Doctor Who: The Missy Chronicles by James Goss Cavan Scott Paul Magrs Peter Anghelides Jacqueline Rayner and Richard Dinnick

Author:James Goss, Cavan Scott, Paul Magrs, Peter Anghelides, Jacqueline Rayner and Richard Dinnick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ebury Publishing

The Liar, the Glitch and the War Zone

Peter Anghelides

Today …

… St Mark’s Square in Venice bustled with activity. Locals and tourists criss-crossed the piazza in happy, animated groups as preparations continued for the Carnivale. Lively children skipped beside their parents below the Campanile. Joyful couples held hands and peered into the cloudless blue sky. From their tall granite pedestals beside the waterway of the lagoon, Saint Theodore and a prancing unicorn gazed benevolently back down on them across the Piazzetta. Whichever way you turned, there were people full of love and energy and enthusiasm.

Missy hated them all.

She navigated a path between the granite pillars, studiously avoiding the pedestrian waves of excitement that lapped around her. If she didn’t make eye contact, she could restrain her natural instincts, so long as they kept their necks out of breaking distance.

A human in a jaunty hat tested her patience with his eager tone as he foisted a printed flyer into her hand. There was a certain musicality about the Italian language that softened her reaction, so she accepted it instead of pushing him into the canal. The handbill was for an exhibition at the museum, with a photo of an item on display. Well, she was older than any of the exhibits, and much better preserved.

Tesori della laguna it read: Treasures of the lagoon. Missy considered dropping the handbill into the water behind her, and imagined it floating across the calm surface, then out into the 200-square-mile expanse of the lagoon itself. It would evade the gondolas and water taxis that ferried between the many Venetian islands, until it slipped past ocean-going liners and onward into the choppy waters of the Adriatic Sea.

Instead she crumpled it into her pocket, and took a brisk walk across the piazza. At least she could enjoy the crisp, clear air. Ahead of her, the Cathedral’s Byzantine façade was masked by scaffolding, erected to enable renovations. Beneath one row of metal poles and wooden planks, there was an angry kerfuffle in the crowd.

‘Gerald! My purse!’ An English tourist wailed at her husband that someone had raided her handbag.

‘Calm down, Felicity.’ Gerald had an iPhone in one hand and a Hasselblad camera in the other. You couldn’t tell whether he was more annoyed by the theft or that his attention had been wrenched away from photographing every square inch of the piazza.

Missy had already spotted the culprits – a tatty pair of children. The boy implored tourists to sign a petition, while the girl dipped into the victim’s bag or pocket under cover of her conspirator’s outstretched clipboard.

The boy now skulked in the gloom below the scaffolding, the clipboard clutched to his chest in feigned insouciance. The girl stood apart, and sucked on a nervous cigarette.

‘Smoking is such a filthy habit,’ declared Missy as she trotted up to them. ‘It’ll be the death of you. Unless furious Felicity –’ here, she raised her voice and angled her head towards the sobbing victim – ‘has Gerald beat you amateurs to death with his long and, let’s be honest, over-compensatory lens.

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