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The Dying Days - Chapter One
Page 1 

What We Saw From the Ruined House
Tuesday, May 6th 1997 
The Doctor was late, as usual. 
Professor Bernice Summerfield wouldn't mind, but he was a Time Lord. Not only 
did this mean that he could travel freely in the fourth and fifth dimensions of 
time and space, so he ought to be able to keep his appointments, it meant that 
he could always have popped back afterwards and left her a note saying he was 
going to had been late. He really had no excuse. 
She resolved not to get too upset, and poured herself another cup of coffee. 
There were worse places to be than the Kent countryside in the dying days of the 
twentieth century. Kadiatu and aM!xitsa had dropped her off at the Doctor's 
house on Allen Road a week ago, on the morning of April the thirtieth 1997, the 
day before she and the Doctor had arranged to meet. Kadiatu had told Benny that 
they couldn't stay long without violating the non-aggression treaty between the 
People and the Time Lords. Benny and Kadiatu had used what time they had to 
drive down to Adisham to stock up on provisions. AM!xitsa stayed behind to keep 
an eye out for the Doctor, just in case he turned up early. The locals were used 
to them, now: they didn't turn heads at Mrs Darling's little corner shop, even 
when they tried to pay for a trolleyful of food with a single five pound coin. 

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Kadiatu had never been the easiest of people to strike up a conversation with, 
but this time she had been more taciturn than normal. She and aM!xitsa stowed 
away the provisions in virtual silence and soon after that their time machine 
vanished from the gravel driveway in a burst of colour and light that Benny's 
human vocabulary couldn't even begin to describe. Once she'd probably have 
envied them as they flew off into the unknown for another new adventure, but now 
she was quite content to spend a day on her own sitting in the overgrown garden 
of the Doctor's house, watching the birds chase each other around the treetops.
On that first morning she'd mopped down the wrought-iron garden furniture and 
brought out a couple of faded cushions from the living room sofa. She'd arranged 
them along the south side of the house, the one with the best view of the 
grounds, she'd put up a garden umbrella and then settled down to a day of 
serious relaxation. First, she had caught up with her diary. This was more 
important than ever, now that she'd finally persuaded a publishing company that 
there was a market for her memoirs. They'd paid her quite a big advance for the 
rights, so it only seemed fair that she should get around to sending them 
something. 
She only wrote eight hundred words, none of them particularly enthralling ones, 
but managed to avoid thinking about Jason all day. Mid-afternoon she did catch 
herself congratulating herself that she hadn't been thinking about him, but 
concluded after some soul-searching that that didn't count. 
When the Doctor hadn't turned up as arranged the next morning, Benny decided to 
spend a couple of weeks here in Allen Road before trying to get a lift anywhere 
else. She had quickly settled into a routine. At half-seven she'd shuffle across 
to the other side of the double bed in the main guest bedroom, and then shake 
herself awake when she realised that her husband wasn't there. Every night for 
thirty-three years - with only about a dozen exceptions before she was married - 
she'd slept in a single bed, by herself, so why did she feel so lonely every 
morning now when she woke up and there was no-one lying alongside her? She toyed 
with the third finger of her left hand. For thirty-three years she'd not worn a 
ring on that or any other finger, why did she now miss the weight of one that 
she'd only worn for a few months? Musing on this kept her occupied for a couple 
of minutes, before she decided that angst wasn't her thing, and she really ought 
to get on with her life. 

Page 3 

So, she'd get up, realise how chilly it was, pull her robe on and go down to the 
kitchen. The house was always a little too cold, regardless of the season of 
year or the time of day. So, when she'd prepared breakfast, she'd lay the pot 
and plates on the tray with The Haywain on it and take it outside into the 
sunshine. The next half-hour or so would be spent leisurely munching triangles 
of wholemeal toast and washing them down with the finest Sumatran coffee.
On the second day, she'd pulled an old portable television from one of the guest 
bedrooms and set it down on the garden table. Locating an extension lead long 
enough to reach the socket in the kitchen had proved a little more tricky, but 
there had been one on a workbench in the garage. Most of the time she kept the 
sound down, content to glance across every so often at the flickering, 
two-dimensional, monochrome images of the world outside her walled garden. First 
thing in the morning, though, she'd twist the volume control up and listen to 
the headlines. 
Today, an Irishman with a square head was sitting on a sofa with a grinning 
young woman. They were discussing the Prime Minister's visit to Washington, and 
there was much talk of 'forging links' and 'common ground'. Benny tried a little 
quiz on herself, but couldn't remember the name of either the Prime Minister or 
the President. Both countries had had an election in the last nine months, so it 
was tricky. It wasn't important. 
She twisted the dial and managed to find another channel amidst the static. 
' -fast News, coming live from the National Space Museum in London. I'm Justin 
Webb. Today, Tuesday May the Sixth, Britain returns to Mars. It is over twenty 
years since the first missions to the Red Planet. We'll be asking former 
Minister of Science Lord Greyhaven whether this is the beginning of a new life 
on the final frontier or just an expensive waste of money. But first, here's 
Juliet with the headlines.' The picture switched to another chirpy blonde. 'Good 
Morning. The headlines today: at a speech from the White House lawn, the Prime 
Minister has - ' 

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Benny turned the television off. A little aurora danced on the screen for a 
couple of seconds as the tube cooled down. It was eight o'clock, time to check 
the post. She stood, and made her way down to the lawn. In her bare feet, 
walking down the gravel driveway was out of the question. Cutting across the 
garden was also a shorter route. She stepped across the lawn, the long grass 
still wet with dew. She made her way past the fountain, a piece of Victoriana 
that, like the tall greenhouse at the side of the house, had fallen into 
disrepair at some point over the last century. Rainwater had collected, and 
yesterday she'd seen tadpoles swimming about in there. There was no sign of them 
today.
Benny carried on walking, past the tulips, through the shrubbery and towards the 
gate. Every so often she'd look back at the house, hoping to see the TARDIS 
arrive. 
The statue of the girl was still by the gates, hidden among the leylandia. It 
was life-size and dull grey, the colour of concrete. The subject was fifteen, at 
most, with hair that fell down her back. She wore a miniskirt and cropped 
jacket, one of her high heels was missing. Her face was set forever in an 
expression of terror, her arms were held out in front of her as if she was 
trying to keep something away. Benny didn't know which thought was more 
disturbing: that the Doctor had chosen to put the figure in his garden for 
aesthetic reasons or that it hadn't always been a statue. She certainly had no 
intention of asking him about it. 
Benny reached the iron gates and checked the postbox. The first thing she found 
was The Mirror, which she still hadn't got around to cancelling. Eschewing both 
the state visit to Washington and the Mars landing, the front page had decided 
instead to reveal that a voluptuous young woman (pictured in a white basque and 
stockings) was having sex with someone famous that Benny had never heard of. 
This, the headline declared, was a 'world exclusive'. A quick flick through the 
paper revealed that many other people were doing much the same. A couple of 
years ago, Benny would have tutted at the demeaning and trivial nature of the 
stories, now she just felt the faint ache of jealousy, the belief that all the 
young people were off somewhere else having more fun than her. 

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Behind the paper there was a single letter. Benny frowned when she saw it. The 
envelope was dull grey, it was the type used for official communications in her 
native twenty-sixth century. Before she picked it up, she checked around but 
there was no sign of who had delivered it. There wasnt a stamp, there wasnt a 
postmark, there wasnt a corporate or military logo. The only thing printed on 
it was her name: PROFESSOR BERNICE SURPRISE KANE-SUMMERFIELD. She looked at it 
for a moment. 39 characters, not including the hyphen. Opening the envelope and 
was rather shocked to find that it offered her the chair of archaeology at St 
Oscars University on the planet Dellah. There was a reasonable wage, a rather 
generous research grant and free board and accommodation. The Vice-Chancellor 
looked forward to meeting someone of her repute. Benny read the letter again to 
make sure she wasnt missing some vital point, or perhaps the punchline. She had 
been given to understand that to get that sort of job, one had to apply for it. 
The date on the letter was March 2593 - almost a quarter of a century after her 
own time.
Somewhat preoccupied, she tucked the letter and the newspaper underneath her arm 
and set off. The journey back up to the house always seemed to take longer than 
the trip down. As it sat on the green grass below the clear blue sky, the house 
looked like a natural feature rather than anything man-made. Simultaneously it 
looked well-tended and half in ruin. It seemed quite small from the gates, but 
inside it was a labyrinth of empty bedrooms and dusty storerooms. She'd been 
dropping in for years, but Benny still couldn't think of the place as a home. 
The house had stood for centuries, but no-one had ever lived there for more than 
a couple of weeks at a time. It had compensated: filled its rooms and landings 
with the creak of floorboards and the rattling of pipes. Lying awake in the 
middle of the night, something she did every so often, Benny always got the 
impression that there were other people staying in the house. Not ghosts, or 
burglars: nice people. 

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By the time she returned to the house, Benny concluded that the Doctor wasn't 
turn up for at least another day, and had reconciled herself to another day of 
dozing in the sun. Perhaps later she'd try her hand at sketching: the orchard 
about a hundred yards to the west looked like a good prospect: recent storms had 
brought down a couple of the trees, and made the woodland look terribly 
dramatic. There was a tin of pencils and a drawing pad in the living room. It 
would give her some more time to think about the letter from Dellah.
When she stepped back onto the flagstones, Benny realised how dirty her feet had 
become. She put The Mirror down on the garden table, propping it underneath the 
breakfast tray to stop it blowing away. Then she stepped inside to take a quick 
shower. The house was vast, but there was only one bathroom, which had been the 
cause of friction between the Doctor's travelling companions on more than one 
occasion. She remembered the last time: Roz had stood at the bathroom door, 
demanding to know how Chris could possibly take an hour and a half in there 
every day. Benny and ... Jason had ... they had both been woken by the sound of 
raised voices. They lay curled around each other in the upstairs bedroom, able 
to listen only to Roz's side of the argument, trying to stop each other 
giggling, but both their bodies convulsed with laughter at every terse insult 
that drifted up the short flight of stairs. They'd been pressed so close 
together that in the end they hadn't been able to distinguish which of them was 
laughing at which remark. They'd had to part, exhausted, and for the rest of the 
day, every time they made eye contact they couldn't help sniggering. Benny found 
herself smiling, even now, despite all that had happened since. 
Another source of tension was the minuscule amount of hot water the house would 
allow every day. It was possible to get more, Benny had discovered, although you 
had to slap the brass tank that sat on the landing a couple of times to get it. 
When you heard the glup deep below in the bowels of the house, you'd know that 
you'd done it. It was the sort of valuable-trivial information that you kept 
from your housemates, and she'd not told anyone else about the trick. The brass 
piping, like the electrical wiring, was a little haphazard. Knowing the house's 
owner, Benny could well imagine how the plumbing had been installed a bit at a 
time over the centuries, on the basis of need, from junk the Doctor had found in 
the garage. 

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She reached the landing with the bathroom on it. A quick check of the tank 
revealed that it was just about full. Benny stepped into the bathroom, leaving 
the door open, because she could. Experience had taught her to run the shower 
for a minute or so before stepping into it, so she stood on the cold black tiles 
waiting for the rattling pipes to catch up with her. Hot water soon began 
gushing out. She slipped out of her robe and into the shower stall. After 
getting used to the temperature, she leant against the tiled wall, trying to 
prop herself upright while she soaped her foot. By the time she had the other 
one clean, Benny had decided to wash her hair.
She stood for a moment, facing out onto the landing, letting the water splash 
across her shoulder blades and run down her back. Without needing to look, she 
bent down and reached back until her hand located the tiny phial of herbal 
shampoo slotted into the shower rack. Benny unscrewed the top and massaged it 
into her scalp, working it up into a lather. Foamy bubbles ran down her neck and 
splattered to the floor of the shower unit. 
The peace of the morning outside was disturbed by an unearthly wheezing, 
groaning sound that drifted through the half-open bathroom window. 
'Isn't it always the way?' Benny observed, ducking her head under the water to 
get the worst of the suds off. You couldn't even rely on the Doctor to be 
unreliable. 
She twisted the shower off, and scooped up her robe from the bathroom floor, 
pulling it around herself as she bounded down the stairs. Through the kitchen 
window it was possible to glimpse a solid blue shape outside on the patio, right 
by the garden table. Benny hurried out through the kitchen door, leaving a trail 
of wet footprints. 

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Page 9 

The TARDIS stood there as if it had never gone away. The light on the top was 
still flashing, and the grounds of the house were echoing with the sound of its 
arrival. Benny stood, looking up at it for a couple of seconds, soapy water 
dripping from her fringe.
The door opened. 
'Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe the state of the traffic around the 
Horsehead Nebula.' The man who was framed in the doorway looked about her age, 
in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little bit older. He was about her height. He 
wore a velvet frock coat that was probably a very dark green, but which might 
have been a plain-chocolate brown. Either way, it came down to his knees and 
underneath it was a wing collar shirt, complete with grey cravat and a shiny 
patterned waistcoat. He was wearing baggy trousers, tan ones that had never even 
considered the idea of having a seam. His long face was angular, with a jutting 
chin and aristocratic nose, but it was softened by a mass of dark brown hair 
that swept back down all the way from his high forehead to his broad shoulders. 
He had a full mouth and sad blue eyes. 
'Doctor?' she asked, unsure why. 
'Bernice!' he jumped forward, a broad open-mouthed grin on his face, and tried 
to hug her. 
Benny took a step back, almost tripping over one of the garden chairs. The 
stranger pulled himself back. 'What's the matter?' he asked. His voice had a 
hint of the Doctor's Celtic lilt, but only a trace. 
'What do you mean "what's the matter"? What do you think?' 
The man paused, stroking his top lip as he considered the question. 'I've 
changed my appearance since we last met,' he concluded, with a faraway look on 
his face. 
'Well spotted. You've also started to go in for hugging. You know I don't like 
that.' 
He fixed her with those eyes of his. 'We were alone in your tent, on a planet 
called Heaven. The Hoothi had been destroyed. You were packing, ready to leave. 
There was a Japanese fan in your hand. I asked if we could be friends and put my 
hand on your shoulder. You asked me not to touch you. You said that I was very 
tactile, but you weren't and that you'd prefer it if I didn't.' 

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The Doctor put a hand on Benny's shoulder.
'I am the Doctor, Bernice. Your friend.' 
She hugged him. 
'You're wet,' he whispered softly. 
'I was in the shower. Where's Chris?' 
'Gallifrey. He stayed behind, but he said he might pop around to see you. A lot 
has happened to me since then.' 
Benny yawned. 'It's been pretty damn action-packed here, too, I can tell you. 
I'll get dressed and tell you about it.' 



The helicopter maintained a steady 230 kph at 1750 metres altitude. From the 
ground it was a tiny black dot, making its way silently across the clear blue 
sky. 
Inside, the guards didn't know who their prisoner was, not for certain, but they 
knew that he was a convicted multiple murderer and that he was to be considered 
dangerous at all times. They had been briefed about that before they had left, 
and given orders to shoot him if he even looked like he was trying to escape. 
There were four guards in all. The prisoner was handcuffed to one guard, with 
another, armed, man opposite. The prisoner wore dark blue coveralls, a uniform 
without pockets, belts or buttons, fastened by a single strip of Velcro down the 
front. They'd searched him twice, once in his cell and again at the helipad. 
The prisoner wasn't allowed to speak, but the noise of the rotor blades and the 
engines would have drowned out anything he said anyway. Everyone in the 
helicopter was wearing bright orange ear-protectors. Not a word had been spoken 
since the start of the flight, over an hour ago. 
The prisoner was in his early fifties, and was still in good shape. He had the 
square jaw and bearing of a military office. His face was striking, with a 
chiselled profile and distinctive eyebrows that darted up over his temple. It 
was one of those faces you were sure you'd seen before, in a colour supplement, 
perhaps, or on television. He sat in his harness, looking around with a keenness 
entirely lacking in his wardens. 

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Only Caldwell, the man in charge of the transfer operation knew who the prisoner 
was. In his day Alexander Christian had been notorious, but that day had long 
gone. The tabloids had plenty of other killers to vilify, and they'd forgotten 
about him in favour of the Yorkshire Ripper, Myra Hindley and Rosemary West. 
Every so often stories would leak out about the activities of those three, 
sparking off another little flurry of public interest. It had been twenty years 
since Alexander Christian had made the headlines, back when the men that were 
guarding them today were still at nursery school. Caldwell wondered if they'd 
even heard of him.
Caldwell sat at the front of the compartment, watching Christian carefully. He 
remembered what he had done, he remembered seeing the arrest on the news. 
Caldwell was nineteen at the time, in his first year at university. He'd sat in 
the common room with everyone else in his hall, and seen every second of the 
coverage via the zoom lenses of The Passing Parade. This was the closest that 
the prisoner had got to fresh air since his conviction shortly afterwards. 
Knowing what he did, Caldwell was not comfortable sharing a confined space with 
Christian. 
The helicopter lurched, sending Caldwell sprawling, despite his harness. 
The pilot was calling something into his radio: 'May Day! We're losing altitude. 
There's a problem with one of the engines. May Day!' 
'Let me help, Caldwell, old chap.' The prisoner was leaning over Caldwell, 
shouting over the noise of the engines, 'I'm a pilot.' 
'One of the best,' Caldwell replied. It was a split-second decision: 'Let him 
out of those cuffs, he's our only hope.' 
The guards looked at each other. The cabin lurched again, pitching them all 
over. 
'Do it!' Caldwell shouted. He looked straight at the prisoner. 'If you try 
anything, Christian, you're dead, do you understand?' 
The prisoner nodded. The guard handcuffed to him undid the lock, releasing his 
wrist. Christian clambered across to the cockpit, the guards parting to let him 
through. 

Page 12 

He didn't bother clipping in his harness. 'What's the rate of fall, skipper?'
The pilot didn't have time to be wary of him. 'Ten metres a second. We're 
currently at one seven five metres.' 
'That's about five hundred feet, right?' he grinned. He checked the oil pressure 
and rate of fuel loss. 
The engine missed a beat, then another. 
'Can you do anything?' Caldwell shouted. 
'I can keep her upright.' 
'Anything else?' 
'I can try to crash this crate without killing us all. Hold on, everyone!' 



Benny was up in her room, unsure what to think. 
She towelled herself down, and fished around in the wardrobe for her chinos and 
a black T-shirt. Then she moved over to the window, carefully unlatching it. She 
knelt on the bed, leaning her head out. The Doctor was sitting on her garden 
chair, totally immersed in some cartoon on the portable TV. The picture was in 
colour, she realised. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, and would occasionally 
sip from it. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. He hadn't asked after 
Jason, but Benny sensed that he already knew that she hadnt seen her husband 
for months. That had been the same time shed last seen the Doctor and a lot had 
happened since then. Benny wondered if Chris had left before or after the Doctor 
had regenerated. 
On Heaven, in her tent, the Doctor had pleaded with her. Ace had just left him. 
His voice was trembling and urgent at the same time. He couldn't travel the 
universe fighting monsters alone, he had told her: the magic dragon couldn't be 
brave without the little boy. Without his companion, he had nothing to be brave 
for. In that moment, Benny had seen the real Doctor. Behind all the tricks, 
behind all the plans and dark expressions and all his righteous indignation 
there was a little man who thought the universe ought to be a friendlier place. 
Dorothee had never seen that, or if she had she hadn't understood it. She'd have 
laughed: 'Yeah, sure, Professor, everything would be great if we were all nice 
to each other. Very profound'. It's easy to be cynical, but it's hard to be 
nice. The Doctor had been a man who once in a while needed protecting from the 
universe he was protecting. The Doctor needed looking after, he wasn't carefree. 
And he certainly didn't have sex appeal and boyish charm. 

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And now that little man had gone forever. The new Doctor looked up at her and 
waved, grinning. Benny smiled back, trying not to look like she was spying on 
him.
Suddenly he was on his feet, peering up at the sky to her left, shielding his 
face with his hand. She couldn't crane around enough to see what had grabbed his 
attention. 
'Come down!' he shouted up at her. 
There was a clattering filling the sky, and a droning underneath it. It shook 
the pictures hanging on the staircase wall, it rattled the crockery in the 
kitchen. It sounded like an aircraft in trouble. Benny bolted out of the door. 
As she reached the Doctor, the windows were rumbling, the sky was full of noise 
and a near gale force wind was blowing. 
A shadow fell over the house and a vast black helicopter almost clipped the 
roof. Warm, gasoline-rich, air blasted down, pitching the garden umbrella over 
and forcing her and the Doctor to cover their faces. As their clothing whipped 
up, the aircraft passed over them, trailing thick black smoke. It was streaking 
towards the orchard, but all the time it was losing height. The orchard was on 
raised ground, and Benny realised that the helicopter was going to crash, and 
that nothing that she or the Doctor could do was going to stop it. 



The whine of the engines, the clatter of the rotors, the screams of the men, the 
snapping of branches all merged into a solid wall of noise. They were flying 
through trees, each impact slowing them down but breaking them apart. One of the 
guards tumbled past Caldwell, his limbs flailing like a crash dummy's. Oxygen 
masks, medical kits and emergency supplies showered from the overhead 
compartments, trapping Caldwell in his seat, catching him on the side of the 
head, and perhaps even breaking one of his legs. 

Page 14 

The helicopter ground to a halt, the front end pitching upwards. The lights had 
failed, the cabin would be in darkness if it wasn't for the sunlight streaming 
in from the cockpit. For a moment there was silence. Then Caldwell heard the 
sound of movement above him.
His gun was in his hand by the time the prisoner appeared framed in the 
sunlight, but Caldwell found that it was too heavy to lift. His forehead was 
bleeding, he realised, where a metal box from the overhead locker had caught 
him. 
Christian was kicking at something in the cockpit, something Caldwell couldn't 
see. The impact was enough to shake the whole of the helicopter, or what was 
left of it. They were the only two people left alive, Caldwell instinctively 
knew that. Christian wasn't even hurt. 
He tried to say something, but was too weak. 
Out of his vision, the cockpit door slammed open. Caldwell heard Christian 
scramble out of the cockpit and down the fuselage of the helicopter. He heard a 
pair of heavy boots crunch down into the soft earth outside. Caldwell tried to 
move, but he couldn't. 



The Doctor tried to keep pace with Bernice as she raced towards the woods. A 
vapour trail was scored across the sky, a thick black line pointing the way to 
the crash site. There was a column of smoke rising up the edge of the orchard, 
but there hadn't been an explosion. Now they were through the wicket gate, it 
was only a hundred yards across an open field to the crash site. 
A rabbit hopped out of his way, no longer concerned by the devastation strewn 
around its habitat. The helicopter had hit the hillside at an angle, doing an 
equal amount of damage to itself and the orchard. It had punched a hole through 
the woodland, leaving everything else unscathed. As he and his companion entered 
the new clearing, the Doctor could trace its bone-jarring path down. The rotor 
blades had sliced the treetops before cleanly breaking off - as they were 
designed to - and embedding themselves in the thicker trunks. The fuselage had 
continued hurtling forwards, even with the rotors gone, but had become tangled 
in the branches. The main body of the helicopter had twisted its way through the 
large trees before dropping to the earth. By the time it reached the bottom it 
hadn't been travelling very fast: virtually all its momentum had been absorbed 
by the trees. The air was full of the smell of charcoal and burning rubber. It 
had pitched diagonally, with the port side higher and the cockpit highest of 
all. The port engine, the one that was now facing upright, wasn't fully ablaze, 
but smoke was billowing out of it. The ground was littered with pieces of 
twisted metal. 

Page 15 

'Mind your feet, Bernice,' he warned.
The cabin was lying on its side, almost intact. The helicopter had been black, 
and was unmarked. Even in its current state, the Doctor could see that it was a 
military transport, a Puma, or perhaps a 212. That could mean that there were 
fifteen people in there. He clambered hand-over-hand past the hot engines to the 
cockpit, which was towards the top of the wreckage. The door was already open. 
Bernice was twenty-five feet below him, examining the contorted remains of the 
tail. She seemed a little distant. When his companion had spoken to him, back at 
the house, she had heightened that accent of hers: the pronunciation was ever so 
slightly better, she would tilt her head a little as she spoke and draw herself 
up to her full height. It was the way she spoke to strangers. 
'Come up and help me,' the Doctor insisted cheerfully. 
'I'm isolating the electrics from the fuel supply,' she said, 'to prevent an 
explosion. I'll be with you in a moment.' 
'Good thinking.' The Doctor pressed himself to the cracked cockpit glass. There 
was a dead man in the cockpit, his eyes staring ahead, his neck broken. The 
Doctor tried peering past him down into the cabin. It was dark: the lights 
weren't working, of course, but neither was the emergency lighting. He suspected 
that Bernice would find that the electrics were already off. In the murk of the 
main cabin, the Doctor could discern what looked like someone's leg. It wasn't 
moving, and there wasn't a sound coming from interior of the helicopter. The 
Doctor eased himself over the lip of the door, and dropped down into the pilot's 
seat. The floor beneath him lurched a little under his weight. 

Page 16 

Now that he was inside, the Doctor could see the bodies strewn below him, across 
the cabin. Seven people, most with broken necks. If he had doubted that this was 
a military 'copter then one look into the cabin would have confirmed it. The 
decor was gloomy, with equipment hanging from rails or stored in functional 
metal boxes. Most of the men were still secured in their webbing belts.
The Doctor climbed down into the wreckage, checking the pulses of the men. They 
wore black uniforms, and looked like military police. The floor was littered 
with metal and plastic containers, making it difficult to move. He also needed 
more light. On one of the bulkheads along the starboard side of the aircraft, 
the side that was pitched over to face the ground, there was a sliding door. The 
Doctor tried to release the handle, but it was jammed shut - the fuselage must 
have twisted in the crash. The sonic screwdriver released the mechanism, and a 
couple of swift tugs got the door moving. 
Bernice was standing underneath the door, and she helped slide the door all the 
way open. 
'Don't come in,' the Doctor advised her, ducking back inside. 
'Is anyone alive?' she called up, biting her lip. 
'I don't think so. I'm double-checking.' It was certainly too late for the two 
nearest the door with their heads lolling over their chests. Another had been 
impaled by a support strut that had broken loose. A third bore all the signs of 
a heart attack. 
The fourth was alive, barely. The Doctor cradled his head. 
'I'm the Doctor,' he said, 'what's your name?' 
'C-caldwell,' the man coughed. He was about forty, with a neat moustache. He was 
in civilian clothes, a smart single-breasted suit, not the military police 
uniforms of his colleagues. 'Christian,' he continued. 
'Caldwell Christian?' the Doctor asked softly, unsure if that was what the man 
meant. 
'Christian escaped. Soil.' 
'All right. You're going to be all right.' Speaking was clearly too much of an 
effort, but he was conscious, and breathing. The Doctor tried to make him 
comfortable. all the time being careful not to disturb his neck or spine. The 
mistake people made in these sort of accidents was to try and move the patient. 
The Doctor cleared some of the wreckage from the man's lap. 

Page 17 

'You've found someone alive?' Bernice was clambering in, bringing up one of her 
long legs for leverage. The helicopter rocked a little as it tried to cope with 
her moving around it. Once inside Bernice needed a moment to compose herself in 
the face of so much death, but she was soon looking around the compartment.
She located a plastic box with rounded corners, the size of a small suitcase. 
'Could you pass me your sonic screwdriver when you have a moment?' she asked, 
clearly not wanting to interfere with his first aid attempts. There was little 
more that he could do for the moment but stay with the injured man. The Doctor 
tried to keep one eye on his patient and one on what Bernice was doing. 
A couple of well-aimed squirts of ultrasonic energy released the clasps. Bernice 
opened up the case. 
'Test tubes,' she announced, lifting up the case to give the Doctor a better 
look. 'Full of red stuff. I can't see any hazard warning stickers, but if you 
don't mind, I'm not going to unstop them.' 
'Soil,' Caldwell croaked. 
The Doctor could hear a siren outside. 'An ambulance is coming,' he said. 
Bernice was closing up the case and heading for the door. 'I'll go down and tell 
them,' she said, jumping down. 
The Doctor squeezed Caldwell's hand. 'You're going to be fine,' he assured him. 
Caldwell gurgled his relief. 
Car doors were slamming outside. He could hear Bernice saying something, then 
male voices replying. 
After a moment, a uniformed policeman was poking his head through the doorway. 
'Good morning, sir,' he began in a gruff voice, 'The young lady says that you 
have a survivor in here.' He was a craggy-faced man somewhere in middle age. 
A policeman, presumably. 

Page 18 

The Doctor pulled himself over to the door, holding out a hand. 'His name is 
Caldwell.'
The policeman shook his hand, but was looking past him. Not at Caldwell, but at 
the plastic case that contained the test tubes. 
'If you could get clear, sir, we'll see to him now.' 
'He's got a broken leg and he's in shock. He's almost certainly got concussion, 
too. Try not to move his neck.' 
'No need to worry, sir, I'm fully-trained.' 
He helped the Doctor back down to the ground. Bernice was standing half a dozen 
yards away by the police Range Rover, her arms folded over her chest. The Doctor 
crossed over to her. Most of the smoke from the crash had dispersed now. 
There were only two policemen. The gruff-voiced one beckoned over his colleague 
to give him a leg-up into the helicopter. 
'Stay here,' the other officer said, flicking his half-finished cigarette to the 
ground, 'we'll need to talk to you.' 
'Well, he could have said please,' the Doctor remarked, grinding out the 
cigarette butt with the heel of his shoe. It wouldn't do to start a forest fire. 
He turned to Bernice and smiled. She smiled back, weakly. She looked different 
to the way he remembered her. It wasn't the face: the high cheekbones and wide 
mouth were just the same. Her eyes were still blue, her hair was still black, 
cut in a close crop. 
The Doctor rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Have you shrunk? You don't seem as 
tall as I remember.' 
'You grew,' she replied impatiently. 
The Doctor considered the answer for a couple of seconds. 'That would certainly 
explain the discrepancy,' he decided. 
She handed him back the sonic screwdriver. 'Can we go now?' 
He pointed over the helicopter. The first policeman had disappeared into the 
cabin, the other was talking to his colleague, with his back to them. 'That 
gentlemen asked us to stay.' 
'Before you came over he was threatening me with the Official Secrets Act. Do 
you fancy trying to answer a set of awkward questions? "Who are you?", "Where 
did you come from?", that sort of thing.' 

Page 19 

The Doctor broke into a grin. 'When you put it like that, no. I think we've done 
all we can.'
They strolled away, trying not to look back, quickly reaching the edge of the 
woodland. Over a low hedgerow was the field between the orchard and the house. 
'There was something odd about them,' Bernice said as she clambered over the 
stile. 
'They weren't real policemen,' the Doctor informed her, helping her down. 
She hesitated for a moment before jumping down. 'What? I mean how do you know?' 
'Didn't you notice?' he pressed her. 
There was a pause. 'Let's just say for sake of argument that I didn't.' 
The Doctor sighed. 'If they were real Constabulary of Kent policemen they would 
have shown us their ID. They certainly wouldn't be smoking at the scene of an 
accident. And if they were responding to an emergency call, they would have sent 
uniformed officers.' 
'I took the registration number of the Range Rover. P876 - ' 
' - XFL,' the Doctor completed, beaming. 'Almost certainly a forged plate, but 
worth looking up.' 
'What's going on here, Doctor?' 
'I don't know.' 
'I mean really.' 
'I mean really,' he objected. 
She straightened up. 'You really mean that, don't you?' 
The Doctor smiled helplessly. 'Yes Bernice,' he laughed, 'I really mean that I 
really mean it. Obviously it's got something to do with whatever's in that test 
tube. Caldwell said it was "soil". The policeman I talked to seemed a great deal 
more interested in the test tubes than in the injured man. Caldwell also said 
"Christian escaped".' 
'It seems a lot of trouble to transport soil around,' Bernice muttered. 'If only 
I'd pocketed one of those test tubes when I had a chance we might have some 
clue.' 

Page 20 

The Doctor smiled. 'Well, as a matter of fact...' He held up the test tube he 
had palmed earlier. 'We'll analyse it in the TARDIS labs. After you've had your 
breakfast and finished your shower, of course.'



Elsewhere, a telephone rang. 
It was picked up after two rings. 
'Alexander Christian has escaped,' a gruff voice said, 'The helicopter crashed.' 

There was a moment's pause. 
'The specimens?' 
'Recovered from the crash-site.' 
'Understood.' 
The handset was replaced. 



