第 5 页

She glanced up at the darkened windows: there were no curtains, but the seat coverings had been hung over them. Stumbling over unseen debris on the floor, she tried tugging at the makeshift drapes, but they wouldn't come away. As her eyes finally adjusted to the light, she realized that the seat coverings were not held up by nails, or pegs or even string. They had been melted onto the walls at all four sides. It looked as if a blow-torch had been fired against them, from the scorch-marks on the walls. Soot came off on her fingers as she stroked one edge.

She heard a creak, the sound made when someone moves on weak floorboards, trying to be quiet.

Someone was upstairs.

'Hello?' No reply, and no more noise. She reached the foot of the stairs. 'Hello? My name is Barbara Redworth. I'm a police officer. Is anyone there? Are you hurt?'

No reply.

'I found a bag outside. A green duffle-bag. Is it yours?' Still nothing. 'I only want to help. I'm coming up.'

It briefly occurred to WPC Redworth that she could use her radio to call for back-up; a bit of support, in case something awful was upstairs. She'd seen a few corpses in her time: pensioners who had been left unattended at Christmas; a young homosexual, his head pulped by queer-bashers. Even a suicide, who'd deliberately driven his car into a petrol pump. But somehow she felt, perhaps by instinct, that whatever was in the cottage, it was still alive. There wasn't that awful smell of death - although over the rank dampness of the rotted furniture, she couldn't smell much at all. She began to climb the stairs, wary of their stability.

And there he was. A boy, about thirteen or fourteen, hunched up against the wall of the bathroom. He was huddling against a filthy toilet-bowl, staring at her. No, through her, as if he couldn't focus on anything. To the left, partially hidden behind the bathroom wall, was an old white enamel bath. The toilet was against the other wall, next to a cracked basin. On the floor was a small heap of mud-caked rags.

Gradually WPC Redworth's sense of smell kicked back in. If the boy had been wanting to use the toilet, he'd not got there in time, and as she stared at his trousers, she could see tell-tale marks that confirmed this.

Drug addict, she decided. Out of his head on something. It was shocking at his age - he'd probably be dead in a couple of years. Poor kid. WPC Redworth had a brother of fourteen; how easily it could have been him.

The boy was shaking very slightly. The bathroom window had again been covered by something - a towel, she guessed. It had fallen away at one corner, letting some light in, and she could see he was dark-haired, with a reasonable complexion - unusual for a drug-addict. He was wearing a white T-shirt, a name in blue stencilled letters ironed across the top: M.A.R.C. His pale jeans were soiled, as she had guessed, but his white plimsolls were still very clean, despite the muck on the floor.

'Marc? Hello, I'm Barbara. Someone carried you up here, didn't they? Your shoes are too clean for you to have walked through this. Are you all right now? Who brought you here?'

She wasn't expecting a reply, so she jumped when the boy pointed at the bath, his hand shaking uncontrollably. WPC Redworth walked slowly into the bathroom, her hand on her truncheon, and turned to look at the bath. It was full of dirty brown water, and stank of stagnation. Without taking her eyes off the bath, she reached out and tugged the towel away from the window, puffing lumps of plaster with it. It flashed through her mind that whatever had melted the towel to the wall had done a thorough job.

Sunlight filtered in through the salt-encrusted broken window, and she could see everything more clearly now. The water in the bath was more than just dirty, it was positively opaque but she could just make out a body beneath the yellowish scum on the surface. Had Marc murdered his abductor? Dropped him into the bath and drowned him?

As WPC Redworth leant over the bath, the surface erupted into a fountain of dirty water, scum and slime. She couldn't scream, her mind wouldn't let her. Some previously unused, dormant portion of her brain simply took over, forcing her to realize that to make such a noise would be a sign of weakness. All she saw was a human-shaped green/yellow something. A flash of three eyes, scales, a puckered leathery mouth and, most stupid of all, a garment like a long string vest.

And then WPC Redworth realized that she had recognized something she could never have seen before. And yet she remembered...

Must get away, run for my life. The Devilbacks, yelling and hissing. Spitting. I have to protect the family - even if they catch me the family must be saved. I won't let them touch me... won't let them trick me into leading them to the others. Those eyes, staring from every angle, every tree and bush. Every path. I'm being watched. The Devilbacks think they'll trick me, but I know not to be fooled, not to let my kin go to their filthy camps to be killed... They'll never catch me, I know how to swing off that branch, over the river and they'll lose my scent. Not even the Devilbacks can track me through water. Nothing will stop me - No! No, there weren't that many just now. Blocked, I'm blocked at every turn. Filthy vile reptiles. Disgusting evil - No! Not the eye! Not the middle eye! Please. Oh, it hurts... hurts so much... pain, I can't take the pain... no-

Something heavy and damp slapped into the side of Barbara Redworth's head, sending her sliding in the muck on the floor, back towards the doorway. All she could do was stare at the damp-ridden wall, aware that two figures were walking over her. Who were they? Why There they there? Where was there? Who was she? What was she?

Three eyes. She remembered.

She dipped her fingers in the thin layer of slime and mud that covered the floor and began making patterns on the wall with it.

If anyone had seen her, they would have said she was insane, drawing meaningless pictograms. But what was left of WPC Redworth's shattered mind knew that drawing the pictures was very important, for some reason she could not understand or explain.

---

'Drawing pictures? Of what exactly?'

The Doctor was clearly excited as he read the report Corporal Hawke had handed him.

'I'm not sure, Doctor, but Sergeant Yates said I should tell you immediately.'

'Thank you, my dear. And Mike was right to do so. Liz, have you seen this?'

'Obviously not, as Maisie's given the only copy to you.' With an exasperated shake of the head, Liz took the report from the Doctor. As she did so, she caught sight of a sympathetic grin from Hawke. She returned it.

'Well?' the Doctor asked. 'What do you think?'

'I haven't read it yet. Give me a chance.'

She scanned through the pages, vaguely aware that Maisie Hawke was still standing awkwardly in the laboratory, as if waiting for something. The Doctor paced for a second, deep in thought, then turned to the corporal.

'The Brigadier hasn't seen this yet?' he asked.

'No, Doctor.'

'Good. I'll take the copy through to him myself, so I can discuss the implications with him immediately.'

'Are you sure, Doctor?'

'Yes, absolutely. It's no trouble, and I'm sure you've better things to do than deliver messages.' Liz, still deep in the report, was aware of Maisie leaving the room. A few moments later, she looked up. The Doctor looked down at her, expectantly.

'What are you going to tell the Brigadier?' she asked.

'Nothing,' the Doctor snorted. 'Knowing him, he'll try and blow them up again.'

'That's not entirely fair, Doctor,' Liz said, 'but I take your point.' She pulled up one of the lab stools, sat on it, and withdrew her pipe from her handbag. Without speaking, she filled it and lit it, puffing slowly to get it going. All the time, her eyes never left the report, reading and re-reading every paragraph.

'So,' she said between puffs, 'so, what we've got here is a burnt corpse, a missing boy and a disturbed policewoman, linked by a bag found near a house. And the woman drawing primitive pictures of bison, woolly mammoths, sabre-toothed tigers and tall, man-sized bipedal reptiles with three eyes.'

'They're back, Liz. They're back.'

Liz looked at the Doctor, noting that he could barely conceal his excitement as he threw his cape over his shoulders.

'Keys,' he muttered. "Where are the keys?' He scrabbled around various benches until he suddenly stopped and looked at Liz. 'You've got them. I gave them to you yesterday.'

Liz nodded. 'Uh-huh. And before I give them to you, just confirm something.'

'What?'

'That you're going to drive off down to Sussex and play Hunt-the-Silurian without informing the Brigadier.'

'No.'

'What?'

'No. You're wrong.'

Liz was surprised, but pleased. 'Oh. Right. What then?'

'We're going to jump into Bessie and drive to Sussex without telling the Brigadier.'

Liz held up her hands, but already knew that there was nothing she could say to stop the Doctor from going. 'Now Doctor, we both work for him and although I don't like it very much, I do regard him as a friend. I'm not going to just disappear without him knowing. He has a right, you know?'

The Doctor suddenly sat opposite her. 'To what, Liz? A right to what? To destroy them? To get his clod-hopping soldiers down there, tearing up the seaside trying to find something new to shoot?' He stuffed his hands into his voluminous cape pockets and shook his head slowly. 'No, Liz, don't you see? I can't let him. Not yet. This time I've got to try and communicate properly. To make both sides see sense before we have a repeat of Derbyshire. Before the Brigadier wipes out yet another colony of intelligent, decent, amazing beings simply because he and the likes of Sir John Sudbury are afraid.'

'I thought Sir John was a bosom buddy.'

'Listen, Liz,' the Doctor continued. 'The Brigadier is a brave man. He's not stupid, his mind is quite open and receptive, but first and foremost, he's a soldier. Queen and country and all that. But us, we're scientists, aren't we? We see a wider, global picture. Universal, if you like.' He got up and held his hands out for the keys. 'Please, Doctor Shaw? We have to find the Silurians and help them.'

Liz stared at him and then gave him the key. 'I don't know where you're going Doctor, because when I came back to the lab you had gone, taking Corporal Hawke's report with you.' She shoved the papers back into the internal OHMS envelope and placed it in his cape pocket. 'You only want me there to navigate, anyway. I'm not spending two hours in Bessie getting cold and irritable while you ignore my directions and claim you know a quicker way.'

The Doctor beamed. 'I'll see you tomorrow then.'

'Yes, I'm sure.' Liz tapped the contents of her pipe into a sink and washed away the dark ashes. When she turned back, the Doctor had gone. Now, she thought, all she had to do was tell Maisie Hawke to say that only the Doctor had seen the report. Subterfuge, that was all she needed.

---

The Doctor's sprightly yellow roadster, Bessie, cut along the A40 through London, whizzing down the Euston Road, then along Farringdon Road and over Blackfriars Bridge. Having rounded Elephant and Castle and passed along the Old Kent Road, the car then took the A2 out of London, heading towards Kent.

Wrapped up in the excitement of discovering more Silurians, the Doctor failed to notice that he was being followed by a grey Ford Cortina, matching his route and speed but always hovering three or four cars behind.

---

Inside the car were three people. A bearded Nigerian drove, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform. He sat silent and unsmiling.

In the back seat were two other men. One was young and very pale, as if he hadn't seen sunlight for a few years. He was smartly dressed, with short black hair and dark glasses. Emerging from under his glasses and running down his left cheek was a livid scar which connected with a slightly mutilated top lip.

The other was slightly older, blond and tanned, wearing casual slacks and a blue sports coat. Cradled in his lap was a large pistol, fitted with a large suppressor and with a set of marksman's sights mounted on its barrel.

The pale man passed his companion an envelope. Inside was a copy of the report that Hawke had given the Doctor, appended with two 10" x 8" black-and-white photographs. One was of the run-down cottage on the cliff, a duffle-bag abandoned in the foreground; the other showed a young woman in police officer's clothing being dragged, evidently with some resistance, away from the house and into an ambulance.

'No survivors,' said the pale young man, his voice soft and lisping.

'Especially not the Doctor.'

Chapter Two

Traynor didn't come. He hadn't made it.

Damn.

Traynor supplied all the evidence he could, but is it going to be enough? Probably not, but the man did his best. Now it is my job to continue the expos? Reveal the truth. Bend the rules and let the British public know what exactly their taxes are spent on. And how so-called defence budgets' are being spliced off into less traditional resources.

Enclosed with this letter are documents which prove that the worst fears Traynor and I had about C19 were entirely accurate. Poor old Sudhury has no idea. Fool. At the time of writing this, dear Elizabeth, I have no idea if it will be you who receives it. I hope it is. Forgive my necessary deviousness but all tracks have to be covered, all prints wiped and tapes erased, as they say. Naturally, you have no idea who I am and that is for the best. Once you have all this information, you are equipped to deal with C19, or at least ensure someone will. Maybe UNIT, if they're not too far involved themselves. Trust few people, dear Elizabeth, for treachery thrives upon further treachery. I, meanwhile, will hopefully pass back into the faceless anonymity whence I crawled.

Poor Grant Traynor. He so craved medals and accolades for serving the public good. I told him he'd never get them. I'm quite sure this will all be swept away eventually, but as long as C19 has been stopped, his sacrifice will have been worth it.