07 - Nightshade

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DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Nightshade

By Mark Gatiss

Illustrated by Daryl Joyce

The Changing face of Doctor Who: The illustrations contained

within this ebook portray the Seventh Doctor Who, whose physical

appearance was later transformed when he was fatally wounded

by gunfire.

His companion in this adventure is explosives expert Ace, a

teenager from the 1980s.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Editor’s Note

Nightshade was originally written with a mature

audience in mind, and contains strong language. Some

characters also express racial attitudes prevalent in parts of

British society at the time the book is set. Nightshade may

therefore not be suitable for younger fans of the series.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Author’s Introduction

Ah, nostalgia. So seductive. So dangerous. And so odd to

be feeling it for some of my own work. Nightshade, now

looking like the brittle-paged Tenth Planet I had as a kid, is

fourteen years old! Like a child I never had. I remember it

all so vividly. Seeing the Virgin writers’ guidelines in DWB,

writing my specimen chapters, coming home for Christmas

1991 to find the fantastically encouraging letter from Peter

Darvill-Evans, the agonising wait to see whether the New

Adventures would run beyond the initial four books...

The idea for what was originally called Nightfall came to

me on a long coach journey from Leeds to - would you

believe Cardiff? - a city that was then a long way off

becoming the centre of the Doctor Who universe. I spotted a

sci fi novel called Nightfall so the title instantly changed!

The basic concept was this, wouldn’t it be fun if an actor

from an old TV sci-fi series started to see in real life the

monsters he faced in the programme?

At that stage, before the New Adventures had been

announced, I suppose I dimly thought of it as a kind of play

idea. A Play for Today idea, really. Although such things

were extinct by the early 90s. I hadn’t long graduated from

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

college and was living a precariously hand to mouth

existence in a haunted house in Leeds (It really was! 97

Archery Rd. Go and have a look!).

I had yet to make any sort of mark in showbiz but, when I

read about Virgin’s plans to continue the recently defunct

Doctor Who I felt in my bones: I CAN DO THIS. What

appealed to me enormously, apart from the sheer thrill of

being published was to have a shot at writing Doctor Who

(the real thing, of course, was now impossible. Ha!). Not

only that, but to write Doctor Who as I thought it should be

done, effectively redressing what I felt to have been wrong

with the programme in its later years.

As a result, what surprises me now, re-reading the book

after so many years is how SERIOUS it is. Grim, in fact. But

you have to remember that I was reacting against the sort of

garish Who of the late Eighties that I’d found an increasing

turn-off. Things were undoubtedly getting better, just when

the programme was cancelled, but there was still a sort of

muddled quality, an almost perverse refusal to tell a straight

-forward story that I found very frustrating. So I wanted

‘Nightshade’ to be an ultra- grim and horrific adventure in

the mould of favourites such as Genesis of the Daleks, The

Caves of Androzani and Frontios.

I liked the irony also that it was a story about the dangers

of nostalgia that was in itself, nostalgic. But I’d better start at

the beginning, I suppose...

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Prologue

All around the cluttered cloisters, musty rooms and high,

vaulted halls there was a deep and tangible hush. The only

light in the virtually impenetrable gloom was of a peculiarly

pellucid green, spilling out feebly from every heavy wooden

door and misaligned stone. Everywhere, there was a terrible

sense of stagnancy, imbuing the whole place with a fetid,

neglected atmosphere as though some great cathedral had

been flooded by a brackish lagoon.

From out of the cobwebbed shadows emerged a little

group of very old men, resplendent in their ornately

decorated robes.

The least ancient of the group, a white-haired individual

with piercing eyes and a down-turned, haughty mouth,

lifted the hem of his robes as he detached himself from the

others, sending little flurries of dust over the flagstones. He

murmured a few words of apology to his comrades and

melted away into the shadows.

After a time he came to a small door inset in the

crumbling stonework. He looked about him, senses alert,

and lifted his hands to grip the lapels of his robes. His

twinkling eyes darted from side to side. It was time.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

A man with a face like a deflating balloon, dressed in dark

gold robes which were too big for him, crossed the corridor,

mumbling happily to himself. The white-haired man

pressed himself into a doorway until the fellow had passed.

It wouldn’t do to be discovered now.

When he was certain that he was alone, the old man

opened the door with a spindly key and squeezed himself

through into darkness.

Beyond the door was a flight of stone steps, which he

descended nimbly, leading into a huge, ink-black, domed

chamber.

Arranged in a row were eight featureless objects about the

size of horse boxes, their dull grey surfaces tinged by the

familiar underwater-green.

The white-haired man lifted the heliotrope robes from

around his shoulders and let them slip to the floor. He

steepled his bony fingers and looked up at the ceiling high

above his head. What was the night like out there? It had

been so long since he’d ventured outside, smelled fresh air,

seen the first frosts, watched the pale silver and bronze

leaves disappearing under melting snow...

But now all that would be different. It was time to go.

There was a noise from somewhere close by and the old

man hastily unlocked one of the featureless grey boxes.

‘I must be quick,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, I must be very, very

quick.’

A look of profound sadness seemed to come over his wise

old face as he gave the hall one more sweep of his searching

gaze. Then, with a heavy sigh, he vanished inside the box

and closed the door.

There was a raucous, grinding moan and, quite suddenly,

the old man and his protesting grey box simply faded away.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

For a long time the seven remaining boxes stood in silence

with only the steady drip of the leaking roof to disturb the

gloom. Then the man in the dark gold robes appeared in the

doorway, tutting to himself. He regarded the seven boxes,

and the space where the eighth had been, with some

annoyance.

‘Oh no, no,’ he said. ‘This really won’t do at all.’

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Chapter One

Perhaps the world was dreaming. Dreaming as it drifted

like an exotic butterfly through those gossamer summers

which seemed like they could never end, stretching pacific

arms around its people under a billion-dollar blue sky. And

there were those who said there’d never been a better time

to be alive. Perhaps the world was dreaming ...

Jack Prudhoe scratched his bristly chin and cleared his

throat loudly. He was in no mood to argue. Standing in the

draughty hall of his little house, he wearily ran a hand

through his thinning hair and rattled the walking sticks

which cluttered the umbrella stand.

‘Are you listening to me?’

Win’s voice stabbed at him like a needle. Jack kept his

rheumy old eyes fixed on the umbrella stand. Had it always

been like this? Dreary days. Arguments. Going to the pub.

Coming back. Apologies. Another argument. Bed. Silence.

Jack looked at Win’s angry, pinched face as she continued

to berate him in a shrill monotone. Mouth like a horse’s

back side, he thought idly. Win’s grey eyes flashed

dangerously.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

‘Same old routine isn’t it, Jack Prudhoe?’

Yes, he despaired, yes, yes. Same old bloody routine.

Jack selected his favourite walking stick. The one with the

horse’s head carved on it. The one Win had given him on

their tenth anniversary. He buttoned up his heavy raincoat

and eased his feet into a pair of Wellingtons. With two pairs

of socks on they almost fit.

‘Off you go to the pub to get tanked up. And not a

thought for me, oh no. Well, I’ve had enough. Either you

start facing up to your responsibilities...’

Jack didn’t hear the rest. He lifted the latch on the solid

front door and stepped out into the rain.

There was a dismal, slate-grey quality to the light which

did nothing to lift his spirits. A wintry dusk was creeping

remorselessly over the village in defiance of the early hour.

A short walk across the square stood The Shepherd’s

Cross, a pub in which Jack had been drinking, man and boy,

for nearly fifty years. He nearly chuckled as he remembered

his dad smuggling him his first pint.

The pub’s comforting atmosphere of red flock wallpaper,

old wood and frosted glass rarely failed to cheer him up.

Except, perhaps, on bleak days like this one.

‘Afternoon, Jack.’

Jack nodded his hello to the landlord, Lawrence Yeadon,

who stood drying glasses behind the long mahogany bar.

Lawrence tossed the teatowel on to his shoulder and

grinned. He was always grinning. Or whistling.

‘Filthy weather,’ he said cheerily. Jack grunted and looked

Lawrence up and down, noting with disapproval the

younger man’s turtleneck sweater and fashionably

exaggerated sideburns. Silly bugger was too old to be

following trends.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Back in the days when the colliery was still open, Jack had

been a good friend of young Lawrence, especially after he’d

married such a pretty young lass as Mrs Cockayne’s eldest

and produced a son, Robin. But his wife’s untimely death

had left such a profound impression on Lawrence that he

had virtually withdrawn from village life, becoming sullen

and uncommunicative. However, after some years (much to

everyone’s relief), he pulled himself together, got the

tenancy of the pub with little bother and married a lovely

widow from York called Betty Harper.

These days, Lawrence was all sweetness and light. He and

Betty had recently returned from a holiday in Jersey and

were already planning their next excursion, rumoured to be

a cruise on the new Queen Elizabeth II.

Lawrence grinned at Jack. The old man turned away

thoughtfully. There was something about Lawrence which

nagged at him. Perhaps he was just a bit too eager and

cheerful to be true. And there had been a lot of gossip

recently about how ill Betty was looking.

Jack shrugged off these thoughts, turned back to the bar,

ordered a pint of mild and asked after Betty.

‘Oh fine, fine,’ said Lawrence, a little too quickly.

Jack sat down at a table and closed his eyes, listening to

the gentle crackling of the fire. He was grateful that the

recently installed jukebox (one of Lawrence’s efforts to

‘liven the place up a bit’) had fallen silent. Honestly, the

drivel people listened to nowadays. You couldn’t tell the

boys from the girls half the time.

Sipping his pint thoughtfully, Jack glanced into one of the

shadowed corners where a hefty wooden and cast-iron table

stood, its surface littered with sodden beer mats. It was in

that corner sometime during the Great War (1916, wasn’t it?)

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

that he’d first seen Win. She and her mother had just arrived

in Crook Marsham and moved into the old Shackleton

house on Faraday Street. Win was such a beautiful woman

in those days. Lovely thick auburn hair and soft, soft skin

that seemed to shine...

‘Can I get you girls a drink?’ Jack had asked in a nervous

voice. Win and her new friend Veronica Railton giggled into

their hands. They were already feeling rather daring having

gone into the pub unchaperoned. Jack looked down at the

oversized uniform he’d been given and suddenly felt a fool.

His army haircut was horribly severe and he felt self-

conscious about his sticky-out ears. Veronica peered at him

from behind her thick spectacles. Win’s big eyes looked him

up and down. She was wearing that red dress which her

mother had made for her. It was always her favourite.

‘Well?’ said Jack. Veronica giggled again but Win held his

gaze. ‘There’s something about a man in uniform,’ she’d

said quietly.

Always had spirit that one. So beautiful. So beautiful...

Jack Prudhoe shook himself out of his reverie and took

another sip of his pint, leaving a creamy semicircle on his

upper lip. His eyes strayed to the tatty Christmas

decorations which Betty Yeadon had put across the bar only

the other day.

His mind began to drift again. He and Win saying their

farewells just before he was posted. Endless laughter and

chatter. Going on trips over to Leeds and Ilkley Moor.

Kissing by the falls at Haworth. And then parting. Jack

waving to Win as she stood in that lovely red dress at the

station. Waving as the steam from the engine enveloped her.

After that had come the worst time of Jack’s life: foul and

wretched war. Up to his knees in freezing water as star-

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

shells blossomed overhead. Half his comrades slaughtered

in that filthy mud. And then came the day he saw his best

mate’s head blown off and Johnny Hun put a bullet through

Jack’s chest, sending him home within the week. Home to

Crook Marsham and his mum and dad. And home to Win,

who had waited for him, despite the best efforts of the local

lads.

The year after those university men came to the moor

looking for old relics, Jack and Win finally tied the knot.

‘We’ll have a dozen kids,’ he told her. ‘And a house as big

as Castle Howard. A garden full of roses, and chrysanths.

Aye, you like chrysanths, don’t you?’

She’d turned her big eyes to him and smiled warmly. ‘Oh,

Jack. What am I going to do with you?’

Jack turned back to his pint and rubbed the ribs which the

bullet had smashed all those years ago. They still ached a bit

in damp weather.

He sighed heavily. Sometimes he just couldn’t believe that

the Win he’d loved and the woman who was now such a

thorn in his side were one and the same. They’d had their

ups and downs, of course, like anybody else. One kiddie

still-born. The other, named after his father, run down by a

bus. Jack could see himself there even now, standing

helplessly as the great, lumbering vehicle lurched around

the corner. Then young Jackie running into the road. Time

slowing around them, moving like treacle. That awful noise

as the bus’s brakes howled, and then Win, turning to him

with such a look in those grey eyes. Accusing him. Little

Jackie breathing his last on that rain-washed street and,

perhaps, something inside Win quietly dying. The passing

years became like a physical weight, pressing her down,

breaking that rare spirit, transforming her into the stooped

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

and bitter woman she now was. They’d never even left the

village. Despite all those plans, all those promises...

Something caught Jack’s eye as it flashed by the smoked

glass of the pub window. He turned full around and his old

neck wrinkled in the none-too-clean collar of his shirt.

A flash of red. There was something darting past the

window, the smudged red of their clothes bobbing into

view like a lone poppy seen through a curtain of fine rain.

Jack moved closer and peered through the little area of

clear glass which spelt out the pub’s name in big Victorian

letters. There was a girl out there, dressed in a light summer

frock. A red frock. Jack sensed its familiarity and something

turned in his stomach.

And then there was a face at the window. Pressed against

the smoked glass. A pale, lovely face with a halo of thick

hair. The girl giggled lightly and was gone.

Jack stood up sharply, sending both table and beer

crashing to the floor. Lawrence looked at him oddly.

‘Jack?’

The red blur began to diminish. Over towards the moor.

‘Jack? Are you all right?’

Jack Prudhoe turned and his careworn face was full of

wonder. He suddenly knew he didn’t have much time.

‘It’s her, Lol,’ he breathed. ‘It’s her!’

‘Who?’

Jack let out a high, hysterical laugh and stumbled out of

the door. Lawrence hastened after him.

‘Jack! Your coat, man! You’ll catch your death! Jack!’

The policeman and the old man are tired. Their faces, in

tight close-up on the television screen, blurred by the crude

film process. The policeman’s nerves are close to breaking

point. ‘What do you mean, “not of this world”?’ The older

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

man puts a comforting hand on the constable’s arm. ‘I know

it’s difficult to accept, my boy, but I’ve encountered these

things before. They are the vanguard of an invading force

from the planet M...’

The policeman screams as a huge, scaly claw bursts

through the window. ‘Professor! Professor Nightshade! For

God’s sake...!’ The older man’s face zooms into view. Grim

and determined. Fade to black. Thunderous chords bellow

out the familiar theme tune as the word Nightshade is

superimposed on a roll of rather jerky credits.

Professor Nightshade - Edmund Trevithick

Constable Chorley - James Reynolds

Staff Sergeant Ripper - William Jarrold

The blue light from the television screen threw garish

shadows across Edmund Trevithick’s chuckling face as he

watched his name flicker by. He smiled, a little indulgently,

and leant forward in his chair to switch off the set. The room

seemed suddenly very dark and quiet. Trevithick cleared

his throat loudly and smiled his famous lopsided smile. It

hadn’t really dated much at all, even if he did say so himself!

Even so, it had been a good few years since he’d last played

old Professor Nightshade. Nice of Auntie Beeb, though, to

give the series a dusting down and a slot on their new

second channel.

Trevithick looked around the room at the circle of elderly

people, all sound asleep; their gentle snores rising and

falling in pitch like steam from old copper kettles. He

harrumphed loudly, considering himself a sprightly seventy

years old and nothing like the poor old dears with whom he

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

shared a roof, now clustered around the television in a sea

of tartan blankets.

He huffed again at his compatriots. They’d promised to

stay awake for his programme, they’d promised.

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ he said out loud.

‘Bother about what?’

It was Jill Mason, the warden of the old people’s home,

sneaking up on him again.

‘Don’t do that!’ snapped Trevithick. ‘Gave me the shock of

me life.’

Jill was lifting up cushions and looking under chairs.

‘You haven’t seen the Radio Times about, have you,

Edmund?’

Trevithick smiled his lopsided smile. He’d hidden the

periodical during one of Mrs Holland’s fits. That way no

one would know there was anything else but Nightshade on

the television that night.

‘Perhaps Mrs Holland has eaten it.’

‘You’re wicked,’ said Jill, smiling.

She peered out of the window into the darkness and

closed the curtains in one decisive movement. It was getting

late.

Trevithick had to admit that he was fond of the girl, even

if she was a little patronising at times and wore her hair too

long. She’d even taken to sporting false eyelashes (of all

things) which Trevithick thought resembled copulating

insects. He objected less to the length of her skirts which

barely reached her shapely knees. Girls had been far too

prim in his youth. This bra-burning malarkey certainly had

its advantages.

He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and steered the

conversation back to his old series.

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

‘We had a lot of trouble with young Jimmy Reynolds.’

‘Mm?’

‘Jimmy Reynolds. The lad who played a bobby in this

week’s episode. Not long out of drama school, I seem to

remember. And a bit fazed by all the lights and excitement.

Of course, it was all live in those days. He was sick in his

helmet just before he went on!’

‘Really?’ Jill said distractedly.

‘Queer as a dog’s hind leg as well. We used to call him

Debbie Reynolds!’

Trevithick guffawed into his handkerchief, then looked

over at Jill. ‘Oh, you’re as bad as this lot. You don’t care.

That’s a piece of history you missed tonight.’ Trevithick

adjusted his blanket and huffed again.

Jill brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and crossed the

room to check on Mrs Holland.

‘Believe it or not, Edmund...’

‘Mister Trevithick to you, girl.’

‘Believe it or not, I have more important things to do than

watch you on the TV.’

Trevithick grunted. ‘Oh yes? Rather be with your bloody

anarchist friends, would you?’

‘What?’

‘In Paris? Isn’t that the “in thing” for young people

today?’

Jill felt a rush of blood to her face. She was silent for a

while and then said simply, ‘No.’

Mrs Holland, who had slowly woken up, began to cackle

wildly. Her toothless, sunken face reminded Trevithick of

one of those laughing sailor dolls at the seaside.

‘Ooh, Mr Trevithick,’ she cried. ‘When are you on the telly?

You keep telling us you’re going to be on the telly...’

DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE

Trevithick raised his eyes heavenward. ‘I’ve just been on

the television, you stupid old woman. You were too busy

snoring...’

‘Eh?’

Mrs Holland had become deaf again as she often did in

moments of stress.

‘Oh, never mind,’ grumbled Trevithick.

‘When’s he on the telly, Jill?’ pleaded the old woman,

gripping Jill’s arm. ‘I do so want to see him. Tell me when

he’s on.’

Jill nodded vigorously and reassuringly, soothing Mrs

Holland back into her chair.

‘And let me know when Wilfrid gets home,’ she said

finally, drifting back into sleep.

‘Wilfrid?’ said Trevithick with a raised eyebrow.

‘Her husband.’ Jill tucked the blanket around the old

woman’s knees. ‘Killed in the First World War, I think.’

‘Hmmph,’ Trevithick grunted. ‘Mad as a hatter. Well, if

you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I got this old body to bed.’

Jill nodded distractedly and then looked up.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. I got a phone call today. Someone

from the BBC. They want to come up and interview you.’

‘Interview me? Whatever for?’

Jill pulled a face. ‘Apparently they’ve been flooded with

letters since they started repeating your series. Seems you’re

famous all over again.’

Trevithick grunted. ‘Probably just amazed I haven’t

dropped dead yet.’

‘Shall I tell them it’s all right then?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Shall I tell them it’s OK to send someone up to see you?’

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DOCTORWHO:NIGHTSHADE1NightshadeByMarkGatissIllustratedbyDarylJoyceTheChangingfaceofDoctorWho:TheillustrationscontainedwithinthisebookportraytheSeventhDoctorWho,whosephysicalappearancewaslatertransformedwhenhewasfatallywoundedbygunfire.HiscompanioninthisadventureisexplosivesexpertAce,ateenagerfromthe...

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07 - Nightshade

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