Doctor Who: Shada (43 page)

Romana, who was standing behind the Professor’s deckchair, giving the old man a big hug, looked over to Chris. ‘Psychologically speaking,’ she said, ‘it was probably something in his background.’

‘But where did he come from?’ asked Chris.

The Doctor swallowed another handful of sweets and gestured around them. ‘Here!’ he called. ‘This is Drornid. Nice, isn’t it?’

Clare placed a hand on Chris’s shoulder. ‘I realised a long time ago that some people are just inexplicable,’ she said.

The Doctor clapped his hands together. ‘Right then, gang. Where to next? We can’t hang about here all day.’

Professor Chronotis clambered awkwardly from his deckchair. ‘Back to Cambridge, I think. You’re all welcome to drop in for a cup of tea. I know I’m parched.’

‘Cambridge too, please,’ Clare said.

Chris nodded. ‘Of course! You’ve got a plane to catch. And all your packing and stuff to do.’

The Doctor sighed, Romana rolled her eyes, Professor Chronotis tutted and K-9’s head drooped.

‘What?’ said Chris. ‘What?’

Clare turned to the others. ‘Could you give us a moment?’

The Doctor, Romana and K-9 headed to the TARDIS, and the Professor made for the nearby bathing hut.

For once, Chris felt no apprehension as Clare turned back to face him. He could never have predicted any of the events of the last two days, but then he had never been able to predict Clare either. The anxieties she normally induced in him failed to appear. He felt only an overwhelming joy that she was here, safe and with him.

‘Chris,’ said Clare, very directly.

‘Keightley,’ Chris replied.

Clare very gently shook her head.

Chris finally took the hint. ‘Clare?’ he said slowly and experimentally.

Clare nodded. ‘You don’t remember what you said to me, do you?’ she asked.

Chris frowned, that mental image of him yelling something important battering at his brain. ‘No,’ he admitted.

‘Let me give you a clue,’ said Clare softly. ‘It was three little words.’

Chris concentrated hard.

Clare shook her head again and took him gently by the hand. ‘No, don’t concentrate. You said those words before. You can say them again.’

Chris despaired. ‘So why can’t I remember?’

‘Well,’ said Clare, a little awkwardly, ‘your mind was under the control of Skagra at the time, and if we’re being strictly accurate the words came out of the Doctor’s mouth, but it was definitely you who said them.’ Her face was a picture of earnestness.

And then Chris knew. God, it was so simple. Nothing else in the universe was, it had turned out. But here they were, together, on an alien planet, and Clare Keightley was trying with such infinite patience to bring out of him the simple fact that he had chosen to complicate for so long. All those banal, stupid thoughts about being too old at 27, about time passing him by and running out on him.

‘I’m an idiot,’ Chris said.

‘Wrong three words,’ Clare said, looking deep into his eyes.

Chris laughed out loud, and then he gathered Clare into his arms, spun her around and yelled, as loudly as he could, so the whole planet would hear. ‘
I love you!
I love you, Clare Keightley!’

‘At last,’ said Clare.

Chapter 74

IT HAD NOT taken Wilkin long to find a constable. This early on a chilly Sunday morning it was almost certain, in Wilkin’s experience, that one or two would be lurking around the steaming urns of the coffee stall on Sidney Street.

This particular upholder of the Queen’s peace didn’t seem very pleased to be dragged back into the cold by Wilkin, and was taking subtle revenge by affecting an air of ironic condescension.

Wilkin outlined his problem as they walked back to St Cedd’s and across the forecourt in the direction of P corridor.

‘Stolen a room, you reckon, sir?’ asked Constable Smith, not for the first time.

Wilkin sighed. ‘That is the only way I can describe it, Constable.’

‘Simply trying to establish the facts as you see them, sir,’ the constable said. He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head sadly, making Wilkin wince. ‘It’s just that in my experience people don’t usually steal rooms very much. They may steal
from
rooms, but steal the rooms themselves, very rarely.’ He stopped in mid-stride, and Wilkin almost bumped into him. ‘In fact,’ Smith said, with the air of imparting to Wilkin a piece of priceless information, ‘I think
never
is probably the word I’m looking for here, sir.’

‘Yes, quite, I realise it must sound—’ Wilkin began, trying to hurry the policeman along, but Smith was warming to his subject.

‘I mean,’ he interrupted, ‘where’s the advantage in it? Not much of a black market in rooms, is there? Wouldn’t get much for it!’

Wilkin held open the door leading into the college with as much good grace as he could muster, and Smith passed through, looking around him with a general air of disapproval that clearly showed that, in his experience, academic life merely meant stolen helmets, petty crime, inebriated posh boys needing to be fished out of rivers, and a whole raft of aggravating paperwork generated by the above.

Wilkin’s sense of propriety was offended by this flat-footed oaf. ‘I know it’s very difficult to understand,’ he said, as they headed deeper into the building. ‘It’s also very easy to be sarcastic.’

Smith shrugged. ‘Sarcastic, sir? I don’t know the word. Now, why don’t you run over the salient points again?’

Wilkin sighed an even deeper sigh. ‘Very well. When I reached the room, I opened the door—’

‘This would be the first of the two doors you mentioned, sir?’

‘Yes!’ Wilkin almost shouted. ‘It opens into a little vestibule.’

‘Then we must hope that nobody has since made off with that little vestibule of yours, mustn’t we, sir?’

Wilkin gathered himself. ‘It’s the other door, and the room it leads to that’s disappeared. There was absolutely nothing there when I looked.’

‘Absolutely nothing at all, sir?’ said Smith.

Wilkin nodded. ‘Absolutely nothing at all. I could see straight out onto the Backs, once that strange blue haze had faded.’

Constable Smith stopped again and held up a finger. ‘Aha,’ he said, eyes narrowing as he peered down at Wilkin. ‘Perhaps this blue haze may be the vital clue we’re searching for.’

Wilkin huffed and puffed, indignant. ‘And I can assure you I had not been drinking!’

Constable Smith raised his hands to heaven at the mere suggestion.

It was fortunate for Wilkin’s blood pressure that they had at last reached the junction leading to room P-14. He hurried down to the door, Smith loping after him.

Smith jerked a thumb. ‘So this is the famous vestibule door, is it, sir? Behind which you saw this mysterious blue haze?’

‘Yes,’ said Wilkin, through gritted teeth.

Constable Smith raised his hand, gave Wilkin a look that said
One wrong move and I’ll throw the book at you, Sonny Jim
, and knocked on the door.

‘Come in!’ shouted a happy voice from within.

Smith looked back at Wilkin with a significantly raised eyebrow, which indicated that Sonny Jim was in very hot water indeed.

Smith opened the door, gave the vestibule a quick onceover, and passed through the open inner door into an untidy but very much not stolen room.

Wilkin slunk in behind him, removing his bowler and twisting it between his fingers in total confusion.

‘Well,’ said Smith. ‘Whoever took the room, sir, seems to have brought it back.’

Smith ignored the stricken Wilkin, his trained eyes already travelling suspiciously around the group of disagreeable-looking academic types the room contained. They were all sipping cups of what could have been harmless, innocent tea, but Smith sniffed the air, alert for traces of any other substances it might contain.

Smith’s attention was drawn immediately to a tall, shifty-looking bloke with big eyes and a ridiculous scarf. He held a teacake in one hand and an open book in the other and was reading from it in a posh voice. This character obviously thought he was the bees knees.

‘“… her little homely dress, her favourite,” cried the old man, pressing it to his breast and patting it with a shrivelled hand. “She’ll miss it when she wakes.”’

Listening to this possibly subversive drivel, sprawled across armchairs and sofas in a clearly counter-cultural way, were four others, two birds and two fellas. The first feller looked harmless enough, seemed like quite a nice old chap. Next to him was a blonde bird, snooty-looking piece. She was wearing a medal; probably, though, she was making some artistic anti-war statement. He knew her type, all pony clubs and dusty books back at the old pile, all ban-the-bomb and burn-your-bra as soon as mater and pater were out of sight. Facing them, on the opposite side of big-eyes, was a cracking dark-haired bird who for some reason was holding hands with a drippy-looking hippy with long hair and grubby jeans. Smith sighed inwardly. What did a tasty bit of crumpet like that see in that soft-looking berk?

All this passed in scant seconds through Constable Smith’s Hendon-honed mind. He realised the old geezer was trying to get his attention.

‘Good morning, officer,’ he smiled. ‘Hello, Mr Wilkin. Can I help you gentlemen at all? A cup of tea perhaps?’

‘Not on duty, thank you,’ said Smith with a suspicious glance at the teapot. ‘Just a routine inquiry, sir. Report that this room had been stolen.’

The occupants in the room all stared around at each other with expressions of innocence that evoked grave suspicions in Smith. He was itching for an arrest.

The old gent turned back to Smith. ‘Stolen? I don’t think so, officer.’ He peered over his spectacles at the abject Wilkin. ‘Do you know anything about it, Wilkin?’

Before the porter could answer, Smith caught the drippy lad about to pop a white pill into his mouth.

‘Excuse me, sir!’ Smith bellowed. The man froze, guilt etched all over his face.

‘It’s just an aspirin, officer,’ the suspect bleated, reaching over to show him the packet on the coffee table.

Smith raised another devastating eyebrow. ‘Aspirin, sir?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes, headache.’

Smith folded his arms. ‘Headache, eh?’ he said, stretching the final syllable significantly. ‘Overdid it last night, did we, sir?’

Hippie gave an unreadable look over at big-eyes, who grinned a wide and very arrestable grin. ‘It’s been a busy couple of days, for us all,’ he said.

The totty with the perm spoke up. She didn’t sound as posh as the rest of ’em. ‘We’ve just got engaged, you see, and I’ve cancelled a trip to America to be with my lovely fiancé here. Like the Doctor said, busy couple of days.’ She smiled sweetly up at Smith, who inwardly cursed that the girl could have been taken in by the smelly article at her side. What a waste.

Smith swung around to face Wilkin. ‘A lot of celebrating going on in college last night, was there, sir?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary, no,’ said Wilkin, almost tugging his forelock at the policeman in an attempt to smooth things over, now that the question of the missing room seemed to have been resolved. He turned to the happy couple. ‘And my heartiest congratulations, Mr Parsons, to you and to your enchanting young lady. I’m glad you found him in the end.’

‘Me too,’ said the girl with a soppy look.

Smith nodded slowly and stroked his chin. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he mused. ‘In my experience that means the usual university hijinks, doesn’t it? Students roaming the streets stealing policeman’s helmets, bollards, and—’

Smith stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. In the corner of the room was a police box. A big, old, blue police box. This was one up on traffic cones, two up on helmets.

With his fiercest expression, he pointed to the police box and addressed the assembled suspects. ‘Might I ask where you people acquired this?’

Big-eyes sprang to his feet and over to the police box, which he patted in what could have been construed as an affectionate manner. ‘Certainly, officer. I acquired it on the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. Would you like me to spell that for you?’

Smith’s face hardened. His fingers tingled with the nearness of an arrest, and he pulled out his notebook and pen in readiness.

Big-eyes leant in close to Smith. ‘I’d dig out my license for you if I could find it, if I had one, and if we weren’t suddenly in such a terrible rush. Come on, Romana. Come on, K-9.’

The posh blonde girl set her tea down, and rose gracefully from the sofa. From behind the same sofa, with a loud whirr, a metal box that looked a bit like a dog trundled after her, its tail wagging behind it.

From the door of the box, big-eyes called, ‘Bye, Wilkin, keep up the excellent portering, bye, Bristol, bye, Clare, be happy and thanks so much asking all those questions, and goodbye, Professor, we’ll keep your secret.’

During this, the blonde and the dog-thing had slipped into the police box behind him.