J

ack Golby was already half-cut.  The empty bottle of gin slipped from his inebriated fingers and fell to the cobblestones, smashing in to vicious shards of glass.  Jack paid it no heed.  He continued his journey down the road, heading in the general direction of The Rose and Crown.  Occasionally his legs would wobble, and one foot would almost trip over the other.  Against all odds he managed to keep his balance.  Like so many other occasions in his life, his body was on autopilot.  The path to the pub was burnt in to his memory.  So long as he could walk, he could always find his way there.  Getting back home posed more of a problem, but usually the alcohol would blot out any embarrassments of rattling on the door of the wrong house or sleeping in the gutter. 

 

Earlier that evening, with no money forcing a withdrawal from alcohol, Jack’s hands had begun to shake uncontrollably.  Discovering the old bottle of gin, under piles of junk in his untidy and inhospitable house, was a godsend.  The heavenly fluid had been long lost and forgotten, but when it was unearthed under a rank pair of ripped breeches it was welcomed as if it was pure gold.  Now it had been consumed, the alcohol was working wonders to his state of happiness.  The discovery of the gin had banished the shakes from his body, but had fuelled the craving even more.  Now he was desperate for a few glasses of scrumpy, and temporally it had slipped his mind that he was broke.  Even if he remembered, he would probably be treading the same worn path to The Rose and Crown.  It was always possible that someone would buy him a pint.  Jack swayed ever closer to his destination.  Happily he burst in to an old rebel song, taught to him by his father many years ago.

 

‘Gainst lawyers and gainst priests, stand up now stand up now. Gainst lawyers and gainst priests, stand up now.’

 

His words, half sung and half shouted, cut the evening air.  Jack had always liked the prose. Lawyers and priests were both money-grabbing bastards.  They both got rich off the backs of the honest workingman’s hard graft.  One wrote laws that would destroy your livelihood.  The other sold to the highest bidder the word of God for a place in heaven.  The world would be better off if they had never existed.  Shame the song didn’t mention politicians, he thought.  Jack would happily string all of them up by their scrawny necks himself.  Them and their blasted Corn Laws. 

 

In the gloom, Jack almost tripped over a loose cobble. Seemingly realising for the first time that it was dark, Jack’s singing became a mumble.  He hoped that Ruth was still serving drinks.  Evicting this thought swiftly away, the mumble again became words.

 

‘For tyrants they are both, even flat gainst their oath.  To grant us they… er… do sumthing… so free meat and drink and cloth, Stand up…’

 

When Jack Golby saw the green luminous eyes, the song petered out.  Light spilled out from a window close by, to reflect off an animal lurking in the undergrowth.  The drunk came to an abrupt halt to gaze at the cat’s eyes.  Suddenly they disappeared.  With their departure, Jack Golby unexpectedly felt lonely.  Wishing for company, even that of an animal, he knelt down by the shrubbery. 

 

‘Don’t run awa’ puss. Ol’ Jack ‘as a fishy for yur.’  

 

The drunk held out an imaginary piece of cod for the cat that was surely hiding in the bush. The animal seemed unimpressed with the blatant lie and didn’t come back.  Nevertheless, the pang of loneliness rapidly passed.  There would be people in the pub that could keep him company.  That gent of a doctor may be there, and might even have brought a treatment for his bunion.  He was about to give up his half-hearted search for the cat, when he saw a faint glimmer at the root of the bush.  A dull metallic brown.  A farthing!  Eagerly, Jack scrambled towards the filthy coin.  In triumph, he scooped it off the ground and kissed it as if it was his bride.  Perhaps there was another one?  In high-spirits, he rummaged around amongst the dandelions and grass.  Finally his fingers touched another round object.  Still kneeling on the ground, he brought it up to eye level.  A shilling!  Certainly it was his lucky day! 

 

He was about to put his prize in his pocket, when two shadows lumbered out of the undergrowth and caused him to fall heavily on his back in surprise.  The first shadow was large.  Dog shaped.  An Alsatian perhaps.  The light from the window glistened off its mottled black fur.  Jack lay in the dirt, and stared up at the animal as it moved towards him. It appeared to be unwell.  Its movements were laboured, and its head rolled from side to side. Then its massive head pivoted in Jack’s direction, and the drunk gasped in fright.  The dog had no eyes!  The sockets were empty, and congealed blood oozed from vicious abrasions across the muzzle.  The mess of blood and fur continued its lopsided saunter past Jack’s prone body.  He breathed a heavy sigh of relief.  Miraculously the hound from hell didn’t appear to have sensed his presence. 

 

Then the luminous green eyes returned.  Bounding in a most peculiar way came the cat that had turned its nose up at Jack’s imaginary cod.  Out of its blood encrusted fur dangled a sticky jumble of entrails.  The cat didn’t seem to mind that half its internal digestive system was hanging out of its body.  It stared at Jack, boring in to him with dead green eyes.  And then it just lost interest.  It seemed to hint of more pressing business.  It was needed elsewhere, and had no time to bother with a helpless drunk.  Later, it seemed to say.  Later. Then it was gone, after the canine.  The cat chasing the dog. 

 

Jack Golby rested on the floor for a few minutes, letting his heart rate return to its usual routine.  Slowly he sat up.  Everything was normal once more.  No sign of the creatures from the bowels of the earth.  The coins lay by his side, and he quickly clutched them tightly in his palm.  Previously he would have sold his soul for just one more precious drink, but now he was not so sure.  He uncurled his fingers from around the coins, and looked at them.  Maybe it was no coincidence that he discovered the money at the same moment the Devil’s animals appeared.  Old Nick could be offering him a deal.  If he was given all the scrumpy he desired and would never again have the shakes, Jack was tempted to sign away his soul.  Actually, he would have to scrawl an ‘X’ as he couldn’t read or write, but the devil probably wouldn’t care about that small point.  Sitting on clouds playing the harp with fat and bloated bishops wasn’t Jack’s cup of tea anyway.  Hell might not be as bad as it was cracked up to be.  But was it worth the risk?

 

The drunk scratched his chin, deep in inebriated thoughts.  Surely a contract would need to be signed with a fiery pen if it was indeed a deal from Old Nick?  He felt sure that all lawyers would end up in hell, so they were certain to draw up the contract.  They had clearly messed up this time.  If the Devil had left the coins without bringing forth an agreement, then it was finder’s keepers.  Jack would spend the money, but refuse to make his mark on the dotted line.  The Devil wouldn’t have a hoof to stand on!  Smiling at his joke, Jack struggled to his feet and continued his expedition to The Rose and Crown.  Whatever had happened, it did make a change to seeing pink elephants.   

 

 * * * *

 

Oscar Whittle hated the job that he had been asked to perform.  And he detested the flintlock pistol even more.  He was a butler not a solider!  Still, it was his duty to follow the master’s instructions, even if he disagreed with them.  It was his place to obey, not think.  He had been ordered to keep the guests in his sights at all times.  This had been easy for most of the evening, but all of a sudden they had left the drawing room again and gone separate ways.  Now he was desperately attempting to keep up with the Doctor, who was bounding lightly up the stairs.  Oscar sped up his pace to stay by the guest’s side.  For such a small man, the Doctor could move exceedingly fast.  The pistol rocked back and forth in the butler’s waistcoat, making its unpleasant presence known.  Even if the Doctor turned out to be a mass-murderer, Oscar was unsure if he could shoot him down.  Kill him in cold blood. Handling the bodies of the deceased was one thing, but to bring about the destruction of a life was another.  He wasn’t sure if he could squeeze the trigger, even if it was self-defence. 

 

The Doctor darted around a corner, and Oscar puffed after him.  But when he rounded the bend, the little man wasn’t there.  The guest was gone.  Vanished in to thin air.  Franticly Oscar ran towards the only exit - a winding stairway at the end of the hall.  With the death of Stedman, his job was already in jeopardy.  The butler had no wish to make his position any more precarious.  At all costs, he had to prevent the guest from getting away.  He called out anxiously for the Doctor to wait, but there was no reply.  He must already have ascended towards the attic.  If he hadn’t been so worried about losing his job, Oscar would have marvelled that the Doctor had made it to the stairway so fast and so quietly.  Unfortunately, he was so gripped in panic that the thought didn’t cross his mind.  At last he reached the stairs, and scrambled upwards.  He drew the pistol without really knowing why. 

 

As his shoes thumped up the wooden stairway, the corridor became quiet again.   Five minutes later there was a small creak and a cupboard door swung open.  Intermingled amongst mops and brooms stooped the Doctor.  Taking care to remain quiet, he crawled out of the cramped space and hopped nimbly to his feet.  He was about to retrace his steps, when a huge pile of brushes and pails fell off a rickity shelf in the cupboard and landed on his head.  Luckily, other than the Doctor himself, only a few house mice heard the sound.

 

* * * *

 

The cutlass was brought down from its customary spot above the fireplace.  Jamie brushed his finger experimentally along the edge.  It was as blunt as an apple.  Shaking his head in disgust, the Highlander returned the once proud weapon to its ornamental position.  To let an elegant sword go to waste in such a fashion was a crime.  It could have been the perfect defence against the zombi for when they returned, as the Doctor believed they would.  It was a shame that he didn’t have the cleaver from the laboratory, reflected the Scott.  That item had proved to be effective against the Loa’s minions, but with Wallace hovering in the lab’s vicinity it would prove difficult to acquire.  So far, nothing he had come across in his search was anywhere near as useful, in both sharpness and strength.  Even so, Jamie continued his hunt for a weapon as he waited with Victoria.  The Doctor would be meeting them soon.  

 

So far their plan had gone exactly to design.  Earlier that evening, after spending a great deal of time playing ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ on his recorder, the Doctor had suddenly snapped in to action.  It had been a blessed relief to the Jacobite.  Not only had the incessant badly played music been grating on his nerves, but he had also been bored. Once a strategy had been put forward, that boredom simply melted away.  Action at last.  Being careful not to be overheard, the Doctor explained that they should leave the mansion with Zara and Toussaint.  If they kept an eye on the old slave, they may find a way of breaking the link with the Dimensional Entity.  The Doctor was also concerned about Wallace’s state of mind.  He appeared close to cracking up, and could be dangerous.  Leaving the mansion behind seemed the ideal option.  Now the plan had been formulated, there was only one obstacle - Oscar. 

 

During the entire evening, the butler had stood by the drawing room door.  It was almost as if he thought he was a guard at Buckingham Place.  He reminded Jamie too much of the Redcoats, that had burned his fellow rebel’s homes and killed his people so many years ago.  The arrogance and attitude of self-importance was much the same.  To Jamie’s amusement, the Doctor had cheeky marched straight past him.  He even gave a cheery wave before disappearing out of the door.  The butler was gob-smacked, appearing unsure if he should follow or stay guarding those remaining.  Taking advantage of Oscar’s hesitation, Jamie revelled in striding past the surprised butler in exactly the same way as his friend.  Victoria curtsied and followed after him.  Now the room was empty, Oscar’s mind had been made up for him.  The time travellers found themselves swiftly pursued, and ordered in no uncertain terms to return to the drawing room.

 

Disregarding Oscar’s requests, Jamie watched the Doctor stride towards the stairs.  He then immediately accompanied Victoria in the opposite direction, on route to the kitchens. Jamie had travelled halfway down the hall, when he threw a glance over his shoulder.  Oscar stood alone, unsure of his next move.  The look on his face was priceless.  The pompousness had vanished, to be replaced by a guise of abject dismay.  The Doctor had already reached the top of the first flight of stairs, when Oscar finally made up his mind that it was him that he should follow.  With all airs and graces evaporated, the butler turned on his heels and rushed up the stairway.  When they were sure he was gone, Jamie and Victoria retraced their steps.  They entered a small reception opposite the drawing room.  Like many of the rooms in the building, it was unused.  Most of the furniture had large white dustsheets thrown over their once proud exteriors.  In the corner lay a large mountain of books, dumped unceremoniously when the old library had been cleared out to make way for the laboratory. The room was finished off with a petite fireplace.  The sword that Jamie had inspected dangled over its mantelpiece, adding an air of sophistication to an otherwise forlorn room. To the fireplace’s side was a pair of swing doors that led towards the lab.  Since there was little chance of anybody looking for them so close to the drawing room, it had seemed the perfect place to rendezvous with the Doctor.  He would join them once he had given Oscar the slip.  Jamie was sure it wouldn’t take long to outsmart the dim-witted butler.

 

While he waited, Jamie picked up a poker from the coalscuttle situated next to the fireplace.  Holding it in his palm, the Scott felt its weight.  It was wrought of heavy iron, and had the added bonus of a blunted point at the end.  At a pinch it could be used as a primitive bludgeon.  He was about to give it an experimental swing, when he was interrupted by the emptying of Victoria’s lungs.  The piercing scream caused the Highlander to rush to her aid. She was standing a few feet away, staring towards him with a look of repulsion frozen on her refined features.  A white dustsheet she had been inspecting lay crumpled at her feet, but otherwise everything looked normal to Jamie.  Then he spotted the long legs and meaty black body of a spider scuttle away from the sheet, darting towards the safety of a crack in the wall.  The Highlander let the raised poker drop.

 

‘You dinnie have to scream like that,’ he complained, ‘It’s only a wee harmless beastie.’

 

‘Oh… its horrible,’ said Victoria.  Much to her friend’s surprise she was backing away towards the door.  ‘Jamie, we must get out of here.’  

 

‘It was only a wee spider!’ exclaimed Jamie irritably, ‘Anyway the Doctor’s not here yet.’

 

‘What are you talking about?’ said Victoria.  She had now reached the door, and was poised to fling it open.  Jamie still hadn’t moved an inch.  ‘Look behind you!’ she screamed at him.

 

At last the penny dropped.  Jamie turned around, and finally understood the incentive for Victoria’s repulsion.  Pushing his way slowly through the swing doors came the lifeless corpse of Stedman.  His bloody stump of a wrist, struggling against the power of the sprung hinges, left a smear of dark burgundy blood trailing along the door’s varnished wood.  It was a pathetic sight.  The mutilated body of the scientist was now little more than an animated mouth on legs.  All gracefulness of the living had vanished, together with the long departed soul.  Instead, Stedman was simply a vessel.  A puppet being worked by remote control, by a puppeteer who wasn’t particularly good at his art.   A parody of the living, but also a parody of the dead.  The vacant and gormless expression fixed on his features was almost comical.  But if he had the slightest chance, he would rip and tear flesh off the bone.  He may have looked a pitiful sight, but he was a killer.

 

Jamie raised the poker, and smashed it down heavily on the corpse’s skull.  The head cracked nastily backwards before springing to its original position, but still the reanimated body kept coming.  Stedman didn’t even slow his pace.  A brief regret that the sword above the mantelpiece wasn’t sharp crossed the young Highlander’s mind.  If it had been, Jamie was confident that he could have decapitated the zombi in one blow.  Instead, he thrust the poker with all his might towards the corpse’s stomach.  There was a sickening squelch, and a flow of once stagnant blood.  The implement crashed through skin in to a cavity that had until recently contained a kidney.  Yet Stedman continued his advance.   Jamie pushed harder.  More dead flesh gave way and before long the improvised weapon was deeply embedded, stuck in the walking corpse.  The poker swayed pathetically, whilst Stedman lunged for the attack.  With ease, Jamie sidestepped and elbowed the zombi in the side, causing him to fall sprawling to the floor.  The Scott watched the dead scientist begin the slow task of standing.  Jamie couldn’t help feeling that zombi were simple to overpower, but he had to admit that it would be difficult to stop them completely.  All he needed though was a sharp sword, and all would be well.  But what if there were more of them?  It would be impossible to decapitate a whole army, even if he had a trusty claymore by his side.   

 

‘Jamie… oh lets get out of here, please!’ yelled Victoria.  She was lingering at the other doorway, her hand gripped so tight on the handle that her knuckles were turning white.

 

Taking one last look at the reanimated corpse sprawled on the floor, Jamie followed his friend out of the room.  It was now essential that they located the Doctor as soon as possible.

 

 * * * *

 

The mortuary room was an inferno.  The fire had spread quickly from the laboratory and now every surface was ablaze, filling the small area with thick smoke.  The high temperature had caused many of the jars to shatter, showering splintered glass and body parts in to the fire to be devoured by the flames.  It smelt of countless summer barbecues and bonfire nights rolled in to one.  Another jar exploded.  A large one.  The wrinkly, purple stained head of a young woman was catapulted in to the blaze.  Swiftly it was cremated. 

 

Flames licked around the makeshift body bags containing Tom Sawkins and Henry Wright. The coarse material blackened and blistered in the heat.  Dead hands clawed from inside, pulling apart the burnt cloth.  In the middle of the inferno, the two corpses rose unsteadily to their feet.  Their clothes and hair caught fire, but they felt no pain.  They didn’t cry out as the blaze singed their skin and burnt their lips.  Whilst their remaining clothes were being devoured off their backs by the unforgiving inferno, Tom and Henry shuffled out of the room to join Edgar in the laboratory.  The flames had long since severed the bonds that had secured his arms and legs.  Together the three zombi, smouldering like human candles, departed in to the labyrinth of the mansion.  Like a faithful pet, the flames followed them. 

 

* * * *

 

The Doctor bounded down a flight of stairs, heading in the general direction of the drawing room.  His unfruitful search for the two slaves had come to an end.  He would have to look for Zara and Toussaint later.  First he had a rendezvous with Jamie and Victoria to keep.  He had almost reached the ground floor, when he paused momentarily and sniffed.  The unmistakable aroma of burnt wood and furnishings invaded his nostrils.  Something was seriously amiss.  Slowing his rapid pace, the Doctor descended the final few steps and turned the corner.  A wave of heat hit him.  Flames engulfed the majority of the hallway, eating away at the fine decor.  Expensive wallpaper peeled off the walls, to be cremated in the blaze.  A delicate watercolour of the Bristol docks shrivelled under the fire’s condemnation.  Its expensive mounting cracked and splintered under the extreme heat, giving the flames even greater access to the work of art.  Within seconds it was nothing but black flakes in a charred frame.  As if this wanton destruction wasn’t enough, the lush carpet heaved forth choking fumes.  An item developed for comfort now turned in to a killer.  It was the final humiliation for the aristocratic dwelling.  

 

Before the Doctor had the chance to retrace his path, there was an almighty rumble.  Just in time, he threw himself clear as the roof above collapsed inwards.  Burning timbers and masonry plummeted down, crashing through the stairway.  Lightly, the Doctor sprung to his feet.  Patting himself down, to dispel flecks of fine white plaster from his clothes, he surveyed the situation.  To go back was now impossible.  The cave-in had spread the inferno to the stairs, and it was now impassable.  The only way was forward.  Shielding himself from the intense heat, he tried the handle of the only door within reach.  The metal was hot, forcing him to snatch away his singed fingers.  Pulling a spotted handkerchief from his breast pocket, the Time Lord wrapped it around his hand and gripped the handle once again.  This time the material protected him from the worse of the heat, allowing the knob to be turned.  Throwing the door open, the Doctor jumped inside.

 

He found himself inside a small square study.  So far the blaze had not spread inside.  Apart from an uncomfortable warmth and a smell of burning wafting under the wooden door, it could have been any normal day.  However, it wouldn’t be long before the heavy oak would also succumb to the might of the fire.  When that time came, the study would prove just as inhospitable as the hall.  Unlike many of the mansion’s rooms, the study held signs that it was undoubtedly used a great deal.  The Doctor supposed that its close proximity to the laboratory had made it ideal for the scientists’ use.  Dominating the room was a huge desk, littered with stacks of notes.  Forgetting for an instant the immediate threat of the fire, the Doctor wandered over to the desk and picked one of the papers at random.   It was a detailed method of dissection procedures, far ahead of its era.  An amazing piece of work for the eighteenth century.  With a sigh, the document was discarded back on to the table. The impact caused an inkwell to spill over, covering the paper with thick black globules.  The ink was speedily absorbed by the paper, wiping out months of painstaking work in an instant.  The Doctor ignored the destruction of the document.  Soon the flames would destroy all of Wallace’s research.  The world would never hear of his brilliance.

 

On the other side of the room was another door.  If his acquired knowledge of the building’s layout was correct, the Doctor was convinced that it should lead towards the drawing room. Hopefully the fire had not yet spread that far, and Jamie and Victoria were still safe at the rendezvous.  He had already gripped the knob, when something caught his eye.  At the foot of the door, ground in to the beige carpet, were sooty footprints.  Small, child-size footprints. They led from the room beyond in to the study.  Taking his hand off the handle, the Doctor followed the sooty trail.  It guided him back towards the desk.  Stooping down, the Doctor looked under the furniture.  Deep in the shadows lay the prone form of a girl.

 

‘Zara, are you all right?’

 

The young slave stirred, peering towards him with suspicious eyes.  Her clothes were streaked with smoke, and her Afro hair had bits of white plaster embedded in its curls.  The time traveller realised that she must have hidden from the fire, or perhaps from things far more terrifying.  But soon the shadows underneath the desk would no longer provide sanctuary.  The fire would make its deadly presence known. 

 

‘Don’t worry.  It’s only me,’ said the Doctor in his reassuring manner.  He held out his hand towards the shaking child.  ‘I’m afraid that this room isn’t safe.  We must move quickly before the fire spreads here.’

 

But Zara didn’t move.  Aware that there was little time left, the Doctor reached under the desk and gripped the slave girl’s wrist.  Gently, he led her protesting body in to the open. The youngster’s face had become dull and ashen, and she appeared unsteady on her feet. She opened her mouth as if to speak, and then suddenly collapsed to the floor.  Tenderly the Doctor scooped her in to his arms.  She was so small and thin that her weight was easy to bear.  He took her pulse, and found a rapid, weak beat.  Her eyes flickered.  She was still conscious, but barely.  Indubitably her condition was due to the noxious fumes creeping from the fire in the hall.  The child needed fresh air, and fast. 

 

Beads of sweat cascaded down the Doctor’s forehead.  The study was becoming a sauna. The oak door to the hallway buckled and warped, as the wood turned to charcoal.  The final barrier to the raging fire was almost gone.  Anxious to leave the room at the earliest opportunity, the Doctor hurried to the exit and pulled on the handle.  The door swung open, and a glorious wash of cool air swept across his face.  He was half way through, when there was a dull thump behind him.  The hall door burst inwards, smashed by many burning fists. Through the heat haze moved three figures.  Framed in the doorway came the corpses of Tom Sawkins, Henry Wright and Edgar Wells, their flesh peeling under the extreme temperature.  Their clothes were now no more than burning rags on their bodies.  Naked and partially cooked, they shuffled towards the Doctor and Zara.  Gripping the youngster tightly in his arms, the Time Lord fled the study.  The never tiring walking dead followed at their own leisurely pace.  Their burning bodies spreading the fire wherever they touched.

 

Carrying the small child before him, the Doctor wasted no time in navigating through the next few rooms.  Presently he emerged in the hallway, but on the opposite side of the house.  If his calculations were correct, he should be near the drawing room.  The telltale signs of fire filled the corridor, but much to his relief there were no flames, just clouds of thick smoke. Knowing that the zombi were unlikely to be far behind, he looked for a way to bar the door. Laying Zara carefully on to the floor, a screwdriver was hauled out of his trouser pocket. With deep concentration, the Doctor preceded to take out the screws that connected the knob to the door.  He then wrenched off the knob and casually threw it over his shoulder, before slamming the door shut.  Short of knocking it down, there was now no way it could be opened by the zombi.  Aware that it wouldn’t be long before they found an alternative route, the Doctor called out his companions’ names.  Hopefully they had the sense to remain in the area.  His faith was rewarded, as immediately the plea provoked a response.  Out of the murkiness hurried Victoria and Jamie, coughing up the unpleasant smoke that was attacking their lungs. 

 

‘Doctor.  Is that you?’

 

‘Who else would it be?’ said the Time Lord with a toothy grin.  His expression then turned serious.  ‘We must get out of here.  It’s no longer safe.  Not only is the building on fire as you can see, but I’m afraid the Dimensional Entity has returned.’

 

‘Aye, we know.  Stedman’s walking around somewhere or other.’

 

‘Oh, it was horrible!’ added Victoria in between splutters, ‘The poor man!’

 

Jamie stooped down to inspect the child.  She shrank away from his touch, but otherwise her health appeared to be improving.

 

‘How’s the bairn?’ he asked.

 

‘Inhaled too much smoke I think, but she’ll be all right,’ said the Doctor, ‘We aught to get away from this area ourselves, or we might join her in feeling unwell.’  He pretended to hobble a few steps before making his request.  ‘I don’t suppose you could carry her.  It’s my back you see.  Not as young as I once was.’

 

Obviously not impressed with the Doctor’s amateur-dramatic performance, the Scott nevertheless nodded his approval.  When he had gathered Zara in to his arms, the Doctor strode off down the hall.

 

‘We mustn’t dawdle,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘There’s more of those zombi wandering around.  We must get out of this building.’

 

‘Where are we going? The TARDIS?’ quizzed Victoria, as she hurried after him.

 

‘Um… I doubt if we could get that far in the dark.  We’d be sitting ducks.  I’m afraid we need somewhere much closer.’ 

 

‘How about the church?’ said Jamie.  It was his turn to cough.  ‘It’s built like a fortress.  There cannie be anywhere easier to defend much nearer than that.’

 

‘Wouldn’t there be more of those things there?’ said Victoria dubiously, ‘With the graveyard and all?’

 

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ explained the Doctor, ‘They’ll all be buried.  I’m sure it would take more that the Loa’s power to break out of a coffin.’  Victoria raised no more doubts, so said the Doctor sped up his walk towards the mansion’s main entrance, forcing the others to do likewise.  ‘Splendid.  It’s the church then.’

 

Within minutes they were nearing the front door.  As yet the fire hadn’t spread to this part of the building so the air was cleaner, easing the burning sensation of the time travellers’ lungs.  Zara began to pay more attention to her surroundings.  She clung tightly to Jamie’s body, looking frightened and vulnerable.  To their surprise the door was already swinging wide open, letting in the fresh night air.  Warily they approached the exit.   The curious face of the Doctor peeped around the frame, in to the mansion’s courtyard.  All was still, but bathed in shadow.  He walked out in to the dark, beckoning the others to follow.  A sudden intake of breath caused him to look to his left.  Flattened against the white stoned wall, was the outline of a man.  The form shivered in fear.  He spoke.  The voice was Wallace’s.

 

‘I… I don’t believe in children’s stories.  So why… why won’t they go away?’

 

‘Because they’re not stories.  You ken?’ said Jamie rudely.

 

‘Hush Jamie,’ said the Doctor softly, ‘He’s not our enemy, but I do believe that is.’

 

All eyes swivelled, following the Doctor’s gaze.  A gigantic hound, eyeless and dead, blocked the path from the mansion.  Trails of thick saliva, intermingled with blood, trickled between sharp canine teeth to land in a pool by its shredded paws.  The enormous head lolled to one side, as it padded slowly closer.  Between its powerful legs, came a once lithely cat.  Its undead green eyes fixed its stare on the group.  Immediately, the dog’s empty sockets swung in the same direction.  Slowly the time travellers backed away. An unpleasant aroma of burnt hair caused them to look behind them.  Tom, Henry and Edgar, still smouldering from the fire, shuffled into view to block their retreat.  There was no way forward or back.  The cat and dog moved as one animal.  Together the former foes advanced on their prey.