Doctor Who_ Father Time Part 25

The beacon was still there, winking on and off lazily.

Miranda decided to investigate. She took her raincoat down from the hatstand that stood in the hall and put it on over her pyjamas. She took her slippers off, though she didn't want to get them wet.

She stepped out of the house. It was impossible to lock yourself out, so that didn't worry her.

Her feet were already very wet.

She stepped briskly forward, on to the lawn, which was half an inch deep in water. She walked towards the light.

When she was halfway across the garden, the security light went off, plunging the garden into darkness. Now there was only the beacon. Miranda followed it.

When she realised it was the lantern on the top of the police box, she was almost disappointed. Miranda couldn't remember it ever flas.h.i.+ng before. Her father had never come up with an adequate reason why he would have such a thing in his garden. There was a trend for people having the old-style red phone boxes as garden furniture, but he'd had the police box back in Greyfrith, and he'd insisted it come with them when they moved down South.

The rain was getting heavier, and was beginning to penetrate her raincoat. Cold water was seeping over the collar, beginning to squeeze down her back. She pulled herself close to the police box, which at least provided some shelter.

It was warm. Warm and humming, as though there was a generator in there. Or as if it was alive.

Miranda found herself holding her palm flat to its surface.

It was was alive. alive.

It reminded Miranda of something she tried to remember what. That was it: it reminded her of when she had bad dreams and her mother had to hug her and hold her and tell her that there weren't any monsters here, all the monsters were a long, long way away.

She tried to remember what had scared her so much.

It had been a recurring dream, and it had terrified her. Given her an aversion to sleep that she'd never quite lost, she realised. But she couldn't remember the nightmare, now, only the emotions it induced.

Fire, she thought. Fire and corridors and screaming people.

She s.h.i.+vered.

The lightning cracked right overhead, and the thunder had already caught up with it.

There was a man in the garden with her, standing perfectly still in the rain.

She jumped, but felt strangely abstracted from it all. As if this was a dream.

He was young, but older than she was. Seventeen? Eighteen? But the details were vague, as if they hadn't quite been finalised. She couldn't see his face.

The lightning cracked again, and he had vanished.

Miranda shook herself.

She'd seen him.

She took a step forward, not in the least bit scared. The gra.s.s squelched underfoot, and something suddenly occurred to her. She went over to where the man had been standing, only about six feet away from the police box. She knelt to check, but she could already see that he'd left no footprints.

She looked around, trying to work out what had come together to make the optical illusion of a young man. Her mind worked through absurdities: that it was tree branches and a bin bag, or that it was her own shadow, cast by the police-box light.

She was getting soaked. The raincoat must have trebled in weight, and she'd just got cold mud on one of her knees.

Miranda hurried back inside, and was very careful to lock the door behind her.

Ferran pulled the circlet off his head, panting, exhausted.

'You've beaten him,' the Deputy said, proud of the boy.

'I know where she is,' he said. 'For a moment I was there. I saw her.'

He was at the table, leaning over the Doctor, who was on the brink of unconsciousness.

'I was stronger than him,' Ferran said, gasping for air. 'I saw everything. He's adopted her, he's pledged to protect her. He loves her, more than he's ever loved anyone.'

He held the knife close to the Doctor's face. For a moment, the Deputy thought Ferran would whip the blindfold off and carve a scar in the Doctor's skin.

'Was that all you saw?' the Doctor asked.

Ferran looked at him, then away, ashamed.

'I know you, now, Ferran. It's not your fault you were born when you were, into that family. Since your cradle, since before you can remember, all you've been taught is revenge. Vengeance and blood and blood feuds and a sacred duty of vendetta.'

'There is nothing else,' the Deputy said.

'There is,' the Doctor insisted. 'It's like an addiction, Ferran. You can help yourself. I know that deep down, below all those layers of hatred that others have filled you with, that you're a decent man. You know me now, you've seen almost a century of humanity.'

Ferran smirked. 'Oh, yes. The human race shows great potential.' He seemed almost drunk, the Deputy thought, a little out of his depth as he a.s.similated the Doctor's memories. 'I see a column of tanks rolling past a ruined cathedral; I see napalm and rape and crippled workers and flooding mines and mushroom clouds and border guards shooting those who would escape.'

'Is that all you saw?' the Doctor asked again.

'Rockets,' Ferran said. 'AIDS, stock-market crashes, Red Indians and Jews and Kulaks and Gypsies and embryos being led to their deaths like cattle. Anthrax and agent orange.'

'There was so much else,' the Doctor said softly. 'It wasn't like that at all. It happened, but that wasn't all that happened. Is that really all you remember?'

Ferran leered at him. 'I'm going to kill your daughter, Doctor. You've told me where she is, and now I'm going to kill her.'

Chapter Fifteen.

Target Acquisition The Doctor woke to find Debbie Castle leaning over him with a sponge full of cold water.

'He was too strong,' the Doctor said. 'The Interrogator weakened me. But Ferran was fresh to the fight. He was stronger than me.'

'You have to rest,' Debbie told him.

'No. I have to stop Ferran before he leaves. He knows where Miranda is. He'll kill her.'

Debbie sighed, too exhausted to cry or shake any more.

'What is it?' the Doctor asked.

'You've been unconscious for almost a day,' she told him. 'Ferran's had plenty of time to get to her. Doctor, there's a good chance she's already dead.'

'Check him out,' Dinah said breathlessly.

There was a boy they'd never seen before emerging from the changing rooms. Tall, lightly muscled, tanned. He had cropped blond hair, piercing blue eyes. He walked around the pool, towards them and the deep end.

'Wow,' Dinah said.

'Look at those eyes.'

'I wasn't looking at his eyes.'

'Dinah!' Miranda said, shocked. 'Don't let him hear you.'

'He looks like he should be in the Hitler Youth,' Dinah said.

'Will you shut up?'

He looked over at them, his expression giving nothing away.

'He's looking at you. He wants Aryan babies.' Dinah was running towards him. 'Fiver says you can't beat Miranda,' she blurted.

The new boy looked over at Miranda. From his expression, it was clear he resented the idea of racing with girls. Disdain, bordering on pity. He was in for a surprise.

'I will race you,' he said. The words were slightly stilted, he seemed a little awkward.

Miranda smiled back at him.

Dinah nodded. 'I'll clap my hands to start, yeah?'

Miranda and the young man both nodded, and Dinah got out of their way. Miranda wasn't listening any more: she was focusing on her swimming, preparing herself. She concentrated: increased the supplies of adrenaline and sugar in her bloodstream, her heartsrate and the level of oxygen carried by her respiratory system. Ordinary people couldn't do it, apparently. Her dad could he'd taught her the mantras she needed. She'd tried teaching Dinah once, but her friend couldn't get it to work, and just accused Miranda of making it up.

Her body was buzzing, ready for the race. This was one time she wanted to be different. One time she liked having two hearts. She had a compet.i.tive streak, she always had, and this gave her the edge. They lined up. The boy would have stood next to her, but Dinah bustled her way between them. The boy ignored Dinah, looking into the face of his opponent. Miranda found herself staring back. He was handsome, but he knew it, which wasn't at all attractive.

They stood in place, limbering up.

'Two lengths. Ready? OK. Marks. Set.' Clap! Clap!

Miranda dived into the water, powering away. A clean start. Practised strokes, measured. But he was alongside her. Miranda picked up the pace a little, but now he was ahead of her.

He was flipping over as she reached the far end. She caught up with him now, pus.h.i.+ng away powerfully. The race back was a matter of power, and the boy had plenty of that. It felt like he was miles ahead of her. Really, she was doing well, only a head or so behind him.

Enough for him to win. Miranda looked over at him, angry. He was staring straight at her again, but now he was grinning. An expression of triumph, a sentiment that bordered on gloating. Miranda felt a sudden urge to wipe the smile off his face.

'He beat you!' Dinah giggled. 'But I think you beat your personal best.'

Miranda glared up at her, then pulled herself out of the water, and stomped off into the changing room, tried to collect her thoughts. Dinah was right: she'd shaved a little from her own record for the fifty-metres, a record that had held since before Christmas. But she was a sore loser, a trait made worse by the fact she rarely lost.

She stuck her head under the shower, just enough to get the chlorine out of her hair. She went to her locker, unlocked it and retrieved her kitbag.

When she turned around, the young man was standing there, staring at her.

'This is the girls' changing room,' said Miranda.

This changing room was like the one he had used an area with a number of empty cubicles. The same tangy disinfectant had been used, the floor had the same slimy tiles.

The Last One was towelling her hair. Ferran felt a thrill to finally see her. Since before he could remember, he'd been told about this creature, the last of the line that had humiliated his people, driven his genetic line to the brink of extinction.

'You did very well,' he told her.

'Not well enough. Look, did you hear me?'

Ferran reached into the towel bundled under his arm. He felt the hilt of the knife. She was clearly not armed, or wearing armour. Even alone in the women's quarters with a strange man, her guard was down. It would cost her her life and birthright. He went through his strategy, checked his escape route. A double-blow to the chest, as he had practised so many times, then a swift escape. The blood on the blade would suffice as proof of the kill.

The door swung open. It was a hefty-looking woman in purple loose-fitting clothes, like the man at the reception desk. An employee here.

She was obviously shocked by his presence. 'What are you doing in here?' she demanded to know. 'The men's changing rooms are next door.' She turned to the Last One. 'Is he bothering you?'

'No,' the Last One replied, laughing.

'He's a friend of yours?' the woman asked. 'I don't care what you get up to at home, but '

'I have made a mistake,' Ferran said, keeping his hand on the concealed knife. 'It's my first time here, I took a wrong turning.'

The woman looked him up and down. 'OK,' she said eventually. 'Go now, though.'

Ferran nodded and left. The Last One was grinning at him. Mocking him.

He could not have killed her like that. Her last thought would have been of his humiliation, not of his triumph.

Ferran returned to the men's changing room, showered, dried himself, dressed. He kept looking at the back wall. Behind that whitewashed brick was the Last One, alone, unarmed, vulnerable. The thought sent a thrill down Ferran's spine. He could kill her at any time. He had absolute power over her.

The Doctor was at the door, still searching for a control.