Part 9 (1/2)

The Doctor was already leaning over the body, a concentrated frown on his face. After a few seconds he looked up at the little man, who was hovering on the periphery of the group. 'Do you have any surgical gloves, Mr...'

'Booth,' said the man, 'Yes, sir, I'll just get you some.'

He scuttled away and returned moments later. The Doctor thanked him, pulled on the gloves and began to examine the dead man more closely, touching the spines on his chest and arms, prodding the surrounding flesh. 'I understand the man died of blood loss due to his injuries?'

'Yes, sir. He was stabbed four times.' Booth indicated the now bloodless purple-black slits in the man's abdomen.

'Hmm. Was anyone else involved in this incident treated for injuries at this hospital?'

'Yes, sir. Several people.'

'And did they exhibit similar... afflictions?'

'I'm not sure, sir. I could find out for you.'

'I'd be grateful if you would,' said the Doctor and straightened up, looking down at the corpse curiously. 'He seems to be lying rather awkwardly.'

'Yes, sir,' said Booth. Tie's a hunchback.'

'Do you mind if we have a look?'

'No, sir. I'll give you a hand.'

They heaved the corpse over on to its side. Now they could all see the peculiar double-hump, almost like vestigial wings, on the man's back.

'Interesting,' breathed the Doctor.

'Well, Doctor?' said the Brigadier. What do you think?'

The Doctor looked round at the three UNIT men.

'Metamorphosis,' he said.

'Meta-what?' said Benton.

'The people of Tayborough Sands are changing, Sergeant,'

the Doctor replied. Then he looked thoughtful and his voice dropped an octave. 'The question is - into what?'

The ringing of the telephone jerked Edith Perry from a dream about her long-dead husband Harold and his pigeons. The pigeons had been changing into little trains with wings, and Harold had been waving his fists in the air and ranting, 'It's that boy what's done this. Where is he? I'll tan him, I will.'

The ringing made her heart flutter like a dying bird in her paper-thin chest. She swung her legs slowly from the bed, confused and alarmed, wondering who could possibly be calling at such an hour.

Then she glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost 7 a.m. What was going on? Why hadn't Jack brought her her early morning cup of tea before slipping out to work? Surely he hadn't overslept for the first time in his life?

The sultry night had given way to an already muggy morning, but she s.h.i.+vered as she crossed the room to the dressing-gown hung on the back of her door. In the past five years or so she had become p.r.o.ne to an inner chill that only old people seemed afflicted by. It made her wake each morning with stiff limbs, made her feel as though her blood had congealed to cold jelly in the night.

She pulled her dressing-gown around her bony shoulders, rubbed her aching, arthritic wrists and moved sluggishly out on to the landing. The ringing of the phone went on and on, setting her teeth on edge. 'All right, all right,' she croaked, 'I'm coming'

She wondered why Jack hadn't been roused by the noise as she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear.

'h.e.l.lo?' she said a little suspiciously.

'Mrs Perry?'

'Yes.'

'Good morning, Mrs Perry. My name's Gordon Cleeve. I'm Jack's boss. I was just calling to find out what's happened to him this morning.'

'Happened to him?' said Edith.

'Yes. I mean, he didn't turn up for work.'

'Didn't he?'

'No, he didn't.' There was a pause, then Cleeve asked cautiously, 'I take it that Jack's not there with you then?'

'He's not with me at this moment, no,' said Edith, 'but I can't say for certain that he isn't in the house. I haven't had the chance to look yet, you see. Your phone call woke me up.'

'Oh, I'm sorry.'

'No, no, that's quite all right. I'm usually a much earlier bird than this. I don't sleep well, you know. Haven't done since my husband died.'

It was evident that Cleeve didn't quite know how to respond to this. 'Um... sorry to hear that,' he mumbled. Was it... was it recent? Your husband's death, I mean?'

'Good lord, no! 1959 it was. A stroke, you know.'

'Ah,' said Cleeve. Well, if you could get Jack to call me at his earliest convenience, Mrs Perry?'

'I'll go up straight away and see if he's here. Find out what's ailing him. To be honest he has seemed a little off-colour this week. Perhaps he's got a touch of summer flu.'

'I'm sure you're right, Mrs Perry. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' Edith said.

She put the phone down and shuffled to the bottom of the stairs. 'Jack,' she called up, her voice high and splintery.

'Jack, are you there?'

There was no reply. Edith frowned and tried to recall the last time she had seen her son. Her short-term memory was terrible these days. She could remember events from ten, twenty, even fifty years ago with crystal clarity, but attempting to place recent events into some semblance of order never failed to get her into a dreadful muddle.