07 - Nightshade

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DOCTOR WHO: NIGHTSHADE
1
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
2
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
3
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
4
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
5
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
6
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
7
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
8
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
9
‘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
10
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
11
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
12
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
13
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
14
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
15
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
16
‘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
17
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?’
摘要：

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

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