Doctor Who_ Nightshade.

By Mark Gatiss.

Ah, nostalgia. So seductive. So dangerous. And so odd to Nightshade was originally written with a mature be feeling it for some of my own work. Nightshade, now audience in mind, and contains strong language. Some looking like the brittle-paged Tenth Planet I had as a kid, is characters also express racial att.i.tudes prevalent in parts of fourteen years old! Like a child I never had. I remember it British society at the time the book is set. Nightshade may all so vividly. Seeing the Virgin writers' guidelines in DWB, therefore not be suitable for younger fans of the series.

writing my specimen chapters, coming home for Christmas 1991 to find the fantastically encouraging letter from Peter Darvill-Evans, the agonising wait to see whether the New Adventures would run beyond the initial four books...

The idea for what was originally called Nightfall came to me on a long coach journey from Leeds to - would you believe Cardiff? - a city that was then a long way off becoming the centre of the Doctor Who universe. I spotted a sci fi novel called Nightfall so the t.i.tle instantly changed!

The basic concept was this, wouldn't it be fun if an actor from an old TV sci-fi series started to see in real life the monsters he faced in the programme?

At that stage, before the New Adventures had been announced, I suppose I dimly thought of it as a kind of play idea. A Play for Today idea, really. Although such things were extinct by the early 90s. I hadn't long graduated from 2 3.college and was living a precariously hand to mouth existence in a haunted house in Leeds (It really was! 97 Archery Rd. Go and have a look!).

I had yet to make any sort of mark in s...o...b..z but, when I read about Virgin's plans to continue the recently defunct Prologue Doctor Who I felt in my bones: I CAN DO THIS. What appealed to me enormously, apart from the sheer thrill of being published was to have a shot at writing Doctor Who (the real thing, of course, was now impossible. Ha!). Not only that, but to write Doctor Who as I thought it should be done, effectively redressing what I felt to have been wrong with the programme in its later years.

All around the cluttered cloisters, musty rooms and high, As a result, what surprises me now, re-reading the book vaulted halls there was a deep and tangible hush. The only after so many years is how SERIOUS it is. Grim, in fact. But light in the virtually impenetrable gloom was of a peculiarly you have to remember that I was reacting against the sort of pellucid green, spilling out feebly from every heavy wooden garish Who of the late Eighties that I'd found an increasing door and misaligned stone. Everywhere, there was a terrible turn-off. Things were undoubtedly getting better, just when sense of stagnancy, imbuing the whole place with a fetid, the programme was cancelled, but there was still a sort of neglected atmosphere as though some great cathedral had muddled quality, an almost perverse refusal to tell a straight been flooded by a brackish lagoon.

-forward story that I found very frustrating. So I wanted From out of the cobwebbed shadows emerged a little 'Nightshade' to be an ultra-grim and horrific adventure in group of very old men, resplendent in their ornately the mould of favourites such as Genesis of the Daleks, The decorated robes.

Caves of Androzani and Frontios.

The least ancient of the group, a white-haired individual I liked the irony also that it was a story about the dangers with piercing eyes and a down-turned, haughty mouth, of nostalgia that was in itself, nostalgic. But I'd better start at lifted the hem of his robes as he detached himself from the the beginning, I suppose...

others, sending little flurries of dust over the flagstones. He murmured a few words of apology to his comrades and melted away into the shadows.

After a time he came to a small door inset in the crumbling stonework. He looked about him, senses alert, and lifted his hands to grip the lapels of his robes. His twinkling eyes darted from side to side. It was time.

4.5.A man with a face like a deflating balloon, dressed in dark For a long time the seven remaining boxes stood in silence gold robes which were too big for him, crossed the corridor, with only the steady drip of the leaking roof to disturb the mumbling happily to himself. The white-haired man gloom. Then the man in the dark gold robes appeared in the pressed himself into a doorway until the fellow had pa.s.sed.

doorway, tutting to himself. He regarded the seven boxes, It wouldn't do to be discovered now.

and the s.p.a.ce where the eighth had been, with some When he was certain that he was alone, the old man annoyance.

opened the door with a spindly key and squeezed himself 'Oh no, no,' he said. 'This really won't do at all.'

through into darkness.

Beyond the door was a flight of stone steps, which he descended nimbly, leading into a huge, ink-black, domed chamber.

Arranged in a row were eight featureless objects about the size of horse boxes, their dull grey surfaces tinged by the familiar underwater-green.

The white-haired man lifted the heliotrope robes from around his shoulders and let them slip to the floor. He steepled his bony fingers and looked up at the ceiling high above his head. What was the night like out there? It had been so long since he'd ventured outside, smelled fresh air, seen the first frosts, watched the pale silver and bronze leaves disappearing under melting snow...

But now all that would be different. It was time to go.

There was a noise from somewhere close by and the old man hastily unlocked one of the featureless grey boxes.

'I must be quick,' he muttered. 'Yes, I must be very, very quick.'

A look of profound sadness seemed to come over his wise old face as he gave the hall one more sweep of his searching gaze. Then, with a heavy sigh, he vanished inside the box and closed the door.

There was a raucous, grinding moan and, quite suddenly, the old man and his protesting grey box simply faded away.

6.7.'Same old routine isn't it, Jack Prudhoe?'

Yes, he despaired, yes, yes. Same old b.l.o.o.d.y routine.

Jack selected his favourite walking stick. The one with the horse's head carved on it. The one Win had given him on Chapter One their tenth anniversary. He b.u.t.toned up his heavy raincoat and eased his feet into a pair of Wellingtons. With two pairs of socks on they almost fit.

'Off you go to the pub to get tanked up. And not a thought for me, oh no. Well, I've had enough. Either you start facing up to your responsibilities...'

Jack didn't hear the rest. He lifted the latch on the solid front door and stepped out into the rain.

Perhaps the world was dreaming. Dreaming as it drifted There was a dismal, slate-grey quality to the light which like an exotic b.u.t.terfly through those gossamer summers did nothing to lift his spirits. A wintry dusk was creeping which seemed like they could never end, stretching pacific remorselessly over the village in defiance of the early hour.

arms around its people under a billion-dollar blue sky. And A short walk across the square stood The Shepherd's there were those who said there'd never been a better time Cross, a pub in which Jack had been drinking, man and boy, to be alive. Perhaps the world was dreaming ...

for nearly fifty years. He nearly chuckled as he remembered his dad smuggling him his first pint.

Jack Prudhoe scratched his bristly chin and cleared his The pub's comforting atmosphere of red flock wallpaper, throat loudly. He was in no mood to argue. Standing in the old wood and frosted gla.s.s rarely failed to cheer him up.

draughty hall of his little house, he wearily ran a hand Except, perhaps, on bleak days like this one.

through his thinning hair and rattled the walking sticks 'Afternoon, Jack.'

which cluttered the umbrella stand.

Jack nodded his h.e.l.lo to the landlord, Lawrence Yeadon, 'Are you listening to me?'

who stood drying gla.s.ses behind the long mahogany bar.

Win's voice stabbed at him like a needle. Jack kept his Lawrence tossed the teatowel on to his shoulder and rheumy old eyes fixed on the umbrella stand. Had it always grinned. He was always grinning. Or whistling.

been like this? Dreary days. Arguments. Going to the pub.

'Filthy weather,' he said cheerily. Jack grunted and looked Coming back. Apologies. Another argument. Bed. Silence.

Lawrence up and down, noting with disapproval the Jack looked at Win's angry, pinched face as she continued younger man's turtleneck sweater and fashionably to berate him in a shrill monotone. Mouth like a horse's exaggerated sideburns. Silly b.u.g.g.e.r was too old to be back side, he thought idly. Win's grey eyes flashed following trends.

dangerously.

8.9.Back in the days when the colliery was still open, Jack had that he'd first seen Win. She and her mother had just arrived been a good friend of young Lawrence, especially after he'd in Crook Marsham and moved into the old Shackleton married such a pretty young la.s.s as Mrs c.o.c.kayne's eldest house on Faraday Street. Win was such a beautiful woman and produced a son, Robin. But his wife's untimely death in those days. Lovely thick auburn hair and soft, soft skin had left such a profound impression on Lawrence that he that seemed to shine...

had virtually withdrawn from village life, becoming sullen 'Can I get you girls a drink?' Jack had asked in a nervous and uncommunicative. However, after some years (much to voice. Win and her new friend Veronica Railton giggled into everyone's relief), he pulled himself together, got the their hands. They were already feeling rather daring having tenancy of the pub with little bother and married a lovely gone into the pub unchaperoned. Jack looked down at the widow from York called Betty Harper.

oversized uniform he'd been given and suddenly felt a fool.

These days, Lawrence was all sweetness and light. He and His army haircut was horribly severe and he felt self-Betty had recently returned from a holiday in Jersey and conscious about his sticky-out ears. Veronica peered at him were already planning their next excursion, rumoured to be from behind her thick spectacles. Win's big eyes looked him a cruise on the new Queen Elizabeth II.

up and down. She was wearing that red dress which her Lawrence grinned at Jack. The old man turned away mother had made for her. It was always her favourite.

thoughtfully. There was something about Lawrence which 'Well?' said Jack. Veronica giggled again but Win held his nagged at him. Perhaps he was just a bit too eager and gaze. 'There's something about a man in uniform,' she'd cheerful to be true. And there had been a lot of gossip said quietly.

recently about how ill Betty was looking.

Always had spirit that one. So beautiful. So beautiful...

Jack shrugged off these thoughts, turned back to the bar, Jack Prudhoe shook himself out of his reverie and took ordered a pint of mild and asked after Betty.

another sip of his pint, leaving a creamy semicircle on his 'Oh fine, fine,' said Lawrence, a little too quickly.

upper lip. His eyes strayed to the tatty Christmas Jack sat down at a table and closed his eyes, listening to decorations which Betty Yeadon had put across the bar only the gentle crackling of the fire. He was grateful that the the other day.

recently installed jukebox (one of Lawrence's efforts to His mind began to drift again. He and Win saying their 'liven the place up a bit') had fallen silent. Honestly, the farewells just before he was posted. Endless laughter and drivel people listened to nowadays. You couldn't tell the chatter. Going on trips over to Leeds and Ilkley Moor.

boys from the girls half the time.

Kissing by the falls at Haworth. And then parting. Jack Sipping his pint thoughtfully, Jack glanced into one of the waving to Win as she stood in that lovely red dress at the shadowed corners where a hefty wooden and cast-iron table station. Waving as the steam from the engine enveloped her.

stood, its surface littered with sodden beer mats. It was in After that had come the worst time of Jack's life: foul and that corner sometime during the Great War (1916, wasn't it?) wretched war. Up to his knees in freezing water as star-10 11.sh.e.l.ls blossomed overhead. Half his comrades slaughtered and bitter woman she now was. They'd never even left the in that filthy mud. And then came the day he saw his best village. Despite all those plans, all those promises...

mate's head blown off and Johnny Hun put a bullet through Something caught Jack's eye as it flashed by the smoked Jack's chest, sending him home within the week. Home to gla.s.s of the pub window. He turned full around and his old Crook Marsham and his mum and dad. And home to Win, neck wrinkled in the none-too-clean collar of his shirt.

who had waited for him, despite the best efforts of the local A flash of red. There was something darting past the lads.

window, the smudged red of their clothes bobbing into The year after those university men came to the moor view like a lone poppy seen through a curtain of fine rain.

looking for old relics, Jack and Win finally tied the knot.

Jack moved closer and peered through the little area of 'We'll have a dozen kids,' he told her. 'And a house as big clear gla.s.s which spelt out the pub's name in big Victorian as Castle Howard. A garden full of roses, and chrysanths.

letters. There was a girl out there, dressed in a light summer Aye, you like chrysanths, don't you?'

frock. A red frock. Jack sensed its familiarity and something She'd turned her big eyes to him and smiled warmly. 'Oh, turned in his stomach.

Jack. What am I going to do with you?'

And then there was a face at the window. Pressed against Jack turned back to his pint and rubbed the ribs which the the smoked gla.s.s. A pale, lovely face with a halo of thick bullet had smashed all those years ago. They still ached a bit hair. The girl giggled lightly and was gone.

in damp weather.

Jack stood up sharply, sending both table and beer He sighed heavily. Sometimes he just couldn't believe that crashing to the floor. Lawrence looked at him oddly.

the Win he'd loved and the woman who was now such a 'Jack?'

thorn in his side were one and the same. They'd had their The red blur began to diminish. Over towards the moor.

ups and downs, of course, like anybody else. One kiddie 'Jack? Are you all right?'

still-born. The other, named after his father, run down by a Jack Prudhoe turned and his careworn face was full of bus. Jack could see himself there even now, standing wonder. He suddenly knew he didn't have much time.

helplessly as the great, lumbering vehicle lurched around 'It's her, Lol,' he breathed. 'It's her!'

the corner. Then young Jackie running into the road. Time 'Who?'

slowing around them, moving like treacle. That awful noise Jack let out a high, hysterical laugh and stumbled out of as the bus's brakes howled, and then Win, turning to him the door. Lawrence hastened after him.

with such a look in those grey eyes. Accusing him. Little 'Jack! Your coat, man! You'll catch your death! Jack!'

Jackie breathing his last on that rain-washed street and, The policeman and the old man are tired. Their faces, in perhaps, something inside Win quietly dying. The pa.s.sing tight close-up on the television screen, blurred by the crude years became like a physical weight, pressing her down, film process. The policeman's nerves are close to breaking breaking that rare spirit, transforming her into the stooped point. 'What do you mean, "not of this world"?' The older 12 13.man puts a comforting hand on the constable's arm. 'I know shared a roof, now cl.u.s.tered around the television in a sea it's difficult to accept, my boy, but I've encountered these of tartan blankets.

things before. They are the vanguard of an invading force He huffed again at his compatriots. They'd promised to from the planet M...'

stay awake for his programme, they'd promised.

The policeman screams as a huge, scaly claw bursts 'I don't know why I bother,' he said out loud.

through the window. 'Professor! Professor Nightshade! For 'Bother about what?'

G.o.d's sake...!' The older man's face zooms into view. Grim It was Jill Mason, the warden of the old people's home, and determined. Fade to black. Thunderous chords bellow sneaking up on him again.

out the familiar theme tune as the word Nightshade is 'Don't do that!' snapped Trevithick. 'Gave me the shock of superimposed on a roll of rather jerky credits.

me life.'

Jill was lifting up cushions and looking under chairs.

Professor Nightshade - Edmund Trevithick 'You haven't seen the Radio Times about, have you, Constable Chorley - James Reynolds Edmund?'

Staff Sergeant Ripper - William Jarrold Trevithick smiled his lopsided smile. He'd hidden the periodical during one of Mrs Holland's fits. That way no The blue light from the television screen threw garish one would know there was anything else but Nightshade on shadows across Edmund Trevithick's chuckling face as he the television that night.

watched his name flicker by. He smiled, a little indulgently, 'Perhaps Mrs Holland has eaten it.'

and leant forward in his chair to switch off the set. The room 'You're wicked,' said Jill, smiling.

seemed suddenly very dark and quiet. Trevithick cleared She peered out of the window into the darkness and his throat loudly and smiled his famous lopsided smile. It closed the curtains in one decisive movement. It was getting hadn't really dated much at all, even if he did say so himself!

late.

Even so, it had been a good few years since he'd last played Trevithick had to admit that he was fond of the girl, even old Professor Nightshade. Nice of Auntie Beeb, though, to if she was a little patronising at times and wore her hair too give the series a dusting down and a slot on their new long. She'd even taken to sporting false eyelashes (of all second channel.

things) which Trevithick thought resembled copulating Trevithick looked around the room at the circle of elderly insects. He objected less to the length of her skirts which people, all sound asleep; their gentle snores rising and barely reached her shapely knees. Girls had been far too falling in pitch like steam from old copper kettles. He prim in his youth. This bra-burning malarkey certainly had harrumphed loudly, considering himself a sprightly seventy its advantages.

years old and nothing like the poor old dears with whom he He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and steered the conversation back to his old series.