60 - Lungbarrow

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'Nonsense, child,' retorted the Doctor. 'Grandfather indeed! I've never seen you before in my life!'

All is not well on Gallifrey. Chris Cwej is having someone else's nightmares. Ace is talking to herself. So is K-9.

Leela has stumbled on a murderous family conspiracy. And the beleaguered Lord President,

Romanadvoratrelundar, foresees one of the most tumultuous events in her planet's history.

At the root of it all is an ancient and terrible place, the House of Lungbarrow in the southern mountains of Gallifrey.

Something momentous is happening there. But the House has inexplicably gone missing.

673 years ago the Doctor left his family in that forgotten House. Abandoned, disgraced and resentful, they have

waited. And now he's home at last.

In this, the seventh Doctor's final New Adventure, he faces a threat that could uncover the greatest secret of them

all.

Marc Platt wrote Ghost Light, the last Doctor Who story recorded by the BBC. He also wrote the New Adventure

Cat's Cradle: Time's Crucible and the Missing Adventure Downtime. He is told that he lives in Islington, but would

not be surprised if that were Time Lord propaganda.

CONTENTS

·Author’s Preface/Introduction – Page 3

·LUNGBARROW – Page 5

·Author’s Notes – Page 224

Above: the original cover for LUNGBARROW

Originally published by Doctor Who Books, a division of Virgin Publishing Pty Ltd

The moral right of the author has been asserted; this reproduction is made with grateful acknowledgement to the BBC website

– no infringement of copyright is intended, as this work is produced for private use only, and not for profit.

Original series broadcast on the BBC

Format © BBC 1963

DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC

Introduction - Preface by Marc Platt

Roots

In 1996, when Rebecca Levene at Virgin asked me for another New Adventure, I hummed and ha-ed a bit, faffing

round with various ideas, but Ben Aaronovitch insisted it had to be Lungbarrow - exactly what I really wanted to do,

but hadn’t dared suggest. Then the BBC raked back the Virgin’s license because the McGann TV movie was in

the offing, so Rebecca decided that Lungbarrow, with its revelations of the Doctor’s roots, was the story to finish

the book series.

In fact, Lance Parkin sneaked in under the closing portcullis with The Dying Days as a parting shot, but

Lungbarrow was the Seventh Doctor’s final Virgin. It’s a sort of Doctor Who equivalent of King’s Cross: the final

stop for a whole load of storylines, not just from the Virgin books, but stretching back into the TV series as well.

Finding a family

The idea of the Doctor’s family had been knocking round my head for years before I ever got commissioned for

the TV series in 1988. After a quarter of a century, we’d learned an awful lot about the Doctor. That was

unavoidable. But there was now precious little Who left in him. We all want to know about him, but we also want

him to remain a mystery too.

My idea was to start afresh. To clear the decks, I’d commit the cardinal sin of answering the fundamental

questions, and then knock the explanations sideways with a whole barrel-load of new questions. You open the

locked box only to find another locked box inside. Only this one’s bigger. The more layers of the Doctor you peel

away, the stranger and darker he gets. And he stays the same. A mystery.

I’d been woken at 5am one morning by the idea of the family and the living house. The last thing the Doctor’s

family could be was obvious. He comes from an alien planet, however terrestrial (and British) its inhabitants

appear, so I was determined to get away from any Earth-style 2.4 children sort of family. It had to be strange, yet

familiar too.

The idea I woke up with arrived in such detail that I got quite feverish, unable to get it written down fast enough.

One Loom, forty-five Cousins, two Drudges and one very grumpy House were all in place along with their hierarchy

and their terrible fate. And then I sat on the story for a long time, not daring to submit the storyline. It was too

outrageous. I was venturing into forbidden territory.

Lung Light

Only at the end of 1987, when I first met Andrew Cartmel and Ben at the production office, did I tell anyone about

the story. Andrew and Ben had their own plans to darken the Doctor’s character. They already had the Time Lords’

founding triumvirate in place: Rassilon, Omega and the other one that history never remembers the name of. But

they were unsure how all this linked up so many aeons later with the Doctor. Lungbarrow offered a solution.

I worked on the story with Andrew for about nine months, until JN-T decided that maybe this was a bit too radical

too soon. In answer, Andrew produced Plan B: we relocated some of the elements to 19th century Perivale,

changed the emphasis of the story from the Doctor to Ace, and called the new story Ghost Light. And apart from a

tiny reference to the family in Ghost Light, a line which Sylvester changed in rehearsal, Lungbarrow went on the

back burner.

The Shopping List

Of course when you got commissioned for a New Adventure, you not only got several lunches in the Virgin staff

canteen (it knocked the socks off the BBC one), but you also got Rebecca’s shopping list of Things That Need

Including.

In the case of Lungbarrow this meant:

1) Tie up the threads set up in the New Adventures.

2) Lead into the TV Movie.

Everyone else got to choose which bits of continuity to play with. I had to deal with the whole lot. And I also had a

few strands of unfinished business lurking from the TV series that needed completing too. A load of sarsaparilla-

drinking sessions in Andrew’s office had gone into them. There are hints of them scattered all through the New

Adventures, but with the advent of Mr McGann, this would be their last chance for an airing before Who took off to

Heaven knows where.

Here we are again

When BBCi suggested serialising Lungbarrow on the Doctor Who webpages, I jumped at the chance to take

another look, which I hadn’t done for years. Some bits surprised me, some of those bits I liked enormously and a

few bits made me absolutely cringe.

So I’ve taken the liberty of tinkering a bit, changing a few things around - things that seemed like a good idea at the

time, but definitely don’t now. I’ve surgically removed one section early on, swapped over a couple of chapters and

added an extra sequence at the start of the final chapter. The actual story hasn’t changed at all. It’s modified and

augmented, not regenerated. But maybe it flows a little better.

Whether this reappearance means that the crazy price of the original book on Ebay will come down, I cannot say.

On publication in 1997, the book was a slow starter and never had time to pick up sales before it was taken off the

shelves again. I regularly get royalty statements from Virgin to say that out of my advance, I technically still owe

them £126.41. I wish I had a stash of copies under the bed.

Previously on the New Adventures

MESSENGER: Rassilon, the dying Pythia cursed Gallifrey. There will be no more children. The

world is barren and doomed!

RASSILON: D’oh!

SHADOWY MAN: Told you so. Now about the shortage of housing...

CHRIS: Sorry, Roz. We shouldn’t have done that. But I love you.

ROZ: Tough! I’m leading an attack on that GTO station on top of that hill. (RUNS OFF

WAVING GUN)

THE DOCTOR: Chris, it’s Roz.

CHRIS: Is she...?

THE DOCTOR: She went up the hill into history.

CHRIS: (BITES HIS KNUCKLES) I’m trying to cope.

DOROTHEE (née ACE): These days I live in 19th century Paris. But I’ve got this time-

travelling motor bike, so I do all my shopping at Marks and Spencers.

GOLD USHER: Do you swear by the Rod of Rassilon to uphold the holy office of President of

the High Council of Gallifrey?

ROMANA: Hang on. (ADJUSTS MATRIX AT JAUNTY ANGLE) I swear.

(TIME LORDS LOOK SUITABLY UNCOMFORTABLE.)

THE DOCTOR: Chris, I have a presentiment of doom. I can’t see beyond my seventh self.

Eighth Man Bound.

CHRIS: I’m still trying to cope.

"How far, Doctor? How long have you lived? Your puny mind is powerless against the strength

of Morbius. Back, back to your beginning..." The Brain of Morbius

"But how is it that this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else in the dark backward and abysm

of time?" The Tempest, I , ii

Prologue

Time's roses are scented with memory. There was a garden where they once grew. Cuttings from the past grafted

on to the present. Perfumes that recalled things long gone or echoed memories yet to come. Thorns that could

tear like carrion beaks. Stems that could strangle and bind like the constrictors in the fathomless pits of the

Sepulchasm.

The garden grew on the tallest summit of the Citadel, high above the frosty streets, clear of that endless telepathic

commentary of gossip and gibble-gabble that marked out the thoughts of the Gallifreyan people. Sometimes a

morass of countless random ideas, sometimes a single chorus united by one urgent conviction. A hope or fear or

death wish. But the days of the mob were numbered.

The great mother was gone. The Pythia was dead, overthrown by her children. And with her died her people's

fruitfulness. The Gallifreyans became a barren race. In the long aftershock of matricide, the cursed people learnt

to keep thoughts and secrets to themselves. They discovered privacy and furtiveness. They taught themselves

loneliness. It made them angrier too.

A pall of smoke drifted across Pazithi Gallifreya. The moonlit garden on the tower was furled in darkness. A new,

harsher light came from below. There were fires in the city.

From his place high on the crest of the Omega Memorial, a solitary figure watched the west district of the city go

up in flames. The fire had started in the abandoned temple. He could hear the distant rattle of gunfire. Guards

drafted in from the Chapterhouses were quelling the uprising.

No good would come of it. The fleeing dissenters (Rassilon already called them rebels) had taken refuge in the

Pythia's temple. He had warned Rassilon a hundred times over. That once sacred place must not be violated. If

violence was used against the dissenters, then he would up and leave Gallifrey to its own devices. He would never

be party to a massacre.

Suddenly the box was back.

It hovered in the air just below his vantage point. A flying coffin. One side in darkness, the other catching the glare

of the distant fire. It clicked, whirred, gave a little whine and tilted slightly to one side in a crude anthropomorphic

approximation of affection.

'Shoo! Go away, you stupid...' He nearly called it 'brute', but that only reminded him of his long-running debate with

Rassilon on the viability of artefactory life forms, and he was very weary of arguing.

The box was pining. It missed its creator. It was always breaking its bonds and escaping from its hangar, to skulk

dejectedly around Omega's Memorial. For years it had done that. When they relocated the hangar, it only sat

rumbling discontentedly on its servo-palette and then got out again. Rassilon worried about it, but it didn't really

matter. For a quasi-aware remote stellar manipulator that could tear open the furnaces of stars and dissect the

angles of reality, it was fairly harmless. It just wasn't house-trained.

Omega, despite his sacrifice, still had a hand in their affairs.

It was rather a good joke, he thought, but Rassilon didn't find it funny at all. One night, they had stood among the

roses on the tower and watched Omega's death again. The light of the dying star burnt out suddenly in the

constellation of Ao, nine point six years after they had watched it on the monitor screens in the control chamber.

Rassilon had wept again. Everything the man did was done for love. But sometimes love was remarkably short-

sighted.

The figure on the Memorial shuddered and drew his cloak about him. The splash of the supernova was still clear in

the sky above the city, or would have been were it not for the smoke. Lately the box, the Hand of Omega as it was

known, had taken a shine to him. It had started to follow him about, often appearing at the most inopportune

moments. It disrupted his affairs and drew attention to private business that was better kept secret.

Besides, he was bored, achingly bored, with manipulation and power. He longed to be away, free of schemes and

other people's ambitions, and, more than that, free of himself. He could cast off this dark, brooding persona more

easily than a serpent sloughs its skin. But if he did go, there would be no way back. And Rassilon would be left

with absolute control. No checks, no balances.

In frustration, he took off a shoe and threw it at the box. The Hand of Omega dodged so fast that his shoe seemed

to travel straight through it. He stood with one stockinged foot out over the drop.

'Well? What will you do, eh, if I step off?'

Pointless to ask really. The box would be there under his foot. Ready to catch him.

So much for suicide.

'Selfish brute!' he complained.

Below, he could see figures skulking in the shadows around the Memorial. No rebels these, but agents of Rassilon

sent to arrest him. He supposed he should feel flattered. Too good to lose, apparently.

In the air he caught the scent of burning flesh. A decision had been made for him, but there was much to prepare

and a difficult farewell to make.

Ignoring the box, he lowered himself down the stone curve of the Omega symbol and dropped to the ground. The

shadows came at him fast out of the dark. He was surprised by their knives.

They were surprised by the bolts of energy that flung them like dolls out of his path. The box whirred in beside him

with that unnerving knack of seeming to move faster than its own shadow. He drew a cut bloom out of his cloak.

The rose's milky scent reminded him of children and the lost future. He laid it at the foot of the monument and

bowed his head. The box, taking an uncharacteristic moment to decide its course, settled down beside the flower.

He knew it was watching as he hunted for his shoe in the gloom. Unable to find it, he threw away the other shoe

and walked barefoot down into the burning city.

***

'I am the Doctor. I am. I am. I am!'

Chris Cwej lies slumped against the wooden wall, watching the room reel around him. Dizzying. Pale tree trunks

frame the walls, reaching up to a black ceiling that eases out of their branching curvature like a natural growth. It

flickers orange in the lantern light.

He closes his eyes - all the better to see.

His heart, trying to beat enough for two.

His fingers touching and clutching things that were not there.

His mind remembering things, gargantuan things that he has never known before. He wants them to leave him

alone. To cruk off out of his head. He pulls off his boot and throws it.

The room swims around him. Only metres away the women sit huddled over something. The foot of their victim

emerges from the circle. It is encased in a brown and cream lace-up shoe.

The new memories trickling into his head are getting paler. Ebbing away.

Eighth man bound

Make no sound

The shroud covers all

The Long and the Short

And the Old and the Loud

And the Young and the Dark

And the Tall

The women hold hands. The President and the Tearaway and the Cousin and the Warrior. They mutter

incantations that lay his thoughts bare to them. His mind is an écorché: flayed sinews, stripped naked of the skin of

consciousness.

'Why did you leave?'

'Where have you been?'

'Who are you? Who the hell do you think you are?'

Chris wants to let go, but a thread holds him, spinning slowly over the abyss.

I am! I am! I am!

They are tearing into his mind with carrion beaks.

'Vultures!' shouts the victim lying in their circle. His voice has a Scottish burr.

'Can't catch me,' it whispers in Chris's throat.

As the women start to feed on his dreams, it all goes dark.

***

The House is full of sunlight. Shadows are banished to skulk in corners. The panelled walls, polished with wax

from the sugar-ant hives on the estate, gleam darkly between the white trunk columns and arches. Now and then,

there is a lazy creak from the floorboards or the tiles on the gabled carapace of the rooves. Sometimes a chair

shuffles slightly to avoid the passage of a Cousin on the galleries. Momentarily, a deep sigh trembles through the

arborescent architecture from one end of the House to the other. It sounds like a breath of wind rustling through

leaves.

The House is dozing. But it is listening too.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

'... and Rassilon, in great anger, banished the Other from Gallifrey that he might never return to the world. Then

there was great rejoicing through the Citadel. But the Other, as he fled, stole away the Hand of Omega and

departed the world forever.'

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The pupil was needling his name into the varnish of the big desktop. Cousin Innocet's hairgrip was considerably

more adept at this task than the clumsy Chapterhouse mess-blade that old Quences had given him on his last

name day. The trick was to see how deep you could carve before the desk protested.

'Are you paying attention?' boomed his tutor.

'Yes, thank you,' he intoned, completing another tricky top stroke. 'And the Other departed the world forever.'

'Correct.'

There was a pause. He was aware of the huge bulk of his tutor approaching the desk, but he had to get the final

letter finished. 'You see, I was listening,' he added, vainly hoping to ward off the inspection.

The sunlight from the tall window glistened on his looming mentor's fur. Serrated black stripes on its creamy pelt.

The pupil felt the intense scrutiny of the glass eyes as they peered down over fearsome tusks.

Flustered, he jabbed a quick accent stroke over the final letter. Too fast. The varnish flaked. The big desk

shuddered. It gave what sounded like a woody cough of protest and snapped its lid indignantly, just missing his

fingers.

'Why are you not paying attention?' The tutor's voice drummed out of its chest rather than its throat. The horns that

curled from either flank of its head were big enough to hang a coat from.

The pupil swung his legs. 'Why can't we do something else?' He had formed the habit of answering the tutor's

endless badgering with queries of his own. His feet didn't even touch the floor.

'What does the curriculum state?'

The pupil shrugged and looked out of the window. 'What about a field trip? We could go down to the orchards. It's

so hot, the magentas must be ripe by now.'

He opened the desk and fumbled through the chaos inside in search of his catapult. 'I can shoot them off the

branches,' he called from under the heavy lid.

'Repeat the Family legacy...'

He groaned. 'Then can we go out?'

'What was your birth?'

'It's boring.'

'Where were you born?'

He closed the desk lid with a sigh. 'I was born in this House.' His sing-song approach, armoured with a growing

contempt for the whole mechanical business of learning by rote, was wasted on the tutor. 'The House of

Lungbarrow one of the many Houses founded in order to stabilize the population after the Great Schism when the

Pythia's Curse rendered Gallifrey barren I was born from the Family Loom of the House each Loom weaves a set

quota of Cousins defined by the Honourable Central Population Directory at the Capitol.'

He paused to take an exaggerated breath. Beyond the whitewood-framed window, the noonday sun dazzled off

the silver foliage of the trees.

The tutor tapped the desk with a yellow claw. 'The quota…?

'The quota of Cousins allotted to the House of Lungbarrow is forty-five when a Cousin dies after her or his thirteen

spans a new Cousin will be woven and born as a Replacement.' He stopped again and regarded his tutor.

'Continue,' it said.

'I can remember waiting to be born.' He said it deliberately to see how much reaction he could get.

'Impossible. That is impossible.'

'You're just a machine. What would you know about it?'

The robotic tutor dithered. But the pre-programmed awkwardness wasn't convincing. It was too precise to be really

lifelike. And yet the huge furry avatroid, with its prim and proper manners, was more absurd and endearing than

any of the Family in the House.

The young pupil continued: 'It was like being all strung out. All unravelled inside the Loom. I was spread really thin.'

'Perhaps now you are teaching me,' said the tutor. His bulky shoulders sagged a little.

'I couldn't think. Not put thoughts together.'

'Grammar,' complained the tutor.

'But I knew where I was and what was happening. I couldn't wait to get out. And then I was born. My lungs nearly

burst. The first rush of air was so cold. And they were all there, of course. All forty-four of them. All laughing,

because of. . . because...'

There was a hurt that he could never ease. They say your first sight after birth, the first thing that looms into view,

is the one that governs your life - but when it's forty-four Cousins staring down at you from all sides, laughing and

sniggering and prodding, then what do you expect?

He avoided the subject, as had become the custom. 'And Satthralope smacked me so hard I could barely walk.'

'When were you told this? How can you really remember?'

'I do remember too. And don't badger me. You always badger me. I'm not newly woven, you know. I'm nearly five

and three-quarters.'

'And you are very precocious.' The tutor indicated a coloured glass core that was sitting on the desktop. 'Turn your

book to the Triumphs of Rassilon.'

'What happened before the Great Schism? How were people woven then?' He smirked, half hoping the answer

would be rude. 'What were... mothers?'

'Mothers were women who gave birth to children.'

'What, like the Loom does?' He gave free rein to his smirk. 'I bet Satthralope couldn't do that. Did the children grow

inside their mothers? That's what the tafelshrews do. There was a nest of them at the back of the pantry, but the

Drudges found it before I could get them outside. Or did mothers spawn in the river like the songfish?'

'It is my job to ask the questions.'

'What's the point when you know all the answers? How did the children start growing? And why don't all the

animals have Looms? Why is it only the people?'

'We are studying -'

'Did they have sword fights then with monsters and reptile pirates?'

The tutor lifted the data core in its heavy paws and began to screw it into the desk's console unit. 'We are studying

the provenance of Gallifreyan culture.'

'It's that nursery verse, isn't it?... And now all the children are born from the Loom. You whistle it and I'll sing it. Isn't

it dark, Isn't it cold, Seek out the future...'

'Housekeeper Satthralope does not allow singing during lesson times.'

The young man grimaced. 'She smells like old cupboards. Quences wouldn't mind. And he gave you to me.'

'Ordinal-General Quences programmed me to encourage your brainbuffing. You will repeat the Triumphs of

Rassilon.'

'Not again. You promised.'

'The Triumphs.'

'They're really boring.'

'Commence.'

The pupil glanced down at a wooden screen that had slid eagerly up from the desk.

'Without looking,' instructed the Badger. 'By rote..' The desk retracted its screen with a little whine of

disappointment.

The young man sighed too and began, 'Hear now of Rassilon and his mighty works. He, who single-handedly

vanquished the darkness and...' He peered across the room beyond his tutor. 'Cousin Innocet, what are you

doing?'

The tutor lumbered round with difficulty in the tight space. The big desk flinched.

The room was empty. A magenta kernel, fired from the catapult, pinged on one of the Badger's curling horns.

By the time the furry machine had turned back, its charge had hoisted himself up to the sill, slipped through the

open window and was clinging to a vine that grew up the outside of the House.

'Tell Innocet that I'll be late for supper,' he grinned, sticking his head back round the frame. 'She always makes the

best excuses when Satthralope's on the war-wagon.'

Leaving his shaggy tutor in a state of bumbling perplexity, he scrambled down the vine and ran out into the sunlight

through the long, lush grass. 'Can't catch me!'

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60 - Lungbarrow

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