She could imagine what Queen Aysha had done to humiliate the litter-runt. Which was good, because now Lotuss would be full of anger, resentment and fury. And that could be directed at whatever foes they encountered on Earth.

Chosan stared back at her science console. And decided that if she had been a nice, decent member of the universe's population like so many of those that the ship had exterminated, then she would warn Earth that its greatest threat was on its way.

The Cat-People had come to invade, and nothing could stop them.

Earth Seven Dials. Shaftesbury Avenue. Opposite the MGM, just past the top end of Earlham Street. Wednesday the sixth of July nineteen ninety-four. Five-forty-eight. Seventy-seven degrees in the shade. Martina had lost the championship on Sat.u.r.day but departed Wimbledon in style, taking cheers and a sod of the court with her. Poor old Ivanisevic had not been so lucky the following day but what the h.e.l.l. For him, there was always next summer.

The trains were not working - the railway signalmen were striking - and she had to get a bus home. Despite the glory of the past few hours, it was now raining.

Only a drizzle. Soft and cooling. Not enough to fumble for her umbrella, but enough to be feeling a dampness seeping through her blouse. With a grimace, she hurried a bit faster. And stumbled.

At first she thought she had tripped over a loose paving slab - Westminster Council were not famous for their good road maintenance. But even as she thought this, she became 25 aware that the surface at her feet was Tarmac. As she looked up she saw a young man staring at her, humming quietly, wearing a slight smirk on his face. Was he responsible? Nah, too far away - he had just come out of Orc's Nest games shop. So why the smirk? With a shrug she started on and the man pa.s.sed by, in the opposite direction, and out of her thoughts. Until it occurred to her that the reason the man might have been smirking was the rain. He had not been even slightly damp - it was as if the rain simply did not touch him. She looked back at the retreating figure and sure enough, she could see an almost man-shaped outline of rain around him. But not on him.

Ignoring him.

The young man suddenly stopped and turned back to stare at her. She shivered - not from the cool water hitting her but from. . . something else. His smirk drooped - became a look of infinite sadness and she felt her breath s.n.a.t.c.hed away. In her head she heard a tiny, faint whistle - probably a noise from the traffic behind her around Cambridge Circus. A strange compulsion washed over her - she wanted to run and hug him. Hold him. Tell him everything was all right, absorb all that unhappiness into herself. As she breathed suddenly heavily, she saw the rain start to land upon him - his strange shield had evaporated. He cast his eyes downwards, turned on his heel and walked on the way he was going.

As she stared at his back, another wave of despair smothered her and a tear escaped her eye. With a slight shake of her head, she walked backwards and stepped on to Charing Cross Road and began to cross.

The driver of the Grey-Green bus number 64 slammed his foot on the brake but the light rain on the previously dry road delayed the mechanics a split second too long.

It took the emergency services half an hour to sc.r.a.pe the unidentifiable woman off the front of the bus, the road, the pavement and three hysterical pa.s.sers-by.

While they were doing their best, the young man with the invisible shield and rapidly disappearing smirk was standing 26 in a shop in Monmouth Street. Around him, packs of tarot cards, incense burners, joss-sticks and icons made from semi-precious stones and metals all vied for his attention.

Ignoring them, he crossed to the far end of the shop and looked at the candles. Male and female. Pink for friendship; red for anger; black for regret; yellow for communication.

Then there was green for luck; blue for healing; purple for success; orange for encouragement. Finally, white for peace of mind; gold for justice; and silver for alternate energies.

He reached up and took three - two yellow males, one yellow female. He looked again. And took a fourth. A black female. For the unfortunate woman who had seen the effect of the rain in Shaftesbury Avenue. He hated doing things like that. But maintaining his anonymity was essential. And, if he was honest, he had panicked. That was unusual and irresponsible and it would not happen again.

He paid for the four waxen images and the requisite anointment oils in silence. The pleasant male shop-a.s.sistant frowned momentarily at the three crisp, unblemished fivers pa.s.sed to him. He stopped suddenly as something like the echo of one of the ambulance sirens rang in his head for a fraction of a second. He glanced out of the window, shrugged and looked back at the till.

Surely those fivers had been brand-new? But no, they were crumpled and tatty, one with a phone number etched on to it. He scooped sixpence change out of the open till and pa.s.sed it to the young man, wrapped the candles and oils carefully in a pink-striped paper bag and said good-night.

The young man was the last customer and the a.s.sistant glanced at his watch as the man left. Ten minutes to go.

Then it was home to one of Linda McCartney's micro specials, a bottle of red and Ab Fab Ab Fab on the video. The sirens seemed to echo again. on the video. The sirens seemed to echo again.

He was staring at the till. Why? After all, he had not had a customer for over forty minutes.

Candles wrapped in the pink-striped bag tucked under his arm, the young man wandered into Neal's Yard, whistling to 27 himself. He pa.s.sed the multicoloured doors of the converted warehouses and sat in a white plastic chair outside the coffee-house at the nape of the yard. He could see everyone who came into the yard, or pa.s.sed down the pa.s.sage towards Rough Trade records.

Beside him, two strangely dressed women with silly tufts of hair hacked into tiny pony-tails, wrapped in tin-foil, blathered on about some trendy Icelandic pop singer who would fade back into obscurity, probably the same cultish obscurity she had already emerged from, over the next couple of years.

When a tall, effeminate man minced out of the coffee-shop and asked for an order, the man with the candles requested a wholewheat bap with lettuce and tomato and a bottle of Lemon Iced Tea Snapple. He made sure he paid with a tatty five-pound note.

Moments later, he was drinking slowly and munching periodically, keeping an eye on all the people that entered or bypa.s.sed Neal's Yard. Eventually he saw what he was waiting for.

'You're late,' he said.

'So?' The newcomer, a woman, pulled up a chair. 'I'm off tonight. I'll be in touch.'

'How thrilling for you. Walking?'

'I wish. No, in a . . . I don't know . . . van thing.'

'Minibus?'

'Probably.' She looked upwards and around, staring at the warehouses boxing them in. 'How can you stand all this? It's so . . . close.'

The man shrugged. 'You get used to it. Claustrophobia.

Agoraphobia. I adapt. Oddly enough, I like this place. It has atmosphere.'

The woman took a swig of his Snapple and grimaced.

'Poison. Hope it chokes you.' She rose to leave, and then whispered in his ear, 'By the way, do these words mean anything to you? Woman. Bus. Dead.'

He turned away. 'Are you implying something?'

28.'No,' she said. 'I'm telling you you're getting careless. And obvious. Anyway, as I said -'

'You'll be in touch,' the man finished. ' 'Bye.'

She walked away, right past Rough Trade and down on to Floral Street. Five minutes later, he followed the same route. He stopped outside The Tintin Shop but it was closed.

In the window was a foreign translation of The Land of The Land of Black Gold Black Gold.

'Tinni and Tobbi and Kolbeinn Kaptienn.' He thought about coming back the next day and buying it for the two women who had been discussing the pop singer. 'No. Bet you couldn't understand a word of it in English, let alone Icelandic.'

Candles hugged closely, he went home.

Later that night an orange-and-cream-that-might-oncehave-been-white Volkswagen minibus coughed and spluttered its way up the M6. Barely held together by rust and flaking paint, the vehicle was being driven at a vaguely insane speed by a sullen-looking man with a streak of pure white through the centre of his jet-black hair.

Professor Nicholas Bridgeman sighed to himself, made a mental note not to criticize the driver and wondered what he had done to deserve all this. His co-pa.s.sengers were two adults and three students, all from London's South Bank Polytechnic or, as it was now grandly renamed, the University of Greenwich.

Seated up front with the driver, staring ahead in total silence, was the bursar, Ms Thorsuun, a tall, ash-blonde Scandinavian woman with a very good grasp of English and known by the male students at the university as Miss Frost.

Bridgeman finally decided it was worth the risk but ever the gentleman, he directed his request via Ms Thorsuun.

'If Herr Kerbe went a b-bit slower, Ms Thorsuun,' he stammered, 'this m-minibus might have a b-better chance of getting us up north in one piece.'

The driver turned his head slightly. He was wearing an expensive, plain grey suit which, being a university 29 administrator, he felt he needed to be seen in. 'And if you sat still, Herr Professor,' he said, his German accent broad and aggressive, 'the bus wouldn't vibrate as much.'

The professor promptly flopped into a seat and looked sulkily at his grinning students. After a second, he, too, grinned. 'Did you check -' he started but a sigh from the well-tanned, well-built blond Australian opposite silenced him.

'Sure I did. You asked me so many times I'm beginning to doubt myself!'

'Sorry, Simon,' said the professor. He smiled moronically and nodded his head to imply he was being foolish. He knew that was Simon's opinion of him - but he was not upset or surprised. Bridgeman knew he was considered a bit eccentric and daft by both students and fellow academicians alike. His almost pathological secrecy surrounding his private life was one of the most common subjects of conversation in both the refectory and the staff rooms.

Many students had offered interesting Jungian theories as to why the professor with the uncontrollable stammer was sometimes friendly and sometimes so taciturn whenever anyone tried to prise a piece of his past out of him.

Bridgeman had heard most of them twenty times over in the last twelve years and none of them approached the truth.

A hand reached out to his knee. 'Everything's going to be fine, Professor Bridgeman. Don't worry yourself'

Bridgeman ran a hand through his wayward hair. 'You're right, Carfrae. Sorry, all of you.'

The red-headed Welsh girl laughed, her blue eyes sparkling with antic.i.p.ation of their time away, although he wasn't sure whether it was Simon's film-star looks or Peter's straightforward humour that really interested her. 'I'm looking forward to this, guys. Three weeks in a spook-house. If I'd known that's what an interest in chemistry was going to lead to I'd have done that instead of English.'

Peter, the other student, a second-generation Trinidadian from Wood Green, tugged at his seat-belt which was creasing his precious Ice-T T-shirt. 'But then you'd be a 30 logical, closed-minded scientist. And we'd never have convinced you to come with us.'

'I rather take exception to that comment, Mr Moore,' said Bridgeman.

'Sorry, Prof,' said Peter, smiling at Carfrae. She smiled back.

It looked, Bridgeman decided, as if Peter was the lucky one.

Kerbe spoke up. 'Charnock Rickard services coming up.

Anyone want a break?'

Thorsuun spoke for the first time in three hours. 'If you wouldn't mind, Herr Kerbe. I would like time to visit the washroom.' As an afterthought she turned to the professor and his students. And smiled. 'If that is all right with all of you?'

Bridgeman, aware that Peter was saying, 'Oh yeah, no problem. We could all do with a leg-stretch', was amused by the grin spreading across Simon's face. The young Australian had noticed that Thorsuun could smile. And what a legendary smile it was. Undoubtedly, the professor decided, in Simon Griffiths's opinion the journey had suddenly taken a turn for the better.

It was not a very large bedsit, but it serviced his needs.

The house had been a fashionable house in the wealthier early-Twenties but had been converted into bedsits during the post-war Fifties after years of neglect and disrepair.

On the first day he had moved in, he pa.s.sed his hand over the outermost wall, nearest the black front door. The landlady, Mrs Fuller, had given him a strange look as he had mumbled, 'I'm sorry you've been mistreated. Sadly your pain will continue.' On reflection, her bemus.e.m.e.nt was understandable. He kept reminding himself to be more careful.

Soon after, he had yanked open his weatherbeaten rucksack and taken out a book and a pen. Glancing at his last entry he had written a brief history of the house - noting all its former occupants (and servants), the births and 31 deaths it had witnessed - including a strange one in 1974 which he felt sure the local constabulary would have been pleased to account for and finally close a file upon. Tough.

Seven months later, he felt quite at home - his wan-derl.u.s.t temporarily sated. He had put up his own black curtains and two posters - one with the words Floodland Floodland and The Sisters of Mercy on it, the other proclaiming that Siouxsie and the Banshees had a new recording called and The Sisters of Mercy on it, the other proclaiming that Siouxsie and the Banshees had a new recording called Face Face to Face to Face out to tie in with some moving picture called out to tie in with some moving picture called Batman Returns Batman Returns.

He did not really understand the relevance of the words, but over the last few years in various other bedsits he had learned that adopting the appearance of something called 'a goth' made his interest in what ignorant landladies and mentally stunted so-called students called 'weird things and the supernatural' socially more acceptable. The only time it had been slightly risky had been earlier in the year, in Manchester - but he had quickly left the city behind him when the mistrust had got too much.

Sitting quietly he listened for the other occupants of the house. After a few seconds he relaxed - the other rooms were all empty. Only Mrs Fuller was in, down in her bas.e.m.e.nt flat. She would stay there for at least an hour. It was Thursday - Emmerdale Emmerdale followed by Des O'Connor. followed by Des O'Connor.

What strange customs these people had - the invention of the television was such a strange event. So much potential and so misused. Instead of a marvellous method of communication, it was usurped for entertainment - a hollow pursuit - and sales.

Wars, famine, global accidents and natural disasters - all could be ma.s.sively reduced and quickly cured if the television operators were not so totally obsessed with making money.

Modern society was a contradictory thing.

He started to concentrate. He stared at the three yellow candles and reached forward with the anointment oils.

Slowly he poured liquid over each one and sat back.

32.He clicked his tongue. The three wicks flickered into flame. He rocked back and smiled. He stared at the male candle in the centre. And nodded.

After a few moments he rocked forward, and crossed his legs, tucking his feet in behind his knees. Covering his face with his hands, he dropped his body forward, burying his face in his waist and rolled slightly. His body was almost entirely shaped like a ball and he began chanting.

Down below, Mrs Fuller heard the soft chanting and felt a warm glow surround her. She sighed as Des O'Connor introduced his guest for the evening and felt completely satisfied. She liked it when her strange tenant began his Buddhist chants. Somehow, she felt safe. Warm. Soothed.

As if all the goodness within him flowed throughout the building. A couple of the other tenants had admitted to similar feelings. Now and again Mrs Fuller was convinced that the paintwork on the house seemed cleaner and fresher the mornings after his chants. It was as if everything that could hear him renewed itself.

'Hear me.'

It was a voice. In a dream. Begging. Asking. Pleading.

Polly turned over in her sleep, unconsciously pulling the pillow over her head as if that would shut out the dream's voice. Instead, it amplified it. Brought it nearer. She moved again, sweating slightly. Acknowledging this, the TARDIS's internal thermostat dropped the humidity in Polly's room but she was heating up faster than even the TARDIS could cope with. Before long, the sweat began to seep through the soft silk sheets and into the mattress.

Polly kept turning and twisting.

'Hear me.'

It was an aggressive shout. It reminded Ben of Tilbury Docks, 1956. As a fourteen-year-old sneaking aboard the cargo ship his late father had worked on. His dad's dock-crane stood rusted to the side of the boat and he looked up at it. Dad was gone - in his place was Alfred. Mum seemed 33 happy enough but Ben, ever the loner, could not get on with his stepfather and so decided to follow his real father's footsteps. The water beckoned.

He hid under the tarpaulin covering the crates destined for Singapore. Rebuilding the country after the failure of the Malay coup. Singapore. Hot. Sweaty. Ben. The TARDIS.

The thermostat was unable to cope with his rapid rise in body temperature. He flayed out with an arm, sending his alarm clock to the floor, shattering it into fragments. Still he slept on. Disturbed but not awake.

'Hear me.'

The Doctor stopped polishing the time rotor switch and stared into the slowly rising and lowering central column of the TARDIS console. The multicoloured shapes turned and gyrated but he was not seeing them. He saw a candle.

Yellow. Shaped like . . . a man. No, like him him. Behind it, two others and beyond them, a curled-up figure.

'Hear me, Doctor. Please. Sellafield. The house. The ghosts -'

The figure suddenly unwrapped itself and jumped up.

Behind the man something moved. He was turning back to the candle, moving forward. The two yellow candles to the side tipped, their wicks going out. The figure's hand grabbed at the nearest candle, the one representing the Doctor . . .

It all happened in a rush. The hand gripping the candle dropped away. For a moment the Doctor saw the interior of a room. Bed. Table. Portable stove. Posters on the wall. A room in England, on Earth. Late twentieth century, going by the decor and posters. A student's room? If so, the posters could be a misleading dating system - from what the Doctor could remember of his previous self's visits to Earth, students were never the most up-to-date where music posters were concerned. Nevertheless, somewhere between 1985 and 1995 seemed a good guess.

The Doctor took all this in instantly. There was a flash and the candle melted totally. The hand holding it was 34 bubbling and smouldering from the hot wax. Standing in the now open - no, vaporized - doorway was a creature. A creature with a gun.

'Help me!'

The message was inside his head. Not a shout. Not verbal.

It was telepathic.

'Help me now!'