. 'Turlough!' He made a final attempt to resist the manipulation of his older friend, but Turlough already had him by the arm and was bundling him into the pa.s.senger seat.

Despite his acute misgivings, Ibbotson's initial feelings were entirely pleasurable as he sat enthroned on the opulent leather, peering at the ornate dials and gauges.

There was a muted thud as the driver's door slammed shut. Ibbotson turned from his inspection of the dashboard to see Turlough in the driving seat beside him. The older boy tinkered expertly with the timing and turned the self-starter. The engine sprung to life with a dull roar, then settled to a purring tickover which s.h.i.+vered the whole fabric of the car.

Ibbotson was now intoxicated with excitement, as Turlough slipped the old Humber into gear and pulled away with only the slightest scrunching of gravel. The other boys, who had been watching in amazement, gave a cheer. Ibbotson, unused to such adulation, turned and waved like the Queen Mother.

His euphoria was short-lived. While their progress along the drive was as secure as it was stately, on reaching the school gates, far from stopping as he had promised, Turlough accelerated, and turned recklessly onto the main road.

'Hey! you said just to the end of the drive!'

But Turlough was deaf to the protests of his pa.s.senger.

He eased the car into top gear. The revs of the powerful engine began to build.

'Turlough! You haven't got a licence.'

'So? Who needs a licence?' Turlough revelled in the discomforture of the boy beside him.

'Go back to the school! Please!'

But Turlough pushed down on the accelerator.