Doctor How and the Deadly Anemones (16 page)

“I’ll replace it for the boy.”

“I’m twenty years old,” protested Kevin.

“Well, apparently you need a white man to look after you,
boy
,” said the woman, sucking her teeth in contempt. “There. There’s your flower. Now go on, both of you. Disappear.”

“I don’t think you understand,” insisted the Doctor. “These are a fire hazard.” One of the flowers began to smoulder. The stem melted near the bottom of the stalk and the flower toppled over. The leaves wilted, but continued to pump up and down slightly near the centre. There was a puff of smoke and a small yellow flame licked over the top of the flower pot.

“Oh! Goodness!” said the woman, leaping back.

The Doctor blew out the flame, but the acrid smell of burnt plastic remained strong.

“If you expose these to light for too long, they go off. Now, if you tell me where you got them from I can compensate you for the cost of the stock. But I need all of your stock, and I need it
now
.”

“Okay, okay. Wait there.” The woman bustled off through the crowd and came back a couple of minutes later with two large cardboard boxes.

“A receipt?” asked the Doctor.

The woman looked panicked.

“For the address of the supplier. And the price.”

She went back into her shop and leafed through a lever-arch file, tore out a page and handed it to the Doctor, who examined it.

“Thank you. If you would care to help me with these boxes, young man,” he said to Kevin. “I shall compensate the lady here.” He took out a wad of notes, counted some out and handed them to her. “And have this for your trouble,” he said, giving her another twenty pound note. He took a plastic bag from behind the counter and scooped the flowers into it, leaving behind the one that had burnt out.

He handed the bag to Kevin and fixed the woman with a long stare. “Now, if you see any of these in the future you’re to tell everyone that they’re defective. You saw one of them cause a small fire. Got that?”

“Defective,” said the woman, her eyes glazed. “Fire hazard. Very dangerous.”

“Excellent. Good day to you.” He snapped his fingers. The woman looked briefly puzzled at the fact that she was holding a large sum of cash and her invoice book. She saw the melted flower in its burnt-out pot, shook her head and went back inside her shop.

The Doctor cleared his throat as they crossed Atlantic Road. “Do you normally get that kind of comment?”

“Like what?” asked Kevin.

“Well, you know – being called ‘boy’. And that remark about getting help from a white man.”

“My Mum used to get called a ‘coconut’ back in the day. With being married to a Scottish guy, yeah?”

“A ‘
coconut
’?”

“Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

“But that’s… That’s appalling.”

Kevin gave as much of a shrug as the two boxes would allow. “I’ve had worse.”

“Well that sort of thing just isn’t tolerated in the Pleasant universe,” said the Doctor.

“Right. So how come you had to find Tim a home then?”

“Tim are… well. They’re rather toxic, but I suppose even so… Point taken. Let’s go home and examine our haul.”

“Give us a hand, will you? These are getting a bit heavy.”

The Doctor took one of the boxes from Kevin and they headed for the bus queues.

“Is that taxi going to be moving soon?” asked Mrs Roseby as soon as they were on the short gravel driveway in front of How’s house. She was pretending to water her roses.

“My cousin is travelling,” said the Doctor.

“When’s he back? That thing’s an eyesore. And it’s not roadworthy with the bumper off like that.”

“I’m hoping he’ll be back very soon, Mrs Roseby.”

“I can get it towed, you know.”

“Not if it’s on private property, Mrs Roseby. Good day to you.”

Kevin and the Doctor went into the porch, set down their boxes and took their ultraviolet bath silently. The Doctor insisted that Kevin wash his hands in anti-bacterial soap for having been on public transport. Trinity tagged along behind them in her feline form as they went into the basement.

Kevin set down his box next to the Doctor’s on the table and began to tear at it.

“No!” said the Doctor.

“Why not?”

“Think, laddie!
Light
. There are dozens of them in there. You know how bad it felt for me with just a dozen of them. Imagine if the whole box of them was activated. And,” he gesticulated at Where’s quarter-sized Spectrel, “we know they interfere with Spectrel navigation. We can’t take any chances.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s take one out of the bag.” The lights in the room dimmed and went red without the Doctor doing anything that Kevin could see.

Kevin offered the plastic bag to the Doctor, who reached in and slowly took out one of the flowers. He had its solar panels covered with his fingers as he set it down on the table. With his other hand he took out his Ultraknife and pointed it at the flower. Slowly he uncovered the panels and observed.

“The light’s below the threshold for generating a current. I assume you either weren’t told the physics behind these things, or you were asleep in class when they were being taught.”

“Fair assumption.”

“I won’t press you on which one. Now, in certain materials – namely the ones used to create solar cells – given a high enough frequency, electrons will receive enough energy from the photons in the light shining at them to be displaced, and to form an electrical current. The phenomenon is called
Thomson scattering
.” He met Kevin’s questioning eyes. “No relation of yours, sadly.”

“Huh.”

“But you need a certain frequency – a threshold frequency – for the little packets of energy in the light, the photons, to contain enough energy.”

“I think I got you.”

“So we’re starting with a dim red light. A bit like a safety light in a photographer’s darkroom.”

“You lost me.”

“They used to have to develop photographic film from negatives in things called darkrooms. Never mind. It’s a dying art, sadly. The upshot is that I can examine this in low-frequency light without the danger of setting it off. Clear?”

“Totally.”

The Doctor pointed his Ultraknife at the small flowerpot and made a tiny movement with his hand. A cut appeared in the plastic. He turned the pot through ninety degrees and made another incision, then two more to form a square incision. He picked the plastic out from the middle to reveal the inside. “And cousin When doesn’t believe this is a precision instrument,” said the Doctor, shaking his head. He lifted the toy up and looked inside. “Pretty basic stuff. In China a white flower would symbolise death. I wonder if that was deliberate.”

“Are we going to have to, like, travel to China?”

The Doctor regarded his assistant with some amusement. “Desperate to travel, aren’t you? All in good time, lad. All in good time.” He put the toy down and trained his Ultraknife on it. Again, without the Doctor saying anything the ambient light changed slowly, moving up the spectrum to orange. Still the leaves and flower remained static. Orange became yellow, which then changed to green. It had just changed to blue when suddenly there was an almost imperceptible twitch in the leaves, and the flower moved. “Gotcha,” said the Doctor.

“What? Got what?”

“Every photovoltaic surface has a signature trigger frequency. We have ours. This is a genuine piece of tat from China. Cheap rubbish.”

“Cheap rubbish? Like, I cannot believe you are saying that, Doc. You said these guys have managed to produce some kinda time-interrupting device.”

“No, no. What I mean is that the basis of this is cheap rubbish – the solar cells are rock-bottom cheap. Only responded as we approached the blue end of the spectrum. This is mass-produced tat. Whoever is behind this has co-opted a factory in China to do their distribution for them. You know how all these virus and spam bots work – the software takes over computers and replicates itself. Same sort of thing.”

“So we’re going to blow up this plant in China, yeah?”

“Good grief. I’d like to find out who’s behind this first. Something tells me it’s the same people who gave us the giant explosive beetles. The good news is that they’ve only managed to infiltrate a factory – they don’t have the capability to manufacture here on Earth.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Well, quite. I just wish I had my Spectrel so that I could conduct a more detailed analysis. Of course, I’d have to lower the frequency of the light just a touch so that this perfidious piece of plastic doesn’t interfere with her.” The Doctor gave Kevin an enigmatic smile, the light went back to green and Trinity gave a garbled feline noise from the back of her throat. Where’s Spectrel moved to the corner of the basement room.

Kevin looked at the Doctor. “What’s…?”

Doctor How’s Spectrel appeared in the middle of the room; a gleaming deep red telephone box. There was the faintest puff on Kevin’s face from the air she displaced.

“Ah, welcome home!” said Doctor How. He got to his feet and reached up to touch the golden crown above the door. Trinity let out a joyful yowl and brushed up against the side.

“Uh, good to see you,” said Kevin, feeling awkward at greeting a telephone box. “Like, we missed you
really
badly.”

The red telephone box stood, inanimate, the light shining brightly inside, and from her illuminated
telephone
signs on three sides.

“You knew she was coming back, Doc. Like, she has free will and stuff. So
how
?”

The Doctor was glowing with joy. “How indeed,” he chuckled. “How would you entice our darling Trinity if she were missing?”

“Easy. No disrespect to Trin, but a slab of fresh meat – maybe even some live game.”

The Doctor chuckled. “And it’s no different for my Spectrel. I gave her one of these toys to look at. As irresistible to her as a slab of fresh meat to Trinity. She’s desperate to know more. Someone’s treading on her territory, and she’s not happy.”

“But, like, where’s Dave?”

“I think we’re about to find out.” The Doctor opened the door, stepped into the Spectrel and disappeared. The door remained open.

Trinity nudged Kevin with her head before running ahead of him and vanishing. He stepped forward and was gone.

“Ah, Commander
Bunce
,” said Sir Adrian, standing to meet her. She supposed that the emphasis on her surname was some kind of exertion of his authority and status over her. She might be a commander in the Met, but she was still merely someone with a job title prefixing a surname. He, on the other hand, was a knight – someone with an honorary prefix and a first name.

When she’d worked in counter-terrorism she’d worked with officers from MI5, MI6’s sister organisation. They seemed to view the police service as something a little above nightclub bouncers and street-cleaners – someone to do the dirty work. She viewed them as pen-pushing desk-jockeys who enjoyed nothing better than to pontificate over hypotheticals.

“Sir Adrian,” she said with a rigid smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Do please take the weight off your feet,” he said, motioning her to a chair. “Shame about the circumstances. Can’t be fun being you right now,” he said, with a jovial grin. “Took a look in the toilet cubicles myself. Gruesome way to go. The world’s in a terrible state if a chap can’t even take a number two in peace, don’t you think?”

“Well, quite, Sir Adrian.”

“Similar-ish thing happened to me when I was a lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps. We were somewhere hot and Middle-Eastern where Her Majesty’s Government had specifically said we most definitely were
not
, doing something utterly deniable with a bunch of people we really should
not
have been doing it with. And we most definitely were
not
, even to this day, if you catch my drift. Told you too much already, in fact. Forget that bit of background colour if you would. Anyway, there I was in a canvas karzi, having my five minutes after breakfast, when there was the most almighty bang – more of a whoosh really – and the tent was blown off by a bomb blast. There’s me with my trousers around my ankles in the middle of the camp looking like something out of a Monty Python sketch. Lucky to be alive, frankly. Two pieces of shrapnel embedded in my flak jacket and one bounced off my helmet. Want to know what saved me?”

“You mean it wasn’t the flak jacket and helmet?” said Commander Bunce. She found herself warming to him. He wasn’t the civil servant type at all.

“No. It was fear. A lot of the chaps used to take their body armour off when they were on the can. I was so bloody scared I even used to shower with my flak jacket and helmet next to me. I don’t mind admitting that. Fear is just a way of your brain looking out for you. But a man – or a woman – shouldn’t have to fear going to the loo in this country, Commander. Should he? Or she?” The steel-eyed look he gave her was in total contrast to the friendly voice and the amusing story.

“Of course not.”

“Just as an army marches on its stomach, it won’t get very far if it’s unable to
relieve
itself. I can’t very well close the building because the toilets are out of order. We’re now in this ridiculous state where we have armed guards in the loos, and no one is allowed to shut the cubicle doors.
Armed guards in the toilets
, Commander Bunce. And we don’t even know who the enemy is!”

“I think we have some idea, Sir Adrian.”

“Really? I’d love to hear your theory, Commander. Or may I call you Jane?”

“Yes, Sir. I mean, yes, you may call me Jane, Sir Adrian. As for my theory, I have to say it sounds a little far-fetched. But there’s nothing else any of us can think that fits the facts.”

“I’m all ears,” said Sir Adrian.

He listened intently as she told him. After she had finished he stood up, went to the window and looked downriver, towards the Houses of Parliament and the City.

“I don’t think either of us can go and tell the world there’s a carnivorous beast on the loose in the sewers of London,” he said. “This is a big enough stink as it is.”

“Unfortunately, it’s already public knowledge that people have been killed in the sewers. Clapham and Brixton. Particularly the latter.”

“Yes, but not the fact that it’s some carnivorous beast that can rip a man apart. Oh, and do you think by any chance that it’s significant that it’s only men who have been attacked so far?” He was still addressing the cityscape in front of him.

“They don’t know it’s not something human, that’s true – though the rumour-mill has been working overtime. The lack of a body from Clapham doesn’t help either. And, no, I don’t think there’s any significance that it’s only men who have been attacked. Men are just…”

“More bloody stupid. Dangerous jobs and taking idiotic trips down the sewers. As for my two, I think that was just sheer bad luck.” He paused. “The fact that it – they – can come up the actual U-bend. Good grief. Have you any idea how many toilets there are out there?” He waved a hand at the view. “Millions. And we can’t guard them all with assault rifles. You can’t tell the general public not to
poo
.”

He turned back to face her, fixing her again with his eyes. “We had some giant cockroaches – or something like that – last week.”

“Sir?”

“Giant cockroaches. Big as a London cab.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. At least, that’s what I’m told. And they were combustible. One of them blew up a bunker under Holborn. One of the bunkers that doesn’t exist, if you understand me. Now I know there’s such a thing as a bombardier beetle, but they’re little fellows. And they essentially just squirt steam.”

Commander Bunce stifled a smile. This was going far, far better than she’d dared hope. “Was that connected to the fracking in Essex and the radar interference caused by the London Array?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t at any time feel the need to contact the Met for help?”

“Quite honestly, no. We can – and do – deal with these things ourselves. Can’t be causing public panic. All brought under control – or at least that’s what I’d thought.”

“Well clearly it’s
not
under control. Far be it from me to lecture you about security, Sir Adrian, but you can’t keep this sort of thing from the police service.”

“The important thing is that the
information
side of it is under control, Jane. As with the giant cockroach things, we can keep it all under wraps. I’m sure you appreciate that anything can be explained in a rational way.”

“How are you going to explain the deaths of your two operatives?”

“Death in service. Not a problem. Happens all the time.”

“Well, what on earth will the death certificates say?”

“Death by misadventure, most likely. Or accidental death. Take your pick.” He fixed her again with a stare. “May I ask how
you’re
dealing with them?”

“It’s a civil matter, Sir Adrian. Autopsies and then coroner’s inquiry.”

“I’d put money on the same conclusion,” he said. “Official Secrets Act is rather handy. We’ll not be wasting money from the public purse. Or the time. Aside from that, you haven’t actually got a body from the Clapham incident, unless I’m mistaken.”

“True, there is that. Just… just scraps of bloody clothing. Enough to infer that he met with the same fate as the Brixton two.”

“So,
missing in action
? We used it in the military. Thousands of them in wars, you know.
Nothing left
is what it means.
Blown to pieces
. May I ask what you’ve said to the relatives of the missing man?”

“We’ve not managed to trace them yet. Eastern Europe somewhere. Poland, we believe.”

Sir Adrian looked at her, and she knew she didn’t have the answers. Neither of them did. He unlocked his eyes.

“As for the situation itself with the giant cockroach business, we have some of our people attached to it. Well, they attached
themselves
to it. And they’re not, strictly speaking,
our
people either, though they do answer to me. Apparently. MI16. All two of them.”

“
Sixteen
?”

“No, as I said, there are just the two of them.”

“No, I meant MI
Sixteen
.”

“Ah, of course. Yes. Who knew they still existed? Formed after the Second World War. Budget kept getting signed off somewhere. Technology people. He’s a bit of a loon if you ask me, but she – his assistant – is terribly brainy. Reins him in. Takes care of the important stuff. Camilla Peterson. Astrophysicist. Doctorate from Imperial. Good sort. We recruited her into Six, and then somehow she seems to have been transferred to Sixteen. Not sure whether it was a clerical error. Stroke of luck for us, I think – heaven only knows what Thickwit would have done left to his own devices. Anyway, I thought you might like to meet them. Excuse me.” He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Could you send MI16 in, please,” he said, with a wink at Commander Bunce.

Seconds later, the door flew open and Thickett rushed in. “Thank you for seeing me. Us. Sir Adrian,” he gabbled. “I know exactly who’s responsible for all this. It’s those interfering Time Lords.”

“Responsible for
what
?” demanded Commander Bunce, her years of training kicking in, taking command of the situation.

Thickett took stock of her presence and obvious status. “These!” Thickett took out his smartphone and pressed. “See?” Commander Bunce and Sir Adrian gathered closer to look.

There were the pictures of Trinity and Tim in the sewers.

Commander Bunce snatched the phone from his hands. “No one knows about these.”

“Well, clearly they
do
, Commander,” said Sir Adrian.

“Where did you get them?” demanded Bunce.

“The internet,” said Peterson. Her interjection brought a calmness to the situation. “My initial analysis shows they were uploaded simultaneously at several thousand points, suggesting that it was orchestrated. Perfectly.”

“Since you’re giving me no more information, Camilla, I’m assuming they’re not traceable in any way?”

“Correct, Sir Adrian.”

“She’s terribly thorough,” said Sir Adrian to Commander Bunce. “Thickwit, what makes you think this is the work of these,” he gave Commander Bunce a conspiratorial sideways glance, “Time Lords?”

“It’s
Thickett
. Only Who or How could have done it!” said Thickett.

“I thought I was asking the questions, Thickwit.”

“No, I mean Doctor Who or Doctor How. The Time Lords!”

Commander Bunce smiled to herself and raised herself up on her toes a couple of times. She had found the perfect candidate to pin everything on. Standing before her was the one man who was always going to be worse off than her. Doctor Who and the Time Lords? She’d heard it all now. She just hoped this lunatic could keep himself out of the asylum long enough for her to stitch him up.

“And what makes you think it was the Time Lords?” asked Bunce.

“They were responsible for last week’s episode with the giant beetles,” said Thickett.

“Did you say
episode
?” asked Commander Bunce.

“Yes,” said Thickett. “Episode, as in an incident in the course of events. What did you think I meant?”

“Of course,” said Bunce. “I misunderstood you. Please continue.”

“Well,” said Thickett, “I believe Doctor How has a pet – more like an
assistant
– which takes the form of a giant spider like this one.”

“I see,” said Sir Adrian. “Go on.”

“What about the… the human-like thing in the other image?” asked Bunce.

“Well it’s definitely not How, and I don’t think it’s Who. And it’s not Where.”

“It’s not
where
?” asked Bunce.

“No. Too small.”

“I thought you knew where?” asked Bunce.

“Yes, which is why I can state with some certainty that it isn’t.”

“What?”

“Could be. Just guessing now, mind. We don’t know What, When or Why. But I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.” Thickett gave her a knowing nod.

“But I thought you said this was Clapham.”