Doctor Who: The Shining Man Page 9

  The hashtag was followed by a line of smug emoticons that rolled back and forth in mocking hysterics.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Charlotte said out loud. ‘He’s not worth it.’ But even as she said it, she knew she couldn’t let him have the last word.

  She snatched the laptop from the cupboard, already composing a reply that would make his ego bleed. Smiling to herself, Charlotte started typing.

  Hey neckbeard, why don’t you do us all a favour an

  ‘No!’ Charlotte’s cursor was replaced by the spinning ball of doom.

  She clicked on the Wi-Fi icon. The signal had completely vanished. In fact, all the networks in Bugs Close had disappeared, both secure and insecure. Had there been a power cut?

  She reached over to the window to pull back the curtain and the van rocked.

  ‘Hey!’

  It happened again, harder this time. She jumped out of the seat, her computer slipping from her lap to crash to the floor. She swore, throwing out a hand to steady herself. Velma swayed back and forth, her suspension creaking. Someone was outside. For a moment, Charlotte had the crazy thought that it was the loser that had attacked Bill, but he’d still be locked up, wouldn’t he?

  The rocking got worse. She fell forward, landing beside her laptop. ‘Cut it out! What do you think you’re doing?’

  The door rattled, but the lock held. She yanked at the curtain to see who was outside and screamed, stepping back, the laptop screen crunching beneath her foot.

  The curtain had fallen back, but the face she’d seen lingered in her mind. The snarling mouth. The crooked nose. The burning eyes.

  It had to be a mask. Yeah, that’s what it was. Kids trying to scare her.

  Congratulations. Mission accomplished.

  Her phone bounced down from the cupboard. She snatched it up, trying to call 999.

  No reception. Damn it!

  She was thrown against the cupboard, the thin wood splintering against her weight. ‘Stop it,’ she yelled, not expecting an answer.

  She got one anyway. Rasping voices, like nothing she had ever heard.

  ‘Where is the Lost? Where?’

  Something was scraping against the outside of the van, the windows, the doors. She wanted to believe it was keys, but knew that it wasn’t.

  She held her phone up with shaking hands. She may not be able to call for help, but she could record what was happening. She tapped the camera app, and a blue spark erupted from the screen. She yelped in surprise, throwing the handset across the van.

  Velma bounced, as if she was being lifted from the ground and dropped again. They were going to turn her over. Charlotte curled into a ball, screwing her eyes up tight, as the world went mad. The cracked screen of her laptop flared before dying completely, smoke rising from the keyboard. Static burst from the speakers in the door, the radio turning itself on to blare nothing but white noise.

  And then a blinding flash of light burned through the windows, turning her eyelids red.

  Charlotte’s own scream joined the wail of the speakers before they stopped dead. Everything stopped. The sibilant voices from outside. The scrape of nails against metal. Even the rocking. The only sound in the van was the rasp of her own frightened breath.

  Charlotte opened her eyes and looked around. Light was streaming through the thin curtains, but it was wrong. It took a moment to realise why.

  The light wasn’t the dull grey of a damp October morning. It was warm and bright, like a summer’s day. She listened, still wrapped in a ball. There was no traffic, the constant thrum of cars and lorries in the next road gone. Instead, Charlotte could hear the twittering of a thousand birds. That wasn’t an exaggeration. She had never heard so many birds, not even when her dad had taken her to an aviary as a kid. She hadn’t liked it, being shut in with the birds, the squawks, the caws, the flapping of tiny wings. That was nothing compared to the sound from outside. Now that she was aware of it, she could hear nothing else.

  Charlotte unfurled her legs, pushing herself up from the floor. She went to pull back the curtain, but stopped. What was she afraid of? What did she think she would see?

  This was ridiculous. There was nothing to be scared of. Just a bunch of kids in stupid masks playing a stupid trick. Before she could change her mind, Charlotte slid back the door.

  She jumped out of the van, her trainers sinking into soft earth instead of hard paving stones. She fell back, whacking her head on Velma’s door. She landed on her back, and swore for the second time in ten minutes, rubbing the back of her aching head. The air was warm and close, her clothes sticking to her skin.

  Charlotte opened her eyes, looked around and started screaming all over again.

  Chapter 16

  Half a Lifetime

  ‘Make us a brew, will you? I’m gasping.’

  Rob stood, rubbing his aching back. The frame for the patio doors was in, but had been a pig of a job. Lady Muck better not change her mind again, not after all that.

  Still stretching, he walked through to the kitchen, where Tim was boiling a kettle using the portable generator, Little Mix’s latest hit blasting out of the radio.

  ‘Turn that rubbish off, will you?’

  Tim grinned, showing a row of gapped teeth. ‘You love ’em.’

  Rob wasn’t in the mood for banter. ‘Just do it, eh? My head’s banging.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Tim said, killing the radio.

  That was better. Much better.

  ‘How’s it going upstairs?’ Rob asked.

  The kettle clicked off and Tim poured steaming water into two mugs, teabags floating to the surface. ‘Darrel’s nearly finished the floorboards in the front bedroom. Still complaining that he’s cold, though.’

  ‘Poor little lamb. We’ll have to get him a hot water bottle.’

  Tim sniggered, passing over one of the mugs, a red devil emblazoned on its side. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you,’ said Rob, refusing to take the tea. ‘Unless you want me to smash it.’

  ‘You should come down Old Trafford next week,’ Tim said, offering the other mug. ‘See some proper football for once.’

  Rob took the mug and blew across the murky brown liquid. ‘Keep dreaming. Besides, if Marter has his way we’ll be working every hour between now and December first.’ He took a sip of the tea. ‘Still can’t work out where he went.’

  ‘He’s not here, though,’ Tim said, drinking from the red devil mug. ‘That’s the important thing.’

  Rob snorted. ‘You’re not as thick as you look.’

  There was a cry from behind them, and a dull thud.

  ‘Darrel?’ Rob called out, turning around. ‘That you?’

  ‘What’s that, mate?’ Darrel shouted down from upstairs, his thick Liverpudlian accent unmistakable.

  Rob exchanged a look with Tim and then walked out into the hall. Where had that come from? He headed back into the living room and nearly dropped his tea.

  ‘What is it?’ Tim said, following him into the room.

  ‘Hold this,’ Rob said, thrusting his mug into Tim’s hands.

  Scolding water slopped over Tim’s fingers. ‘Ow! Watch it!’

  But Rob didn’t apologise. Instead he ran to the body that was slumped beside the patio doors, a body that hadn’t been there five minutes before.

  It was wearing the same coat that Harold Marter had worn earlier that morning, but this one was tattered and torn, hanging loose on a thin frame. It was a man, he could tell that, although the silver hair was long and matted. Rob bent down and gently rolled him onto his back.

  ‘Are you all right, mate? Can you hear …’

  The words died in his throat.

  ‘Is that Marter?’ Tim asked, dripping tea all over the floor as he stared at the man’s face. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Rob admitted, snatching his mobile phone from his tool box and calling 999.

  The call connected almost immediately, a woman’s voice asking
what service he required.

  ‘Ambulance, I guess,’ he replied. ‘It’s hard to know.’

  Not far away, Bill was struggling to keep up with the Doctor. He was marching along the high street with a face like several thunder storms rolled into one.

  ‘I’ll teach her to put me online,’ he snarled.

  ‘I think she already knows,’ Bill said, trying to lighten the mood.

  It didn’t work. In fact, the mood seemed to become several tons heavier.

  ‘There’s a reason the unexplained remains unexplained. People don’t need to see it. They don’t need to know what horrors are crawling around beneath their noses. Not when there are people like me to deal with them. In secret. Away from the spotlight. Before we know it, this place is going to be crawling with stickybeaks and fruitcakes …’

  ‘That’s a technical term, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Doctor insisted. ‘For people who think they want to see monsters until the monster swallows them. And that’s when the real trouble starts. Before you know it, they’re needing to be rescued, wanting selfies …’

  ‘Selfies? With you?’

  He shot her a look that measured 9.9 on the Richter scale. ‘Why not me? People know me. The wrong sort of people.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  ‘People who spend too much time on forums arguing about conspiracy theories and dating controversies.’

  ‘Fruitcakes.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  They turned onto Brownie Hill, the turning to Bugs Close just ahead. An ambulance was parked outside the building site.

  ‘What’s happening over there?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Not our concern,’ the Doctor replied, as a police car screamed past and screeched to a halt beside the ambulance. The door opened and the driver got out, slipping a hat over her neat blonde hair.

  ‘It’s PC Schofield,’ Bill said, but the Doctor had already changed direction, charging towards the emergency vehicles. Bill waited for a car to pass before following him. ‘What happened to it not being our concern?’

  ‘The constable might need our help,’ the Doctor called back over his shoulder, slowing to a walking pace so as not to look eager.

  ‘Yeah, good plan,’ Bill said, as they reached the muddy patch that would one day be a front drive. ‘Don’t want to look like a stickybeak.’ She leant in closer and whispered: ‘It’s too late for the fruitcake bit.’

  Their path was blocked by an acne-ridden builder in a Man U hoodie and a hard hat. ‘Sorry, mate. You can’t come in here.’

  ‘Ah yes. Health and Safety,’ said the Doctor, plucking the helmet from the guy’s head and shoving it on his own. ‘Very wise.’ He hopped onto a network of wooden planks that had been laid to provide a walkway to the house beyond. ‘Come on, Bill. We’ll find you one inside.’

  They hurried on before the builder could stop them, the Doctor holding aside the plastic sheeting so Bill could enter. Once through, he noticed a pile of discarded helmets and, with the skill of a Covent Garden juggler, kicked one up into his hand. Passing it to Bill, he followed PC Schofield’s voice.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked as they found her in a crowded back room, talking to another builder, older than the kid out front, maybe early-to-mid forties and wearing a T-shirt, fleece gilet and jeans.

  ‘Helping with inquiries,’ the Doctor replied, looking not at the police officer but at the paramedics who were lifting an elderly man onto a wheeled stretcher. ‘And you’re welcome.’

  ‘Sorry? Who are these guys?’ asked the builder. ‘Are they with you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Doctor at the exact moment that Schofield said, ‘No.’

  The Doctor looked hurt. ‘Constable, after all we’ve been through.’

  Schofield called through the patio doors into the garden. ‘PC Turman?’

  The large male police officer from the night before appeared at the opening.

  ‘Oh, hello again,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Turman asked.

  Schofield gave him a curt smile. ‘Can you escort the Doctor and Miss Potts outside, and make sure to remind them about the perils of interfering in police business?’

  If the Doctor heard the threat, he didn’t respond to it. Instead he pointed at the man on the stretcher. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Good question,’ the builder muttered.

  ‘You know him?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘You don’t have to answer his questions, Mr Hawker, ’Schofield pointed out.

  ‘Quite right,’ the Doctor agreed. ‘Although it might just save everyone’s time if you do. Who is he? A rough sleeper?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Rob replied. ‘He owns this place, or he will when it’s finished.’

  ‘He owns all this?’ The Doctor did a double take. ‘Have you seen the state of his jeans? I’ve seen Swiss cheese with fewer holes. What is he? An eccentric millionaire?’

  ‘Sir, please,’ Turman insisted. ‘You need to step outside.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will,’ the Doctor said. ‘In a minute. I’m just finding this all terribly interesting.’ He turned suddenly to Bill. ‘She is too, aren’t you, Bill?’

  Shocked to be brought so abruptly into the conversation, but recognising the Doctor’s delaying tactic, Bill agreed. ‘Yeah. Totally. Can’t get enough.’

  The builder scratched the back of his head. ‘One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Flash of light. Vanished.’

  ‘When was this?’ the Doctor asked.

  ‘A couple of hours ago. Maybe three. He was here to check on the work—’

  ‘And then he disappeared, only to reappear when? Mr Hawker, it’s vitally important that you tell me exactly when he came back.’

  ‘Rob,’ the builder said, throwing them all for a moment. ‘The name’s Rob. Mr Hawker sounds like my dad.’

  ‘Rob it is,’ the Doctor said. ‘And to repeat my question …’

  Rob shrugged. ‘Half an hour ago?’

  The Doctor turned his attention to the paramedics. ‘What shape is he in?’

  ‘He’s had a heart attack,’ the smaller of the two replied, a woman with fiery red hair. ‘We need to get him out to the ambulance.’ She nodded to her colleague, an Asian guy with a neat beard and glasses. ‘Raise on three. One … two … three.’

  They lifted the stretcher with practised skill, telescopic legs folding down so he could be wheeled out of the building.

  The Doctor sniffed as if smelling wine.

  ‘You got a cold?’ Schofield asked.

  ‘What’s his name?’ came his question in reply.

  ‘Harold Marter.’

  The Doctor held out his hand to Bill. ‘Can I borrow your phone?’

  She slipped it out of her pocket. ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘I want to send embarrassing messages from your Facebook account,’ he said, grabbing it and typing in her PIN.

  ‘Hey, how do you know my PIN?’

  ‘Your mum’s date of birth.’

  ‘That’s supposed to be private.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. You probably need to change it.’

  Bill peeked over his arm as he tapped Marter’s name into a search engine. He checked through the results and selected the third from the top, thrusting the phone back into Bill’s hand.

  ‘Clear the way, please,’ the red-haired paramedic asked, and the Doctor stood back. As the stretcher trundled past, Bill looking up from her screen to see Harold Marter’s face.

  ‘That’s not right.’

  ‘What isn’t?’ Schofield asked her.

  ‘He’s old,’ Bill said. ‘Really old. Even older than the Doctor.’

  ‘Steady,’ the Doctor warned.

  ‘But I mean, look …’ She held up the webpage the Doctor had found. It showed local businessman Harold Marter accepting an award at a formal dinner. He was in his forties, his skin pale against the dinner jacket, but classically handsome, with dark hair stylishly slicked back.

/>   The Harold Marter on the stretcher had the craggy, walnut-coloured hide of a man who’d spent a lifetime outdoors. His hair was long and grey, his once rugged chin covered by a long tousled beard.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what he looked like this morning,’ Rob said, pointing at the photo on the screen.

  ‘This morning?’ the Doctor exclaimed, rushing out of the room. ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Knew what?’ Schofield called after him. ‘Doctor, come back!’

  He stopped at the front door and threw his hard hat back onto the pile. ‘Get out, come back. You need to make up your mind.’

  Outside, the wheels of the stretcher caught on one of the planks.

  ‘Here, let me,’ the Doctor said, making a grab for the stretcher. ‘Many hands make light work.’

  ‘We’re fine, sir,’ the female paramedic told him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ the Doctor said, peering in close at Marter’s haggard face. ‘But he’s not.’

  Bill pushed through the plastic sheeting to join them. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Old age,’ the Doctor replied.

  ‘What? Fifty years in two hours?’

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘Not everyone ages as well as me.’

  ‘Sir, please,’ the paramedic said. ‘If you could step out of the way.’

  ‘Sorry, yes of course,’ the Doctor said, stepping off the plank into the mud.

  The paramedics pushed the stretcher on, the wheels bouncing as they passed from one length of wood to another. Marter groaned through his oxygen mask.

  ‘He’s awake!’ Bill said.

  The Doctor leapt back onto the walkway, grabbing the edge of the stretcher. He leant in close to the old man and whispered hurriedly into his ear. ‘What did you see, Harold? Where did you go?’

  The man’s bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets. ‘The colours,’ he rasped. ‘What’s happened to the colours?’

  The female paramedic looked for the police officers. ‘A little help here?’

  ‘No need,’ the Doctor said, stepping away again. ‘On you go. Get him to hospital, much good it will do him.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Bill asked.

  ‘A good question,’ Schofield agreed, coming out of the house. ‘Doctor?’