01 - The Clockwise Man

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DOCTOR · WHO

The

Clockwise Man

BY JUSTIN RICHARDS

BBC

BOOKS

Collect all the exciting new Doctor Who adventures:

THE MONSTERS INSIDE

By Stephen Cole

WINNER TAKES ALL

By Jacqueline Rayner

Published by BBC Books, BBC Worldwide Ltd,

Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane, London W12 OTT

First published 2005

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Doctor Who logo © BBC 2004

Original series broadcast on BBC television

Format © BBC 1963

'Doctor Who', 'TARDIS' and the Doctor Who logo are trademarks of the

British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher,

except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN 0 563 48628 7

Commissioning Editors: Shirley Patton/Stuart Cooper

Creative Director: Justin Richards

Editor: Stephen Cole

Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC ONE

Executive Producers: Russell T Davies, Julie Gardner and Mal Young

Producer: Phil Collinson

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living

or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Henry Steadman © BBC 2005

Typeset in Albertina by Rocket Editorial, Aylesbury, Bucks

Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH, Pößneck

For more information about this and other BBC books,

please visit our website at www.bbcshop.com

Scanned by The Camel

The Clockwise Man

. .................................................................................................................... 7

ONE .............................................................................................................. 9

TWO ............................................................................................................. 16

THREE ......................................................................................................... 21

FOUR ........................................................................................................... 27

FIVE ............................................................................................................. 33

SIX ................................................................................................................ 39

SEVEN ......................................................................................................... 45

EIGHT .......................................................................................................... 51

NINE ............................................................................................................. 55

TEN .............................................................................................................. 59

ELEVEN ....................................................................................................... 63

TWELVE ....................................................................................................... 67

THIRTEEN ................................................................................................... 71

FOURTEEN .................................................................................................. 75

FIFTEEN ...................................................................................................... 79

SIXTEEN ...................................................................................................... 83

SEVENTEEN ................................................................................................ 88

EIGHTEEN ................................................................................................... 95

NINETEEN ................................................................................................... 98

Acknowledgements ...................................................................................... 100

About the author ........................................................................................... 101

For Julian and Christian – and everyone else now

discovering or rediscovering the amazing worlds of

Doctor Who

Peter Dickson learned the truth about black cats from his mother.

'If a black cat comes up to you,' she said to him, 'then that's lucky, that is. But if it only comes

part-way, then turns back... If it has burning green eyes...' She sucked in her breath and shook

her head. 'They say that your father saw a black cat that morning, on the way to his ship. I

reckon it had green eyes. I reckon he should have come home that moment, like any sensible

sailor. He'd still be here now if he'd paid attention to that black cat. They're fickle animals, cats.

Don't trust them. They only ever think of themselves. If they bring you luck, good or bad, you can

be sure it's for their own reasons.'

The black cat Dickson saw almost thirty years later was neither approaching nor turning tail. It

watched him from across the street with glassy reflective eyes. It was impossible to tell what

colour they really were – was that lucky or not? Dickson took a deep breath of smoggy London

air. He neither knew nor cared. He wasn't superstitious, like his old mother – a Victorian woman in

every sense, he thought. And anyway, you couldn't even tell what colour the cat itself was – it

just looked black because it was dark. There was a smudge of pale colouring under its chin, a

triangle of white in the darkness below the glint of the eyes. Then, in an instant, the cat was

gone. As if the eyes had been switched off.

Dickson blew out a stream of smoke from his cigarette. A final drag before he went back into

the house. The guests would be arriving soon, and he needed to ensure everything was ready. He

flicked away the stub end of the cigarette and watched it glow briefly before fading and dying.

Like the eyes of the cat. He coughed in the cold October air, and turned to go back inside.

Rose looked down at herself, wondering how daft she seemed. Did they really dress like this in the

1920s – thin cotton down to the calf? And in mint green? She had found a long, dark cloak with a

hood, which she dumped across the TARDIS console.

The Doctor spared her a glance. He was tapping at some meter or other. Satisfied, he nodded

and moved to the next control – which was covered by Rose's cloak. A brief frown, and the Doctor

moved on. Rose watched his fiercely intense eyes reflecting the light of the console as he focused

on the next control. She liked the way he stood so still and so confident – yet any second she

knew he might break into a broad grin.

Seeming to realise he was being watched, he looked up at her again. 'What?'

'Are we nearly there yet?'

'You sound like a kid on an outing.'

'I am a kid on an outing. An outing back in time.' She couldn't help smiling at the prospect, and

he grinned back.

'Yeah. Great, isn't it? It's 1924 out there. Or will be in a mo.' He tapped encouragingly on a

control.

'And that's when this exhibition thing is?'

'The British Empire Exhibition, yeah. Got to get a bit of culture now and then.'

Rose laughed. 'Like a school trip. Tell me again – why do I want to see it?'

He blinked in feigned disbelief. 'Because your best mate's going.'

That made her grin. 'So why doesn't he have to dress up for it?'

He was shocked now, standing back from the console and gesturing at his own clothes. Leather

jacket over a dark brown round-necked shirt, faded slacks and battered shoes. 'Excuse me,' he

said, pointing. 'New shirt.'

Without waiting for her verdict on the shirt, he turned to the scanner. The picture was dark, too

dark to see anything at first. Then the blackness softened into shapes as the contrast and

brightness adjusted.

'We could try infrared,' the Doctor muttered. 'But I don't think there's much heat out there.'

Rose could dimly make out some of the shapes now – ironwork and wooden planks; an old

bedstead and a pile of buckets. 'It's cold and we're in a scrapyard.'

The Doctor shrugged. 'I like scrapyards. Never know what you might find.' He checked another

reading. 'You'll need that cloak,' he said, as if noticing it for the first time. The doors opened, and

a faint trace of mist wafted in from the yard.

'Reckon we'll meet anyone famous?' Rose wondered.

'In October 1924?'

'They did have famous people then, right?'

His voice floated back from the misty outside. 'No television, but yeah they did.'

Rose hurried after him, into the excitement of the unknown.

At first he had thought it was the cat, fighting with something. Making an awful howling noise. But

there was something rhythmic and mechanical about the sound that split the night air. It was not

a sound made by an animal. A grating, rasping sound like some great engine grinding into life,

then dying. Over and over. It came from everywhere and nowhere – whichever way he turned,

the sound was already echoing back to him.

A flash of light from behind the gate into Gibson's Yard. For a moment, Dickson saw the glow

over the wooden gate, and the light shining between the planks. Then it was gone, and the sound

had ended in a satisfied thump.

'Who's there?' Dickson called out. But his voice was brittle and scratchy. He could barely hear

himself. He glanced back at the house, considered going back inside. But he was curious about

the sound and the light. Dickson made his way down the steps from the side door and headed for

the gate to Gibson's Yard.

He crossed the street, not noticing the black cat that slunk away down the street, flicking its

tail as it went. He made his careful way towards the heavy wooden gate, oblivious to how the

shadows behind him seemed to deepen and grow. Was that the sound of a door opening? Were

there voices?

The shadow behind him quickened pace, its quarry now within its grasp. Its inhuman fingers

stretched out, trembling rhythmically, clicking towards the back of Dickson's neck.

In the distance Dickson could hear Big Ben chiming the half-hour. He hesitated, the hairs on

the back of his neck prickling as if in a faint breeze. Suddenly his every sense was straining. He

could see a pale glow of light from behind the gate. Feel the cool night air on his skin. Smell the

damp of the Thames wafted on the breeze. For some reason he could taste the rusty iron of blood

in his mouth, as if he had bitten his tongue.

And to his amazement, as the chiming stopped, he was sure he could hear the ticking of Big

Ben, marking off the remaining seconds of his life.

ONE

he air was cold with a smell of damp and smog. Rose pulled the cloak tight about her and ran

over to the Doctor. He was inspecting a large wooden gate, his sonic screwdriver poised over

the lock, glowing busily.

'Breaking and exiting?' Rose suggested. Her breath misted the air as she spoke.

The Doctor did not look up. 'Someone's in trouble-can't you hear?'

Now that he said it, she could. In among the noise of the city – the clatter of distant wheels on

cobbles, the far-off sounds of people shouting and calling, the melancholy hoot of a boat on the

Thames... Over and above that she could hear the muffled cries of someone in pain, or fear.

The sonic screwdriver hummed, and the lock clicked open. The Doctor was already kicking at

the heavy gate, sending it flying back as he hurtled through.

Fifty feet away, startled in the pale glow of a street lamp, a man was fighting for his life. His

assailant was forcing him backwards, its hands round the man's neck as it bore down on him. A

dark shape behind the struggling figures – all silhouette and no detail. The vague notion of a third

figure disappearing back into the shadows.

The Doctor crashed shoulder-first into the attacker. Hold broken, the figure stepped back. The

Doctor collapsed, clutching his shoulder, then pulled himself back to his feet. The attacker paused

in the deepest shadows, deciding whether to take on the Doctor as well as its first victim.

'Doctor!' Rose ran towards them. Her appearance seemed to decide it, and the dark figure

turned and marched stiffly away. Watching the figure, trying to make out some feature in the dim

light, Rose caught her foot on the kerb and went sprawling. She put out her hands to save herself,

feeling the rough surface of the pavement cutting into them, rubbing away the skin. She came to

rest in an undignified heap close to the man who had been attacked.

He was lying gasping on the ground, rubbing at his throat. He was wearing white gloves, but

now they were stained and dirty. The Doctor leaned over and loosened the man's collar. 'Has he

gone?' he asked without looking at Rose.

'Yeah. I scared him off.' She got to her feet, shrugging the cloak back over her shoulders and

examining her hands – grazed, sore and covered in mud. Typical.

'I'm glad someone did.' The Doctor straightened up and rubbed his shoulder again. 'It was like

running into a brick wall.'

Rose stooped to help the man on the ground. He was breathing more easily now and struggling

to sit up. 'Thank you,' he croaked. 'I'm obliged.'

'You're alive,' the Doctor said. He put his hand under the man's elbow and helped him up.

'Who was that?' Rose asked. 'Why did he attack you?'

'I have no idea, miss. I heard a noise, saw lights. I came to see what it was and...' He

shrugged, still rubbing at his neck.

'Here, let's see.' The Doctor led him a few steps down the pavement so they were directly

under the street light. He gestured for the man to raise his head. 'It's all right, I'm a doctor.'

'Just not a medical one,' Rose pointed out, earning a glare. 'So, is he OK?'

'Dickson, miss.'

'Mr Dickson will be fine,' the Doctor said. 'Lucky we got here when we did, though. Where do

you live?'

'I am in service, sir, at the house over there.' Dickson pointed to a large town house further

down the street. Rose could see that the side door was open and light was spilling out down the

steps.

'Then let's get you back there.' The Doctor stepped away, looking Dickson up and down. He

frowned and reached for the man's hand, lifted it gently in his own to examine it in the light.

Apparently satisfied, he smiled, let the hand go, gestured for Dickson to lead the way. He took

Dickson's arm to help him.

'What is it?' Rose asked quietly.

'You keep your gloves clean, Mr Dickson?'

'Of course, sir.' He still sounded hoarse, his voice scraping in his throat. 'Why?'

'Just they're a bit grubby now, after your little adventure. Another mystery.'

'To go with "who?" and "why?",' Rose said.

'To go with the fact that the marks on Mr Dickson's neck look like they were made by a metal

implement, not fingers,' the Doctor said. 'And that his gloves are stained with oil.'

From the darkest part of the shadowy evening, two figures watched the Doctor and Rose help

Dickson back to the house. One of them gave a sigh of disappointment.

The other had no breath with which to sigh.

After the third attempt, Sir George Harding gave up. 'Give me a hand with this, would you, Anna?'

His wife was smiling back at him in the mirror, amused by his clumsiness. 'You are all fingers

and thumbs,' she said softly, as she reached round to sort out the mess he had made of his bow

tie. Her accent made her voice sound even softer. He held still while she tied a perfect bow. Then

she turned him slowly round and stepped back to inspect her work. She nodded. 'Yes, my dear.

You will do.'

'Good. They'll be here soon. Surprised Oblonsky hasn't arrived already, actually. He's always

early, drat him. Must be the military training.'

The doorbell sounded insistently from downstairs.

'You see? That'll be him now. Playing Wagner on the bell.'

'Tchaikovsky, more likely,' Anna said. 'Dickson will look after him until we are ready.'

Sir George nodded. 'Yes, good man, Dickson.' He reached for his jacket. 'Where's Freddie?'

'In bed. And I don't want you going in and disturbing him. Dilys has only just got him settled,

and you know you only excite the child.'

'Me?' Sir George was scandalised. 'Never!'

'We have to keep him calm. Calm and safe.' She turned away, but he could still see her sad

face reflected in the mirror. 'You know that.'

'Of course I do.' He put his hand on her trembling shoulder. 'The boy will be all right. We

mustn't fuss too much, you know.'

She reached up, put her hand over his without turning, nodded without smiling. If she was

about to reply, she was interrupted by the urgent knock at the door, then the frightened call: 'Sir,

madam! Can you come, please? Only it's Mr Dickson, he's been hurt. There's a lady and

gentleman...'

The Doctor insisted on taking Dickson to the front door and ringing the bell. No point, he said, in

dragging him through the servants' quarters. 'If in doubt, go to the top.'

The woman who eventually opened the door looked about sixteen, little more than a kid. She

was wearing an apron, wiping her hands on it. 'Mr Dickson, sir!' she exclaimed.

'He'll be fine,' the Doctor assured her, helping Dickson into the extensive hallway.

'Could you inform Sir George,' Dickson croaked.

The girl nodded silently, looking pale as she saw the red marks on Dickson's neck. She turned

and ran up the stairs, holding up apron and skirts. The stairs turned halfway up, and Rose could

see the girl on the galleried landing, flickering behind the balusters as she ran.

'Let's put you in here,' the Doctor said, leading Dickson through to a large room.

Dickson tried to pull away. 'But that's the drawing room, sir.'

'I don't mind.'

'And I don't draw,' Rose told him.

It was a large, square room with a high ceiling. Dark oil portraits leaned in from several walls,

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DOCTOR·WHOTheClockwiseManBYJUSTINRICHARDSBBCBOOKSCollectalltheexcitingnewDoctorWhoadventures:THEMONSTERSINSIDEByStephenColeWINNERTAKESALLByJacquelineRaynerPublishedbyBBCBooks,BBCWorldwideLtd,Woodlands,80WoodLane,LondonW12OTTFirstpublished2005Copyright©JustinRichards2005Themoralrightoftheauthorhasbee...

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