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 friendship. 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 polishing 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 shivered 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.

Faster and faster they roared along the narrow country lane, Ibbotson gibbering with anxiety, Turlough laughing from sheer exuberance.

'Turlough, slow down!' pleaded Ibbotson.

Turlough accelerated.

'You're on the wrong side of the road!' screamed his friend.

With total disregard for what lay ahead, Turlough turned to relish the terror of his pa.s.senger. 'This car's a cla.s.sic. Isn't that what you said, Hippo?' he shouted mockingly.

'Look out!'

Had he been watching ahead, Turlough would have spotted the van sooner. As Ibbotson cried out, the van driver hooted and Turlough realised he was on the verge of a head-on collision.

The van driver jammed on his brakes, veering sharply to his right, but not in time to avoid giving the Humber a sharp blow, which sent it helplessly out of control, straight towards the hedge.

Turlough was wide awake, confused by the unearthly light that surrounded him. He was floating in an enormous candyfloss of cloud. It was all strangely comforting. Even when he looked down and saw the improbable panorama below, he felt a detached sense of curiosity rather than surprise or alarm.

Turlough looked more closely. There was no doubt about it; the boy lying on the ground below him was undoubtedly himself.

He had a birds-eye view of the field where the car had crashed. He could see it now, half on its side, oil seeping from the broken sump. His body lay a few feet away, unconscious, obviously thrown clear by the impact.

Ibbotson stood near-by looking pretty sick, and being talked at by the Head. Trust Ibbotson to escape without a scratch.

He looked further afield. A panda car had pulled up in the lane and a policeman was taking a statement from the van driver. A battered Range Rover screeched to a halt. He recognised the man scrambling out as Doctor Runciman, who hurried across the field to the unconscious figure beside the Humber.

But, if the boy being examined by the school doctor was Turlough, what was he he - who was also Turlough - doing up in the clouds? - who was also Turlough - doing up in the clouds?

He turned away from the view below. Beside him stood a man in black. 'Who are you?' said Turlough.

'Your Guardian,' said the man.

Turlough looked down once more at the scene below and then again at the stranger. 'What is this place?'

The stranger smiled.

'Am I dead?'

'No,' said the dark stranger.

Turlough thought for a moment. 'I don't think I would really care if I were dead. I hate Earth.'

The man in black smiled again. 'You wish to leave?'

'Is it possible?'

'All things are possible.'

'Then get me away from here!'

The man in black, who called himself Guardian of the boy, was well pleased. But there was no love in the smile that he now gave his protege. 'First we have to discuss terms.'

Turlough could never remember exactly what then transpired in that strange nowhere. He knew only that a terrible pact was made between himself and the man in black, and that when he felt drawn back again to the Earth below and had despaired in his heart at the prospect of life again on that planet, the man who called himself his Guardian had cried out, 'Do you agree?' and he, Turlough, had answered, 'Yes!'

The boy lying unconscious beside the twisted wreckage of the old car groaned.

'He's been lucky,' said Doctor Runciman, turning to the Headmaster as he finished his examination. 'No bones broken. Just slight concussion.'

'It's a wonder they weren't both killed.'

Turlough groaned again.

'He's coming round.'

Turlough opened his eyes. The faces of Doctor Runciman and the Headmaster swam mistily into view. He felt a paralysing sense of doom. He began to mutter deliriously.

'Steady on, old chap. You've had a bit of a knock.'

But it was no fear of Runciman or Mr Sellick that chilled the boy's heart; he had just vowed to kill one of the most evil creatures in the Universe.

As soon as Turlough had been carried to Doctor Runciman's Range Rover and was on his way back to school, the Headmaster turned his attention to the crashed car. 'What's the damage your end, Brigadier?'

Two brogue shoes and legs clad in cavalry twill protruded from under the twisted Humber. Their owner continued his unseen examination of the car, though not without casting certain aspersions on the inmates of Brendon School. 'In thirty years of soldiering I have never encountered such destructive power...' There was a glimpse of harris tweed as the speaker began to crawl from under the cha.s.sis, '... as I have seen displayed in a mere six years of teaching, by the British Schoolboy!' A greying, military figure drew himself up to his full height. 'It's occasions like this that justify the return of capital punishment,' growled the old soldier.

It was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart.

2.

A New Enemy.

To the boys of Brendon School, the Brigadier was just part of the fixtures and fittings, like Matron's dreaded cascara or the Headmaster's smelly Dobermann. They knew nothing of his distinguished career with UNIT, the top-secret security organisation, and would certainly have been amazed, had they known, that the blimpish but kindly a.s.sistant master was for many years the friend and colleague of a Time Lord from Gallifrey.

It was a long time now since the Doctor and the Brigadier had met. Yet, on that summer's day in 1983, there was one thing that united them. While, at Brendon School, the Brigadier surveyed the wreckage of his beloved Humber, far out in s.p.a.ce the Doctor was a.s.sessing the damage to a broken-down TARDIS (of which he was equally fond).

Without warning a savage and unfamiliar alarm had sounded on the console, at which moment all temporal and spatial progress had come to a shuddering halt.

Tegan and Nyssa picked themselves up from the corner of the control room where they had been thrown by the violence of the emergency stop. They both felt in need of rea.s.surance after the sudden jolting, but there was no point in talking to the Doctor - already at work on the console as the continuing shriek of the claxon made communication impossible.

The silence, when the alarm was finally switched off, was a relief in itself. The Doctor turned from the systems panel. 'Warp ellipse cut-out,' he announced casually, and began to pull the whole circuit board apart.