The Drosten's Curse Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by A.L. Kennedy

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, BDWY, are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This edition is published by arrangement with BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing, a division of the Random House Group Ltd.

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.

  Executive Producers: Steven Moffat and Brian Minchin.

  BBC, DOCTOR WHO, and TARDIS (word marks, logos, and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under license.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kennedy, A.L.

  The Drosten’s curse / A.L. Kennedy. — First U.S. edition.

  pages ; cm — (BBC Doctor Who series)

  1. Doctor (Fictitious character) —Fiction. 2. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 3. Time travel—Fiction. I. Doctor Who (Television program : 1963–1989)

  II. Title.

  PR6061.E5952D76 2015

  823’.914—dc23

  2015014833

  ISBN 9780553419443

  eBook ISBN 9780553419450

  Editorial director: Albert DePetrillo

  Series consultant: Justin Richards

  Project editor: Steve Tribe

  Cover design: Two Associates © Woodland Books Ltd 2015

  Production: Alex Goddard

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  For Honor and Xavier

  PAUL HARRIS WAS DYING. This wasn’t something his afternoon’s schedule was meant to include. Death, as far as Paul was concerned, was one of the many unpleasant things which only happened to other people. He’d never even attended a funeral – all those miserable relatives. He’d also avoided weddings – all those smug relatives. And he’d skipped every christening to which underlings in his firm had thought they should invite him – all those sticky, noisy babies…all those sticky, noisy underlings…

  Mr Harris’s death was particularly surprising to him as it involved being eaten alive by a golf bunker. At least, he could only assume that something under the bunker was actually what was eating him alive – now he’d sunk down past his knees into the thing – and he could only assume that it wasn’t going to stop eating him because…it wasn’t stopping.

  First he’d been gripped around his ankles while he eyed a tricky shot for the thirteenth green. The process had involved an initial pressure, combined with a slight, but very disturbing, pain and then a type of numbness had set in. Next, he’d sunk into the sand by a few inches, before another – he tried not to think of the word bite, but couldn’t help it – before another bite was taken with a little more gentle pain and then more numbness and another tug downwards. Paul liked to think of himself as powerful and unstoppable and there was huge power and a definitely unstoppable will at work here and he would certainly have admired them both had they not been ruining his very nice pair of lime green golfing trousers and his very nice legs inside them.

  Paul was surprised to discover that he was completely unable to scream for assistance and there was no one about to even notice his rather unusual situation, never mind save him from it. His golfing partner, David Agnew, had unfortunately flounced off towards the clubhouse a short while ago. As Paul was jerked further into the sand, he reflected that Agnew had proved himself as bad a loser as he was a really irritating man. Still, it would have been helpful if Agnew had stuck around because then maybe he could have pulled Paul out of the bunker, or written down a few last requests, or got eaten too. Paul imagined that seeing David Agnew get eaten by a golf bunker would have been highly satisfying, because people like David Agnew were pretty much ideal golf bunker food, in Paul’s opinion, although he was prepared to admit that he knew nothing about bunkers which ate people and what they might prefer. If he’d had any information on them, perhaps provided by his loyal secretary Glenda, then he might not be plunged to his waist in one right now.

  The list of things that Mr Harris knew nothing about was extensive. He had never been at all curious about those aspects of the world which didn’t benefit him directly.

  Nevertheless, the most inquisitive human alive on Earth at that time still wouldn’t have known Paul was being consumed by a creature so old and so mythical the universe had almost completely forgotten it ever was. The thing had passed beyond legend and was now simply a vague anxiety at the edge of reality’s nightmares.

  In a way, it was quite wonderful that such a being should still exist. Although, of course, it wasn’t wonderful for Paul Harris, whose abilities to communicate – by signalling, crying out, or extending a subtle and sophisticated telepathic field
, should he have been able to do so – had all been suppressed by his attacker. His attacker didn’t like to be interrupted when it was feeding and fortunately evolution had allowed it to develop an ability to prevent its meals from attracting any kinds of aid. Unless, that was, the beast wanted dessert to arrive in one big arm-waving, or feeler-waving, or tentacle-waving, or slave excrescence-waving, or tendril-waving crowd of would-be rescuers, all panicky and delicious. In which case, screaming, pleading and pretty much anything else along those lines was permitted.

  Evolution also meant that, although Paul was being injured horribly, he was feeling only mild distress. Eating a struggling meal was potentially dangerous and tiring, so the creature had developed many complex and fascinating mechanisms which meant that each bite it took of its prey released soothing analgesics and sedatives into – taking this afternoon as an example – Paul’s ravaged circulatory and nervous systems.

  By this point, Paul’s arms were flopping gently on the bunker’s surface and his torso was locked into the sand as far as his armpits. He wasn’t a stupid man and he was fairly sure that as much of his body as he could still peer down at and see was about as much as was still available for board meetings and games of squash or, for that matter, golf (although he was definitely beginning to go off golf). It seemed strange to him that he couldn’t seem to be too upset about any of this. He was, in fact, increasingly docile and happy in a way that reminded him of once being a quite pleasant child with many exciting and generous prospects ahead, every one of which he had ignored or wasted later.

  As Paul’s head was tugged down beneath the surface of the bunker, he could still feel the gentle summer breeze tickling at the palms of his hands which were raised and therefore still vaguely free. He experienced a brief regret that he hadn’t kept up his piano lessons and that he’d gone on holiday to the Turks and Caicos Islands instead of attending his own grandmother’s funeral. Paul then thought, ‘Is that breathing? I seem to be able to hear breathing…A bit like a cow’s or a horse’s breathing…some very big animal. I wonder what it is.’

  At which point, Mr Harris stopped wondering anything.

  Anyone who had passed by the bunker at that exact moment would have seen two well-manicured hands apparently being sucked into the bunker and disappearing. They could then have watched the sand tremble and shiver until it presented a perfectly smooth and harmless surface again.

  BRYONY MAILER WAS QUITE possibly the most inquisitive human alive on Earth at that time, which was 11.26 a.m. on 2 June 1978. She was a slim but wiry 24-year-old female human with a great sense of humour, huge reserves of ingenuity and a degree in European History. None of these things was helping her enjoy what she had once hoped was a temporary position as Junior Day Receptionist at the Fetch Brothers Golf Spa Hotel. There wasn’t a Senior Day Receptionist, because that would have involved Mr Mangold, the hotel’s manager, in paying Senior kind of rates. So Bryony was Junior and would stay that way for as long as she was here, stuck in perhaps the most tedious place on Earth. Lately, a couple of guests had even checked in and then simply given up on the place, leaving their luggage and running away. Their accommodation had been paid for in advance – it wasn’t as if they were trying to dodge their bills – and she could only assume the sheer boredom of the Fetch had driven them out. And the wallpaper in the bedrooms was quite offensive – she didn’t think she’d want to sleep inside it, either.

  When Bryony wasn’t folding away other people’s abandoned pyjamas and storing their unwanted spongebags (in the unlikely event of their coming back for them), she was dealing with the health and beauty requirements of golfers’ bored wives, coordinating the coaching and playing and post-game massage and bar lunch requirements of the golfers and generally fielding every bizarre request and complaint that an old hotel full of petulant people can generate on any given day. She didn’t get a lot of down time.

  But she’d been having a quiet spell lately. For as long as six minutes, she’d been able to ponder whether she’d have her tea with or without a biscuit and whether the biscuit would be a Mint Yo Yo or an Abbey Crunch. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d been able to tease apart all the convolutions of French foreign policy under Cardinal Richelieu, but now even a choice between two biscuits was likely to give her a headache. And Mangold would probably have eaten them in the meantime, even though they were her biscuits…

  And, now that she thought of it, she was getting a lot of headaches and that was probably Mangold’s fault, too.

  She decided to take the risk of leaving the slightly scuffed reception desk unattended and propped a small handwritten card next to the brass counter bell – PLEASE RING – ADVICE & ASSISTANCE OBTAINABLE IMMEDIATELY – before she slipped off through the door next to the scruffy room-key pigeonholes and along the narrow passageway that led to the Staff Office.

  Bryony had never liked this passageway. It was too narrow and its wallpaper was dreadful – worse than in the bedrooms – a claustrophobic pattern of purple and red swirls which almost seemed to wriggle when you looked at them. And it was always either overly cold in here or – like today – much hotter than was pleasant. She tended to rush the journey.

  As she rushed – it wasn’t far and would take less than a minute – she wasn’t aware that behind her the wallpaper not only wriggled, but swelled in two places, heaving and stretching until it seemed there were two figures caught behind it and fighting to get out. Had she turned and seen this happening, it would have made her very frightened and also slightly nauseous, but she kept on walking, hurrying, simply aware of an odd taste in her mouth, as if she’d been sucking pennies.

  When Bryony reached the office doorway, she saw that both her packets of biscuits had disappeared and there was a little gathering of crumbs on the shelf where she’d left them.

  She didn’t see – because her back was turned and anyway why on earth should anyone be on the alert for such a thing? – that two figures had detached themselves stickily from the nasty wallpaper and were now padding along towards her. Each of them seemed unfinished, like rough models of small human beings made out of purple and red meat. Their outlines shifted and rippled horribly. Eyes and teeth emerged to the front of the two rudimentary heads, they showed white and shining and clever against the shifting masses of glistening flesh.

  And there was no way out for Bryony. The Staff Office was a dead end in every sense, as she’d often told herself.

  ‘Oh, bum.’ Bryony sighed. This was going to be another awful day. And she had the very distinct feeling she was being watched. There was a tingling against her neck. She was filled with an impulse to turn round and also an idea that if she did she might not like what she discovered.

  As they walked – now very close to Bryony – the figures kept altering, their outlines firming, features coming into focus and solidifying. Then four arms stretched out towards her and, as they lifted, were sheathed in fresh skin. Four hands became completely hand-like, with four thumbs and sixteen fingers and twenty fingernails, just as they reached out to clutch her.

  As Bryony finally did begin to spin round, she felt herself being held by both her wrists and heard the word, ‘Boo!’ being shouted by two very similar voices.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ It was the Fetch twins, Honor and Xavier, looking up at her and giggling while they squeezed her wrists. ‘You two nearly scared the life out of me.’

  ‘That would be bad. Your life should be in you,’ said Xavier, the boy twin. The Fetch twins weren’t absolutely identical, as they liked to tell everyone. They were a boy and a girl, very alike, but not the same. ‘We’re very sorry.’ Xavier didn’t currently look sorry at all.

  Neither did Honor. ‘We didn’t want to scare you…only sort of worry you a bit. To be exciting.’ She smiled and looked very sweet. ‘Excitement is nice, isn’t it?’

  Bryony forgave the little girl, as she always did. She always forgave both twins – they were just extremely…forgivable. Even though they did seem to tu
rn up suddenly more often than not, as if they were creeping about and planning something only they understood. And it wasn’t as if Bryony didn’t need some excitement. She longed for it, in fact.

  Xavier squeezed her hand between his, tugging. ‘Grandmother says she would like you to come and visit her for tea.’

  This was sort of good news – the twins’ grandmother was the millionaire Julia Fetch, the reclusive widow who owned the hotel. If she had decided to like Bryony, that might make life much easier for the Permanently Junior Receptionist and maybe even mean Mangold didn’t eat Bryony’s biscuits. Then again, she really didn’t want to work here for much longer. Possibly it would mean she got a good reference when she resigned, though…

  The twins peered up at her, identically expectant and cute with their willowy limbs, perfect complexions and sun-bleached hair, Xavier in a blue and white striped T-shirt and blue shorts, Honor in a red and white striped T-shirt and red shorts. They were both barefoot, as usual. Bryony thought maybe she might mention to Mrs Fetch that running around with no shoes on wasn’t terribly hygienic. Then again, maybe Mrs Fetch ran around in bare feet, too. No one ever saw her and she was incredibly wealthy – she could do whatever she liked. She could just not wear anything at all, ever, if she felt like it, or dress as a pirate. Of the two choices, Bryony was strongly in favour of the pirate option.

  Honor squeezed Bryony’s hand this time. ‘Do say yes. We’d be ever so pleased and have cucumber sandwiches.’ Both twins spoke like children out of an old-fashioned story book. ‘Truly we would.’ And maybe incredibly wealthy people talked like that all the time – Bryony had no idea, being what she might have called incredibly not wealthy, if it wouldn’t have depressed her to do so.

  Bryony nodded at the twins – while thinking please​pirate​costume​please​pirate​costume – and both kids gave a cheer. ‘Thank your grandmother very much. When I have a break I will come over.’

  ‘This afternoon! This afternoon!’ The twins skipped and chanted as they scampered away up the passage and out of sight.

  ‘Weird little people.’ Bryony shook her head and, in the absence of biscuits, pottered back out to the reception desk. There was no sign of the twins and the grandfather clock was, as usual, not ticking. As far as Bryony was concerned, life was dusty and hot and dull, dull, dull.