An
Adaptation
By
JS
Adams
JsAdams-Writer@outlook.com
Prologue
The ancient city of London lay
vast, silent and utterly desolate. Nothing now but a husk of burned out ruins,
overrun with weeds, nettles and other wild flora. As the sun rose above it,
casting shadows upon its state of decay, the weeds crept across the derelict
buildings and empty streets, with a ferocious malignant spread.
All along the
river, the capital lay devoid of life, just a memory now, propped up by its
many vestiges of decaying bridges, rusting buses and other vehicles, all so
much twisted browning metal, dissolving with the fall of the next rains. Along
the embankment, retail shops lay abandoned to the elements: faded street signs,
hung limply over the broken display windows, whilst dusty mannequins rotted in
the rising sun. Nothing alive stirred, not even for the sound of birds
twittering in the dead trees or cats purring on the roofs of the scorched
garden sheds. A city of the dead, deafened by silence, where no life existed
above ground, unless it chose to face death but nobody wanted to die. Not
unless of course, you had already lost your mind.
Then the silence was suddenly shattered, by the stark
crunch of broken bricks, as a boot stepped down upon the rubble with a heavy
thud, clad in black leather. Then, one in front of the other, the pair of boots clambered over the
debris, that littered the embankment, marching across the broken landscape, its
owner clad in black, driving head long, drawn inexorably towards the river and
ultimate freedom. The Zombie Soldier stumbled onwards, his gaunt colourless features,
wreaking of decay. He thought nothing of disregarding his laser rifle, dropping
it to the ground with a clatter, followed by his trusty whip, which he also
tossed aside with wanton abandonment, compelled by the one thought that his own
madness would finally come to an end.
As he reached the rivers edge, its waters gently
lapping before him, he stood there motionless, staring blankly ahead, through
the visor of his helmet. With pained deliberation, he clutched the helmet with
both hands and yanked it from his head with an agonised, deafening scream.
Then, dropping it to his feet, he proceeded to step into the waiting waters,
wading out deeper and deeper, until his lonely cries were swallowed up beneath
the stirring waves and choking reeds. And then he was gone, leaving behind him,
only the silence of the dead city...
Chapter
One
Fugue
For Thought
The local bobby on the beat, thought the get-away driver, clocking the constable as he approached in the
dead of night. Perfect. Just what
they needed. He checked his watch: it was getting nearer the time. If he didn’t
act quickly he reckoned, then PC Plod
over there would ruin everything. It was dark enough though, he could easily take him by surprise from behind. Quietly, he
exited the car, hidden in the shadows. As he approached, he sized up the copper
as young but not that young: a real plumb, meandering along, as he patrolled
the empty high street, mulling over the late night window dressings of the
shops and businesses, all locked up and closed for the evening.
Oblivious to his attacker, it was just another late night for
one Police Constable Tom Campbell,
officer of the law and all that. K-Division
no less, patrolling the streets of London’s
notorious West Ham. Quiet night
tonight though, he thought, nothing much happening anywhere, everyone’s in bed
for a change, probably too much to drink from the night before. After all, most
of the yobs were presently off to see Southampton
play this weekend.
Tom preferred it like this though, no, drunks, no headaches, just peace
and quiet for a change. On a quiet night like tonight, he could let his mind
wonder, perhaps further than the beat he trod would normally allow. To pass
away the hours, he hummed his favourite jazz tunes, some more than others
however, would stick in his head like a broken record.
Tonight’s
ear-worm was Fugue for Thought, the
piano ensemble by Bill McGuffie and his
Orchestra. As London’s premier
pianist, McGuffie had learned to play with just nine fingers. Imagine that?
Nine! I should have taken up piano when I
had the chance, thought the constable and then thought better of it. Best
just stick to kicking a football around. Which reminded him: he had a game this
Sunday with the lads.
Until then, here he was: patrolling the empty midnight
streets, essentially doing window shopping, for things he could never afford.
In the high street, he spied upon the window displays in a Thomas Cook travel agents: The impressive model of a jet airliner,
the large colourful photos of beautiful exotic woman, living the dream in the
sun. Places he’d never afford to get to, not on his salary.
He had to
get up the career ladder if he wanted to do that: Detective Inspector! Now that
was where the real money was. Solving proper crimes. Making a difference.
Tom wished more than anything, to get promoted and make a real difference.
Instead of this endless plodding, if only to have pleased his strict regimented
father, dead these past five years, a former Superintendent, disappointed in his sons lack of initiative.
Time was getting on. How many years had he been in the
force now? Six ? Seven? Most of Toms peers had cushy little numbers now, with
exotic holidays to boot. But not him. If he was lucky, he might afford a brief
holiday in Torquay in Devon but nothing as exciting as a real
jaunt: somewhere off the beaten track as it were, a real adventure! Oh he could
dream, he smiled.
***
As the constable leant against the frame of the Travel Agents window display, he became aware of somebody looming
in the reflections but turned around too late: his assailant was already upon
him. Several blows to the back of his head and that was it, the world went
sideways, beaten with his own truncheon. Enraged and frustrated, the mind was still
willing, but his body was not.
Suddenly
the jewellery shop across the road, exploded. Alarm bells began ringing, Tom
looked up dizzily and saw two heavy set men in Burberry Caps, appear from the bellowing smoke, carrying (of all
things) Barometers and whatever
jewellery they could lay their hands on. Tom couldn’t believe it: London’s notorious Barometer Brothers had struck again! As he lay there bleeding, Tom
watched helplessly as the robbers jumped into the back of the getaway car.
Shaking his head, he scrabbled to his feet, blowing
his whistle as he futilely tried to pursue them down the road on foot, throwing
his truncheon, which merely bounced off the bonnet, as the car sped off into
the night. Tom kept running, trying to get the licence plate but it was no use,
they were gone.
He cursed his misfortune, had he been paying more
attention, he would have surely noticed his attacker clocking him from the
waiting getaway vehicle. You idiot Tom!
Instead of keeping your eye on the ball,
now you were paying the price for your stupid day dreaming! All his
training had gone out the window with the barometers. Observe everything. Take nothing for granted.
The Barometer Brothers, (aptly named by the press), had
been hitting jewellery shops all over the city and were known for the theft of
highly collectable and rare Barometer
clocks, that they could then sell onto private collectors. Tonight’s attack
would make it their thirteenth robbery in six months and still no leads for Scotland Yard as to the perpetrators
identity.
The Jewellers shop front was now in smouldering pieces, with shattered
glass sprawling across the pavement and onto the road. Alarm bells echoing down
the streets, waking up everyone and his dog. It was not looking good. Tom was
in big trouble. There was more at stake here, than just a insurance claim on a
handful of jewellery and some bloody barometers.
Tom’s mind raced with thoughts of deliberation: His
life was over. How could he let this all happen? How was he going to explain
all this to his superiors? So much for climbing the career ladder, he thought.
So much for making a difference.
Toms career up to now, hadn’t exactly been exemplary:
Only the month before, he completely bungled to stop kids stealing sweets from
the local corner shop for the umpteenth time or deterring the drunks from
vandalising the high street on a Saturday night. His entire career seemed to be
a long string of unsolved crimes and ineffectual policing. Now it was The Barometer Brothers and after all,
there was three of them. It was all planned and he had been ambushed. It wasn’t my fault ! It wasn’t my bloody fault !
If his
father, the Superintendent was still
alive, he would most likely throw the book at him for sure. At this rate he’d
be demoted right down to traffic warden.
Staring down the empty street, he saw nothing but the gloom and various
house lights flickering on. Then across the road, he saw an old battered Police Box…
***
It was hard not to miss the flashing blue lamp atop of the
old Police Box just across the road:
it stood there on the street corner, where no earthly Police Box should be. It was odd because Tom had never noticed it
there before and he was sure he knew these streets like the back of his hand…well,
he was pretty sure anyway.
Maybe it
had just been installed? No. It looked old. Like it had been there for years.
Nobody could miss it: a tall rectangle, beat up concrete and wooden blue box, with
its stepped pitched roof (in need of repair) and a flashing blue lamp. An old
blue box, surrounded by pairs of little square windows on each side of its many
panelled fascia’s, painted a multitude of times, with a multitude of blue
paints, that had flaked off over the years. A weathered veteran of the Metropolitan Police Force, bearing the
illuminated signs above its doors, that even said Police (public call) Box and yet…
Doubt is a terrible thing. The presence of it in his
life, bothered him even more than the actual crime itself. If he’d failed to
even notice it on a beat he’d done a thousand times, then what hope was there
of ever reaching the giddy heights of Detective
Inspector?
He felt a pain on the back of his head and stumbled
towards the waiting Police Box with
all the intention to go inside and cry, then work his way up to calling the
police station. Perhaps call them first and cry later. Maybe just slump in a
chair and then call them. He didn’t know what to do really. His head was
throbbing with pain.
Except, as he entered, there wasn’t the usual messy broom cupboard with a table and
chair and a telephone: instead there was huge illuminated room, full of
computer banks and control panels and flashing neon tubes! A massive control
room inside a tiny phone booth! ! What was this place? This was no Police Box ! How could this be? I must be hallucinating! That’s it. He was dreaming. But no, he was
awake, he was sure of it, bloody Fugue
for Thought, was still worming through his brain, all nine fingers of it.
Either way, this must be real. But how could it be larger
on the inside? It just didn’t make any sense! Then he saw three people dotted
about it, operating various switches and levers: Two women and an old man. As he entered, they turned to look at him,
just as shocked and surprised, before the room began to spin and everything
went utterly dark…
Chapter
Two
A
Brief History of Time…
For the first time in a Rellian,*
the Dalek Emperor was faced with a
real dome-dinger of a migraine. As if his great green brains were being
repeatedly pummelled, by a lemon in a wet sock. His many green tentacles curled
around him in despair, he sat perplexed and throbbing within his Dalek casing, surmounted by a large
golden sphere, that cocooned him from all external elements.
Around him lay the cathedral like throne room: an
immense domed chamber, lined with copper panelling, dominated by the great Tele-Visualizer Screen, hanging above
it, flicking though various celestial bodies, searching for a compatible donor. He regarded these fleeting images:
weighing the pros and cons of each, like a interstellar Goldilocks fretting over the right type of bed, the right type of
chair or a bowl of porridge that was just
right.
He just wanted things as they used to be, when the Dalek Empire was never having it so
good: when great strides had been made in technical advancements, space travel,
weapons upgrades and successful occupations of the outer worlds, subjugating
all that stood in their way. And yet, despite all this, they were dying.
* Rellian – (Rell-ian): a Dalek measurement of time. Equal to 1000 Earth years.
Their great Dalek Armada, was almost
depleted from costly battles with the Mechonoids.
To make matters worse, their home world
Skaro, was running out of resources and the planets electromagnetic core,
could no longer sustain the Dalek Empire
and its cities.
As the
homeland was dying, so too would the military outposts they had set up on the
conquered worlds. Even drawing upon energy from their Sun, could not satisfy
the requirements of their infrastructure: solar power was too unreliable as a
constant power source, due to the nature of inclement solar weather.
There was no two ways about it: the Daleks planet needed a new electromagnetic
core. Their survival depended upon it. That much was clear. So the Emperor scanned the heavens for a
suitable donor, a compatible substitute, a planet with a rotating core, that’s
electro-magnetic revolutions would suffice, in restoring the Dalek Empire to its former glory. He
considered the desert planet of Aridious
Three and the numerous worlds in the Kelsar
System, all of which were either too far away for an extraction or posed
too many headaches for a feasible Dalek
invasion force.
Then he found it. A small blue planet, orbiting a
small yellow Sun, within their locality. A planet with a spinning metallic core
of iron, essentially a huge self perpetuating dynamo, giving off all the
kinetic electrical energy that they would need. The Daleks had only to draw upon that power, like a light bulb draws
from a battery.
But it would entail a great feat of engineering, in
order to remove this planet from its current orbit and bring it across the
immense void of space, into the heart of the Dalek Empire.
The Dalek Emperor thought long and hard about the
provisions for conquering this world. Its biped inhabitants had blown every
chance of utilising the planets boundless free energy or they would have
exploited it eons ago but instead they insisted on the reliance of inefficient
fossil fuels.
Humans. The very thought of them, left the Emperor reeling with disdain. His great golden sphere of a head turned and
reviewed the flashing images of Earths past
events, on the Tele-Visualizer Screen above. He watched the evolution of man in a
blink of an eyestalk: from simple carnivorous cave dwellers, to fashion laden
vegetarians, obsessed with mobile communication devices, on a planet that was
totally wasted on them.
Yet it didn’t stop there: an entire culture based on an
illogical concept they called Love.
Yet it wasn’t even real. The Emperor
found no empirical evidence to support such an outrageous notion. They even
wasted their energies on concocting ridiculous imaginings and holding great
gatherings in their fragile cities, to honour them. Worst still, they made something they called Rock and Roll and something called Dancing. The Dalek Emperor saw no point to any of it, as far as he was concerned, such things were irrelevant.
Like many distant worlds spread across the Universe,
the planet Earth seemed to be a world
totally at odds at itself. While one continent engaged in these so called artistic
affairs, another country engage in a more tangible concept the Emperor understood: War!
He mulled over their war like history: littered with
atrocities, enslavement, mass genocide, the destruction of their own
environment. An endless succession of Alphurians,
all fighting to be top dog, making primitive war machines, in order to make the
whole business of warfare, that little bit more efficient.
It all reminded the
Emperor of his Dalek forefathers,
they too were like these ridiculous Earthlings:
weak and pathetic. Sooner or later The
Human Race would annihilate each
other, much as the Dalek forefathers
had done and then its survivors, withered and mutated by radiation, would face
the inevitable truth: that they would have to embrace the machine, if they were
to survive.
They would
have to think like a machine, act like a machine and ultimately live within the
metal casing of a machine. This was the Dalek
Solution and it worked. Daleks never
suffered the cold or the heat, they never required companionship or love. They
felt no pity or remorse for the countless worlds they had conquered and
enslaved and their battle computers kept them occupied with the latest updates
on military innovations.
The more the Emperor
thought about it, the more his migraine suddenly receded: Few planets in the
locality had a heart that beat as strong as the Earths, plus it was a lot nearer (and more importantly), it was a
defenceless mess: ruled by selfish, bickering dictators, busy blowing each
other to smithereens. It was a done deal. All that was needed was to rally the
troops. The time was now, thought the Emperor: Earth
was ripe for the taking…
***
Meanwhile back on Earth, mankind had overthrown its selfish bickering
dictators, established an Unconditional Basic
Income* for the general well being of all and was finally reaching for the
stars. By the middle of the 22nd
Century, it had begun colonising the outer worlds, mainly Mars. It wasn’t much but it was a start.
* Unconditional Basic Income (UBI) a periodic cash payment unconditionally paid to
everyone, regardless
of their
employment status, wealth, marital status, or any other circumstances. An
economic safety net, so nobody lives in poverty which will in turn, free the
creative, entrepreneurial instincts of the population.
In England, the New Renaissance had arrived: signalling
a new era in art, music and poetry, the likes of which the world had never
seen, with London now a swinging hot
spot, enjoying a return to a nostalgia based on the popular fashions of the 1960s.
The old Brutalist spikey architecture, that had
so blotted the landscape in the century previously, had now been demolished and
a new wave of young vibrant architects had sought to restore the older, more
Victorian buildings or have them totally rebuilt.
Subsequently old Brickwoods
style pubs and cobbled market squares were rebuilt exactly as they had been
around the 1960s.
Camden Town, Brick lane, Knotting
Hill, Covent Garden, Petticoat Lane, Portobello Road… etc. All would be injected with the
architectural flair of the period and the people loved it. By 2135Ad London had essentially
transformed from a dirty concrete mess, to a beautiful citadel of striking
parks and gardens and retro fitted shops.
The Sixties Revival was now well underway. The return of
the old fashioned Red Rout Master London
Buses, Red Pillar Boxes, Blue Police Boxes, Mo-peds, Mini Coopers, Panda Cars and
Bubble cars.
Tourists
dressed in accordance: women in Bombshell
hairdos, Flipped Bobs and Beehives etc, men with Mop Tops, Crew Cuts and The
Afro and so on.
A return to traditional musical instruments played by real people, old
style record players, Tv sets and transistor radios. The previous Brutalist style of filmmaking, (often depicting the future of mankind
as depressing and gloomy) soon gave way to remakes of 1960s Ealing Style comedies and musicals.
Even the ever prevalent cellular phones and other
personal communication devices, with their endless myriad of applications, that
dominated the last two century’s, soon became old fashioned. People wanted old
fashioned spin-dial telephones, while the idea of social media was increasingly
frowned upon.
No longer were the populace staring for endless hours
at computer screens, or living in a computer generated dream world. Now they
wanted to go and out and meet real people, at a real old time dance hall or in
a retro-fitted pub. In fact, anyone visiting the place would think they were back in the 1960’s, even time
travellers…
***
Disappointed with his recent visit to the Orwellian Earth of the 21st
Century, the Doctor was extremely looking forward to his next trip through
time and space: mainly a jaunt to The New
Renaissance and swinging London
in the mid 22nd Century, after picking up a brochure about it in
2035 at the Mars Colonies.
Subsequently he advised his companions to dress appropriately. Louise
however hadn’t quite got the hang of it, dressed in a sort of tweed coat (with
wings under the arms) and huge lapels, complete with matching culottes shorts,
leading to long black stockings and a pair of white leather boots with two
double zippers up the front. Overall she looked like a female Sherlock Holmes.
Then again neither had the Doctor, in his usual white
shirt with a high collar surmounted with a blue silk neckerchief, all wrapped
within a golden brown velvet blazer jacket, and yellow waist coat, with solid
gold pocket watch to boot. Susan seemed to have a better grasp with what she
thought most children her age might be wearing: a white shirt and an old
fashioned red box jersey pleated dress, with long white socks and brown school
shoes, plus a blue duffel coat but she wasn’t terribly happy with it all.
Their attempts to swing by London on March 31st 1966 and go shopping for more
clothes, hadn’t quite worked out of course, as they arrived when all the stores
had already closed. Stupid machine!
Thought the Doctor. It was hopeless at punctuality. Specific times of day,
always seemed to overload the ships computers. It was like wrestling with a
steam roller in a tight parking space.
Perhaps when they arrived in the London
of the future, they could do some more shopping, in one of the many retro
markets but it would most likely be horribly expensive.
He shrugged and set the controls for Earth, in the year 2135 AD. However, as soon as he reset the old spring operated
buttons, the number ‘3’ and ‘4’ buttons
pinged off the keypad and disappeared down a grating in the floor panels. Hmmm… thought the Doctor with a frown,
he had meant to fix that, now they would have to try another decade and hope London would still be swinging.
He thought about the year 2164 but something in him said he had already been there before... Oh if only he could remember! So long
ago, in another universe. Cursing his scatterbrain, he typed ‘2150’ into the keypad. It sounded like
a nice round number and the computers liked that. They were almost set to
leave, but for the Doctors penchant for a sweet tooth. He de-magnetised the
doors with the thought of popping to the local corner shop, to buy some
liquorice, before they embarked on their next journey, that is of course, if it
hadn’t already closed.
Suddenly they heard an terrific explosion coming from outside, followed
by a dreadful commotion, with alarm bells ringing and all sorts. Perhaps they
had landed in the middle of a terrorist attack?
It was best they kept out of it, whatever it was. So much for getting
some liquorish. Time for them to get going. He then approached the steering
wheel column, that would drive the time machine off into time and space.
However, there was just one slight problem: A Police Constable had just barged in on them and suddenly fainted…
Chapter
Three
The
Time Machine
The Doctor turned in surprise, to see the young constable enter and fall
on the floor of his space ship. Susan and Louise ran over to him and turned him
over. He was out cold. What on earth had
happened to him? Great, thought
the Doctor, it was all they needed. How were they going to explain themselves
to the police?
‘He must
have pulled open the door, just as I de-magnetised it!’ he said, having just
unlocked the door controls seconds earlier.
‘He has a terrible bump on the back of his
head!’ Said Louise, kneeling over him.
‘Oh, nothing that a little fresh air wont
cure!’ Shrugged the old man. ‘I’ll see what’s going on outside…’ He turned a dial on the television monitor,
which blinked into life and showed the immediate action in the street outside.
Although
the Doctor didn’t mind that his ship was stuck in the guise of a Police Box, it was times like these,
when he wished he had it fixed. Much to his alarm, a questionable character was
staggering towards them, thinking it the real McCoy.
The Chameleon Circuit never seemed to work properly
anyway. It required a 13 amp fuse and always blew sooner or later whenever they
tried to change it, thus the ship would default to its last disguise, the ever
prevalent Metropolitan Police/ Public Call Box.
Even on the few occasions when the circuit had
actually worked, they could never remember where they had parked, as it blended
in with the scenery. Besides, after a days busy jaunt across the plains of
another world, it was far easier to spot a Police
Box, rather than a boring boulder. Of course it blended in with the year 1966 rather well. Perhaps a little bit
too well, now that everyone and his aunt was barging inside, looking for a
telephone.
The Doctor had to act quickly. There was no time to
reach the magnetic door locks on the other side of the control room and the
others were busy carrying the constable across to the couch. Yet he simply
couldn’t have any more uninvited guests blundering into his space ship either.
One alone, was by far enough. There was only one thing for it.
‘He’ll just have to come with us, that’s
all!’ He sighed and pushed the large red lever on the steering column, that
activated the time machine…
***
Outside on the street, alarm bells were still ringing, as shattered glass
and broken window frames lay sprawled across the road from the burning edifice,
that was once Samuelson & Growsmith jewellery
store, now bellowing smoke in all directions. Meanwhile a large commotion was
brewing, as house lights turned on and people in pyjamas stepped out into the
smoky street, to see what all the fuss was about. Was it a fire? Had there been
a robbery?
Shortly afterwards, Mr Growsmith, the Jewellery Store Proprietor, arrived on the scene: a rather portly
balding fellow with thick rimmed spectacles and a great moustache, who lived in
the flat above the shop. He ran outside in his dressing gown and night cap and
clasped his dropping jaw, as he gawped in disbelief at the smouldering remains
of his business. His mind raced with the headaches of sorting out all the
insurance claims. The broken windows could be replaced easily but as for the
stolen jewellery and gold plated barometers? They had cleared him out. Nothing
left now but a few scattered gold chains and a Mickey Mouse Watch.
‘Oh no!’ He
bellowed. ‘I shall be ruined! Ruined!’
Meanwhile the inebriated News
Vender in a Burberry Cap and cream
trench coat, giddily stumbled along the pavement towards the old Police Box standing on the street
corner. Where was the police? He thought drunkenly. Had anyone contacted them?
It was most likely the work of the Barometer
Brothers again, he thought. Who else would be blowing up Jewellery shops?
He was sure he had seen the getaway car, stopping at the traffic lights just up
the road. If he was quick, he could call the coppers himself and maybe get a
squad car to head them off. Maybe he would even get a reward for his diligence
in their apprehension. After all, the Barometer
Brothers were big news, everyone was talking about them. He could be
famous!
‘Eer! The Robbers!’ He shouted. ‘Stop em! They’re getting away!’
He reached the Police
Box and grabbed the door handle and was just about to pull it open, when he
was suddenly distracted by a man on a bicycle.
‘What’s ‘appened ‘ere mate?’ Said the cyclist, riding
by.
‘Smash and grab!’ Said the news vendor, turning around
to answer him.
‘What another one? They’re always ‘appening round
‘ere!’
The news vendor nodded and pulled on the door handle. Except the handle
was no longer there and neither was the door attached to it. The old Police Box had simply vanished into thin
air. In surprise, the vender lost his balance and fell over on the pavement and
sat up, looking about in surprise, at the empty spot.
Typical! He thought. ‘They’ll nick anything these days. Even Police Boxes!’
***
Spinning through a maelstrom, the little blue Police Box navigated through the precarious mists of time itself. A
great vortex had erupted up all around it, as the thunderous eddies of time
spiralled slowly, like a myriad of multi coloured ink, clouding and swirling in
a large basin of water flowing down a plug hole. In and out of it, the time
machine winded throughout, as it tumbled down the turbulent corridors of time,
speeding faster and faster towards the future…
Inside lay
a police man, drifting in and out of consciousness, whilst three time travellers
looked on in concern. Semi aware of them, the swimming in his head had now
stopped, as the constable drifted back to the strange reality of where he now
found myself.
How long had
he been this way? Probably not much longer than half an hour for sure. Then he
felt a damp rag, draped over his forehead. Tom looked around the strange room
he found himself in, that seemed to rock back and forth like a ship on the
angry waves. He was lying on a couch of sorts, while his strange companions
regarded him with a deep fascination.
First he
saw the young girl, dressed in something of a school uniform. She was probably
not much older than ten years old, yet there was a fierce intellect behind her
inquisitive gaze, watching him intently, as did the others.
The other
woman was much older, probably around her mid thirties. She was slender like
her companions, with long jet black hair, that seemed at odds with her general
Victorian apparel: sitting there crossed legged swinging her foot, regarding
him with a strange knowing smile.
Finally, there was the old man and he too was dressed
in similar Victorian clothing: the eccentricity was undeniable. He was probably
in his late sixties, a flash of silver hair and a short clipped moustache,
framing two pale but piercing blue eyes, set into the gaunt and animated
face.
There was something extremely odd about him, so young and yet so old. Had I stumbled upon a group of mad
eccentrics? Clearly judging by their clothes, they looked and acted as if
they had fallen out of a Charles Dickens novel,
not to mention this strange blinking room he now found himself in.
And where was that
exactly? A room full
of neon lights and whirring, ticking, bleeping sounds, rocking gently from side
to side. Perhaps it was his head but he was becoming giddy from the motion of
the room. The same room he had stumbled into earlier, looking for a telephone.
A room that was way too large to conceivably fit into a Police Box. Then the events of the previous hour, suddenly came
flooding back and he sat up, pulling the wet rag from his brow.
‘Eer! The Robbers! Can
I use your telephone?’
‘Calm down lad…’ Smiled
the old man, urging him back into the couch.
‘You’ve had a nasty knock!’ His voice was calming, like that of a
academic lecturer, confident, punctual and clear. ‘Can you tell me who you are,
young man?’
‘Yes, my name is Tom
Campbell, police officer, K-Division.
‘Yes-yes, and can you tell me the date?’ The constable
looked at him confused.
‘The Date? Oh I see, you want to see if I’m alright!
Yes, its March the 31st- now can I use your telephone?’ Then he
heard a strange low whirring noise in the background, like the engine of a
plane coming to land.
‘We’re arriving, grandfather!’ Said the young girl,
observing a television monitor with a dash of colours spinning round and round,
while the turbulent motion of the room began to subside.
‘Oh, good!’ Smiled the old man, he then regarded the
constable. ‘I’m afraid you cant use the telephone…’ He said bluntly. ‘For one
thing, we haven’t got one and even if we had, I don’t think it would do any
good, not in Twenty One Fifty -A.D. !’
Tom looked at him as if he was mad. Sorry? Had he
clearly heard the old duffer right?
‘Twenty One Fifty?’ Said Tom. The young
woman nodded in agreement.
‘That’s right!’ She
smiled, as if it was the most natural thing in the world! As if they were
merely arriving on a coach to Brighton or
a ferry cruise to the South of France. He
looked at all three of them, expecting the punch line, but it never came. They
just stood there smiling at him.
Tom looked
around sceptically. He had to be at the centre of some strange elaborate joke,
he thought. As far as he was concerned, that was it. Clearly they were nuts! He
had stumbled upon a house of nutters! That or he was still unconscious.
Either way, he had to get away from these lunatics.
‘Allow me
to introduce myself…’ Said the old man, shaking his hand. ‘I am Doctor Who…this is my niece Louise and my granddaughter Susan…’ He then began to pace the
control room with his hands in the air proudly. ‘And this is my time and space
machine: TARDIS!’ Suddenly the time
machine groaned*, which everyone seemed to ignore.
‘It is
capable of taking us to any age…’ Said the Doctor enthusiastically. ‘on any
planet, in any universe! You arrived, just as we were about to leave for London in the year…’ But the constable
was already on his feet and heading towards the door.
‘Yes I know!’ He said. ‘Twenty One Fifty! Look, you don’t seem to realise, a serious
crime has just been committed. I don’t know what you’re all up to… I ought to report
you for this!’
Louise and Susan looked at the Doctor, who rolled his
eyes. Here we go again! They thought.
Louise reflected on the memories of her first encounter with The Tardis and felt obliged to defend
her Grand fathers time machine, by trying to explain it all to Tom but he was
having none of it and simply wanted out.
‘He’s telling the
truth!’ She snapped
defensively. Why was this constable being so obstinate? Usually people entered,
said the obligatory: Wow! its bigger on
the inside, then stepped out again, walked around it a few times, before asking how it was all done. But no! Not this
constable. He was more concerned about the crimes of a world that no longer
applied to them anymore.
* Improper vernacular. The Tardis hates being
referred to as TARDIS. And will groan on occasion whenever its passengers refer
to its name without the preceding ‘the’.
They were all wanderers in the fifth dimension. They could travel
anywhere. All the Doctor needed to do was set the controls and they were off
again but for this particular trip it was 2150
AD and swinging London of the New Renaissance.
It would be interesting to see what Tom made of it
all. On the other hand, their entire trip could backfire. It would take some
doing to convince Tom it wasn’t 1966 anymore. He might even run off and they’d
never find him again, not without a lot of embarrassing questions. By now he
was at the door and ready to leave.
‘He’s telling the truth!’ She said. Why don’t you
believe him? You’ve seen that its bigger on the inside!’ The constable looked
at her. Time Machine ! Ha ! Did she think
he was born yesterday ? He had seen some fast ones pulled in his time but
this really took the biscuit. He couldn’t explain how they did it but it was
all some glorified illusion: set up to con people like himself. Maybe they
regularly accosted impressionable young school kids (like the one over there) or reeled old ladies into
donating them money, to further their own twisted ends.
‘Twenty One Fifty!’ He scoffed and barged through the
front doors, suddenly finding himself standing in a strange new world…
If you enjoyed this and would like to read more, please show your appreciation, or constructive criticisms in the comments box below - many thanx JS Adams
