Silhouette (2 page)

‘I appreciate the company,’ Bellamy said, though his face was still clinging to its irate frown.

‘And I find your perpetual ire refreshing. Most humans keep their wrath hidden away. We could have a fight later,’ Strax added hopefully.

‘Not tonight. I’ve had a few too many, I fancy. And I’ve a bare-knuckle match tomorrow afternoon. Come and watch if you like. Blackfriars.’

‘Ah, sport!’ Strax nodded. Since he had no neck to speak of, this involved moving most of his upper
body. ‘I may indeed. How many of these black friars will you kill?’

The pub was considerably less crowded by the time Strax and Bellamy finished their conversation. Strax, as he had said, found Bellamy a refreshing change from most humans in that his anger spilled out in every word and expression, every movement and action. Strax had never told Bellamy that he was not actually human himself, but was in fact a cloned warrior of the far superior Sontaran race temporarily working as manservant to a prehistoric lizard woman. But if he had, Bellamy would probably have nodded, swigged his drink, and complained about the state of the East End. Or the incompetence of the government. Or his poverty and current inability to find gainful employment. Or the price of the beer. The notion of friendship was alien to both of them, but if they had to enumerate their friends, then each would have been on the rather short list produced by the other.

In Bellamy’s case, Strax might well have been the only name to feature.

‘Maybe see you at Blackfriars tomorrow,’ Bellamy said as they parted company outside the tavern.

‘It is certainly a possibility,’ Strax agreed. He slapped Bellamy on the back, making the big man stumble. Bellamy was a good head taller than Strax, and almost as broad – one of the few humans who could sustain
a fight with Strax for more than a few seconds. ‘I have fought against Headless Monks,’ Strax told him, ‘so a few black friars will pose little problem. We should meet beforehand to discuss a suitable strategy.’

‘Whatever,’ Bellamy agreed. ‘G’night then.’ He made a half-hearted attempt to return the slap on the back, which Strax barely noticed though it would have felled most people.

Strax watched Bellamy disappear into the distance, becoming little more than a shadow beneath the glow of the gas lamps. Then he turned and headed back towards Paternoster Row. There was snow in the air again, a few flakes lazily drifting down to land on his dark jacket. But Strax didn’t mind the cold. His mind was already on the tasks he needed to perform when he got back. The surveillance systems would need to be primed. His personal blaster rifle could do with de-ionising and recharging. He would check the locks on the windows and doors for any sign of attempted entry. And there was the washing-up to do.

The cold of the night cleared Bellamy’s head as he walked. The snow was getting heavier, starting to settle on the pavement and across his broad shoulders. The streets were quiet, but this being London they were rarely deserted. A late cab hurried past, the horse’s hooves and the iron-clad wheels clattering on the cobbles. A woman with her face painted thick flashed
a gap-toothed grin at Bellamy from the entrance to a narrow alleyway. He ignored her.

Further along, passing along the side of a large industrial building, the light from a gas lamp cast the shadow of a figure against the side wall of another narrow alley. The figure raised its hand and beckoned. Bellamy ignored this figure too.

Except …

He stopped, and turned back. He could see the shadow on the wall. He could see the lamp casting the light. But – whose shadow was it? There was no one there.

The shadow beckoned again, insistent. Then, as if assuming Bellamy would follow, it turned and walked down the alleyway. Still he could see no one, could hear no footsteps. He looked round to see if anyone else had remarked the shadow, but the street was empty. His face contorted into an even angrier expression, Bellamy gave in to his curiosity.

The alley was dark. But he could see the shadow, cast against the wall further along the narrow passageway. It hesitated, turned back, beckoned him onwards again. Whoever this joker was, he’d not find it so funny when Bellamy caught up with him. He’d tell the fellow what he thought about conjuring tricks like this, and in no uncertain terms.

Bellamy picked up his pace, striding swiftly after the shadow. The alley turned abruptly, running
past the doors of a large building – an abandoned warehouse or factory. This part of the passageway was suffused with a pale yellow glow. There was a lamp at the end, where it emerged again onto a main street. Snowflakes twisted and danced through the light before settling on the cold ground. There was no sign of the shadow, or whoever had cast it.

Bellamy gave a grunt of anger, and turned to retrace his steps. As he turned, a man stepped out of the doorway of the large building, making Bellamy gasp in sudden surprise. It wasn’t the figure that had cast the shadow, of that Bellamy was sure. This man was thinner, almost gaunt. Deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks. A narrow beak of a nose. And the long frock coat he wore was a distinctive shape, to say nothing of the black top hat. A swathe of dark material hung from the back of the hat. He might not have cast the shadow, but the man looked as if he had coalesced out of the darkness. Even his gloves were so black that they seemed to absorb light as he raised his hand in greeting.

‘You want to be careful, creeping about like that,’ Bellamy said. ‘Here, did you see another bloke come this way?’ he wondered.

‘Only you.’ The man’s voice was deep and sonorous. His grim expression did not change.

‘You look like you’re on your way to a funeral,’ Bellamy said.

Still the man’s expression did not alter. ‘And who says the illiterate have no sense of irony?’

Bellamy felt the anger rising in him. ‘The what? Are you insulting me?’ He took a step forward, fist raised.

A few moments later, the tall man dressed all in black walked slowly away down the alley. He paused for a moment, body braced as if he was about to sneeze. His expressionless face twisted into a sudden and extreme snarl of pure rage. Just for a second, then the anger faded again and the man’s face settled back into its previous, neutral appearance.

On the ground behind him, Bellamy lay twisted and still. The clothes seemed far too big for the wizened, emaciated husk of a body. A skeletal hand stretched out across the ground, fleshless fingers frozen in the act of clawing desperately at the cobbles as if trying to cling to the last moments of fading life.

‘King Arthur.’

‘No.’

Clara glared. ‘What do you mean, “No”?’

The Doctor didn’t look up from the TARDIS console, just put up his hand like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘No. Not King Arthur.’

‘You said I could choose.’

‘Within reason.’ He still didn’t look up.

‘Not what you said. I can choose, you said. Any place any time any person, you said. So I choose King Arthur.’

‘No.’

‘We just did that.’

‘Still no.’ He did look up now. His eyes were lost in shadow so it was hard for Clara to see if he was joking or deadly serious. The rest of his face always looked serious, it was the eyes that were the clue. If you could see them.

‘So why not?’

‘Not a good time, that’s all.’

‘You got something better to do?’

‘The time of King Arthur is not a good time. Smelly, dirty, dangerous. You’d hate it. Besides …’ He turned back to the console, cradling his chin in his hand as he stared at the screen.

‘Besides?’ Clara went over to join him, staring over his shoulder at the jumble of lines and squiggles and blobs on the screen. ‘Besides what?’

The Doctor sighed, straightened up, and waved his hand at the screen. ‘Well, look at it. Just look at it. There. See?’

‘Um, no. Is it broken?’

That earned her a raised eyebrow.

‘What then?’

‘Power spike.’

‘Something wrong with the TARDIS?’

‘Not the TARDIS, no. A power spike in the late nineteenth century, right in the middle of London. Someone’s using a post-nuclear power supply, and that’s not good. Oh, they’ve got it shielded,’ he went on, striding round the console, hands behind his back and head down as he considered. ‘Which just confirms the fact that it can’t be a natural phenomenon or an instrumental anomaly.’

‘Well, quite. Late Victorian London?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Could it be Madame Vastra? Maybe Strax is messing
about with some new post-nuclear weapon.’

‘Very likely he is. But no.’ The Doctor shook his head. ‘No, no, no. They’d never be that careless. This is someone who doesn’t want to be found, but who has no idea of the anachronistic implications.’

‘So we forget King Arthur and go and sort out this post-nuclear spike, is that what you’re suggesting?’

He was already working the controls. ‘It wasn’t a suggestion.’ He glanced across at Clara. ‘We’d better get changed into something that blends in a little more, don’t you think?’

‘You already look Victorian,’ she told him.

‘ “We” was a tactful term. It wasn’t actually me I was talking about.’

‘That’s a first.’ Clara looked down at her bright blue blouse and short skirt. Maybe he had a point. ‘I’ll find something that will fit in with late Victorian then.’

He was working the controls again, pulling a lever and checking a dial. ‘Choose something practical. It’ll be smelly, dirty and dangerous,’ he warned her. ‘You’ll love it.’

Frost clung to the trees like brittle blossom. The snow was filmed with a thick crust where it had frozen over. Icicles looked as if they had sprouted from the undersides of windowsills and ledges. Most impressive of all, the wide expanse of the river Thames was a sheet of opaque ice.

‘There’s a definite nip in the air,’ the Doctor observed.

Clara’s breath misted in front of her. ‘You can say that again. Well, not actually say it again,’ she added quickly. He could be so literal sometimes.

The TARDIS had landed in a narrow, deserted street close to the river. Judging by the lack of footprints in the snow, it was not a street that saw a lot of traffic.

‘So, have you got some instrument that can lead us to this power source?’ Clara asked as they set off along the pavement beside the river.

‘Power
spike
. It’s not a source, it was a spike, a spike that came from a source.’

‘Which is different, right?’

‘Right. And because it was a spike, it just happened the once. So now it’s gone, and there’s nothing to detect.’

‘Unless it does it again?’

‘Unless it does it again. In which case …’ He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and checked its settings. ‘In which case we’ll know. But we can’t just wait for it to happen, because it might not.’

‘So how do we find this power source, then?’

‘We investigate. The TARDIS landed us as close as she could, but we could still be a couple of miles away.’

‘Oh, is that all?’

‘That’s not bad over several centuries and few million light years. Anyway, it shouldn’t be too hard
to track down an alien presence in London. Chances are that they’ll be obvious, arrogant, think themselves superior.’

Clara gave the Doctor a good stare. ‘Yeah, right.’

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘What are you implying?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘So, what’s the plan? Pop along to Paternoster Row and ask our local friends for help?’

‘Vastra and Strax and Jenny? Oh no, we don’t need to bother them. Trust me.’ He shook his head. ‘This’ll be easy.’

It was late morning and a steady stream of people made their way to the Frost Fair. Caught up in the tide, Clara and the Doctor were happy to go with the flow.

‘So, it’s not desperately urgent, this power spike?’ Clara said through a mouthful of roasted chestnuts.

The Doctor was examining a baked potato, trying to work out how best to attack it. ‘We’re investigating,’ he said, before taking a huge bite. He hopped from foot to foot, mouth open, and gasping.

‘Hot?’ Clara guessed.

The Doctor nodded furiously, while also somehow managing to scowl at a nearby boy who was laughing at the spectacle.

‘I think you just wanted an excuse not to go and see King Arthur.’

‘Not at all.’ He blew furiously on what was left of the steaming potato. ‘Though last time I visited there was a bit of a problem with a sword.’

‘Really?’

‘He was very young at the time, came running up shouting that he needed a sword, so I handed it to him.’

‘And that was a problem.’

The Doctor risked some more potato. ‘Apparently,’ he said as he chewed, ‘Arthur was supposed to take the sword out of the stone
himself
. Lot of fuss about nothing, if you ask me. But I did get to be King of England for a day before I abdicated in his favour. No real harm done. Are you going to stand here chattering all day?’

‘Sorry.’

‘What’s that over there?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but popped the rest of the potato in his mouth and strode off into the crowds.

The centrepiece of the fair was a large merry-go-round. Clara watched the horses rising and falling as they spun. Coupled with the music there was an almost hypnotic quality to the scene. The Doctor watched with her for a few minutes, then dived off on his own, and they met again by a stall selling rag dolls and cloth purses.

‘You having fun, love?’ the woman at the stall asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Clara assured her, hoping she had said
it loud enough to cover the Doctor’s less positive response. ‘Is there a fortune teller?’ she asked on a whim.

‘That’ll be in the Carnival.’

‘The Carnival?’

The woman pointed. ‘Up that end is the Carnival of Curiosities. They’ve got all sorts in there. It’ll cost you a penny each to get in, mind.’

‘Want to give it a go?’ Clara asked the Doctor.

‘Oh yes. It sounds …’

‘Curious?’

He smiled. ‘Intriguing.’

The Doctor produced two shiny pennies to pay at the gate into the Carnival of Curiosities, receiving two cardboard tickets in return.

‘Just show this if you want to come back later today, squire,’ the lad on the gate told him. ‘Only valid for today though, mind. Tickets’ll be a different colour tomorrow.’