S

moke swirled all around Oscar, obscuring his vision and assaulting his throat.  His bloodshot eyes streamed, as he once more coughed up black dust from his lungs. The wetted handkerchief was again raised to cover his nose and mouth, impeding the inhalation of the smoke particles.  His breathing became easier.  Less laboured.  Less painful.  But still his eyes streamed.  Picking up the pan of water lying at his feet, he threw it in to the billowing smoke with the vague hope that it would hit the flames.  There was a faint fizzle, but the butler knew that remaining to vanquish the fire was akin to him attempting to swim the Atlantic Ocean.  Doomed to failure, and ultimately fatal.  It was time to leave, before the fumes overcame him and transformed his body in to nothing more than a lifeless, charred lump of meat. 

 

Dropping the pail to the floor, Oscar staggered through the smoke and away from the extreme heat.  The thought of locating his master nagged at his mind, but the instinct of self-preservation overwhelmed it.  With Stedman dead and the mansion burnt to the ground, there would be no employment left for him anyway.  The butler knew full well that Wallace himself was penniless, and had been living his aristocratic existence on his friend’s generous back.  Hiding Stedman’s death temporarily was one thing, but it would be impossible to conceal the gutted mansion.  Oscar would be out of a job soon, and that was a fact that he now had to accept.  Yet loyalty to his master was second nature, and even now he would still help him if he could.  Except there was nothing Oscar Whittle could do, apart from preserving his own skin.  The laboratory was in flames, and Wallace had either perished or had flown. 

 

Fighting down the urge to panic, the butler felt his way through the blinding smoke.  After what seemed like an eternity, a small flight of stairs loomed up in the gloom.  It was one of the many positioned around the building for servant access, and led directly to the tradesman’s entrance.  Oscar abandoned the soot-stained handkerchief to the ground, and descended the steps.  With his escape at hand, the simmering panic was dispelled and instead he began to wonder how the blaze had started in the first place.  He couldn’t help thinking that Miss Nash may have been right in her apprehension towards the gas that Stedman had experimented with.  As if on cue, a small explosion rocked the foundations. One of the gas cylinders must have blown, the butler mused.  But if that was indeed how it began, surely he would have felt the tremor?  Then another, more disturbing notion hit him. The so-called ‘guests’ had obviously led him on a wild goose chase earlier that evening.  It was evidently a well-thought out plan to evade him in the labyrinth of the mansion.  What if they had set the fire when he had lost sight of them?  Perhaps they where both murders and arsonists?  If so, the current predicament would all be his fault.  He had brought them to the mansion in the first place, and failed abysmally to keep a guard on them.  He would be directly responsible for the death of his master.  For the first time the weight of the pistol in his waistcoat pocket felt reassuring.  He may have the courage to use it after all.  

 

Oscar reached the last stair, and tried the door at the bottom.  As expected it was tightly secured.  Fumbling in his trouser pocket, the butler brought out a key.  He turned it in the lock, and with relief pulled the tradesman’s door open.  Sucking in the heavenly air, Oscar entered the courtyard.  The first thing the surprised butler noticed were the guests standing near the main entrance, with clouds of smoke billowing behind them.  Were there other figures in the smoke?  It was hard to tell.  His eyes still watered from the fumes, so his vision remained blurred.  He squinted and looked harder, but it was no use.  He gave up.  There probably wasn’t anybody in the smoke anyway.  However the slave girl was certainly there, held in the arms of the Scottish lad.  Then he saw the master, cowering against the wall in obvious terror.  What were the guests doing to him? 

 

Clumsily Oscar took the loaded pistol from his pocket, nearly dropping it in the process.  He pointed it towards the group and attempted a demand for surrender.  The demand came out sounding more like a toad’s mating call.  His lungs had taken more of a beating than he had thought.  In spite of this, it was enough to make them aware of his presence.  They turned towards him, the master included, and much to his amazement hollered for him to run.  It made no sense.  He was safe from the fire.  Why must he run? 

 

A curious gargling growl caused him to look to his side.  Too late he realised why he was told to take flight.  Even through his hazy vision the sight was appalling.  It was clear now that it was this that his master was scared of, not the guests.  He was scared of the hound from hell.  And it was less than ten feet away from Oscar’s position… and was not alone. Winding between its legs came a cat from the butler’s worst nightmare.  He had always hated cats, but this one looked like Lucifer’s own pet.  Dead and gloating.  Panic at last took a grip on the faithful servant.  His arm sprung up, with his index finger automatically squeezing the pistol’s trigger.  More by luck than judgement, the ball of lead hammered in to the heart of the giant dog.  The bullet was halted by an unbeating heart.  The shock threw the lunging animal off balance, but it soon recovered and continued its advance.  Gibbering uncontrollably, the usually calm and collected servant searched in his pockets for the spare ammunition.  The shot slipped through his shaking fingers on to the floor. 

 

Desperately, he stooped for the precious balls of metal before they rolled away.  And then he was stuck.  The cat landed on his back, razor sharp claws puncturing his expensive waistcoat.  As he swung himself rapidly upright, the hated cat clung on.  Then it climbed higher, until the butler could feel its whiskers tickle his naked neck.  He tried to follow the master’s instructions.  He tried to run, but his legs were taken from under him.  It was the dog.  The dog had picked its moment and attacked.  Lying helpless on the ground, Oscar stared in to empty sockets of the dead animal and gave one final scream.  The cat on his neck was no longer tickling.

 

 * * * *

 

‘There’s nothing we can do.’

 

The Doctor’s softly spoken words snapped Jamie and Victoria away from the morbid events unfolding across the courtyard.  The trance-like hold that had gripped them as Oscar Whittle was ravened by the duo of undead family pets was finally lifted.  His broken body lay in an ever-increasing puddle of blood, as the beasts ate their fill.  But now the route from the burning building was clear, albeit temporarily.  When the attack on the ill-fated butler began, the zombi had continued their advance towards the group.  It was only a matter of seconds before they would be upon them.  Ushered in to action, Jamie and Victoria began to quickly skirt around the fallen servant.  The little slave girl hung limply in Jamie’s arms, her gaze fixed on the dead butler and the feasting animals.  The Doctor was about to follow, when he realised that Wallace was motionless, quivering against the thick stone wall.  Edgar was the first to reach him, but instead of running Wallace looked up in fear at the corpse’s burnt features.  Terror had routed him to the spot.  Edgar raised a blistered arm towards the quaking man.  Without thinking, the Doctor reached for his hand and yanked.  The scientist tumbled to the floor, away from the grabbing fingernails of the corpse.  The sudden pain of hitting the gravel seemed to spur Wallace in to action.  Scrambling to his feet, he ran after Jamie and Victoria.  The Doctor was swift to follow.

 

* * * *

 

Oblivious to the drama unfolding in the courtyard and far away from the exploding gas canisters, Miss Nash lay on her bed with her eyes firmly closed.  Half asleep, she daydreamed of Caribbean islands and the hot beating sun.  She could almost feel the delectable warmth, as she lazed on sunny beaches and had cool drinks and food supplied to her on her own whim.  Delightfully delicious food.  Food that she didn’t need to cook herself.  Oh, the luxury!  Not needing to cook again, unless she wanted to.  Then an unwelcome smell barged in to her daydream.  Surely it was the smell of burning? 

 

The cook jolted upright.  The meal would be burnt to a crisp!  It would be ruined!  She must have left it in the oven too long!   Except she wasn’t in the kitchen, and she wasn’t cooking. Confusion swamped her brain.  There was indeed a strong smell of burning.  Also the warmth from her daydream was real.  The room was hot and sticky.  Almost unbearably so. There was only one answer that readily presented itself.  The house must be on fire.  She was about to evacuate her room, when she realised that she was not alone.  In the murkiness of the corner a pair of white eyes were studying her.

 

‘Who’s there?’ she said in a trembling voice. 

 

She took a sharp intake of breath, as the watcher moved closer, but a nervous giggle escaped her throat when she saw who it was.  The well-toned bulk of Toussaint filled her vision.  He looked down at her and smiled, offering his hand to the middle-aged woman. She gratefully accepted.

 

‘Oh, Toussaint you startled me,’ said Miss Nash, ‘Have you come you take me to safety from the fire?’

 

‘Oh… you’ll be perfectly safe from the fire… yes youuu willl.’

 

The grip on her hand grew tight.  Too tight.  Much to her distress, there was no answer to her request for a relaxation of his grasp.  The only response to her pleas was for the bony fingers to become harsher still.  She attempted to pull herself free from the crushing hold, but it was no use.  Crying out to be let go, the woman beat upon him with her free fist but the old man held on.  The bones in her hand felt crushed and bruised.  Determined not to give in easily to whatever despicable deed the man had in mind, she gave up her feeble thumping and instead kneed him in the groin.  He should have crumpled in pain, but to her surprise he didn’t even flinch.  Suddenly her rebellious fight stopped.  A shuffling noise had alerted her to the presence of yet another person hiding in the gloom.  He stumbled in to view, causing the cook to forget the pain in her hand.  It was somebody that Miss Nash had known very well, and had never expected to see again.  Somebody that had liked his eggs runny, but had always been given them hard-boiled.  Cook watched helplessly, whilst the body of Stedman dragged himself forwards to embrace her with a stump of an arm.  His decaying mouth moved inwards, as if to kiss he nape of her neck. 

 

‘My vessel here is a little broken,’ said the entity through the old slave’s lips, ‘I need a replacement… so I do hope youuuu will help me.

 

* * * *

 

There were raised voices in The Rose and Crown.  Although the place was deserted, Jack Golby was far from happy at the premature closing of the tavern.  What did it matter that she had a headache?  She had a service to perform, and she should pull him a pint.  For once he actually had the money.  She shouldn’t complain, just serve.  Unfortunately Ruth didn’t see it his way.  Her voice roared throughout the tobacco-smoke filled room, as she brought out the heavy artillery. 

 

‘Have you seen the time?  It may not be late, but it certainly ain’t early!’ she screeched, her voice rising as she attempted to keep her famous temper under control.  ‘And I can close when I wish!  And as I’ve already told you, I don’t feel well and it’s quiet anyhow, so I’m shutting!  So off with you!’

 

‘After all the pounds that I’ve put in yur pocket for yur terrible cider, and this is 'ow ya treat me,’ bellowed the drunk.

 

‘Pounds, hah!’ scoffed Ruth, ‘More like farthings and earache.  And I’ve never seen you leave a drop of that so called “terrible cider!”’

 

‘Yur usually open longer than this.  Come on.  Just one gin fer the road?’

 

‘If you don’t leave now Jack Golby, by God I’ll have you barred!’

 

‘Don’t need this place anyhow!’ said Jack rebelliously.  However, at last Ruth’s words had spurred him in to action.

 

Grumbling, he scuffed his feet along the beer stained carpet and ambled through the door. He crashed it shut behind him, using the final drops of his mutiny in the petty act.  Ruth’s threat held far more weight with the alcoholic than he let on.  Without the refuge of the tavern, his life would be unbearable.  He staggered halfway up the street, and looked back at his favourite place.  It had no right to shut early.  In fact it should never shut at all.  It was its God given duty to soften the blow of living by the administration of intoxicating liquors.  Medicine of the Gods it was.  Medicine of the Gods.  And that witch of a landlady refused to keep the hospital permanently open.  Curse her!  As if to taunt him, Ruth opened the door and scowled in his direction.  It was then slammed closed, and heavy bolts drawn to hammer home to the drunk that no more booze could be obtained from the premises.  To Jack outside felt like a prison cell, with tantalising glimpses of freedom being snatched through the bars.  Everything Jack wanted was on the other side of a locked door, but just like a prisoner it was denied him.  Loitering for a few minutes, he at last gave up and decided to set out on the depressing return journey home. 

 

Then from across the cobblestones, a black shifting mass caught his eye.  A devilish seething mass.  A look of concern crept on to the drunk’s face.  Had Satan’s lawyers realised their mistake, and come to rectify it?  They’d have an argument on their hands if they had.  He hadn’t spent all the money yet anyhow, so some deal could surely be reached. Squinting his eyes, he looked closer.  Suddenly he recognised what the black shapes were. Rats and mice.  He always thought lawyers were more like slugs than rats, so it probably wasn’t them.  And there wasn’t even the faintest sign of a fiery pen.  No, this was something else.  Since the cat had bounded after the dog earlier, then maybe they were supposed to be chasing the cat.  A courageous thought struck him.  If he helped them, they might put in a good word for him with the lawyers, if and when they turned up.  His voice rang clear in the evening air.

 

‘Hey yur!  They went thataway!’

 

The rats ignored him, and continued their journey across the cobblestones.  They obviously didn’t need his help.  To Jack’s surprise, they began to squeeze under the thick door of The Rose and Crown.  For a fleeting moment Jack wished he was a rat.  In a matter of seconds, they were gone.  Vanished in to the heavenly tavern.  No place for devils and demons, mused Jack.  He scratched his head in bafflement at the puzzle.  They had certainly looked evil, but surly God wouldn’t allow the defilement of such a worthy place as The Rose and Crown.  There had to be another answer.  Then it hit him.  Of course, that was it!  The pub also had a few rooms for rent by travellers.  Most of the time they stood empty, but sometimes people passed this way.  It wasn’t long ago that he met that little crumpled man, with whom he shared a drink.  Proper gent he was.  Proper gent.  He must be staying in one of Ruth’s poky rooms, sleeping in a bed ladled with over starched sheets and rough blankets.  And he had a musical pipe, hadn’t he.  Jack had seen the little man fiddling with it in his pockets.  Pipes and rats.  There was only one answer.  The gent was calling the rats and mice by playing a tune on his musical instrument.  Happy with his conclusion to the riddle, Jack Golby swayed up the road towards his waiting bed.  He would have to have a drink with the Pied Piper tomorrow.   

 

* * * *

 

The little crumpled man turned to the child following behind him and smiled encouragingly. He held out his hand, but the offered appendage wasn’t taken.  Instead the youngster turned and looked behind her, back at the blazing mansion in the distance.  The flames illuminated the night sky, as if the burning building was a warning beacon lit to herald the great danger within.  Zara halted her walk, and stared transfixed at the sight.  The dwelling that had been the young slave girl’s home – her prison – for the best part of her life was being devoured. Never again would she scrub its steps, or clear its table of dirty plates and cutlery.  Soon all that would be left would be a burnt out stone hulk, scarred with soot.  A part of her life had come to a dramatic end.  Burnt away from existence.

 

Aware of Zara’s standstill, the Doctor paused quietly by her side.  Not noticing that two of the party had stopped, Jamie trudged onwards, leading the group through the lanes and fields towards their destination.  A fair distance behind them all stumbled Wallace, face down at his feet and refusing to talk to anyone.  The Doctor decided that a minute could be spared to allow the scientist to catch up, and for Zara to reflect at the massive change in her life.

 

‘I believe I know what’s on your mind,’ said the Doctor in a soft voice.  The young girl turned and looked at him, with a quizzical expression in her intelligent brown eyes.  Sure that he had her attention, the time traveller continued.  ‘You’re thinking of your grandfather, aren’t you?  You must be very worried.’

 

‘Can’t I go back?’

 

‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid it’s too dangerous,’ replied the Doctor to the pleading girl.  The whole situation must be terrible for her, he realised.  He had to make her understand, but it wouldn’t be easy for her to comprehend.  Still, he had to try.  ‘Remember the Guede – the bad spirit that I said Toussaint had contacted?’

 

Zara nodded, and mumbled two words. ‘The Loa?

 

‘Yes, that’s what it has been calling itself, although it’s not really that.  Well, I’m afraid it has now taken over your grandfather and is using his body as a medium to do great evil.’

 

‘You’re not going to hurt him are you?’

 

‘No, not if I can help it.  He’s a good man and deserves to be rid of the Loa.  I must find a way of banishing it without harming him.  And I do know that he loves you greatly.  You both need to be together at this time.  A granddaughter and grandfather’s bond is powerful.’

 

‘I can’t bear to be parted,’ admitted Zara, ‘Are you sure that the Loa is in him?’

 

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.  But if you remember the times you were together you can never be parted fully.  When I shut my eyes I am with my own granddaughter, and during those special moments I wonder what she is up too.  Whether her marriage was all she expected?  What would happen when her husband becomes old, and she remains youthful?  But she was ready to make the break from her family.  From me.  However you, young and far from home need Toussaint.  And Toussaint needs you.  Be strong, and I hope we will be able to reunite you both.’

 

Zara seemed about to say something, when Wallace barged through them.  As he knocked his shoulder in to the slave girl, he gazed blankly in to her features.  The girl shrank back, and her expression hardened.  Her fear was missed by the broken scientist.  Snubbing her, he followed Victoria and Jamie in to the next field.

 

‘Oh, you’re quite safe from Wallace now,’ came the Doctor’s reassuring words.  ‘There’s no way he will ever be able to harm you any more.  I promise.’

 

This time, the Doctor insisted that he took hold of her hand to escort her to the main group. They couldn’t waste time by dawdling.  It would not be long before they felt the pursuit of the entity’s minions.

 

* * * *

 

The last of the glasses were rinsed and set aside to dry.  The monotonous job dampened Ruth’s boiling temper, but she still simmered in annoyance.  It wasn’t just the fact that she couldn’t afford to bar the likes of Jack Golby that caused her to see red.  It was that he had voiced that fact to her face.  In such a rural area she was lucky to make ends meet, without omitting her best customer, but she hated to be reminded of it.  She held a reputation for no nonsense and nobody was ever able to take advantage of her, but still Jack would push his luck.  He was always asking for scrumpy on the slate.  What did he think she was?  A bank? He never ever took account of her famous temper.  Where others trod carefully, Jack would barge in like a bull on heat, and damn the consequences.  Oh, if only she could bar him. 

 

The ache in her head still throbbed, and she thought of retiring to bed.  A good night’s sleep would recharge her fully.   Mark, her husband, was already tucked up.  In fact he rarely got up at all.  When the pair had become hitched many summers hence, he had been an active lad, if somewhat over weight.  Now he was a sickly weakling, thin and gaunt whilst Ruth gained stone upon stone.  It was almost as if the thinner he got, the fatter she became.  The doctors were little help in finding out the cause of Mark’s illness, but Ruth didn’t mind.  They had not been blessed with a child, so her husband’s condition pandered perfectly to her maternal instincts.  He was a baby that would never grow up or leave home, and as anyone who knew her would concur, she was certainly able to run the tavern single handily.

 

Anxious to see her baby before he fell sleep, Ruth quickly wiped the spilt drink from the bar. She didn’t put too much effort in.  It would only become sopping with beer the next day anyhow.  When she had finished and was about to turn off the oil lantern, a mouse scurried along the scratched varnish of the bar.  Amazed at the shear audacity of the animal, Ruth jumped on its presence as an outlet for her temper.  She wanted to see Mark when she was in a tranquil mood.  Moving quietly, so as not to startle the creature, she stepped behind the bar and felt about on a concealed shelf.  She soon found what she wanted.  A large bronze shovel, kept aside in case there was any trouble during opening hours.  The knocking out of the participators had broken up many a brawl.  Two heavy blows with the shovel usually did the trick.  One tiny mouse would hardly be a problem, and this one looked as if it was sick. A dishevelled specimen, if ever she had seen one.  Probably full of disease.

 

With surprising agility, the landlady wielded the weapon.  The shovel smashed down upon the bar, mashing the rodent under the solid metal.  The therapy worked.  With this cruel act, Ruth’s anger faded away to nothing.  Gingerly she raised the tool.  Picking up the dead creature by the tail, she walked towards the bin.  It was just another piece of refuse to be discarded at the end of a day’s work.  Suddenly the landlady cried out in pain.  She had been nipped on the thumb.  The mouse was still alive, and was clinging on to her hand with sharp teeth.  The pain made her eyes water.  She smashed its frail body against the bar, but it refused to vanquish its grip.  In desperation, she crushed its body in her meaty fingers and pulled hard with her free hand.  A small chuck of her thumb ripped away, and the mouse tumbled to the floor.  Again her temper rose.  Determined that the mouse would pay for her injury with its tiny insignificant life, the large woman knelt down to look for the beast.  The sight before her made her wish she had been kind, and gave the rodent cheese instead of a shovel.  While she was dealing with the single mouse, she had become surrounded by thousands of the little blighters.  And they didn’t look happy.  She reached for her weapon, discarded on the bar, but it was too late.  Together the rodents clambered up her podgy leg. As she stared in surprise at the advancing army, uncharacteristic giddiness overcame her. Ruth, the battleaxe of The Rose and Crown, fell heavily to the floor in a dead faint.

 

When she came too, she found herself upside-down on the floor with her head almost tucked under her large frame.  There was intense pain, but it soon subsided.  Before long she hardly noticed the scraping claws on her flesh.  Her body became gripped in blessed numbness.  Strangely her hearing and vision seemed clearer than they had ever been throughout her life.   Even the drab walls appeared full of colour, with the flickering of the oil lamp reflecting off decades of smoke and dirt.  If only she had noticed its beauty earlier. She felt the experience was wasted if she couldn’t tell anybody else about it.  For the first time in many years, she felt no anger.  Her temper had at last been conquered.

 

The pattering of her killers’ feet was almost melodious to her dying ears.  Soon another beat joined them.  The beat of footsteps.  The unsure, faltering steps of her husband.  He must have left his warm bed to investigate the commotion.  She knew she must warn him not to enter, but she couldn’t make her vocal cords work.  Instead a trickle of blood rolled across her lips and down her cheek.  From her position she could see the door to the stairs except the image was, like her, upside-down.  It opened, and Mark entered.  It looked like he was walking on the ceiling.  He was pale and thin, attired as usual in his nightgown topped off with nightcap.  Even so, Ruth thought that he had never looked better.  Not in all the time she had known him.  She so wanted him to remain in the room with her, but knew that it would be a death sentence.  He must leave and quickly, but still no words came from her lips.  Her mind screamed for him to go, but he remained, framed in the doorway that appeared to protrude from the nicotine stained ceiling.  Seconds later their eyes meet for the final time, as Mark looked straight at her.  To his wife’s embarrassment, he followed her example and fainted.  What would Saint Peter have to say about that when the pair arrived at the Pearly Gates?  She knew it wouldn’t be long before she found out, as the white light bore down on her.  Through its glare, she saw the rodents leave her and flock towards Mark’s prone body. Then she saw no more.

 

 * * * *

 

The journey was almost over.  In the distance, the silhouette of the church’s spire could be seen outlined against the dark grey sky.  With the odd glimpse of a battlement through the trees, it seemed as if they were treading across the wilderness towards the safety of a castle, not a place of worship.  Even so, either was preferable to their vulnerable position in the open.  Since the Doctor’s little chat, Zara appeared more relaxed in their company, although she kept wistfully looking back to the glowing building in the far distance.  Leaving Toussaint behind must have been hard on her.  He was the only true friend, and only family in her sad life.  Victoria had now taken the lass under her wing, and was currently teaching her a nursery rhyme -  ‘Goosy, Goosy Gander.’  A rhyme for children, whose horrific message of death to the supporters of the King during the English Civil War was all but forgotten, except to historians.  Still, mused the Doctor, it kept the youngster’s thoughts away from her grandfather.  Now that they had almost reached their destination, the Doctor allowed himself the luxury to think back over the situation.

 

After the death of Stedman, he had pushed the belief that Wallace was due to die to the back of his mind.  He was certain that it would happen.  So far his partner was deceased, and all his notes destroyed.  But all of the knowledge remained in his head, and could be written down and published in the future.  The person walking with the group was a dead man, according to history.  That was the problem.  The man should by rights already have perished, but so far the Doctor had saved his life on no less than two separate occasions. Once with the Heimlich Manoeuvre when he was chocking on the steak, and then as they fled from the mansion the Doctor had yanked him straight from the clutching arms of a zombi.  Should he not have left the man to his fate?  Except the Doctor knew he could not stand by and watch him die, without attempting to save him.  True, he had watched poor Oscar perish, but he was powerless to help then.  But if Wallace survived to publish his findings, the damage to the timeline could be horrendous.  It was a dilemma that his Time Lord conscience found hard to cope with.

 

Presently the Doctor became aware of a person walking by his side.  Looking up, he realised that it was the scientist.  Wallace was no longer looking as if he was in a state of denial and shock.  Oddly, in spite of everything, he looked bright and alert.  He put his hand on the time traveller’s shoulder and spoke.

 

‘I owe you my gratitude.  If it hadn’t been for your quick thinking I would have been dead meat.  And also may I offer you a sincere apology for not having faith in you earlier.  I don’t believe in children’s stories, but I believe my own experiences.  These creatures do obviously exist.’ 

 

‘’Yes, they obviously do don’t they,’ said the Doctor with pretend glee, ‘Bit of a puzzle isn’t it?’

 

‘And am I right in saying that it was that blasted Negro that conjured them up out of his pot?’

 

Immediately the Doctor turned around on the scientist, and shouted at the top of his voice.  ‘If it wasn’t for people like you believing they are superior to races different from themselves, then this would never have happened!  It was the position in which you put Toussaint in the first place that enabled the entity to build its bridge!’

 

Wallace was left bewildered, as the small impish man stormed off to catch up with the others.  Now the Doctor had let off steam, he felt so much better.  He knew he couldn’t allow Wallace to die without attempting to save him, but that didn’t stop him disliking like the man. Time had a way of sorting out problems like this, so just maybe he could forget about the dilemma for a while.  At present, his concentration was needed for a more pressing crisis. Letting the problem slip from his mind, the Doctor took over from Jamie in spearheading the group, encouraging everyone to speed up the final few paces to the church.  Wallace quickly followed his lead, but avoided the Time Lord’s gaze.  Together they rounded the top of the unlit mud path, and now the church was in plain view.  There was no sign of life to be seen in the main building, but a light burned in the small cottage next to it.  It was towards this homely looking place that they promptly headed, now walking on stone that acted both as graves and paving slabs.  They had almost reached it, when a scream cut the night air. It was some distance off, emitting from a neighbouring farmhouse several fields away. Abruptly the cry was cut short.  Then there was nothing but silence.

 

‘The entity is gathering reinforcements,’ said the Doctor darkly, ‘We must hurry.’