Ghosts of India by Mark Morris

Author:Mark Morris [Morris, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Horror, Literary, Comics & Graphic Novels
ISBN: 9781846075599
Google: CPVe53jLu5YC
Amazon: 1846075599
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2008-10-09T07:00:00+00:00

The readings on the timey-wimey detector kept

changing. Like someone having to constantly retune a car

radio whilst passing through an area of bad reception, the

Doctor had to stop and twiddle dials every couple of

minutes to keep the pinging noise constant.

He knew what this meant. The sonic was on the move.

Clearly it was in somebody’s possession and they were

carrying it about with them. He had configured the

detector to home in on the residual artron energy from the

Time Vortex that would be clinging to the sonic. Genius

that he was, he had instructed the machine to phase out the

larger concentrations of energy that he and Donna would

be carrying about with them and to focus on the smaller

stuff. Of course, the detector might ping excitedly away,

only for the Doctor to discover it had tracked down his

lost sun visor or Donna’s sandals. But sooner or later it

would find the sonic. It was just a matter of … well, time.

At the moment the detector was pinging away like

billy-o. The Doctor ran down street after street in pursuit

of the signal. He was only peripherally aware of his

surroundings, hardly conscious of the curious stares he

was receiving from locals braving the riot-torn but

currently quiet streets, and British soldiers on foot patrol,

alert for signs of trouble.

As far as the Doctor was concerned, they could stare all

they liked just as long as they left him alone. He had

entered the Intergalactic Staring Championships once on

Acerlago Prime and was used to being gawped at. He had

come away with bronze, but only because the Rallion

Gestalt had cheated. He was remembering what a fuss he

had kicked up at the time, and how such things had

seemed important to him back then, when he rounded a

corner and ran slap-bang into someone.

He bounced off, rubbing his nose. The man he had

collided with was at least two metres tall and seemed

almost as wide. Like many of the local men, he was

wearing a white cotton kurta over a pair of salwar pants.

He had a bushy black beard and a tangled mass of black

hair.

‘Oof, sorry,’ said the Doctor, and then he got his first

proper look at the man. He saw how the man’s body had

ballooned and twisted with zytron energy, how his face

had swollen and blackened, how the pigment had seeped

out of his eyes, so that they now looked as yellow as a

cat’s.

He saw too that the man was wielding a club which

was thicker and longer than his own leg. A club which he

was now raising into the air with the clear intention of

smashing it down on the Doctor’s head.

The man roared and brought the club down in a savage

arc. If the Doctor hadn’t leaped backwards, the blow

would have shattered his skull. He saved himself, but was

unable to save the timey-wimey detector. It was smashed

out of his hand, bits of it flying in all directions. However,

it didn’t actually stop pinging until it hit the ground and

broke in two.

‘Oh,’ said the Doctor, looking down at the machine.

‘That was a bit—’ Then he threw himself backwards as

the man swung the club again. The end swished past the

Doctor’s face, so close that he felt the breeze of it ruffle

his hair.

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