Doctor Who: The King of Terror by Keith Topping

Author:Keith Topping
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science-Fiction:Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780563538028
Publisher: BBC Worldwide
Published: 2000-11-14T10:00:00+00:00

‘Yeah, before you got to the “I come from another planet, baby bit.’

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no oh no . . .

Turlough sat bolt upright until his head screamed out in protest and he slumped back down again on to the soft pillow.

‘I would never tell anyone . . . ’

‘Well you did,’ Eva replied.

Turlough’s mind was in free fall. Why would he be so stupid? He knew the rules.

And then he noticed the small needle-scar on his upper arm and, like a curtain parting before him, the fog cleared and he remembered.

Everything.

‘Get away from me,’ he said, pushing Eva as hard as he could. Panic took hold as he tried to unwrap himself from the bedclothes, but in his weakened state he only succeeded in collapsing on to the bedroom floor. And there he lay whilst Eva stood up and towered over him. A laughing succubus. Turlough whimpered softly, unable to do or say anything else.

The door in front of Turlough opened and Sanger and Joyce walked in as Eva hurriedly pulled on a bathrobe.

‘Don’t get dressed on my account,’ said Sanger with a lustful, contemptuous smile.

Eva didn’t reply. Instead she used her foot to flip Turlough over on to his back.

He lay dazed and paralysed, staring at the ceiling with a bemused expression.

‘We were quite enjoying ourselves,’ Joyce noted. But Sanger’s face had changed to something more serious and businesslike.

‘I told you this was a bad idea,’ he said. ‘It’s time to stop playing games. We don’t have the time.’ He looked down at Turlough keenly. ‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said simply.

‘We’ve got what we’ve spent a decade looking for,’ said Joyce. ‘What’s the problem? We just give him to Chung and extract his DNA.’

‘Not yet,’ said Sanger. ‘We first need to find out what UNIT knows.’

The music that floated through the walls of Jon Newton’s penthouse apartment was British Indie pop. All jingle-jangle-morning Rickenbacker guitars and fey harmonised vocals. Sam Danvers and Bill Quay hammering on the door was not an altogether inappropriate accompaniment.

After they had skinned their knuckles for about three minutes the door opened and an annoyed-looking Newton stood framed in the doorway wearing a Japanese kimono-style dressing gown, his hair an untidy mess.

‘I thought I told you never to come here,’ he hissed.

116

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