Dr. Who - BBC New Series 47 Read online

Mark returned his gaze to the monitor and shuddered.

  The statue was still there, at the end of the aisle. But hadn’t it been standing further away? And hadn’t it been holding its head in its hands? Because now it seemed to have moved a metre or so towards him, and had lowered its hands, cupping them as though in prayer.

  He turned to look back down the aisle once more. It was still empty. No statue, nothing.

  He looked back at the monitor. The statue had moved again. It was looking up, directly into the camera lens.

  Looking at him. With staring, blank eyes and a slightly parted mouth. And a couple of metres in front of it he could see himself, standing at the counter, looking up at the monitor, and the attendant, still tapping away on his smartphone.

  The PIN machine beeped and the attendant tore off Mark’s receipt. Mark mumbled some thanks and turned to go. Thankfully, the shop was still empty. His heart thudding, Mark hurried out of the shop, taking care to avoid the aisle where the statue had been standing.

  He sprinted back to the safety of his car and slammed the door shut. He was just overtired, that was it. That was the only possible explanation.

  It was with some apprehension that Mark checked the rear-view mirror. But there was nothing there, nothing sitting on the passenger seat behind him, nothing standing in the forecourt. He was alone.

  After parking near his flat in Bromley, Mark headed to the high street to get some dinner. Huddling himself into his coat, he trudged down the road, his eyes fixed on the pavement to avoid the puddles. An ambulance siren whined in the distance, but apart from that, he could have been the only man alive on the planet.

  Mark hurried on to the Taste Of The Orient. Inside it was dry and warm and smelt of sizzled rice. A couple of kids sat waiting by the window, chatting. A petite Chinese girl emerged from the kitchen and took Mark’s

  order: sweet and sour pork, egg-fried rice. Mark paid her with the last ten-pound note in his wallet.

  Mark glanced around for something to occupy his attention. Mounted on the wall behind the counter a monitor showed the output of a closed-circuit camera. It showed the entrance of the Chinese restaurant, it showed the couple by the window, and it showed Mark.

  And standing right behind him, there was the statue of the angel, the same one from the petrol station. But now it was reaching towards Mark’s back with an outstretched bare arm.

  Mark felt an icy shiver and, holding his breath, turned to look behind him. There was nothing there, just the rain-streaked window of the takeaway.

  He turned to look back up at the monitor. The statue had taken another step closer. It was still reaching towards him. On the screen, Mark could see the coils carved for the angel’s hair, the feathers in its wings and its unseeing, blank eyes. And he could see himself at the counter, looking up at the monitor. The statue’s fingers were almost brushing the back of his neck.

  Choking with terror, Mark lunged towards the door of the Chinese takeaway, shoved it open and stumbled into the darkness, the icy wind biting his face. Not daring to look back, he ran down the high street, running so fast his stomach ached.

  He had to get home. He would be safe there, safe from… safe from whatever that thing was.

  Mark slowed to a jog, his heart thumping in protest, and continued down the high street. Past the bookmaker’s.

  Past the Halal butchers. Past the hi-fi shop –Suddenly all the televisions in the shop window flickered into life. It had a video camera as part of the window display, a camera that was now pointing at Mark.

  He could see himself on the screens; the same image repeated, over and over again, of him staring into the window.

  The statue was right behind him, reaching for his neck, its mouth open to reveal hideous jagged teeth.

  ‘Don’t look back. Don’t turn around, don’t close your eyes, and whatever you do, don’t look back! ‘

  The voice came from behind Mark. It sounded like the voice of a young man but with the authority of someone much older.

  ‘What?’ said Mark, frozen to the spot.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the screen! It’s vitally important you don’t let it touch you.’

  ‘And how do I do that?’

  ‘It’s quantum-locked. It can only move if somebody isn’t looking at it.’

  ‘Quantum-locked?’

  ‘You know, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, the very act of observation affects the nature of the object being observed. Amy, Rory. Keep watching the screens.

  Take turns blinking.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ said a girl with a Scottish accent from behind Mark’s left ear.

  ‘Watch the televisions, got you, no problem,’ said a young man nervously.

  ‘And try not to blink at the same time,’ said the voice of

  authority. ‘That would be utterly disastrous. Good. Now, bloke-watching-himself-on-the-television, move forward.

  Very slowly.’

  Mark swallowed and stepped forward until his nose was nearly touching the shop window.

  ‘Good. Now take two steps to your right. Slowly! ‘

  Mark took two steps to the right, watching himself on the television screens as he edged out of reach of the angel. ‘What is that thing?’

  ‘It’s a kind of… temporal scavenger. Or a predator.

  One of the two. Or both.’

  ‘Rory, I’m going to blink… now! ‘ said the Scottish girl.

  ‘But it’s made of stone,’ said Mark.

  ‘Defence mechanism,’ said the voice of authority. ‘You see, you can’t kill a stone.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘Well, nobody’s attempted it and lived.’

  ‘Amy, I’m gonna blink… now! ‘ said the nervous young man.

  ‘OK, it’s safe to look back now,’ said the voice of authority.

  Taking a deep breath, Mark turned around to see a tall, pretty girl with long, fiery red hair and a young man with a prominent nose and a wooly chullo hat, both staring attentively at the window. Beside them stood a handsome young man with angular cheekbones and thick brown hair swept up into a fringe. With his tweed jacket and bow tie, he looked like he was on his way to a fancy dress party as Albert Einstein.

  There was no sign of the statue. ‘But there… there’s

  nothing here!’ stammered Mark.

  ‘No.’ The man in the tweed jacket had a device like an old-fashioned tape recorder slung over one shoulder and he twirled a stubby, torch-like device in his hand like a pop star performing a trick with a microphone. He levelled the device at the window and it emitted a high-pitched drone and glowed green. ‘No, this particular Weeping Angel has no corporeal form.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means it only exists within the televisions. Within every television. That which holds the image of an Angel becomes, itself, an Angel.’

  ‘So it can’t come out of the screen and get us?’ said the girl with the red hair. ‘Rory, I’m going to blink… now! ‘

  ‘No, I don’t think so. It must be very weak, running on fumes.’

  ‘But it can still touch me?’ said Mark.

  ‘If you’re being looked at by a camera, yes. It’s on the screen, your image is on the screen, so it can make contact with your image, and thus… you.’

  ‘Amy, I’m gonna blink… now! ‘ said the young man with the prominent nose.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Mark. ‘And how do you know so much about these things?’

  ‘I’m the man who’s going to save your life. You can call me the Doctor.’

  ‘The Doctor?’

  ‘And in answer to your second question. I’ve met the Weeping Angels before. I detected this one using this.’

  The Doctor indicated the old-fashioned tape recorder.

  ‘Whenever the space-time continuum goes wibbly, it lights up.’ The Doctor tapped the tape recorder in frustration.

  ‘Or it would do if the bulb worked. It also boils eggs.

  That’s not a fault, it’
s a feature.’

  ‘Rory, I’m going to blink… now! ‘

  ‘Strange thing is, the Angel isn’t the source of the wibbliness,’ said the Doctor. ‘No, it’s you. ‘

  ‘Me?’

  The Doctor peered at Mark. ‘It must’ve chosen you for a reason. I wonder why? What’s so great about you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Mark. ‘So what you’re saying is, that thing’s after me, and you don’t know why?’

  ‘No. I haven’t the slightest idea!’

  ‘But if it can’t be killed… how do I get away from it?’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘But if I run –’

  ‘This whole street is covered by security cameras.

  You’d never make it.’

  ‘Rory, shouldn’t you be telling me it’s my turn to blink now?’ said Amy.

  ‘What? Oh.’ gulped Rory. ‘Sorry, um, I thought it was my turn…’

  And then Mark realised that Amy and Rory were looking at each other and not the window.

  Mark turned. On all the televisions, he could see himself, the Doctor, Rory and Amy – and the Angel, frozen as it lunged towards his back, its face contorted into a grimace of rage. Another second and it would’ve made contact.

  Panic took over. Mark stumbled backwards, turning

  away from the Angel, and broke into a run. He heard the Doctor and his friends shouting after him, but it was no good. He had to get away.

  He’d made it. He’d actually made it. He could see the block of flats where he lived, the front doorway bathed in the glow of an electric light.

  Mark gasped for breath. He’d sprinted down the high street, feeling suddenly and terribly conscious of every security camera. They were everywhere, mounted high on walls and lamp posts, all staring downwards with unblinking glass eyes. To avoid being caught he’d taken a long route home to avoid garages and illuminated shops.

  He’d even hidden from a passing double-decker bus. They had camera’s on buses now, didn’t they?

  But he was OK. Cold and wet, but OK. Mark hurried up the concrete steps to the entrance, past the garden and the recycling bins, until at last he reached the door. He dug out his keys from his coat, found the one for the door, and slid it into the lock. And then he realised.

  There was a camera looking directly at him. The camera of the door’s videophone.

  Something as cold as marble touched the back of his neck.

  For a split second, Mark could see his horrified reflection and that of the Angel behind him, its hand on his neck, its jaws wide open and its tongue extended, as though about to bite.

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter

  2

  Rory and Amy struggled to keep up with the Doctor as he dashed through the gloomy, rain-soaked backstreets, his wibble-detector held in front of him. ‘This way! Hurry!’

  Rory had no idea where they were. They’d been running through identical housing estates for fifteen minutes and he’d lost all sense of direction.

  ‘Here!’ The Doctor halted, circled on the spot, and indicated a block of flats set back from the road. They looked perfectly ordinary to Rory, except that by the entrance he could see the statue of an Angel, it’s body hunched, holding its face in its hands.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Rory. ‘Something bad, right?’

  ‘Quiet.’ The Doctor advanced on the statue like a naturalist creeping up on a sleeping lion. Calmly and steadily, he made his way up the steps towards it.

  ‘Careful!’ whispered Amy.

  The Doctor gave her a thank-you-for-stating-the-obvious stare, then stooped to examine the Angel. It didn’t move. He buzzed it experimentally with his sonic screwdriver and tried covering his own eyes, as though

  playing peek-a-boo, but nothing happened. The Doctor tapped it on the wing. A chunk of it crumbled to dust under his fingers. ‘It’s safe, I think.’

  ‘How safe?’ said Amy.

  ‘As safe as a doornail.’

  ‘But I thought you said these things fed on, what was it, potential time energy?’ said Rory as he followed Amy to the Doctor’s side.

  ‘All the life left unlived,’ muttered the Doctor.

  ‘Normally, they zap people back in time, whoosh, that’s how they get their five-a-day.’

  ‘Normally?’

  ‘Whereas in this case, this Angel used up its last reserves of energy to send its victim into the past.

  Sacrificing itself, like a bee dying after its sting. But not like a bee at all. No, now it’s more like a garden ornament.’ As the Doctor spoke, one of the Angel’s arms broke off, followed by both of it’s wings, before the Angel toppled forward, smashing itself to pieces with a heavy crash.

  ‘But why do that?’ asked Amy, regarding the debris warily. ‘Why kill itself rather than feed?’

  ‘Maybe it couldn’t.’ The Doctor dusted down his jacket and trousers. ‘Or maybe this is a new type of Weeping Angel.’

  ‘You mean they come in different varieties now? Oh, great! ‘

  ‘It must’ve been drawn to its prey… like a moth to a flame.’ The Doctor’s eyes widened in delight. ‘Hang on!

  That analogy makes sense. My analogies never make

  sense. I must write it down. Rory, write it down for me!’

  ‘I’m not your secretary, Doctor,’ said Rory patiently.

  ‘No? Only there is a vacancy, yours if you want it.’

  Rory spotted a set of keys hanging from the lock of the door and took them for safe-keeping. ‘Shouldn’t we be more worried about the guy it zapped? Find out where he is?’

  ‘Not really a question of where,’ smiled the Doctor.

  ‘More a question of when.’ He adjusted his wibble-detector. ‘Yes! A residual time trace. Fading fast but we should be able to follow it. Come on!’

  ‘Shouldn’t we find out who he is first?’ said Rory. ‘We don’t even know his name.’ He jangled the keys in his hand.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ snapped the Doctor in exasperation. ‘We try those keys in every door in the building until we find out which flat belongs to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There isn’t time.’

  ‘I could do it, while you go off and do your time-trace thing. And then, once you know where – and when – he is, you can pop back here and pick me up.’

  ‘That’s a terrible idea.’ The Doctor paused, lost in thought, then grinned. ‘No, actually, that’s an excellent idea. You’re OK with that?’

  ‘You know me, Doctor, anything to help.’

  ‘I do know you, that is absolutely correct, but nevertheless you remain disconcertingly full of surprises.

  Very good. I’ll be back here in exactly one hour. Come on, Pond. We have a time-trace to follow!’

  Amy gave Rory a sympathetic smile and a squeeze, then set off after the Doctor.

  The statue had vanished. One second it had been touching his neck. The next, it wasn’t there.

  Mark sighed with relief and reached down to turn the door key, only to find that it had also disappeared. He checked, but his keys hadn’t fallen to the ground.

  Looking around, Mark noticed that it had stopped raining. In fact, the pavement and roads were completely dry. The sky, rather than being dark and overcast, had become a clear, early-evening blue, with a full moon.

  Mark checked his pockets. Still no keys. Oh well, he’d given a spare to Mrs Levenson in Flat 12. Mark rang her doorbell.

  ‘Yes?’ replied a young female voice through the crackle.

  ‘It’s Mark’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘I’ve locked myself out. Can you buzz me in please?’

  ‘Did you say Mark?’

  ‘Yes. From next door?’

  ‘No Mark next door.’

  ‘Mrs Levenson, it’s me, you can see me on the video thing.’

  ‘You have the wrong flat. No Mrs Levenson here.’

  The intercom went dead. Mark swore under his breath and taking care he’d got the right
one, pressed the 12

  button again.

  ‘Go away, please, you have the wrong flat.’ The woman had a Spanish accent, or something close to it.

  ‘I live in number 11. Mark Whitaker. I don’t know who you are, but –’

  ‘No Mark Whitaker in number 11. Number 11 Mr and Mrs Ramprakash.’

  ‘Look, can I speak to Mrs Levenson, please?’

  ‘I told you. No Mrs Levenson here. Go away now, please, or I will call police.’

  The intercom went dead. Mark considered trying another flat but no one else would have a key. He’d have to call Mrs Levenson on his mobile. Which he’d left in his car.

  With a growing sense of unease, Mark set off for the street where he’d parked. As he walked, he heard the sound of birds chirruping. Like on a warm summer evening.

  Rory tried the key in the door of number 12 and gave it a jiggle. Nope. He moved quietly on as a burst of studio audience laughter came from the other side of the door.

  Number 11. Jiggle. The door swung open to reveal a hallway. Some envelopes slithered on the doormat. Rory stooped to pick them up.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  ‘Wh-what?’ Rory gave a guilty gasp. An extremely short, round, elderly woman stood in the doorway of number 12. She glared at him through thick, pink-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Hi, er, yes,’ said Rory. ‘I’m a friend of the, um, bloke who lives here.’

  The woman regarded him suspiciously. ‘A friend?’

  ‘Yeah. From work. He asked me to pop in and get a…

  thing.’

  ‘Mr Whitaker doesn’t have any friends.’

  ‘Doesn’t he? Right. And you call him Mr Whitaker.’

  Rory glanced at the front of one of the envelopes. ‘Mark Whitaker. Marky. The Markster. The Markulator.’ Rory straightened up. ‘You might be able to do me a favour, actually. Only we’re a bit concerned about Mark at work.

  We think he might be in some kind of trouble, but you know old Mark, plays his cards close to his chest. So, if he’s mentioned anything, anything at all?’

  The woman stared at Rory, sizing him up. ‘You’re a friend from work?’

  ‘Look, he’d hardly give me his key and ask me to pop into his flat to get him a… thing if we didn’t know each other, would he?’ Rory gave her the same reassuring smile he reserved for elderly patients at Leadworth hospital. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you come in with me? I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, we’ll have a sit down and a bit of a chat. Five minutes, that’s all.’