03 - The Bodysnatchers

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DOCTOR WHO
The Bodysnatchers
An Eighth Doctor Ebook
By Mark Morris
Contents
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . .Fire and Brimstone
Chapter 2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Post-Mortem
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lair
Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Devil Incarnate
Chapter 5 . . . .In The Belly of the Beast
Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Balaak
Chapter 7 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A Place of Evil
Chapter 8 . . . . . . .The Broth of Oblivion
Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Unleashed
Chapter 10 . . . . . . . . . . .End of the World
Epilogue
This is for David Howe, for getting me the gig in the first place.
Thanks, as always, to my wife, Nel, for her love and support, and to my children, David and Polly, for being
there.
Thanks also to the Sam squad - Jon Blum, Kate Orman, and Paul Leonard - for their generosity, enthusiasm
- and input.
Chapter 1
Fire and Brimstone
By rights the man in the corner of the room should not have been there at all. Yet as Jack Howe entered the
tavern, accompanied by his colleague, Albert Rudge, he saw him sitting in what of late had become his
accustomed place. Bold as brass he was as always, done up to the nines in his expensive overcoat, top hat,
and thick muffler. His lily-white hands rested on the solid-silver lion's head that topped the cane he always
carried. He sat there, quite still and calm in the stink and the squalor, amid the thieves and the cutthroats,
the horribly diseased, and the hopelessly drunk.
Oh yes, he was a proper gentleman, no doubting that. In the filthy Whitechapel tavern populated by Jack and
his cronies, he stuck out like a diamond on a plate of kippers. Jack thought it a miracle that the man had not
been found garrotted in an alleyway before now, his pale, scented, well-fed body stripped of its clothes and
valuables. He was asking for trouble coming here night after night as he did. And yet... there was something
about him that made even big Jack Howe uneasy, something he couldn't quite put his finger on - not that he
would ever have admitted that to Albert, who was nervous enough at the best of times.
Perhaps it was simply that the man was so... watchful. So still. When he moved it was in slick little
movements, like a snake. Or perhaps it was something about his eyes, which were the only part of his face
the man ever revealed, keeping his hat on at all times and his muffler pulled up over his mouth and nose.Yes,
that might have been it. There was a queer cast about his eyes. Sometimes they seemed silver, and once or
twice Jack could have sworn that he had seen them flash orange, as if the man had a fire inside him.
Harry Fish, the landlord, was polishing glasses with spit and a grubby rag. Jack ordered gin for himself and
Albert, then the two men made their way through the ragged, smelly, drunken crowd to join the silent man in
the corner.
He did not look up, or even move, until Jack and Albert were seated at his table.Then he raised his cold grey
eyes and regarded them for a moment. Jack took a gulp of gin in an effort to repress a shudder. Six years
ago Jolly Jack had been carving up the working girls of this parish, and the local word then had been that it
was a toff doing the killings. Jack had never believed the rumour, had never thought a gentleman would have
the mettle for such business. Now, however, looking into this man's stone-cold eyes, he wasn't so sure.
The man spoke, and his voice was a soft murmur. 'Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you have the
merchandise?'
Jack nodded, and tried to make his voice as brusque as possible.'We do, mister.'
The man blinked slowly. 'Splendid. I'd like to view it if I may.'
It was always the same - no pleasantries, no preamble, straight down to business. Not that Jack minded. He
didn't want to spend any more time with this man than was necessary, however well he paid. He tilted his
head back and finished his gin, savouring the acrid burn in his throat and gut.Then he gave a swift nod and
stood up, followed immediately by Albert, who jumped to his feet as if he was afraid Jack would leave him
alone with the man.
The man rose smoothly, and allowed Jack and Albert to lead him to the door. Jack couldn't help noticing that
most people, hard-bitten East Enders though they were, glanced at the man with fearful eyes and gave him a
wide berth. Yes, there was something mighty queer about him, all right.
He,Albert, and the man who had never given them his name stepped out on to a cobbled street, caked with
the bodily waste of dogs, horses and humans alike. The streets were only ever cleaned around here by the
rain, but after a while you hardly noticed; you got used to the stench of filth and sickness and death.
The fog was yellow as always, and so thick that the tall, dark slum buildings that surrounded them, the
rookeries, where people lived ten or twenty to a room, could barely be seen.Their feet crackled on the cobbles
as they turned left away from the tavern and plunged into the fog. Within seconds the fog had swallowed not
only the tavern itself, but the welcoming glow from its windows.
For the next ten minutes the men wandered through a maze of alleyways and backstreets, most so narrow
that they had to travel in single file. They passed clusters of children huddled together in doorways like sacks
of rubbish, disturbed packs of rats, which scampered before them like living clumps of darkness.
Eventually they slipped down an alleyway and emerged into a cobbled courtyard of sorts, surrounded on three
sides by the soot-blackened walls of more of the East End's ubiquitous slum dwellings.The fog was so thick
here, and the buildings so tall, that the sky could not be seen. Grey rags of washing hung limply on lines that
stretched from one side of the courtyard to the other, high above the men's heads, like the pathetic flags of an
impoverished nation. In the far corner of the courtyard, smothered by the fog until you got close enough to
reach out and touch its nose, stood a mangy horse, tethered to a ramshackle cart covered by a tarpaulin.
The man gave a hiss of satisfaction and hurried to the rear of the cart, slipping past Jack and Albert like a
shadow.The two East Enders hung back, Albert pulling a thick rag over his mouth and nose and tying it at the
back of his head as though parodying their employer's muffler-obscured features. Jack would have done the
same, but was reluctant to show any sign of weakness to the man. Instead he took shallow breaths through
his mouth, tasting the sulphur that yellowed the air, feeling it catch in his throat. Both Jack and Albert were
used to bad smells, but this was far worse than the normal day-to-day odours: this was the high, sickening
stench of bodily corruption. Their habit when they worked was to rub horse manure into the rags they covered
their faces with. Though that in itself was a fetor that could make a man's head swim and his eyes water, it
was preferable to the noisome stink issuing from the bodies of the recently dead.
Their top-hatted companion, however, seemed singularly unaffected by the smell that filled the courtyard.
Lithe as a monkey, he clambered over the tailgate of the cart and yanked the heavy tarpaulin aside. Though
the fog reduced him to little more than a blurred silhouette, Jack sensed the man's eagerness and was glad
of it, thinking of the gin he would buy later. He knew all too well what sight the man was presently feasting his
eyes upon - the heaped cadavers of men, women and infants, some still so fresh that the maggots had only
just begun their busy work.
'How many?' the man asked, crouched like a ghoul above the grave pickings. 'How many tonight?'
Albert, who did not know his numbers, looked to Jack.
'Seventeen,'Jack said.
'And you were not seen? You left no trace of your work?'
'None,' confirmed Jack.
'Excellent,' the man murmured. He took one last greedy look at his booty, then dragged the heavy tarpaulin
across, leapt down
from the back of the cart and climbed up on to the seat behind the horse.
Jack stepped forward expectantly as the man reached into the pocket of his dark overcoat. Sure enough, the
man's pale hand emerged clutching a fistful of coins, which he tossed on to the cobbled ground as casually
as if he were tossing food scraps for hungry dogs. Jack held himself back as the coins chinked and rolled; he
wouldn't be seen grovelling in front of anyone. Albert was not so proud, but he was scared - of both the man
and Jack, and so he held himself back too.
'I will see you tomorrow, gentlemen,' the man said. 'The arrangements will be as always.'
'Very good,' said Jack drily.
Albert tugged at the brim of his cap. Thank you, sir,' he muttered.
The man faced front and flicked the reins to get the horse moving. Jack remained standing until the horse and
cart and its hunched, top-hatted rider had been swallowed by the fog. Only then did he drop to his knees, his
big hands groping through the slimy filth between the cobbles, greedily gathering up every last coin that the
man had scattered on the ground.
***
Tom Donahue had no proper plan to speak of. His present circumstances, combined with the dreadful,
gnawing pain in his hand, had pushed him to his wits' end these past several weeks. A month ago he had
had a job and lodgings, and money enough to put bread and potatoes and sometimes even a little meat on
the table. Now he had nothing. He was confused, exhausted, starving, angry and scared.
What perplexed him the most was the fact that, until recently, his ex-employer, Nathaniel Seers, owner of
Seers's Superior Bottles, had been a kind and generous man, a true philanthropist, who cared about the
welfare of his workers. Not long before Christmas, however, he had changed. He had become cruel and
mean-spirited, unconcerned about those who toiled in his factory on the bank of the Thames.
Tom was unfortunate enough to have been one of the first to fall foul of his employer's new-found, unpleasing
disposition. One morning he had been cleaning the machinery when he had caught his hand in one of its
whirling cogs and injured it badly. Rather than showing compassion, as was his normal reaction to such a
misfortune, Mr Seers had instead lambasted him for his carelessness, and even as Tom had lain there
bleeding on to the floor, almost fainting with the pain of his injury, had dismissed him, claiming that an
employee who couldn't work was of no use whatsoever.
As a result of his dismissal,Tom had been unable to pay his rent or buy food. He had spent Christmas, which
was almost three weeks past now, sleeping on the streets, living on scraps and handouts. If his
circumstances didn't improve soon, he supposed he would have to take himself off to the workhouse, though
he wanted to put off that dreadful day for as long as possible. The workhouse was a harsh place with a strict
regime, though at least there he would have a roof over his head and a little food to eat, and he might even be
able to get some medical treatment for his hand.
Since injuring it, the pain had been growing steadily worse. Indeed, it had now begun to travel up his arm,
attacking, it seemed, his very bones, to the extent that he often woke in the night, crying out in agony.
Furthermore, the fingers had turned black and he could no longer use or move them. Additionally, the flesh
had begun to swell and split and to exude a stench like rotten meat.
Tonight, for the first time since his dismissal.Tom had decided to return to the factory. He had little idea what
he was going to do when he got there. It was already well after midnight, and despite the cripplingly long
hours that the employees worked, the place would now be dark, the machines silent. Tom was so embittered
by what had happened to him that part of him wanted to burn the factory to the ground, or at the very least
cause as much damage to the machinery as he could. There was another part of him, however, that hoped
Mr Seers would still be there (it was rumoured that recently he had taken to staying at the factory until the
small hours, and sometimes not going home at all). Tom half believed that, distanced from the troublesome
bustle of a normal working day, his ex-employer might be more convivial and accommodating, more prepared
to listen to Tom's grievances.
Yes,Tom decided suddenly, this was why he had come; indeed, it had been his intention all along, had he
but known it. If he could only convince Mr Seers that he was his final desperate hope, then surely the factory
owner would rediscover the humanity, the benevolence, that he had sorely lacked these past weeks.
Despite his conviction, Tom's belly began to quiver with nerves as the factory came into view, a huge black
edifice rising out of the fog, caged within a fence of spiked iron railings eight feet high. At first glance, unless
a fellow was equipped for a rather treacherous climb, which Tom was not, the place seemed impregnable.
Tom, however, knew that the factory was accessible at the back. It had been built on a bank twenty feet
above the Thames, and a set of stone steps led first on to the towpath below and thence down to the river,
this to provide access to the boats that transported far and wide the bottles that were made in the factory.
Tom made his way there now, shivering with the cold wind blowing off the water. Although he could hear the
gentle lap of water against the flood wall below, he could not see it, for the thick fog muffled what little light
there was from the intermittent gas lamps along the riverbank.
He climbed the steps. There were only a dozen or so, but by the time he reached the top his head was
swimming with hunger, fatigue and the as yet only slight delirium of his pain. He paused, panting, holding his
injured and aching hand, wrapped in the soiled rag that served as a bandage, to the hollow of his chest for a
moment, curling himself around it like a mother protecting her young.
Eventually, able to dredge a scrap more energy from deep within his rapidly failing reserves, he straightened
up. Back here, behind the factory, was a jumble of outhouses - storage facilities, equipment sheds, stables
for the factory's half-dozen horses.Tom was tempted to make his way straight to one of the stables now, lie
down in the sweet, warm hay and go to sleep. He told himself that if Mr Seers was not here, then that was
exactly what he would do.
He began to shuffle across the cobbled yard between the outhouses towards the factory. It was even darker
here than it had been on the riverbank, damp colourless fog coiling around him, blending shadows and solids
into a single shifting black stew. He walked with his good hand outstretched and questing from side to side.
After a half-dozen steps his hand thumped against the wooden wall of a stable that had appeared to loom out
of the fog as if it had crept up on him. He realised he had been veering to his left and realigned himself
accordingly. A few steps further, and his feet became entangled in a discarded coil of sodden rope which
almost brought him to his knees. Staggering, he managed to remain upright, though couldn't prevent himself
from uttering a muffled cry that sounded in his own ears disconcertingly close to despair.
Regaining his balance, he moved forward again, and suddenly saw the faint, diffuse glimmer of a light ahead.
He judged it to be a lamp affixed to the back of the factory, and moved towards it eagerly. He had taken no
more than five steps, however, when he became conscious of a sound permeating the silence, a dull, irregular
thunk... thunk.
He halted a moment, listening. Where was the sound coming from? It was hard to tell, for the fog seemed to
distort his perceptions, to carry the sound hither and thither. He tilted his head to one side, then pushed his
nose into the air like a hunting dog and turned a complete circle until he was facing the blurred light once
again. He was not entirely sure, but the source of the sound seemed to be the light itself. A little more
cautiously now, he crept forward.
Eventually the light grew larger, more distinct, and though it did not dispel the fog, it at least thinned it a
little.Tom realised to his surprise that the source of the light, and indeed the sound -which was louder now -
was not the factory, after all, but another outbuilding, this one a long, low shed where,Tom knew, various
items of equipment used to repair and maintain the factory's machinery were stored. He realised that after
colliding with the stable and realigning himself he must have over-compensated, veered too far to his right - or
perhaps it had been after tripping over the rope that he had done this. In truth, the whys and wherefores of his
misdirection were unimportant. What was important was the fact that the factory, or rather its grounds, was
not deserted. Someone at least was here, which in his present state of disorientation Tom found of no little
comfort.
He moved towards the window at which the light flickered and pressed his face to the glass. At first he saw
nothing; his rasping breath produced a cloud of vapour which befogged the window. He rubbed at the glass
with his good hand and looked again. In the light of several candles he saw the silhouette of a man with his
arm raised behind his head. A second later the man brought his arm sweeping down, and Tom saw that he
was holding an axe, which he thudded into an object on the long workbench.
Chopping wood, Tom thought, and then a number of details presented themselves, one after another, to his
hunger-pain-exhaustion-befuddled mind, coiling slowly and lazily into his consciousness like pebbles sinking
to the bed of a murky pond.
The first detail was this: the man chopping wood was his ex-employer, Nathaniel Seers. The second detail
was Mr Seers's dishevelled state; he was in his shirtsleeves, sweating profusely, his dark hair hanging over
his forehead in greasy strands. The third detail was more shocking: Mr Seers was wearing what Tom
assumed was a butcher's or a mortician's apron, for it was spattered with blood and clots of tissue.The fourth
and final detail was more than shocking, however; it was appalling, unbelievable...
On the workbench before Mr Seers was not a length of timber, but a partly dismembered human cadaver.
Tom couldn't help it. He let forth a thin, whooping scream. Instantly Nathaniel Seers's head snapped up, and
now Tom saw something that was possibly even more unbelievable and horrifying than the axe and the
blood-spattered apron and the riven corpse.What he saw, what he knew he saw even though his mind tried to
deny it, was that Mr Seers's eyes were not even remotely human. They were pools of hideously glowing
orange light, in the centre of which the pupils were no more than thin black slits.
They were the eyes of the very devil.
Too shocked to scream a second time,Tom stumbled back from the window, feeling the mark of those eyes
on him, their burning poisonous glare.Though he felt what little strength he had ebbing away, almost as if his
life force was being sucked from his body, he somehow managed to turn and stagger into the fog. Now it
seemed that the fog itself had become a live thing: Tom imagined yellow vaporous hands reaching out to
grasp him, bloated, leering, malodorous faces forming from the darkness ahead.
He flailed at the fog as he ran, with his bad arm as well as his good, barely noticing the pain. More by luck
than judgement, he negotiated the route through the outbuildings without mishap, and within moments was
plunging down the steps that led to the towpath. However, even as he careered along the towpath itself, he
knew that his headlong flight was hopeless, that the instant he had looked through that window his life had
become forfeit. No mortal man could expect to gaze into the eyes of the devil and live to see another dawn.
***
In the equipment shed, dripping axe held limply in its right hand, the devil in the guise of Nathaniel Seers
made no attempt to give chase. Instead it cocked its head to one side and adopted a look of quizzical
concentration. After a few moments its glowing eyes suddenly flared brighter. The axe dropped from its hand
and hit the floor with a clunk. Beneath the dark mutton-chop whiskers that the factory owner favoured, the
creature's lips began to move. It appeared to be communing with something.
***
'Oh no!' exclaimed the Doctor as several pages of the magazine he was holding came loose and zigzagged
lazily to the floor. His melancholy blue eyes widened in alarm as one of the pages alighted on a candelabrum
containing five lit candles. Dry and crisp as an autumn leaf, the page immediately and spectacularly
whooshed into flame. The Doctor closed the ailing periodical with a rustle of dry paper and a puff of dust, and
slid gymnastically down the ladder he had been standing at the top of in order to reach the upper shelves of
his library.
He tossed the magazine on to a reading table already covered with a scattering of scrolls and charts and
sprinted to a dark recess between two tall sets of bookshelves. Wrenching a fire extinguisher fitted with a
hose attachment from the wall, he turned and directed a jet of foam at the merrily crackling flames.
The instant the fire was out, the Doctor let the extinguisher drop to the plushly carpeted floor and ruefully
assessed the damage. The candelabrum now resembled a melting wedding cake, and all that was left of the
page was a sticky pile of mush and a few scraps of drifting black ash.The Doctor sighed deeply and ran a
hand through the curls of his wild, shoulder-length hair. 'Good grief,' he murmured. 'Now I can't even repair
you, can I?'
He moved around the TARDIS library, picking up the other spilled pages. When he had them all, he dropped
them on to the reading table beside the magazine and placed a chunk of polished blue Nusalian rock, which
served as a paperweight, on top of them. He dropped heavily into a high-backed, ornately carved armchair
beside the table, leaned forward and picked up the now much-reduced magazine, a Christmas 1893 edition of
The Strand . It was a vital issue, containing the original printing of 'The Final Problem', one of the pivotal
Sherlock Holmes stories - and indeed, initially intended by Conan Doyle to be the last before a public outcry
encouraged him to resurrect the famous detective. The Doctor had been planning to take the opportunity,
while his latest companion, Sam, caught up on some much-needed sleep, to settle down with a nice pot of
Darjeeling and a plate of dry-roasted gumblejack fritters and read it for the 437th time.
'The best-laid schemes...' he murmured wistfully, placing the magazine in his lap. Now in his eighth
incarnation, he was a far more settled character than the majority of his previous incarnations had been.
Nevertheless, his last violent regeneration, during which he had come closer to death than ever before, had
shaken up his molecules so comprehensively that certain aspects of his character had come to the fore that
had previously been buried so deeply within him they had seemed virtually nonexistent.
His romantic nature, for one. And his tendency to babble about his origins, for another. During his
post-regenerative trauma, he had given of himself so freely, so uninhibitedly, that his scrupulously guarded
secrets might just as well have been baubles, trinkets, of little or no value.
His plan, after his bittersweet parting from Grace - the woman at whom his perhaps misplaced attentions had
been directed -had been to travel alone for a while, to contemplate, take stock, rediscover the silent, still point
within himself. However, as usual, events had contrived to overtake him, and now he had Sam aboard.
Seventeen years old, socially aware, brave, outspoken, full of enthusiasm and a sense of wonder that she
tried to conceal beneath a patina of streetwise indifference ('cool' she'd probably call it), she was both a tonic
and a burden - inspirational and maddening in equal measure.
The Doctor turned his thoughts from his companion and back to himself, which was something he had little
enough time for these days. He looked around at his library - the tall bookshelves, the darkly ornate fixtures
and fittings, the flickering candles in their holders, the Tiffany lamps, the plush, intricately patterned carpet -
and he nodded in approval. Yes, this suited him very well. This, for now, reflected his inner mood and
character:
sombre, thoughtful, tasteful, but with a hint of the impressive and the unusual too.
'And so modest, Doctor,' he murmured, gently mocking himself. It had started in his last incarnation, this
sense of self-awareness, of his own very definite place in the complex machinations of the universe. One
might almost call it a sense of grandeur, if such a phrase didn't stray too close, dangerously close in fact, to
the way in which many of his foes viewed themselves.
Like and yet unlike. The incorruptibly good and the indescribably evil. Flip-sides of the same coin. Dark
thoughts, Doctor. Dark thoughts.
'This won't do at all!' he exclaimed suddenly, snatching up what remained of the magazine and flinging it back
on to the reading table. He jumped up, a tall, lithe, youthful figure, dashing in his frock coat, wing-collared
shirt and grey cravat, patterned waistcoat and narrow-legged trousers. In a sudden flurry of energy, he dashed
from the library, passing innumerable shelves stacked with all manner of books and periodicals, before
reaching an innocuous-looking door propped open with a dog-eared copy of The Ripple Effect by Anton
Bocca. He catapulted through the door, passed yet more shelves, and finally leapt down on to the parquet
floor of the console room.
This was a vast Gothic cathedral of a place, dominated by a six-sided console that managed to look both
quaintly archaic and awesomely advanced.The Doctor jumped up on to the raised dais surrounding the
console and began to flick switches, push buttons and pull levers, his hands a blur of movement.
Co-ordinates set, he glanced up at the monitor screen, which he had reconfigured to resemble an early TV
set from his beloved Earth. The screen flickered and then stabilised:
DESTINATION - LONDON, EARTH
LOCAL DATELINE - 11.01.1894
Victorian era
'Just time for a quick cup of tea before we arrive,' the Doctor announced, clapping his hands together.
'Wha-?' said Sam blearily, contorting her face in an effort to open one sleep-gummed eye. When she finally
managed it, the Doctor was gone, leaving behind a steaming cup of tea on her bedside table, and an outfit
carefully laid out on the high-backed wicker chair in the corner of the room.The outfit consisted of a
coral-coloured jacket with puffed sleeves, blue bloomers, black Victorian boots and a straw boater-type hat
with a coral-coloured band.
Sam considered ignoring the intrusion, turning over and going back to sleep, but hadn't the Doctor said
something about arriving somewhere, and wouldn't it be just like him to go off and explore without her if she
didn't get a move on? She sat up in her sumptuous four-poster bed, stretched, yawned, and ran a hand
through her short blonde hair, making it stand up in spikes. She reached for the china cup and took a gulp of
hot tea, immediately closing her eyes in satisfaction.The Doctor made the best cup of tea she'd ever tasted.
Knowing him, he probably grew his own leaves or something.
摘要：

DOCTORWHOTheBodysnatchersAnEighthDoctorEbookByMarkMorrisContentsChapter1..........FireandBrimstoneChapter2...............Post-MortemChapter3.........................LairChapter4.............DevilIncarnateChapter5....InTheBellyoftheBeastChapter6......................BalaakChapter7...............APlac...

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