Part 12 (1/2)

'I remember something similar.' Bridgeman suddenly clenched his fists. 'That's it - the money in the coin box. I remember it just melted, dripped away. And there was a light. Warm, like yours.'

Did you get the feeling of going up? You know, like in a lift that goes horribly quickly. Like the one in Sydney's Centrepoint Tower . . . oh, well, you wouldn't know that, would you.'

'No, but I know the feeling you mean. And yes, I-I did feel that. It's all coming back now and ... What's wrong?'

'Nicholas. Turn around slowly. They're behind you.'

Professor Bridgeman twisted round and stared. Into the faces of two scantily clothed Aboriginals - a female pus.h.i.+ng a male around in a primitive wooden cart. The man suddenly let out a shriek of malevolent laughter and was promptly cuffed around the ear by the woman.

'I . . . I know you . . .' Bridgeman tried to reach out to them but instead his fingers touched what he guessed was 97 Simms's invisible wall. 'About one point five volts,' he muttered to no one in particular. 'But I know them. In the village . . .'

'Aboriginals? In a c.u.mbrian village?' Simms was doubtful.

'No. Not like this then. In Victorian gear. But the faces are unmistakable . . .'

The crippled man suddenly lunged forward in his cart, his hand brus.h.i.+ng Bridgeman's shoulder, obviously unimpaired by the electrical forcefield. 'Hiya, Nickie! I'm your worst nightmare!' With a shriek of laughter he rocked back and rolled on his side, curling up like a foetus in the cart and fell fast asleep.

The woman looked down at her charge and then at the two men. 'He's very tired. Forgive him.'

'W-who are you?' Bridgeman tried to reach out again but the voltage pushed his hand back involuntarily.

The woman slowly shook her head and looked at the man in the cart. 'Your past. Your present. Perhaps your future.'

In the cart, the crippled man's right eye popped open and he stuck his tongue out. 'And the death of all humanity. And there's nothing you can do about it. Unless you've a flea collar handy!'

Whatever the meaning of that, it sent him into spasms of laughter, followed by a hacking cough. Tutting to herself, the woman turned the cart away and suddenly seemed to s.h.i.+mmer, as if caught in a heat haze. Bridgeman tried to refocus his eyes but it was no good. For a moment she seemed to grow taller, wearing her long black dress and the man was back in a wooden wheelchair, wearing the blue velvet smoking jacket and pyjama bottoms Bridgeman had seen him in back at the village phone box.

'Dent!' Bridgeman called. 'Mrs Wilding, come back.

Where are we?'

But they had vanished. With a sigh he turned to Simms.

Who had also vanished.

98.

Polly opened her eyes. It was s.p.a.ce, dark with white streaks of light stabbing out around her. She had been here before but she could not remember when. Or had she?

Something told her this was someone else's dream - that she was just a visitor, a guest inside someone else's memories.

Something reminded her of that time at the fairground, when Uncle Charles had taken her into the old gypsy tent.

Not a real gypsy, of course,' he had said knowingly, and like all ten year olds, Polly believed him because rich uncles knew everything. 'No, just some local woman dressed in a silly skirt.'

But Uncle Charles might have been wrong. The gypsy woman had looked at Polly's hand, muttered something about a long life and then produced a pack of cards. To ten-year-old Polly, they looked very pretty but strange. There were no aces or threes or clubs or hearts. Instead, colourful pictures showing young girls with wands, looking like fairies. And a tower with lightning which frightened her a bit. And the colourful man tied upside-down, hanging from a tree. She asked Polly to cut the pack and afterwards she dealt some cards out. Polly did not understand for one moment what the point was but all she remembered afterwards was being warned away from a tall, dark stranger.

Years later she would laugh when her friends suggested playing with a pack of tarot cards - the cliched idea of her dangerous tall, dark stranger stopped her taking the cards seriously.

Now, as she floated around inside someone else's dream (or whatever it was), the warning seemed suddenly unsettling. For some reason she thought that she might actually meet this tall, dark stranger. And then she realized she already had - on a flight of steps in a house invaded by unbelievable Cat-People. The man, curled up in fear, he had been tall and dark and something primal told her this was him. The gypsy's fear.

99.It's your dream, isn't it?' Polly breathed for a reason she could not fathom.

'Yes,' said a voice. Warm, soothing and delicious. The sort of voice you could curl up with on a sofa and feel safe.

The sort of voice you could trust, give over to, be at peace with. Polly relaxed. 'That's better,' said the voice. 'No one or nothing is going to hurt you. Trust me, please. Trust me and I'll help you.'

The streaks of white light began to s.h.i.+mmer, coalesce into a shape - the vague outline of the TARDIS. 'Is this your home?' asked the voice.

Polly tried to shake her head but did not have the energy.

She was too relaxed. 'Yes . . . well, no, not really. I travel in it. My real home is London.'

'Where is the Doctor? Is he in c.u.mbria with you?'

'Yes,' Polly answered. 'But how d'you know . . . ?'

'That's not important. I need you, your strength and power to help me help him. You saw the Cat-People, didn't you?'

'Yes! Yes, I did.' Polly began to tense up again. 'And you?

It was you on the stairs, wasn't it?'

'Sort of, yes. Now, relax again or I can't hold you here.

Can't help you escape from the Cat-People.'

'Sorry.' Polly breathed deeply. 'Are they here? In c.u.mbria?'

'Yes, they are now. I hoped I would get here first but I made a mistake. I didn't realize how far she would go to escape.'

Polly frowned. 'Who?'

'Thorgarsuunela. We were trapped here together. She's brought the Cat-People here in exchange for free pa.s.sage away from Earth.'

'What do they want?'

'No more questions. I'm going to try to bring you back to reality. I needed to talk to you like this while your friend isn't around. Ben, is it? His mind is too closed.'

Polly suddenly remembered the clifftop. The coat, Ben pulling at it, getting near the cliff. . . stumbling near the edge . . .

100.Polly opened her mouth to scream into the darkness - 'Ben!' Polly screeched.

Ben was windmilling with his arms, comically trying to fly like they did in the cartoons. Suddenly there was someone grabbing Ben's wrist and casually lifting him back on to the cliff edge. As his wrist was released, Ben dropped to the ground, panting, tears of fear and frustration on his cheeks. He was wheezing. 'Oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d -'

'You're safe. Both of you,' said a safe, warm, soothing, trustworthy voice.

Polly looked straight into the piercing blue eyes of her tall, dark stranger.

More people pa.s.s through Heathrow Airport in one twenty-four-hour period than any other installation in Europe. Either as a final destination or as a stopover, Heathrow sees more pa.s.sengers and flight crews than anywhere else clogging up the bars, cafes, restaurants, shops and, of course, pa.s.sport controls.