T

he stagecoach thundered down the road, the occasional pothole causing Mortimer Russell to bang his head painfully on the roof.  These infrequent attacks on his person further enraged his already stretched patience.  If he hadn’t known the driver for the best part of two years, he would have assumed that galloping in to numerous potholes was done simply to annoy him.  However, he knew that young Matthew was a good lad, and wouldn’t stoop to such low down tricks on his boss.  As he was yet again buffeted around, Mortimer looked out the coach at the darting landscape.  In the night, very little could been seen.  It was simply a blur of darkened trees and bushes.  He wondered if the visibility was as awkward up on top.  With just a lantern for light, it was probably very difficult to see that far ahead along the winding country road.  The lad had his job cut out to keep the horses on track.  Still, the small lump on the crown of his head could hardly be blamed on the potholes alone, could it?  It wasn’t as if the holes in the badly maintained road specifically lay in wait to jump out at unsuspecting travellers.  It would be nice if Matthew paid more attention to the unevenness of the road.  Besides, if he kept hitting them, then there was a chance that a wheel could be ripped off.  That would be disaster for both of them.

 

Taking hold of his walking stick, the middle aged man rapped smartly on the roof of the coach, calling out for a slower pace.  Immediately he felt the movement decrease, as the driver pulled on the horses’ rains.  Mortimer felt easier at once.  He could fully understand why Matthew had been going so fast.  It was late, and lad must be aching for some shuteye. They should have been home hours earlier, but one of the horses had thrown a shoe. Valuable travelling time was wasted, waiting for the attention of a blacksmith in who-knows-where.

 

Probably they should have found a cosy bed on route, and completed the journey the next day.  Travelling in the dark always held the risk of highwaymen and footpads, but Mortimer had pressing reasons to return that very night.  The damage that could be done to his business by delay outweighed his common sense.  The possibility of attack, rather than lack of sleep, was more than likely the main cause of Matthew’s haste.  Even so, an assault by bandits would be a mild irritation to Mortimer in his present state of mind.  He would simply give them all he had, and continue on his way.  His purse was almost empty anyhow, and there were more important matters on his mind.  Everything that had happened since he had arrived in the capital had been a disaster.  He had arrived a number of days previously to sort out his loan with the bank, and deliver some new samples of his wares to one of his oldest and most treasured customers.  He was aiming to kill two birds with one stone, and by rights it should have been simple and straightforward.  He should have known better. 

 

Mortimer was in the textile business, owning a small mill and employing a few dozen workers.  It made a modest profit, and kept Mrs Russell in the manner she was accustomed.  His simple business trip had become complicated when he delivered the samples to Curtis and Brumpton, one of the finest tailors in London.  They had been unhappy with the work, and told him in no uncertain terms that they would be cancelling all orders forthwith.  Mortimer was flabbergasted.  As far as he was concerned, the material was up to the usual high standard.  He could see nothing wrong with it whatsoever.  A little digging, and he found that the rascals had in fact signed on with a cheaper supplier. However, his complaints of broken contracts went unheeded, and he found himself swiftly thrown out of the premises. 

 

When Mortimer arrived at the bank, he found Mr Ayres the manager waiting for him with a deep frown of concern on his stern features.  The news of the loss of such a large and prestigious order had already preceded him.  Ayres informed heartlessly and with a flippant stroke of his moustache, that unless new orders were found by the end of the week or overheads were slashed, the bank would require repayment of the loan in full.  He would be ruined.  That was why he was rushing to return, without any thought of safety.  He had a few favours he could reel in, and he had hopes of a number of possible contracts.  But it required haste.  Otherwise the work could be given to one of his competitors.  Cutting costs was easier.  It was high time that he modernised the mill.  He could replace some of the old equipment with power looms.  Mechanisation was the key, and it was what everyone else was doing.  There would be layoffs of course, but it was better than the whole business going under.  The mill workers took too many liberties anyway.  Only last week, he had to sack Suzanne Sawkins for continued absenteeism.  The damn woman was never at her post.  If she had asked for the time off instead of just taking it, then she would still have her job.  Yes, mechanisation was indeed the key.  Mortimer frowned.  Wasn’t there a mill in Manchester burnt down by disgruntled employees when the power loom was introduced?

 

Turning this dubious thought aside, Mortimer gazed again out of the window.  The same blur of trees and bushes, and then they parted to reveal houses with light shining behind closed curtains.  A contented smile crept forwards.  At last they were almost home.  The clatter of the horses’ hooves now moved on to cobblestones, as the stagecoach rounded in to the village.  The smile became a puzzled expression, when through the final trees a red glow lit up the sky.  It was coming from the direction of the Stedman’s place.  Was it on fire? Mortimer raised his walking stick, ready to give a rap to attract Matthew’s attention.  But before he could, without warning the roof changed position.

 

Splintering wood and frightened whinnies filled his ears.  Grasping for nonexistent handholds, the mill owner tumbled sideways.  His head cracked hard against the interior, as the coach flipped over.  The door he had been leaning on an instant earlier was ripped off in the collision, flung in to the waiting gloom.  There was a moment’s blackness.  Possibly only a split second of unconsciousness.  When he came to, everything was unnaturally quiet. Mortimer lay still, allowing his body to regain normality.  He sensed the sweet tang of blood taunting his taste buds.  In the confusion, he had bitten deeply in to the inside of his cheek.  It was a painful, although minor problem.  His shins ached, but to his relief nothing appeared to be broken.  Indubitably when he undressed there would be an attractive marbling of bruises, in purple and green, all over his body.  Feeling on the crown of his head, he felt two bumps.  The lump from the potholes had found a twin. 

 

Suddenly the beached coach lurched.  Probably a horse attempting to free itself, thought the middle-aged man wearily.  He needed to get out while he could.  Now he had regained some of his composure, anger was rearing its head.  Anger at himself for forcing Matthew to travel so late at night.  He wouldn’t have stood a chance against the pothole that had so obviously caused the current predicament.  Matthew - what had happened to the lad?  He must be wounded… or worse.  The troubles at the mill seemed far away, as Mortimer began to pull himself out of the stagecoach.  There was a tinge of pain in his chest.  It appeared that he had broken something after all.  One of his ribs sent stabs through his body, but for once Mortimer put aside his discomfort.  Matthew needed him.

 

Avoiding vicious splinters that threatened to disembowel his person, Mortimer swiftly left the wooden box that had protected him from the crash.  The once splendid coach was a wreck. Two of the wheels had sheered off entirely, and Mortimer marvelled that he had survived almost intact.  To his surprise, the horses were no longer tethered to the stagecoach.  The reins and buckles were twisted and ripped, and their poor state had allowed the panicked animals to break free.  For the moment he could see no sign of them.  However, there was something else tangled in the mess of rope and leather. 

 

The beast attempted to right itself, causing the coach to lurch again.  At last Mortimer saw that it wasn’t a pothole that had caused the crash, but a collision with a cow.  The animal was in a bad state, and had come off almost as bad as the carriage.  Mortimer found it hard to believe that it was still alive, but its struggles were certainly not reflex actions.   It was desperate to free itself.  The mill owner, used to seeing cows in the many surrounding farms, found himself backing away.  He didn’t know why, it was just that the animal didn’t seem right.  Maybe it was the sight of all the blood on its black and white form that unnerved him. When his retreating boot kicked a discarded item of clothing – a cap thrown from the coach - Mortimer suddenly remembered Matthew.  Forgetting the struggling beast, he rushed forwards, crying out his employee’s name.  There was no reply.  Then he saw the reason. One blood soaked hand was protruding from underneath the shattered wooden box.  The poor lad had been crushed beneath its weight.  There was no way he could have survived. Knowing that there was nothing that could be done, Mortimer turned his back on the wreck. He needed to find help to reclaim the loyal youngster’s body, and his own wounds needed to be tended.  He had no wish for them to turn septic.  As he walked away, he was too preoccupied to notice Matthew’s lifeless hand clench.  The coach rocked, whilst the body underneath attempted to lift it up.  Fortunately for the unsuspecting mill owner, the weight was too great and the hand returned once more to its inanimate state.  There were other vessels that could be used.

 

 * * * *

 

The flames lit the night air with a flicker of blood red tentacles.  The basic yet highly destructive force of nature had gorged itself on the once majestic mansion.  It was now little more than a husk of stone.  No longer white but smeared in layers of jet-black soot.  Inside the inferno still raged, discovering yet more of mans’ possessions to devour as fuel for its veracious appetite.  Eventually it would burn itself out, leaving smouldering ruins that wouldn’t be out of place in the last hours of a medieval siege.  There was another mighty crash, as yet more wooden beams gave way.  A large part of the roof collapsed inwards, feeding the fiery attacker below with fresh fuel. 

 

There was no living thing within earshot to hear the torment of the building.  Man, rodent, fowl and insect had all been consumed in the vain attempt to quench an unquenchable thirst.  The only heartbeat within the grounds beat silently on the marble steps.  On either side towered the mighty stone lions, now little more than a curiosity in a ruined courtyard.  Toussaint sat in his customary cross-legged position.  His hijacked eyes stared ahead, looking for the slightest movement of life in the grounds.  The old slave felt none of the unpleasant heat that radiated down from the burning building.  His mind was locked away.  Pushed deep in to the far reaches of his consciousness.  Beaten in to submission by a being claiming to be his saviour.  The Loa was in full control.  Power flowed across the bridge and through the stolen body, to be redistributed to the many puppets in the vicinity.  Using this power, it could see through multitudes of dead eyes and all at the same time.  Some were little more than toys, such as the eight black eyes of a spider searching for insects whose vital fluids it could consume.  When it had collected enough of these toys, the entity planned use them to drag down a vole, or perhaps even a small rabbit.  There was no harm in some gentle playing as the hunger was quenched.  As it consumed life.

 

Other puppets were considerably more than toys.  They were its teeth and hands.  Its eyes and ears.  Things that it never had in the formless void that was its home and prison.  It was the humans that it craved most to consume.  Them and the Time Lord.  They alone threatened to prevent the planet being turned in to its playground and meal rolled in to one. And it knew that they were trapped.  The Time Lord would make a good vessel.  A good toy.  Its army was growing fast, and would soon crush the pathetic bodies holed up in the Reverend’s cottage.  If the Doctor didn’t stop playing his feeble game, it would quench its thirst with a Time Lord’s blood.  It would rip out both hearts, and watch them pulsate their last in its puppet’s hands.  Then it would invade his broken body with its consciousness, and use the newly acquired teeth and nails to kill his friends.  Then, on the Loa’s command, they would swarm over the world.  Every fresh victim would swell its ranks.  It would be unstoppable.  Nobody could stop it claiming its reward.            

 

 * * * *

 

Mortimer had only travelled a few paces when he saw the white of a face reflected in the moonlight.  The unmistakable form of a man loitered in the darkness ahead.  He was about to call out, when a sudden thought struck him.  Why was somebody out at this hour, with no oil lamp to shine his way?  The mill owner swallowed hard.  The crash may not have been an accident after all, but a deliberate ploy by thieves and cutthroats.  If that was the case, the footpads would certainly know he was there.  There was no way that they could have missed the din caused by the upturning of his carriage. 

 

Mortimer backed away, as the shadowy figure moved closer.  Beads of sweat began to roll down his forehead, to be collected by his big bushy eyebrows.  There was a scraping sound that sent a shiver up his back.  Surely it must be the sound of a knife being drawn.  Here, by the side of the road at night, he would be at the mercy of the brigand.  His throat would be cut, and there would be nobody to rush to his aid.  He would die alone in the darkness of night.  The shadow of a tree’s branch fell from the stranger’s face.  Now bathed in feeble light, the head turned.  A belly laugh forced its way from Mortimer’s lips.  It was Andrew Porter, one of his employees.  He was so glad to see a recognisable face, that the mystery as to why he was standing in the dark in an area usually only trod by travellers was temporally forgotten.  More figures moved out of the gloom.  Even though the light was bad, Mortimer recognised every one of them.  They were all employees from his precious mill. Sophie Baker and the sisters Amy and Rosy Trent were workers on the Spinning Jennies. Behind them was Barnaby Jones, his foreman.  He appeared to have some trouble with his leg.  He was dragging it behind him, causing the scraping sound that Mortimer had so foolishly believed to be a knife being drawn.  Briefly he wondered how the injury arose, but at present there were more pressing worries.

 

‘Am I glad to see you,’ said Mortimer to the approaching crowd, ‘The wheels came off my coach.  I’m sorry to say Matthew has been killed.  We must…’  

 

The sentence dried up in his throat.  There were none of the expected concerns voiced for his well-being, or tears at the loss of a fellow employee.  In fact there was no response whatsoever from the mill workers.  It was then that Mortimer at last questioned why his workforce was gallivanting around in the night, when they should have been tucked up in bed waiting for their six o’clock wake-up call.  The answer conjured to his businesslike mind was one of his worst nightmares.  Somehow or other, they had got wind of the bank’s demands. They knew that he was going to modernise the mill and buy power looms.  They knew that he was going to lay many of them off.  Mortimer thought of the disgruntled workers of Manchester who burnt down the mill.  That glow in the sky.  Perhaps he was mistaken and it was not the mansion that was on fire, but his business.  And now they had come to finish him off too.  It never dawned on him that such thoughts were impossible.  He hadn’t told anybody of his plans to modernise the mill, so there was no way the workers could possibly know. Regrettably, all common sense was swamped by his rising panic. 

 

Mortimer took another step backwards, but this time his foot found a loose cobble.  The mill owner fell heavily to the ground, allowing the advancing posse to gain on him.  It was then, when they had all finally left the shadows behind, that he took in their full appearance for the first time.  None were dressed for night-time wanderings.  They were in nightshirts or dressing gowns, and several were barefoot.  But it was their features that were the most striking.  They were pasty and ashen, with streaks of crimson that could only have been blood caked on to their skin.  Their movements too were abnormal.  Jerky.  Uncontrolled. Erratic.  A new fear gripped the mill owner.  While he had been away in the capital, some epidemic had gripped the village.  The victims of the unknown ailment were wandering, dazed and unattended in the stillness of night.  As he scrambled to his feet, he looked for foaming of the mouth.  To his relief, the sign of the mad dog’s disease wasn’t present.  But those shuffling towards him were obviously sick.  Was it leprosy, or had the dreaded bubonic plague resurfaced after all those long sleepy years?  Maybe it was something even more horrible?  Nevertheless, there was a look about these ill men and women that dissolved the pity in his heart and replaced it with dread.  They held a look of malice and evil.  These people were mad.

 

A moan left the mouth of Andrew Porter, but it was not a moan that provoked sympathy.  It was a moan of triumph.  Hooked hands swiped towards Mortimer’s head.   He swerved out of the way just in the nick of time.   Nails ripped in to the skin of his cheek, but the grip didn’t hold.  Fresh blood began its journey down the mill owner’s chin.  Yet again, the ragged nails flew towards him but this time he was ready.  Grabbing the arm, he twisted the appendage and Andrew fell to the floor.  Instead of trying to stand, the monstrosity grabbed for Mortimer’s leg.  He almost got it, but a sudden serge of adrenaline boosted the middle-aged man in to action.  His foot stamped cruelly on to Andrew’s clutching fingers, driving them away from his ankle.  Ignoring the unpleasant crunch of bones beneath his boot, Mortimer searched for a safe path.  There was none.  While he had been defending himself, the other lunacy-ridden people had encircled him.  He realised that if he stayed where he was, he would be at the mercy of this unfathomable madness.  Determined not to stand by and let them close in on his helpless body, Mortimer ran straight at the nearest of his ex-employees.  He hit Amy Trent hard with his shoulder, knocking the petite woman to the ground.  Hands grasped for his fleeing legs, but by a miracle he was through the wall of erratic flesh.  Breaking in to a stumbling sprint, Mortimer ran for his life.  Behind him, floated the unnatural moans of his workforce, as they slowly took up the pursuit.

 

It was only minutes before his balance was yet again upset.  Along the dark road, something large and squishy took his legs away.  In panic, Mortimer pushed furiously at the object as if it was about to bite him with rows of razor sharp teeth.  No bite came.  No movement of any kind.  The alarm subsided, and he pulled himself to his feet.  The moon chose to peep from behind a cover of cloud, bringing the mystery object in to full view.  Immediately Mortimer felt sick.  Vomit insisted on jumping from his gut, and splattered on to the pavement.  He now knew what had happened to one of the horses.  The animal was not only dead, but looked as if it had been eaten.  Huge amounts of flesh were scooped out of the animal’s belly.  But that wasn’t the worst.  All four legs were missing.  Ripped off as if the majestic horse was little more than a common housefly, taunted by a cruel schoolboy.  Mortimer looked down at his hands.  They were plastered in dark red blood from the carcass.  In disgust, he wiped them on his best suit, but still he couldn’t tear his gaze from the bloody mess at his feet.  It was as if it held him in a trance. 

 

Fortunately, shuffling movement reminded him of the approaching danger.  He needed to get as far away as possible.  Breaking in to a run, he left the horse far behind.  Gradually the moans faded in to the distance.  If he could make it home, perhaps Mrs Russell had been spared this disease of madness.  It was only a few miles. His mind refused to consider what he would do if the same condition had fallen on his beloved.  His brain had erected a mental shield to guard his sanity.  A mile and a half later, the protective power of adrenaline had worn off.  The forgotten pain from his broken ribs had returned with a vengeance, and now every burning breath sent red-hot coals through his body.  Slowing to a trot, Mortimer allowed himself a slower pace.  It was better to save what little energy remained for when he truly needed it.  Suppressing a nervous giggle, he thought of the worries that had caused him so much unrest during the day.  He hadn’t known when he was well off.  Now, after escaping twice from the embrace of death, he knew what real worries were. 

 

Mulling these thoughts over, Mortimer turned right in to a narrow alleyway.  Soon he would be safe.  He was almost home.  His footsteps echoed off the brick walls, causing him to wince in anticipation.  What if his pursers heard him?  He pushed the unpleasant thought away.  They had been left far behind.  Even so, the sound of his footfalls set him on edge. He had neared the end of the alleyway without incident, when an unwelcome sight rooted him to the spot.  In the road beyond moved a stumbling, erratic figure.  It was a man whose body was out of sync with his brain.  The hopes of shelter were dashed.  The disease-ridden madmen had found him.  They had cut off his route to Mrs Russell, and even if he could get past they would surely follow him straight to his wife.  At all costs, that must not happen. Mortimer stared at the pallid and bloodshot figure, as it turned its head slowly towards him. Panic-stricken, the mill owner used his last reserves of strength.  Flinging himself down a side street, Mortimer took flight.  His destination had now changed.  Only one thought filled the turmoil of his mind.  He needed sanctuary and the protection of the Almighty.  Mortimer was now heading for the church.   

 

* * * *

 

‘What the buggering hell was up with ‘im?’

 

Jack Golby surveyed the fleeing mill owner with surprise.  He was used to the toffs peering down their noses at him, but this was the first time that a member of the ruling classes had turned on their heels and ran from his presence.  The silver spoon up the man’s backside was probably itchy, thought the drunk.  It obviously needed polishing, and that act certainly could not be preformed in front of humble ol’ Jack.  Shaking his head in distaste, he decided to continue his wobbly trek to the Rose and Crown.  Hollering and hammering on the door would be required until Ruth opened up.  It would not be an easy task to rouse her from her warm and cosy bed, but he had little choice.  The only alternative was to sleep in the open. The climate was not yet warm and dry enough to make that a pleasing notion.  Once she had wrenched the door open to bawl at him in her usual manner, he would politely explain that his door key was perched on top of an upturned glass in the middle of his usual table. Just put there for safe keeping, like any reasonable minded person would have done.  He only needed a moment to locate the item, and he would be off.  Sorry to trouble you ma’m, and if you ever need anything just yell.  With luck she will allow him a cheap gin for the road. Given her earlier mood, he knew that it was unlikely but miracles sometimes happened.

 

Jack’s inebriated body made surprisingly swift work of the remainder of his journey.  The comforting sight of his home-from-home was soon before him.  The sign portraying a faded portrait of King Henry VI flapped back and forth in the night’s breeze.  Jack looked at its gentle movement for an instant.  Apparently it held some historical connotation to the War of the Roses, an important event from centuries before.  Ruth had threatened to paint it over, but as with many of her schemes, it had only been idle talk.  He was trying to remember her exact words, when he realised that he was procrastinating.  Annoyed with himself, the drunk went to the tavern’s entrance and raised his hand ready to strike.  The elevated knuckle stopped abruptly in mid air, inches from the wood of the door.  To his dismay, all his carefully worked out speeches and polite soothing words had leaked out of his brain.  He was scared to knock.  What if she fulfilled her pledge to bar him?  Jack’s arm fell limply to his side, and instead of knocking he started to count how many bricks were in the wall.  It was a pointless exercise, but allowed him to put off the inevitable.  

 

After losing count for the third time, a small overlooked fact was at last noticed.  Light bled from beneath the thick green curtains that hung in the bar’s large window.  Obviously the landlady was still up.  Otherwise she would have extinguished the oil lamps.  This revelation brought back Jack’s lost confidence.  Before it slipped again away, he bounded forward, knocked politely and waited.  The expected yell of disturbed protest never came.  Jack scowled.  He gave another polite rap, but again there was no reply.  With his patience fast waning, he raised his fist and hammered loudly.  Politeness had been substituted with rudeness.

 

‘Oy, come on.  Open up.  I’ve left me key in yur.’

 

The force of Jack’s final blow caused the door to edge open.  It wasn’t locked.  Extending several gnarled fingers, the drunk pushed at the door until it was half open.  Making a snap decision, he stole inside.  Maybe he could get the key and be gone without disturbing anyone. Almost immediately he regretted the rash decision.  At any second he expected to be challenged by the angry red-faced Ruth, demanding to know what he was doing sneaking in to her pub.  Fortunately, there was no confrontation.  He tiptoed in to the bar.  It was empty.  Jack inhaled the gorgeous fumes of ale, and immediately had the urge for a cold drink.  It took all his willpower to resist.  If he was caught helping himself to the alcohol, then he would be barred for sure.  Briefly he noticed that somebody had spilt what appeared to be a large quantity of red wine on the floor.  It had soaked in to the carpet, making a massive ugly red stain.  Stepping carefully over it, so as not to tread it in further, he quickly padded to his favourite table.  The glass that he saw so vividly in his mind’s eye wasn’t there.  Confusion swept across him.  What had happened to his key?  He no longer had any choice.  He would have to search the building for the landlady, to find out if she had seen it.

 

The hunt was brief and incomplete, but it didn’t take long for even Jack’s glazed eyes to tell that The Rose and Crown was completely deserted.  Both Ruth and her husband had vanished.  Turning the poser over in his mind, he remembered the funny little crumpled gent. When he recalled the rats that struggled under the tavern’s door earlier that evening, the answer was plain.  The Pied Piper, who also moonlighted as a doctor, must have led away the rats and mice, but Ruth in her pigheaded way had refused to pay for the service.  In revenge, the Pied Piper had spirited her and her husband to a foreign land.  Of course, he would usually take children, but everyone knew that the owners of The Rose and Crown were childless.  There would have been nothing for it, but take them instead.  Of course, they would pay up sooner or later, but in the meantime the pub would be empty.  Jack would have free run.  That was probably what the Pied Piper had meant all along.  He was a proper gent.

 

With a big grin smeared on his face, Jack slipped to the spot he had always ached to be. Behind the bar he felt at peace.  It was as if it was his destiny.  His bloodshot eyes darted across the racks of spirits and wines.   One in particular caught his eye.  A fine bottle of twelve-year-old whiskey.  Scotland’s finest and most expensive.  Picking the bottle up like a newborn baby, Jack cradled it in his arms.  His hand felt for a glass, and swiftly a generous amount of brown liquid cascaded in to it.  There was a slight pause for thought, before it was topped up with an even larger dose.  The little crumpled man was a proper gent, thought Jack once more, before he raised a toast to his benefactor.  Cheers to the Pied Piper.