The Buccaneer Chronicles:

Ghost Walker

First Edition

by Tony Gallichan and Karen Dunn

artwork by Andy Simpkins

http://www.StaggeringStories.net/

This is the first story of The Buccaneer Chronicles first series. Other eBooks in this series, and more besides, are available free from the Staggering Stories website.

This eBook is copyright 2010 to Tony Gallicha, Karen Dunn and Andy Simpkins and is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 licence (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/).

Prologue - Frustration

The night was suffocatingly humid, the result of several long summer days of rancid heat. Skies, heavy with low hanging cloud threatened to soak the world. They had every night this week and tonight was to be no exception. Preparing for their part in the elemental activities, thunder clouds grumbled their protests at the weight of unshed water and carried on the lifelong game of chase, taunting each other with the occasional sheet of passing lightening.

A somewhat battered 1982 Cortina cruised tentatively along a dirt track which was still wet from the previous night's deluge. The driver lit his fourth cigarette of the evening and peered into the gloom. Dragging deep into his lungs, he decided that he would definitely give up the weed tonight or die trying. He felt his body relax as the nicotine drifted through his system. Maybe he'd give it up tomorrow - okay?

"After all, these things may be designed to shred your throat, but they do it in the gentlest way possible."

Thunder rumbled.

Eric Du Feu gripped the fag between his teeth, cursed loudly and wrestled with the wheel of the taxi, courtesy of the St. Helier Car Company, as it skidded violently in the mud. '9:02 PM he had received a message on the cab's radio telling him to go to Faldouet and pick up three people, name of Wood. Grockels, he'd thought - tourists. They had probably spent the day at the pub down the road and decided to spook each other out round the stones. He knew the sort - they could never decide whether they were yuppies of hippies so compromised by spending two weeks of the year wearing beads, trying to get high and calling everybody 'man'.

The headlights of the Ford cut a dagger sharp weal through the blackness, picking out trees, grass, bushes and at the very edge of the beam, the small rough circle of proud standing stones - pitted with age, yet still possessed of a certain ageless dignity.

Eric squinted through the squall of smoke and pointedly ignored the bored bimbo-like drone of the operator at base.

"Eric - are you receiving me?"

Another cloud of smoke left his nostrils.

"Eric - come in please."

Eighteen years old and called Tracey - working her way through the summer season. More smoke and then for the fourth time that evening.

"Are you sure you know where you're going, Eric?"

That was it, enough was enough. Stopping the car, he let the engine's whine fade away. He didn't need this. He didn't need little Miss cutie pants blathering on at him. Flicking the radio onto transmit, he told her as much.

"Listen, I've lived here all my bloody life, so the only way I'll get lost is if you give me the wrong bloody directions!"

Dropping the mike onto the passenger seat, he wrenched open the door and stepped out into ankle deep slush. He swore. More thunder growled, gentle in the distance, like someone trying continue a long forgotten argument. Gentle wisps of fog tickled his nose. Reaching though the open window, Eric switched the headlights to full beam and gave a short blast on the horn.

No-one approached the taxi.

No-one slouched drunkenly on the back seat and asked if he knew where St. Helier was and could he get there quickly? Eric waited for Nat King Cole to finish falling in love on the radio.

Still no-one came.

Stabbing the cigarette out with his foot, he gave another blast on the horn and pursed. This was going to be another hoax the fourth tonight. Damn! Damn'. Damn!

The thunder made him jump. It was completely overhead now, almost muffled by the fog.

Eric took a deep, calming breath. The air which fought for space in his lungs was sharp and tasted of lilac. He coughed chestily and spat twenty-five years of smoker's phlegm into the mud, then reached into his jeans pocket and lit up the evening's fifth.

Every time he lit up a fag, his fifteen year old daughter would lecture him on lung cancer, yellow teeth and passive smoking. He would listen in amused silence and promise that he would give it up. Tomorrow. Then his little Erin would pout, fold her arms and sulkily mumble that he always said that.

"Definitely the last one, Erin," he promised the night. Taking small, agitated puffs on his cigarette, he peered into gloom, his sight losing itself in the sheer volume of the fog. When his over strained patience finally snapped, he stamped the smoke into the mud and turned to give Tracey a little piece of his mind concerning the validity of phone bookings.

The silence made him pause.

It was as if the night had died. No insects chattered busily at his feet, no wind ruffled the grass or disturbed the dense fog. Even the persistent thunder had taken time off between rounds.

A prickling sensation caressed the back of his neck, making the tiny hairs bristle. The silence was watching him - waiting. Instinct made him freeze, his right hand only inches from the car door. Fear heightened his senses, magnifying the smells and feelings which were wrapping round him like a shroud.

The night was breathing at him.

His own breath rasped in his throat and the fear continued to build within him, a solid lump of fear buried deep within his chest, swelling with every breath. Eyes riveted by the all consuming fog in front of him, behind him - God, it was all around him. He reached for the door handle and the warmth and safety of the car.

He nearly made it.

The scream which ripped the silence apart was like nothing he'd ever heard before. The intensity of it hurt his ears.  Anger fought against hatred for superiority of noise and blasted into a report that almost shattered his ear drums.

Primeval fear paralysed his legs and as the scream tore towards him, he had to look.

He turned.

And came face to face with hell.

Careering towards him through the fog were two huge fireball eyes, infernos of unshielded fury which burned nightmares into his mind and ripped the sobbing child that is in all of us from his breast and devoured it.

As he sank to his knees, sobs trying to escape the crushing confines of his mouth, Eric lost control of his bladder, covered his face with his hands and cried out for his mother ...

The thing came closer, feeding on his terror, gorging itself on grief, then reaching out with all it was and bursting through his soul into his very being, revelling in his howls of pain and fear. Finally, sated and unable to absorb Eric's anguish any longer, it let itself free and exploded outwards with a roar of pure triumph.

In an instant, Eric knew no more pain. For a glorious second. it all stopped and he thought that he was safe. Then, in the time it took the creature to leave him, he felt his body tear, split and for the next fraction of a moment he experienced pain so intense, it was not there at all. With an outrush of contained air, his intestine, brain - his entire body – spread across the bland green bonnet of the car.

His final thought was for his baby son and all the secrets he would never be able to share with him.

The creature heard the thought, felt it as it passed through, and as the clouds finally won their battle and cried refreshing tears on the land, it crouched beside the mess that had been Eric Du Feu and wept harsh, bitter tears.

One by one, the tiny lives of the forest resumed, their nightly rituals, chattering and baying at an unreachable moon. A badger ambled clumsily through the beam of the headlights then stopped to sniff the air.

Back at, the St. Helier Car Company's base, Tracey listened in confusion to the wretched crying that was trickling from her headphones. The night was active behind it and she could hear the hiss of rain as it soaked the forest.

She couldn't see the badger loping for cover at the presence of a strange scent. She couldn't see the fog dispersing to a light mist and then disappearing completely. And as she picked up the telephone to alert her boss of a possible accident, she had no way of knowing that the creature was gone.

Chapter One - Innocence

The woods got cold at night.

Luckily, Daddy had made him wear a thick sweater when had walked Cally, so he didn't really shiver that much.

He didn't like the woods. They were dark and had shadows in them which were shaped like monsters. He had made a stick gun to shoot the monsters with but it was flaky because of all the rain. He didn't like the rain either. On the first night he had got very wet and had cried a lot. Voices had called for him - men's voices - loud and angry, so he had hidden in a bush until they went away. On the second night he had found an old hollow tree and climbed inside. It had been nice and dry and there had been some almost ripe blackberries on a bush next to it. They tasted horrible, so he spat them out. Then a big spider had come down a string and sat on his arm and he had hit it away and cried again. The voices had come back, nearer this time, and he knew that they were ghosts. He had curled up very small and quiet and they had gone away again.

Now though, he missed his Mummy and wanted to go home. He had looked for a policeman. He knew exactly what to say to a policeman. How did it go?

"My name is Andrew Fay and I'm lost."

Then the policeman would take him to the station until and Daddy came to pick him up. Then they would all go to the Wimpy for a hamburger.

It was nearly morning now, all cold and foggy. He could hear the birds singing to each other up in the trees and every now and then a little animal would rustle in the grass. Andrew struggled out of the warmth of the tree and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was very hungry but would not touch the pinky green berries which looked at him from the bushes. He wanted to run to Mummy and ask for toast and Marmite and a glass of milk. He wanted her to tap her foot until he said 'please'. He wanted Daddy to ruffle his hair as he set off for work. And he wanted to watch from the window as he disappeared round the corner.

He wanted to go home.

Not knowing where he was going, he began walking rather unsteadily through the trees. Brambles ripped at his legs and roots kept tripping him up. By the time he had reached a clearing, his grubby face was tear stained and his nose was running like candle wax over his lips. He sat down in the grass, cuddling his bleeding legs and sobbed.

"Mummy." Another sob, harsh and agonising. "I want to go home."

Something moved in the bushes behind him. He turned to look, curiosity fighting through the tears. He loved it when the foxes and badgers came out of the trees and looked at him. He had learnt to sit very quietly so they wouldn't run away, and sometimes they would nearly let him touch them. He hoped it was a badger, all funny and stumbly with a snuffly wet nose.

The thing came cautiously from its hiding place. It was black like a shadow and hairy like a badger and its eyes were red like his guinea pig's eyes. It was nearly as tall as his Daddy and when he looked at the thing, it seemed all misty and soft. To Andrew, it was a bear. A friendly, lonely bear which was as lost as he was. Wiping a hand across his dripping nose and then cleaning the hand on his sweater, he got to his feet and smiled at the creature.

"Hello." His child's voice was high and innocent and the thing just looked at him. "I'm going home now."

He walked a few steps and looked back. It was following him.

Andrew smiled. Daddy wouldn't let him have a dog while Jamie, his, baby brother, was so small. This had annoyed him and just confirmed in his mind that Jamie was more trouble than he was worth and should be sent back at once. On the other hand, perhaps Daddy would let him have a bear. After all, bears can cuddle babies and keep them warm, and bears can hold the jar with the guinea pig food in it so that Mummy can feed them. And in the evenings, bears can lie on the carpet and people can put their feet in the fur and have warm toes. He waited for it to catch up then reached up to where its paw should have been. He felt something engulf his hand and stroke it gently while at the same time not actually touch him. Then they walked together, the boy talking excitedly to the black something which seemed to be listening intently to every word he said.

"I went with Daddy to give Cally a walk." Andrew looked at the bear.

"Cally's Mr. Jones's dog. They're sort of hairy and scratch lot and have wet noses and chase cats and get fleas." He lowered his voice, whispering a great secret.

"Mr. Jones had to get a flea collar to stop the fleas going on the chairs. Mummy got it for him from the shop 'cos Mr. Jones hurt his leg in a war and can't walk now." He remembered feeling very sad for Mr. Jones. He couldn't walk, couldn't run, couldn't play football in the park or make great big footprints in the snow at Christmas time. But the creature just looked down at him, curiosity somehow playing across the mist of its face.

The walked in silence for a while, then ...

"I miss my Mummy and Daddy ... I want to go home but I don't know the way and I've missed Rainbow and Mummy might have forgot to record it," he sniffed. "We were going to buy me some shoes as well, 'cos I start at big school in September and I can't go in trainers." His voice was a wail. "And Daddy's going to be very angry 'cos I ran off when he told me not to. And if I don't get home, Jamie will be big enough to eat my sweets soon." With that, he burst into tears and buried his face in the something that was holding his hand.

The something knelt down beside the boy and peered closely at him. The child's grief and longing for home ripped through it like a blade and, as it released him, it curled itself into a foetal ball and moaned pathetically as it gently rocked to and fro.

Tiny arms wrapped round it and a snuffly voice sobbed, "Don't cry, please. I'm sorry."

Andrew curled up next to his 'bear', trying to comfort it. Before long, he was asleep and peacefully calm. Uncurling, the creature stared at the child. Unmoving, deep in thought. Then, bending down, it scooped him up and began a hesitant walk towards the distant lights of the town.

Chapter Two - Tiger...who?

August in the Channel Islands is beautiful - when there's a month that could pass for August and not some poor imitation of April. If you stand at the edge of Noirmont Point on the southern most tip of Jersey you can watch the sunlight dance on the water, glinting off the waves and, if it is very clear, imagine that you can see the shores of France. Then, if you run really fast and really hard, across the breadth of the island, you will eventually come to the old ruins of Jardin D'Olivier, wreathed in their cocoon of bushes and trees. Go as far as you can, get to the cliff face and you should be able to see France, green and welcoming in the distance. Then, maybe, just maybe, you'll recall the stories told you by your grandparents of how, once in a millennia, the sea will give up its bed and all the lost and stranded souls will uproot and walk to Normandy.

And that is Jersey, surrounded by deep blue sea. Well, there is more but this will suffice for the moment. On three sides is France and on the fourth is the Atlantic. Go out to sea that way, turn right a bit and keep going and you should find England...eventually.

Which is exactly why a certain Time Lord and his dubious companions chose the island for a well-earned break.

Macfadyan lay on his front in the sandy grass.

He was a tall man with a long, wayward mop of blond hair constantly falling over his slightly chubby face. Piercingly blue eyes twinkled above the long nose and full lips. His clothes would not have looked out of place on a New Romantic or a pirate. More than once had people referred to him as "the Buccaneer" or "Ed Tudor-Pole" because of them. They consisted of knee high boots over the top of his baggy black velvet trousers, long brocade waistcoat over baggy, big-sleeved white shirt. His long black velvet coat was dropped in a pile just out of his reach, his black velvet hat atop them. He was in shirtsleeves as a gesture of surrender to the blazing August sun that beat relentlessly down, causing a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

The task had been set. His goal was clearly in sight. Assessing the difficulty of the situation, he ran through wind speed theories and angle of attack formulae in his head then got to his feet and selected his weapon from the choice on show.

"Time for battle," he thought.

Arms straight and executing a perfect arc, he struck the small, blue ball, watching with satisfaction as it whizzed through the air, bounced off the ramp and launched itself through the hole in the netting and then plopped straight into the hole.

"Aha! A hole in one I believe, Macfadyan," he praised himself.

"Naturally!" he added with an air of smugness. The self-satisfied grin that had been plastered across his face vanished when he caught sight of the next hole on the Crazy Golf course. Deciding to ignore the hole in the hope that it would quietly go away, he nervously glanced around, noting that Crea't had got so bored that he had deactivated himself, the metal head silent and still on the causeway of the eight hole looking for all the world like just another golfing obstacle.

Macfadyan took his handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and mopped his brow. This was the way to relax, he thought. No emergencies, no catastrophes, just sun, sea, sand and a Sunday morning's game of golf. And no sign of any beans. Life just couldn't get better.

Selecting a new club and not caring that they were all three irons and it made no difference which one he used, he teed up for his next shot. Legs slightly bent, arms nice and straight, swing back, swing forward...a wet towel caught him sharply across the back of the neck. It tingled.

The ball flew at the wrong angle, bounced off the castle on the sixth hole, ricocheted off Crea't and hit a holidaying policeman on the forehead, who had the decency to collapse without a fuss.

"Blanche!" Macfadyan glared at the young woman striding towards him. Her hair was sopping and water was dripping onto her tee shirt and down her back. She had a pleasantly attractive if somewhat boyish face although the rosiness of her cheeks and the chlorine-red eyes did spoil the effect somewhat. She retrieved the towel and grinned at him while he glowered.

"Wotcha, Mac. How's it going?"

"Blanche, I am engaged in a highly scientific experiment. It is designed to determine the airflow pertinent to...to..." His voice tailed off as he tried to recall just what it was he was trying to do. Then he saw Blanche looking at him sternly. One of the ground rules that she had established for their holiday was "no blustering, lecturing, ranting or soap-boxing" of any kind. He grinned slightly.

"Can't a Time Lord enjoy himself once in a while, hmm, child?"

She wrapped her sodden towel around her shoulders and tugged him on the arm.

"Course you can - but only if you do it on the beach."

"I don't think that Crea't would like all that sand." He replied.

* I AM FULLY PROOFED AGAINST DUST OF ALL KINDS. PROCEED TO THE GLASS DEPOSIT SITE *

Macfadyan sniffed.

"Very well. You win. It is a holiday after all. Hmm. I wonder what's happening over there?"

A small group of people had gathered around the prone form of the victim of macfadyan's rogue golf ball.

"Ignore it, Mac. Beach time remember?"

He sighed. Then, gathering his coat and hat he led the way to the pay desk, smiling at the young lad as he handed back the fifteen clubs and two dozen balls he had hired.

"The angle of the heads is off by half a degree." Then he smiled and walked off. With an apologetic smile to the lad, Blanche ran to catch up with him.

* WOULD YOU LIKE A VEGETABLE PRODUCT * said Crea't to the lad, who promptly fainted at the sight of a floating, metal head.

The funfair was in full swing. Umpteen different speakers blared out umpteen different songs from umpteen different rides. Dodgems, roundabouts, huge whirly things with lots of screaming adolescents clinging onto them for dear life - Macfadyan, to Blanche's amusement, was studying them all. His face was unreadable except for the child's light in his eyes. Blanche could understand that. She had never been to such a wondrous place; life in Victorian London just didn't allow it. Looking at Macfadyan again, she realised that he was itching to have a go on all the rides but wasn't sure if his dignity or his stomach could stand it. They came to the big wheel, huge and bedecked with hundreds of lights, all prepared for a spectacular display that evening. Blanche began bouncing impatiently from foot to foot.

"Come on, Mac, I've never been on anything like this!" He was looking at her.

"You honestly expect me to ride on that?" She had a grip on his arm again.

"Yes! Oh come on Macfadyan, you only live once." He stared at her.

"Strictly speaking, child, that is not exactly accurate. For either of us." He smiled at her a little desperately, his mind casting around for an escape. Darting eyes finally came to rest on the huge glass dome of the Piazza - a crowded complex also known for some reason as the Rotunda - a crowded complex designed especially for rest, entertainment and sport. There was the possible chance of a cup of tea suddenly floating in front of his eyes.

"Just the place."

Blanche glared at him. "Your scared."

He looked down at her. "No, just thirsty. Anyway, I'm a Time Lord. I do not do 'fun'. If you want to risk life and limb on this oversized water wheel, then go ahead. I shall be sitting at ground level," he pointed, "over there, having a cup of tea."

"Tea?"

"I'm on holiday. Come along, Crea't."

She watched as the Time Lord started towards the inner fort, becoming embroiled in an animated conversation with the Sot'm, both having to break off as the crowd flowed around them. Thinking about it, she was a bit hungry. A few egg and bacon sarnies would go down a treat. Shouldering her bag and swallowing her pride, she hared after them.

They continued down the East Ditch, music blaring out at them, weaving their way through the crowd. A few people cast curious glances at Crea't, but most just accepted the floating head as a part of the entertainment. Then, after a couple of minutes, Macfadyan stopped, looking in one particular direction.

The one thing... no, make that one of the things that niggled Blanche was Macfadyan's ability to lecture. Now, when his chosen subject was one of interest to her - which wasn't often - these lectures, often accompanied by a general dismissive attitude, could be fascinating. The trouble, thought Blanche, was that Macfadyan didn't know the difference between interesting and downright dull. He was simply enthusiastic. Or rather, as she suspected, he just liked the sound of his own voice. Here was a man who could show the same level of enthusiasm about a major scientific discovery as he could about a roofing tile. Take now for example. Here they were in Fort regent, Jersey's main tourist attraction, surrounded by all the fun of the fair and the complete histories of battles, heroic rescues and dashing deeds, and what does he decide on for today's lecture?

Candy floss!

Or, to be precise, the candy floss area, with its crowds of shrieking children and its large red and white booth. And they had agreed. No lecturing.

"I'm going to get you for this, you giant fop!" she thought. She transferred her attention to what was going on around the kiosk.

A giggling rabble of youngsters clustered around it, admiring the skills of the young man behind the counter. He was demonstrating his slightly dubious magical talent with a ten pence piece and the ear of a six-year-old girl.

"Et voila." He produced the coin, seemingly from the depths of her hair, and with a flourish, handed it to the child. "Your change, mademoiselle!"

She ran off to her waiting parents, her face plastered with a delighted smile and not a little of the candy cloud waving precariously in front of her. The young man returned to his work, curling stick after stick of the sugary fluff for the admiring crowd. Macfadyan sniffed disdainfully, then, suddenly he stiffened.

"What's wrong?" Blanche asked him.

He snapped out of himself and looked at her. " I don't know. Just a feeling. A premonition perhaps? Or it could have been the fact that the young man there with pink fluffy confection has a problem with his timing. It was badly off."

She stared at him, her heart sinking at the thought that the holiday could be about to be over and was about to protest but he was off again, babbling about coins, clubs, balls, eggs and the Magic Circle in that pompous manner of his. Then it hit her. Whether or not he was teasing her, unlikely but she could hope, this was his way of enjoying himself. She ran to catch up again. He opened the door of the Piazza.

"I'm hungry, Macfadyan."

He looked at her.

"Food. Yes. This way I think."

He pointed her towards the green neon beacon that announced that they had found the Café Regent. She started towards it, Crea't beside her.

Before he joined them, Macfadyan looked back towards the candyfloss booth. Then his gaze flickered on towards the Ghost Train.

He frowned.

Something was going to happen.

He could feel it.

Chapter Three - Escape to Danger

Tracy Collins was having one hell of a morning, not improved by having had no sleep the previous night. After she had tried in vain to contact the late lamented Eric on the radio, her ears had almost exploded at the assaulting sound of... well, she had thought it was feedback at the time. Blasting through the headphones, the noise had made her scream with pain. She had flung off the 'phones and sat there trembling with shock for what seemed like hours. Pulling herself together, she had turned down the volume of the radio and yanked the jack plug out of its socket. Tentatively, she turned the radio up a fraction. At first it seemed as though there was nothing to hear, but as she increased the volume, a small noise could be heard whispering through the speakers. She couldn't place it immediately, but after some thought, she realized that it was crying. Someone was crying. Someone small. Someone desperately unhappy.

Once she had her wits about her - not an easy thing to achieve with the three telephones ringing all at once - she had contacted her boss. After she had been subjected to a short tirade from him on the level of her intelligence, he had told her to call the police. It sounded to him as if Eric were in trouble. That made her feel one hell of a lot better. According to her boss, not only was she stupid, but now she was somehow to blame for any trouble that Eric was in. How was she supposed to know the difference between a real call and a hoax? Was she meant to ring them all back just to check that they did want a taxi after all?

The police hadn't exactly been very good about it either. She had given them Eric's last known position and they had agreed to send a car out there to investigate. They had also sent someone round to question her. She had explained what had happened to PC 452 and he had very helpfully looked at her as if she were wasting his time. Then he had wondered into a corner and asked his radio what was happening at Faldouet. The report that he got back almost made him throw up. Eric Du Feu was dead. Make no bones about it. In fact there were only bits of bone to be found. Bits of bone and large chucks of flesh. Eric had literally exploded.

That was when Tracy had burst into tears and become hysterical.

They had left her to calm down with a WPC for about a half an hour, and then questioned her closely about the events, going over it time and time again until she was sick of it.

She had finally flopped into bed at four in the morning, only to be kicked awake by her flat-mate, Tricia, at seven. The phone call she had made to the boss of her day job, Jan, had not been the best in the world either. The usually friendly Jan didn't seem to care that she had only slept a total of two hours. In fact, she hadn't believed that anything had happened at all. All she wanted to know was if Tracy was coming to work that morning, and if not, would Tracy like to collect her wages and hand in her uniform as soon as possible?

Tracy had gone to work.

When she arrived, Jan had told her that this was her last warning. She had also insisted that Tracy gave up her taxi job as she was fed up with one of her daytime waitresses coming to work looking like death warmed up. With that, Jan had stormed into the kitchen and started violently buttering bread for the day's sandwiches.

Tracy went meekly to the cloakroom and took off her coat. She needed the wage from the taxi firm to supplement the salary she made at the café. Jan was a good boss, but she couldn't afford to pay her staff enough to live on, so they all moonlighted in some form or another. Perhaps it was the knowledge that her staff couldn't give her their all that had put the sweet tempered owner of the Café Regent in such a foul mood. As she changed into her rinky dinky uniform - completely the wrong colour, it made her blonde hair look dull and her usually healthy complexion pasty - Tracy cheered herself up with the knowledge that it wouldn't last much longer. In two weeks she would have saved enough to go home to Liverpool.

And the thought made her smile for the first time since Eric had died.

Two hours later and Tracy was in the thick of it. The morning rush had been busier than usual and the queue still showed no sign of letting up.

"Four bacon sandwiches, one croissant and two cups of coffee please, young lady," said the large man in front of her.

"Cappuccino?" He had looked puzzled, then shrugged.

"Yes, why not?" And suddenly he had smiled at her - a lovely, charming smile. It was just what she needed. Then she saw his eyes, cold, calculating and with an air of superior indifference.

"Th...The bacon needs to be cooked. Give us ten minutes."

She had left Maria, the other waitress, to cope and ran off to do it personally. Somehow she felt that she had to attend to the man's order herself.

Seconds later she was back, having been hustled from the kitchen by the outraged French cook who had ranted at her about "silly English girls forgetting their place". Her mood dropping back to ground level, she had ignored the rest of the queue and began telling Maria about the night's events.

The Buccaneer was bored.

He had been waiting in the queue for a whole 15 minutes and in that time he had done some serious thinking. He had formulated three five-dimensional wave theories, a campaign of action in case...well, lets just say that the Heinz corporation wouldn't know what had hit them, and formulated a healthy disrespect for the great British tradition of queuing. Now the girl at the counter was telling him, in that annoying accent, that the food would take another ten minutes.

He wondered if he had done something to offend her primitive human emotions and wished that, just for once, Blanche would have cheese in her sandwiches.

"Excuse me, miss..." Tracy turned round.

"It won't be a moment, I'll just get you your coffees." And she went to the espresso machine.

"Humans." Thought Macfadyan. He wondered if he should indeed had some tea instead and considered giving the waitress one of his hard stares, decided against it and adopted an air of total dissatisfaction. He looked round the piazza, taking in the jewellery shop, the pubs, the aquarium and the stage show, currently alive with huge, outrageously proportioned animals singing to a crowd of enraptured children. He didn't like to think of the way it had been built - a great lump of steel and glass balanced carefully on top of the existing superstructure of the old fort like a huge, upturned, white soup bowl.

"Huh, they think that this is bad - just wait until they see Greenwich." He thought.

His attention was drawn to the conversation between the two waitresses.

"... I tell you, Maria. All I heard was this really loud noise, you know, like feedback. Then there was nothing. Just this sound like a child crying. God, Maria, I was so scared. I didn't know what the hell had happened. Then they tell me that Erics dead. Thank heaven I'm going home soon."

Now that was interesting. Macfadyan stared at her, his eyes piercing her back. Somehow, she felt his gaze and turned, expecting the worst. Instead she found herself facing the large customer whose fashion sense was still stuck in the worst part of the early eighties. A sense of foreboding flooded through her...

A bell rang behind her. The bacon sandwiches were ready...

Once he had sorted out some Jersey coins from the avalanche of Centaurian credits which were weighing him down and paid for the food and drink, Macfadyan made his way to the table that he and Cre'at were sharing, only to find that Blanche had finally joined them, looking a little green around the gills.

"A little to much for you?" he said.

"I never went on one of them before - though I'm gonna again as soon as the floor stops moving. That my food?" She snatched the plate of sandwiches from Macfadyan's hand.

"Hmmf. I shall have to instil some basic manners in you, child."

*YOU WILL BE REPROGRAMMING THE CLONING BANKS? *

"No, Cre'at. Simple discipline should suffice. An education can do wonders for even the most...primitive of brains."

"Bog off!" chuckled Blanche, uneasily. Since his regeneration, she had never been able to work out if Macfadyan was joking about some things.

The Buccaneer's face took on the look of a hunter that has just sighted his prey.

"The girl who served me seemed concerned about something more important than my order. " He looked affronted for a moment.

"She was more interested with her conversation. A very peculiar conversation it was too." His face became grim.

"Someone died last night, in strange circumstances."

Blanche paused between mouthfuls. Then she slammed the sandwich down. Cre'at, sensing trouble moved away slightly. When Blanche lost her temper there was no telling just what she would do. He suspected that it was instability in the cloning process and had said as much to Macfadyan. But the Time Lord had brushed his suggestions away saying that this was how he remembered the original Blanche and they should be true to her memory. As usual, Cre'at kept his observations to himself. On some subjects, Macfadyan just could not be told.

"We're supposed to be on holiday." Blanche shouted, " I should have known that something like this would happen. I suppose this is one of your great attempts at a master plan? God, why can't you just live day to day like the rest of us? I mean, that's just typical. Here we are, supposedly enjoying ourselves and you find death. I bet you knew something was going on. Actually, no...I bet your gonna say you know what's going on even though you don't. If I could be bothered, I'd worry about you. But you're just not worth it."

Macfadyan produced his fob watch and consulted it.

"Hmm, not bad. A rant lasting all of thirty seconds. Blanche would have been proud."

"I'M BLANCHE!" she screamed.

"Of course you are, child. How could we ever forget it.?" He patted her hand in a patronising way. "As a matter of fact, I know nothing about this. The reason we are here is because I need a break. I've...well, I've been having rather a hard time of it lately. We all have. We came here for the sake of rest. To recuperate, that's all."

She thought about it.

"You're being straight with me?" She asked him, hopefully.

"Strange as it may seem to you, child, yes. Though I will say that if I wanted us to investigate this death then we would. Is that clear? Now..."

He smiled at her.

"You go to the beach. I'm going to broaden my already wide horizons."

"You what?"

"I'm going to the German Underground Hospital. I don't advise that you come. You may find that some of your future is non too pleasant. There's a poster for it over there." He pointed across the piazza. "Go and have a look, then tell me if you want to come. Cre'at, you might find it very illuminating."

The metal head floated down form the piazza's support struts.

* MORE PRIMATIVE WAYS FOR HUMANS TO KILL EACH OTHER? * the Sot'm asked.

"Not quite. Something slightly different. It will be an eye opener for you."

Macfadyan leant back in his chair and took a contented swig of coffee.

Chapter Four - Deep Breathing

William Small was a bully in an expensive suit. Built like a colossus and with a temper like a volcano, he strolled through the intense claustrophobia, which had built up beneath the dome of the piazza and revelled in the way people cleared a path for him.

His watch said that he was impressively late for work. He would blame the car even though it was safely in his garage. His boss, Caroline, would rant at him and call him incompetent and he would stand still and take it and mentally undress her again. Before that though, he had work to do. Passing the bizarrely located Unit Insurance Services' office - what that was doing in a tourist spot was beyond him - he made his way to the Café Regent.

The manager of the café, a striking woman in her early forties, was called Jan Harvey. And her day had just taken a turn for the worse. The representative of her landlord - the States of Jersey - had just shown up. And that always meant bad news. Today was no exception. After the usual "pleasantries" he had gone straight down to business.

"Mrs. Hardy. I wrote to you on behalf of Caroline Saracin, chairperson of..."

"I know who she is, Mr. Small. Just why are you here?"

"Now, now, Mrs. Hardy. A bad temper could give the customers a bad impression. It might scare them off and then where would you find the extra rent?"

"Extra rent? You don't mean...?" She was shocked.

"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Hardy. The committee has increased your rent by 98 percent."

Jan sat down, shocked. Then anger took over.

"What gives you the right to charge that much, It's ridiculous!"

"Tourism's been very lax since the BBC stopped filming here. And the committee felt that they had been equally lax in not raising the rents in previous years. We're making up for it now. You can't expect to pay rock bottom prices for ever, can you?"

Jan slammed her fist onto the counter. She didn't notice the large man that Tracy had served the bacon sandwiches to look up and stare.

"I will not be bought!" she said.

"We're not trying to buy you out, Mrs. Hardy, " he smiled, all sickening and sugary, "Although, if you are intending to sell your lease we will, of course, make you a generous offer."

Jan glared at him, her face red with fury. She waved the knife that she had been using under William's nose.

"Keep your offers! I'll find the rent and so will all the others that you've tried to hassle. That's right. We've talked. I just didn't believe them. Huh! Well, more fool me. Now take your smarmy grin and get out of my bloody café."

He paused. The knife touched his nose.

"OUT!"

William moved casually in the direction of "out".

"I'll let Miss Saracin know of your decision. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

She turned to go to her office, his mocking laughter following her. She only just made it before the frustrated tears began to flow.

The German Underground Hospital is a huge cavern hollowed into the side of a large hill in the parish of St. Lawrence. An irreversible memento to the German occupation during the Second World War. The entrance is a gigantic white archway with a large red cross painted above it, leading into a badly lit tunnel. There is a gift shop and a café where once guns would have nestled. You can buy tea towels, a sticky bun or your own genuine imitation post card showing scenes from the hospital when it was in use.

Blanche was captivated. She was so glad that Macfadyan had allowed her to come. The sights. Sounds and smells of this almost twig light world made her nauseous, yet she wanted to see more. The displays of individually lit photographs taken during the war adequately told a story of horror. Seeing the people immortalised in wax was worse. Each figure was a masterpiece. Each face was etched forever with lines of fear or pain. Each sound, which bubbled from the hidden speakers, related the futility and barbarity of war, the shattering of innocence. The violence of man. And all this was in her future. Would mankind never learn?

She listened amazed as the owner, a woman called Emily, related tale after tale from what she referred to as "an historical abomination".

They reached a scenario portraying a huddle of men chiselling into the walls with small pickaxes. Emily stopped the tour and pointed to a small brass plaque.

"This is the site of one of the worst cave-ins during the construction of the hospital. Five local prisoners of war, forced to dig with almost Stone Age tools, were killed when the roof fell in. The plaque tells you their names and ages."

Everyone in the tour group automatically looked at the tiny writing. She heard a very Time Lord-ish sigh from beside her.

Blanche did not envy Emily her job. Having to spend the entire day looking at images of dead people would spook her no end. She peered at the eyes of the nearest waxwork. It seemed to peer back at her and Blanche shivered and looked away.

Oh shame! She had just been stared down by a mannequin! That was almost as bad as loosing to Cre'at in a game of "mercy". Though Cre'at claimed to be an Olympic champion at the sport so perhaps that wasn't so bad.

The little group was getting restless now. They all looked more than a little nervous. One of the children was starting to cry and was hoisted up into the safety of his father's arms.

"This was bloody weird," thought Blanche. The place was really getting to them. Come to think of it, she could feel herself trembling and had to fight to control it. This was ridiculous. She had been through an awful lot in her travels with the Buccaneer, terrible things had happened to her, including dying. This place shouldn't be getting to her. But it was. There was something in the air. Something heavy. Evil. The Buccaneer would say and he would be right. She looked at him as the tour moved on/ He was studying the postcard that he had bought from the gift shop. He seemed calm enough. Mind you, he always had that slightly calm, slightly smug expression on his face - well, unless he was shouting. Cre'at too looked calm. Mind you. He always looked calm. His was a face that you wouldn't want to play poker against.

Macfadyan, though, was feeling neither calm nor smug. There was something wrong. Something that could not be pinpointed, but kept jumping from one place to the other. The feelings of the crowd were too strong. Even an extremely display such as this shouldn't have caused such a reaction. It bordered on the hysterical. He watched as the sobbing child was carried on to the next part of the tour and, motioning to Blanche to follow them and not to tug her "balloon" - in reality Cre'at pretending to be helium filled and "fun", he looked around, turning full circle. There was a prickling feeling at the back of his mind.

Fear.

Horror.

Pain.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the sudden headache that assaulted him. Then it was there, like a knife, the worst emotion of all - hate. He gasped and tightened his grip on the postcard. He looked at it closely. It showed this very room as it was during World War II.

"No, no, no. The angles wrong."

He moved across the room to one of the photo displays and looked again.

"Ah. Yes. Just right." The feelings of hate and pain were stronger now, as if something were trying to break through.

Something was...

Something...

There was a great pain in his head, a light so bright that it blinded him and he was elsewhere. Yet he was still in the same place.

People moved around him. Men lay injured in rough metal beds. Smatterings of German drifted from wall to wall. The place reeked of sweat and death.

And in the bed nearest to him, the bed in the postcard, someone was dying.

Chapter Five - A Blast from the Past

4th September, 1943

Dear Mother and Father,

This will just be a short note to let you know that I am welI. My hair needs cutting but otherwise, I think you would be proud of me. I have been sent to a small island called Jersey - it is much as I remember the Rhineland to be - beautifully fresh. The people here treat us well - there are no misplaced acts of defiance as there were in France and I believe that the war wiIl soon be over. After all, we are one step from England and it's defence of women and old men.

You never know, my next Ietter may come to you from London.

your loving son.

Ernst

4th September, 1943

Dear Diary,

I have lied to my parents, the people I love most in the world. I want nothing more than to scream to them for help . To have them take me home and keep me safe. But how do I tell them the truth. They are so old and so far away? Have I the right to worry them, to wreck their lives for the sake of telling them the truth?

The truth is that I am to die. My legs are all but gone - a mess of shrapnel which gives me constant pain. I know that I must lose them or die. I also known that I will probably die during the procedure anyway.

I am afraid of dying, Diary.

Forgive me my cowardice but that is the way I feel.

I want to celebrate my eighteenth birthday with my mother smiling at me and my father shaking me by the hand.

I want to smoke my first cigar at his side as he offers me a Cognac.

I want to live to be a man, Diary, not die a tearful coward in an underground cavern which passes for a hospital.

The people here hate us. They spit at us as we pass. I did not lie when I said that they do not resist us as the French did. I think these people are worse. We cannot get into their minds, cannot force than to commit violence which could then be punished. They fight us with their hearts, not their hands. They look at us as if we were dirt - they make no attempt to lessen the burden of occupation. When we finally leave, they will laugh at us because they know we cannot break them.

That makes me more afraid than anything else.

I am watching a group of them now. They are digging with tools just one step up from bare hands and they do not complain, They just do their work and take their pay. Perhaps pay is the wrong word, Diary, for they are prisoners of the glorious Reich - at least that's what the propaganda sheets would say.

They are excavating another cavern to this hospital. It is work for trained men with machines, riot fishermen with pickaxes,

I keep finding myself admiring those we have vanquished, be they Polish, French, or these islanders. Could we have held our heads so high if we were the conquered and not the conquerors? Could we have so blatantly detested our captors and still managed to keep our pride intact?

Somehow, Diary, I think not.

Macfadyan watched through confused eyes as the young soldier chewed the end of his pencil and pondered over which secrets to share with his paper confidante. He was completely oblivious to the Time Lord's presence, in fact it seemed that no one could see him.

The Buccaneer shivered. There was fear in this place. Too much fear mixed with too much hate.

He watched the soldier as he began to write again. There was no spite in this child. He was yet to understand the meaning of pure, darkest hate. This was not the stereotypical Nazi oppressor which the world was fighting. This was a seventeen year old boy caught up in a war which he was too young to understand.

No, the hate was not coming from him.

He glanced around, his head spinning, still unable to come to terms with his sudden transportation. Five men, ragged and stinking, were chipping relentlessly at the rockface with hand hel pickaxes, occasionally taking a feeble swing at it with a solitary sledgehammer. Huge mountains of rock showed how far they were progressing. Cracks in the wall gave ample warning of a future collapse. These men however, were tired beyond exhaustion and perhaps too far gone to care.

Macfadyan watched in silent helpless dread as a hairline crack snaked across the ceiling and erupted to form a creaking fissure.

In the bed, Ernst unconciously matched his gaze, his face racked with horror.

"Mein Gott!"

He had no time to shout a warning as the roof of rock caved in on the diggers. The tail end of the collapse crushed the bed.

As soldiers and doctors alike ran to help, Ernst died screaming. His diary and the letter to his parents lay crumpled on the stone floor. Three drops of blood blurred the ink into an unreadable smudge.

Almost with gratitude, Macfadyan fainted.

The States of Jersey Tourism Office had only recently been redecorated. Tasteful shades of green and blue met uniformly on plain walls, broken only by the smallest of framed landscape jottings. Huge corridor length fluorescent lamps chased the shadows from the darkest corners. All was bright and open.

But in the study of Senator Caroline Saracin there was an unfriendly chill. It was if the banished shadows had run screaming through the door and taken lodge in the corners. Then they had been too frightened to leave.

Caroline stood in front of the full length mirror which hung behind the door and admired the reflection through calculating green eyes. She took in the elegantly slim figure shrouded in the severe two-piece suit, which somehow managed to hug her waist and chest, yet let her sit down comfortably without having to breathe in and listen for the groan of overtaxed seams.

Her blonde hair was piled high above the white softness of her collar. She reached up and pulled out the clips, letting it flow in rivers of the very expensive mainland salon highlighting round her shoulders and to the centre of her back. She smiled at her reflection pleased with the effect. During the eight years in which she had held a position of any real importance, Caroline gained promotion through any number of dubious means She had bargained, conned, made unkeepable promises and, through a number of illicit love affairs. blackmailed her way to the top. Men found her irresistible and she knew how to exploit this. She could blossom from a starched, almost secretarial frump into a mystic goddess just by changing the way she stood. She could reduce the most determined of men into blushing schoolboys with a flutter of her precisely made up eyelashes.

Her study at the Office Of Tourism was envelope brown laid out in traditional door sized oak panels - imitation of course. The budget did not stretch to the extravagance of a coffee machine in each room, let alone cater to the aristocratic tastes of the higher members of state. Modern office equipment presented a stark contrast to the antiquated decor. A desk, chair and an entire wall of filing cabinets matched the greyness of her clothes. Maps and charts adorned the walls where perhaps a picture would have been moor suitable . There were few personal touches present. A framed photograph of Caroline herself? A slightly younger version, smiling; the green eyes warm and welcoming. She was dressed in the black cape and gown of a university graduate and holding the compulsory ribbon bound scroll. A newspaper cutting proudly told how Caroline Saracin, twenty-one, born and brought up on Jersey, had graduated with honours from Cambridge University and would be returning soon to stand for election to the States Of Jersey Next to it was another more recent cutting announcing her inauguration as a Deputy. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest person ever to have attained this level. The final step to full Senator came within two years. It was much frowned on by the old men of tradition who saw it as one step off precociousness.

Smoothing imaginary creases from the greyness of her outfit and flicking a non-existent smudge from her freshly waxed legs, she stepped back from the mirror and waited eye to eye with herself for dear, late William to knock at the door. If she judged him correctly, he would be in soon, making feeble excuses for his tardiness and eyeing her up again. He was a big man. a brute, and much as she hated to admit it, he unnerved her. It was easier therefore, to deal with him if his mind was flustered and permanently centred on his trousers.

She undid the top two buttons on her blouse and studied her image again.

"Perfect."

That was Caroline Saracin. Young, extremely attractive, fanatically ambitious, highly dedicated and one hundred percent bitch.

It was almost midday by the time William Small arrived at Caroline's door. He didn't want to work on a Sunday, but as Miss Caroline Saracin had said "...the tourists don't go home Friday night and come back on Monday morning, do they? No. Then neither shall we."

People had tapped their watches as he passed, which he took to mean that he should expect trouble. He did riot knock before entering the room - he never liked to warn people that he was coming.

Caroline's eyes were the first things he saw. She teas standing almost directly in front of the door as if she had been waiting. The next things he saw were the softness of her skin and the sea of hair which bounced at her shoulders. The first thing he heard was her voice.

"About time!"

He had to swallow rapidly before answering, trying to keep his voice at the light bass which was the usual.

Damn the woman! She always knew how to ridicule him without saying a single word. Always knew how to put him on his guard when he wanted to appear confident - in Control.

"Sorry. Miss Saragin. It was the car..."

"Yes, very good. William. Will you please explain then, what you were doing at Fort Regent half an hour ago?"

"Fort Regent? Damn!"

She flashed him a look of complete contempt.

"Fort Regent. You were seen coming out of the cafe at about ten past."

"Yes, I can explain..."

"Please do."

"The owner. Jan Hard..?"

"What about her?"

"She was kicking up a stink about the rent rise. She was very abusive."

Caroline walked to the filing cabinets and yanked open a drawer. Making a quick search, she produced a bulky file.

"Yes. I thought we might have trouble with her."

Crossing the room, William tried to look at the information in the folder. Caroline closed it very deliberately and took it across to her desk.

"She's a bit of a crusader, our Mrs Hardy. A lover of lost causes. You remember when the flooding of Queen's Valley was first proposed?"

"Yes, it caused a bit of a row."

That would win a prize for understatement. The Jersey Anti Development Committee had half the island out in protest. And guess who had the biggest banner?"

"Hardy?"

"Of course. She's now a major supporter, verbally and financially.", she flicked open the file, "Last year she gave eighteen hundred pounds in cash and cheques..."

"And she has the nerve to complain about a rent rise?"

Caroline waved a dismissive hand.

"Oh, do shut up, William. That's not the point at all."

Reaching into her drawer. she slammed a bundle of similar files onto the desk.

"The point is that all the other traders at the piazza wouldn't know how to protest if their lives depended on it. We've already bought out two holdings with three more about to follow. it Jan Hardy decides to kick up enough dust and gets them all behind her, there's bound to be an inquiry."

She glared at him, cold eyes flashing.

"And then the plans for the amusement arcade will become public knowledge. And then there will be a further protest. And then the States will decide that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea after all. And then we won't be able to balance the books at the end of the year. And then you and I will be out or a job."

She thrust her face so close to his that he couid smell her perfume.

"Do you get the point now, William dear?"

William silently counted to ten, slowly, carefully. He hated being shouted at.

"I don't understand why you're so worried. Sure, it'll be a nuisance, but that's all. No one will lose their jobs over it. It happens all the time."

Caroline leant back in her chair, regarding him in almost amused silence.

"No, it doesn't happen all the time. Once again, your lack of brains betrays you. Have you studied the accounts recently?"

"No."

She reached down and fished the relevant tome from her drawer.

"Look at it."

He took the book, gently read through it, once briskly and then more carefully.

"These figures are wrong."

She smiled at him.

"Are they?"

"There's over eighty thousand pounds missing."

"It's not missing, darling. I know exactly where it is."

"Where?"

"In an account in London."

William leaned heavily on the desk and then sank into the second chair.

"What have you done?"

She took the accounts book and returned it to the drawer. "I would have thought that was obvious."

"You've been skimming a percentage off of all the sales."

Caroline looked shocked.

"I'm disappointed that you could think I'd steal from the States, William."

"Well, what would you call it?"

She got up and walked to the cabinets, carefully aware of the tantalizing glimpse of thigh which shone at him from beneath her skirt.

"Initiative? Enterprise? Know how? Take your pick, it all means the same."

She began a systematic search of the files, humming quietly to herself. William could feel the rage brewing in his gut. Caroline delicately drew a file from the drawer and handed it to him.

"If you read that you'll see that I haven't been 'skimming a percentage' at all. The States have been credited with all they're entitled to.", she pointed to a bundle of letters pinned to the flap of the file. "Those are the letters sent to prospective sellers...", she indicated a second bundle, "...while those are the official letters. The ones which will be sent to the Treasury at the end of the year."

"You've been offering them twenty-five percent less than you've been declaring"

She smiled, smug.

"I know."

"But what happens if we have to recall all the monies?"

"The books won't balance."

William sprang to his feet and threw the file onto the desk.

"And you'll be sacked and charged with theft, fraud..."

"No, I won't."

The harshness of her tone and the ice in her eyes unnerved him. Then she smiled and he knew he was in trouble.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Look at the letters again, William dear. Look at the name at the bottom of each? The initials against each transaction."

He stared, amazed and then furious as his own name leapt out and taunted him. His initials danced before his eyes and his temper snapped.

"You bitch!" He lunged at her across the desk. She stepped back neatly.

"Don't add assault to the charges you'll face, William. They will lock you away for a long, long time."

He sank resigned back into the chair and glared daggers at her, fighting to keep his rage in check.

"You bitch!"

Caroline watched him carefully as his anger slowed and his common sense kicked in. Once his face had returned to its normal colour, she perched herself on the corner of the desk: and crossed her legs, a la bimbo. To her annoyance, his expression remained thunderous as his fists clenched and unclenched in his lap.

Through gritted teeth he spat one word at her.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You're not the sort to leave a chance unclaimed. You must want something from me."

The statement intrigued her and she mentally chided herself for forgetting that the man seated before her had a brain in his head as well as a muscular frame.

William saw her pause and smiled inwardly. His was a frustrating history. He had decided at an early age that he would not live down to his name and all that it implied. When he was eight, he had badly beaten up an older boy for chanting 'small willy' into his face at the top of his voice.. The headmaster had slippered him. He was a big man and William had cried or an hour and sulked for a week. After that. he avoided any contact with his school-mates, only going near them to deliver a thump or a pinch as payback for some imagined crime. By the age of twelve he had started to enjoy the fear which he could instil in others just by looking at them. He enjoyed the way smaller children cried when he hit them.

In short, William Small was a mini-sadist.

After spending most of his adolescent years pressing weights at the leisure centre, he blossomed into a very large sadist. It was only natural that he went into politics. The people of politics though, saw him for what he was and went to all lengths to disassociate themselves from him. Crestfallen, William might have turned to the only avenue open to him - crime, but Caroline Saracin, then an up and corning young Deputy saw in him something her colleagues missed. Muscle. She took him on as a well dressed dogsbody. A bodyguard and gopher. She paid him to dance to her every .whim.

William took the job on happily. He saw a side to Caroline that she tried to keep weil hidden. The vindictive side. The spoilt side and occasionally, if she wanted something from him, the seductive side. Besides, he got to hit people again, and that was what really mattered.

He had entered a life of crime after all, but he had done it legally.

Caroline was lookng at him again.

"I think we should try to prevent the problem before it raises its head."

"How?"

"Persuade Mrs Hardy that she shouldn't make such a fuss."

"How persuasive do you want me to be?"

Their eyes met and neither would look away.

"Very persuasive, William. Very persuasive indeed."

He nodded.

"But that won't change the support she has had from the others."

"I think I know how to deal with that."

She slipped off the desk and went to the vanity table which stood next to the mirror. A local newspaper had been spread across it. Picking it up, she showed it to him. A full page advert jumped at him.

"The JADC? What about them?"

"The Jersey Anti-Development Committee are having a meeting tonight. It will be packed as usual. Think where a few choice rumours started there would lead."

"What sort of rumours?"

She shrugged.

"It could be put about that Mrs Hardy is secretly contributing to the development of the valley. Perhaps she was offered more satisfaction from the States than from the JADC."

"She' ll deny it. All she has to do is show them her account books and they'll know it's not true."

Caroline sighed.

"Then you'll have to make sure that she doesn't show them, won't you?" Her eyes lit up and she clapped her hands

"Even better, can you find a way of implicating the JADC In your 'persuasion'?"

"I should think so."

She led him to the door.

"Then do it. Tonight while the meeting is in progress." She opened the door and ushered him out.

"Get this right, William, and we can forget all unpleasantness between us."

The door closed and William stared at it.

"No, we can't."

His voice was a whisper. He turned and made to leave the building, his mind running through and discarding one idea after another.

The sun was blazing outside. The streets were thick with tourists experimenting with the different cafes and fast food bars which had sprung up over the recent years.

William stepped from the Office Of Tourism and glanced around. Three youths caught his eye as they leant against a post box eating lethal looking hot dogs. He walked over to !hem.

"Want to earn some money?"

The eldest, tall and junk-food fat with a mop of blonde hair pushed himself away from the post box and swaggered forward. thumbs hooked into his belt. A poor imitation of what he believed a man should be.

"Doing what?"

"A bit of artistry."

The three looked at each other and grinned. The youngest, a boy barely into his teens. swallowed the remnants of his hot dog.

"It'll cost a bit."

William reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

"Of course. I wouldn't expect businessmen like yourselves to work for chicken-feed. "

This pleased them and they all pulled themselves to their full heights. William was not impressed.

"The job pays a tenner."

"Each?"

"Between You."

"No way."

They began to lose interest. William pulled a twenty pound note from his wallet

"Twenty pounds between you. And if the job's welI done I'll be looking for you with more work." He waved the note In front of them. "And you'll be looking at twice this much. Each. "

Their interest resparked and the youths gathered round as William told them what to do.

"It's simple. I want you to spray JADC on sites around the town. Hotels, clubs, the Underground Hospital. You know, tourist places. Most importantly , you have to hit Fort Regent."

Brian, the eldest, was suspicious.

"Why?"

William silenced him with a glare.

"Just do it, or we can forget it."

"Okay, sorry"

"That's it. JADC...", he emphasised each letter with a jab of his fingers, "On as many walls as possible. It has to be done tonight."

Handing over the money, he watched as they hustled their way down the street. He hoped to any god that was listening that they would go through with it. Right now though, there were things to be arranged.

Chapter Six - Parish Hall Inquiry

He was sitting on a small hillock. Around him the vegetation burned, flames roaring into the night sky. The air was filled with the sound of Gregorian chanting.

"Mmmffpph!" said Macfadyan.

"Are you alright, sir?" came a voice from the strange, blurry mess hovering above him. "You appear to have fainted."

"I never faint!" came the reply. Shakily, Macfadyan climbed to his feet. He looked around. Good. Back in the twentieth century. Blanche and that tour guide woman were looking at him with slight concern showing on their faces.

* You lost consciousness for a total of ten point three seven seconds. * Said Cre'at from above them. The tour guide let out a small shriek.

"What the hell..? I thought that was a balloon or something. What is it?"

* I am a Sot'm, Earth guide person *

"Er, he's the latest thing in, um, America. Sort of a floating personal organiser." Said Macfadyan, using his usual explanation for explaining Cre'at.

* Not "thing", Cre'at. * the head intoned.

"He's just a little, er, literal. Don't pay him any attention, child."

"Macfadyan, what happened? C'mon, spill the be...er, tell us." Blanche was a little worried. Yes, Macfadyan was the biggest pain in the arse since that bloke with the beard they had met in London all those years ago, but, somewhere deep down, she still cared for him in her own small way.

"I'm not sure." Now there was an admission! "Some kind of mental time slip. Brought on by..By.." he tailed off. Then his face cleared. "Come on, you two. Back to the ship. There are a couple of things that I want to check out."

***

They waited for a bus back to St.Helier, the capital of Jersey, for twenty minutes. Despite Blanche's best efforts, Macfadyan would not be drawn on his experience though, as the pallor of his skin showed, he was still shaken by it. Then...

"Right. I have had enough of this. Why is human transport so inefficient, hmm? I mean, why is it that there is never a mode of transportation around that I can use without complaint when I need one?"

* Taxi! * Cre'at floated out into the road and slowed a cab that was just pulling in.

" Hmmf!" said Macfadyan. "Sheer luck, that's all." And with that, he marched to the taxi and started the process of calming the driver down, explaining Cre'at to him and persuading him to take them back to St. Helier. Watching him, Blanche couldn't help but giggle.

Once they were underway, Macfadyan pushed his hat over his eyes and appeared to doze.

"Don't mind if I have the radio on, do you mate?" said the driver. He was rewarded with a vague hand movement. Taking it as an affirmative, the driver tuned in to Radio Jersey. After a few minutes of inane pop music the news came on.

"The family of Andrew Fay, the little boy who went missing last night, have been talking of their relief at his safe return. Though they have no idea just where he went to, Andrew himself seems to know how he returned..." The voice changed from that of the newsreader to a little boy, "... the bear brought me," Macfadyan opened one eye and peered at the radio, "he was all big and furry and he smelt nice and he was really nice and he took me home. I like the bear. I hope I see him again."

"Do they have bears over here then, Mac?" asked Blanche from the back seat.

* Bears? * Asked Cre'at.

"Ursine creatures and no, Blanche, they don't. You know, this holiday is getting rather interesting."

"No, Macfadyan. No. It's a holiday. Please! We need it." Blanche said.

"I'm sorry, child. But, as you will understand shortly, the holiday might well be over." He turned to the driver, " Tell me, fellow, do you have a local newsletter that I might peruse?" The driver gave him a look before returning his eyes to the road.

"In the glove compartment there's a copy of the Jersey Evening Post."

Macfadyan opened up the cubbyhole and took out the paper.

"Hmm, latest edition, good." And he started to read the cover story about Andrew Fay. Then his eye caught a sidebar. For no reason, the hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. Then...

"A change of plan. Driver, please take us to St. Saviour's Parish Hall."

* You do not wish to go to the TARDIS? *

"No, look at this." Macfadyan turned around and thrust the paper under Cre'at and Blanche's noses.

* Car boot sale at St. Mary's Church? * Asked a puzzled Cre'at

"No, no, no. Look again. There's a meeting at St Saviour's tonight held by the Jersey Anti Development Committee. And look here, a spokesman mentions a Caroline Saracin." At the sound of the name, the taxi driver gave a loud snort.

"That bitch, huh!"

"Do you know her then?" asked Macfadyan.

"There isn't a cab driver who doesn't." Macfadyan looked at him expectantly.

"About two years ago she somehow managed to get the fee we pay for our carriage licenses increased by over one hundred percent. A large number of my mates went under, simply lost everything. She's the worst thing to happen to this island."

"So I gather. It seems that she makes a habit of upsetting people."

"Well, I know one thing. She'll never get a taxi again. Not here in Jersey and not in any of the other Channel Islands. Here we go, mate." He steered the car into a full car park. " That'll be five quid fifty if you please."

Macfadyan rummaged through his pockets, paused in concentration for a split second then removed a wallet from his coat pocket. Giving the man a ten pound note and telling him to keep the change, (which at least put a smile on the man's face) he got out of the car, closing the door behind him.

"Now that's what I call a building," said Blanche.

She was right. It sat at the top of a slight rise, cars parked around it like chicks around their mother. A huge building, not in height but in ground area, it was L shaped, old fashioned and made entirely of granite.

A crowd of people flocked around the entrance, all eager to get in and make themselves heard. The "renovation" of La Houge Bie Neolithic burial mound into a larger tourist attraction had incensed the people of Jersey and this meeting was one of twelve, one for each parish. Each meeting had been packed out and feelings had run high.

"Are you now going to explain just why we are here? In fact, I'd like an explanation for your fainting earlier whilst we're at it." Said Blanche.

"Child, I do not have to explain myself to you. Not now. Not then. Never." Came the reply. Blanche sighed. Macfadyan was in one of his "moods". One last try.

"Mac, please. We're on Holiday."

"Not any more. Too much has been said and heard. Think, girl! A bear? Returning a child to it's home? Utter claptrap. And there's something else. A feeling. I had it at Fort Regent, I had it at the hospital and now I'm starting to get that same feeling here. And I'm worried."

"You? Worried? That's a first."

"Yes, worried, child. Emotions at this meeting may run high. Remember the hospital, everyone getting edgy? Well, imagine a group of people twenty times larger and instead of getting edgy, they get angry."

Blanche nodded slowly.

"So, if you're afraid of fainting again why are we here?"

"No, no, no. I didn't faint. I was reliving a memory. A memory of someone who died in that underground hell. It seemed as though I was actually there. The emotion was so real, so..." he stumbled for the right words to make Blanche understand. " So pure. Strong. Real. And there may be something like that here. After all, isn't anger one of the purest emotions?"

"Right," said Blanche, slowly, "So you want to...?"

"I'm hoping I, er, faint." He saw her small smile of triumph. "And hopefully, the emotion will be strong enough to allow me to communicate."

* With what? * Said Cre'at, back from his inspection of the graveyard in the church across the road.

"Er, well, when I know I'll tell you. Come on, it's starting".

And with that he led the way into the hall.

Chapter Seven - Ghost Train Boogie

The meeting was just about to come to order when Macfadyan, Blanche and Cre'at silently crept into the back of the large hall. The room was packed with Islanders, all determined to have their say over the proposed redevelopment of the La Hougue Bie burial mound.

As the meeting progressed, various speakers came forward and gave their thoughts free reign. On the podium sat Caroline Saracin who affected a look of interest, though in reality she considered the meeting a total waste of time, as she knew that no matter what people said the development was already planned and no amount of public outcry would change her mind.

Also on the podium was a small, unobtrusive man, whose bookish air marked him out as the speaker from the Jersey Anti Development Committee.

Feeling ran high and there were more then a few heated exchanges.

All the while, Macfadyan sat quietly. Waiting. Watching. Feeling.

And at La Hougue Bie, something stirred.

When Fort Regent is open it is a wonderfully exciting place. People mill around unsure which of the delights to sample next. When it is closed, it becomes a dark, forbidding place, shadows slowly stretching until the place is in darkness.

Nothing normally moves here at night. However tonight was different.

Brian looked around quickly to make sure that the Fort security wasn't around and motioned to his mates to follow. The bloke in the suit had certainly given them a job to do. Breaking into the Fort had been easy. All they had to do was to hide out until the place shut, give it an hour or so for everything to calm down then emerge and run riot.

Brian raised his can of spray paint and the first obscene message appeared on the side of wall of the old Sea Cadet building.

This, he thought, was going to be fun.

Back at the Parish Hall, the small, bookish man had begun to speak. He had first introduced himself to his audience as Marc La Plan. And he was VERY opposed to the development plans. Behind him Caroline gave a sniff of disapproval. Marc heard her and decided that this was the time to raise the temperature of the debate.

" I suppose, Miss Saracin, that you would say the redevelopment would benefit the whole island? Yes?"

"Well, of course I would. Now the BBC has stopped filming Bergerac, tourism has suffered badly. This development will offer a brand new style of attraction. La Hougue Bie will become a Mecca for tourists. Imagine it! The rides alone... "

"Rides?" spat Marc, incredulously. "Rides? This is an incredibly important archaeological site and your talking of building a roller coaster through it?"

And the meeting deteriorated from there.

It moved through the countryside, a strange mist around it. It could feel the life around it. Life. LIFE. Hope. Anger. Hatred. Longing. Life.

Macfadyan watched the two verbal combatants. He could feel it. The energy, the emotion. Almost, he thought. All it would need... He stood up.

"What about the wildlife?" he asked loudly.

The meeting became an angry mess.

Yes! He thought. Now we're getting somewhere.

A figure took the stage, dressed in a sombre suit.

"Ladies and gentlemen." It called. "Ladies and gentlemen, I must ask you to calm down. This bickering is going to get you all nowhere." It was no good. The noise of the crowd drowned him out. He jumped off the stage and walked to a fire alarm. He reached inside his jacket and removed a short, stubby metal object, then used it to smash the alarm. The bells started to ring.

"No!" shouted Macfadyan. "Not now! Of all the..." he moved through the crowd towards the man. Slowly the crowd began to realise that something was wrong. An announcement came over the public address that an alarm had been triggered and could everybody please evacuate the building in a calm and orderly manner. The crowd began to move towards the main door and the fire escape.

It sensed a great feeling of anger... perhaps it could...no. No, the feeling was fading, becoming blurred with the cacophony of other emotions that had began to emerge. Perhaps elsewhere, then? Yes. There was somewhere. Somewhere where it could.. feed? Was that what it was doing? It wasn't sure. In fact, it wasn't sure of anything. Just it's need.

"Just what do you think you were doing, young man?" said a very irate Macfadyan.

The man in the sombre suit looked Macfadyan in the eye.

"Calming things down, sir. Sometimes people let their emotions get the better of them."

"Just who are you, hmm? Who are you to determine what is best for people?"

The man reached in his pocket and produced a small wallet.

"Lieutenant Curtis, sir. U.N. " Macfadyan looked in the wallet and found a rather official looking pass.

"Not just the U.N. But UNIT no less. Hah! Just what we need!" Macfadyan smiled.

"We need to have words."

"Really, sir?"

"Oh yes."

It was all going so smoothly, Brian thought. No security had bothered them and they were having fun!

They had moved down the East Ditch fairground spraying J.A.D.C. slogans over everything. Now they stood next to the ghost train.

"Hey Brian, why not do the inside?" said Terry, the eldest of the three.

"Heh, yeah. Why not?"

Brian moved up to the door of the ride and after a quick look realised that it wasn't locked. He opened it and looked in.

"It's a bit dark." He said. "But we should be alright." He led the way in. After fumbling around he located a switch on the wall. Flicking it produced very subdued lighting. They split up, each moving down a different tunnel.

It was uncanny, Brian thought as he sprayed yet another message, but being in here brought back memories of his childhood. He couldn't believe that the place had scared him. Scared him rather badly if he remembered correctly. He shivered as the memories washed over him. His breathing increased. His heart raced. He moved quickly through the dim light and the mist.

Mist? Inside the ghost train? Instinct started to take over and he began to panic.

From one of the other tunnels came a scream.

From the third tunnel came another. He ran, desperate to get out. It was coming for him.

Must get out, must leave, must get out, get away, away from it. Away. It was coming. Coming for him.

Then his world was just one loud, piercing, heart-rendering scream.

Chapter Eight - "Taking Shelter by the Standing Stones, Miles From All the Roofs"

"Just who do you think you are, interfering with my experiment? Hmm?"

Curtis sighed. The last thing he needed was some eccentric getting in his way. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I was not going to stand by and let people's emotions get the better of them." Macfadyan frowned.

Er, if you're from UNIT then why are you involved with a small time local dispute? Surely it has nothing to do with you?" They were walking through the rapidly emptying Parish Hall car park. Twilight had long since come and gone and the shadows that stretched out long in front of them were the product of light streaming from the large Gothic windows of the Parish Hall.

"After the, er, disruption at previous meetings, I was asked to be on hand, you know, a calming and authoritative voice and all that. Perhaps, Sir, you could answer me a question?"

"That's very likely. I can answer most questions put to me, and certainly any and all that you might be able to dredge up from the peanut you seem to have as a brain."

Curtis gave Macfadyan a sideways look.

"Er, quite. Just what experiment were you conducting?"

"Well, I doubt that you've noticed, young man, but something rather odd is happening on this little rock you call home." Curtis kept quiet - no need to give anything away just yet, why not see how much this new romantic throwback knew about the "incidents".

"Someone has died in exceptionally gruesome circumstances and someone else has seen a 'bear' - a creature that doesn't exist outside of Gerald Durrel's zoo. I take it they have not misplaced such a creature?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Something is happening on Jersey. Something... 'emotional'. I have a theory that there is some kind of force is causing all this to happen. It seems to harness emotion and amplify it. I heard that the taxi driver was ripped apart?"

"Where did you hear that, might I ask?"

"Oh, random gossip." Macfadyan flapped a nonchalant hand in the general direction of St. Helier. "Lieutenant, I should like to see the scene of his death. As you've ruined my little plan.."

"Which you still haven't explained."

"Oh good grief, surely it was obvious? Find a place where emotion is running high and try to communicate telepathically with our mysterious force. Ask it why it's doing what it's doing and ask it politely to stop."

"Telepathically?"

"Yes." Macfadyan began to look around. "Where are Blanche and Cre'at?"

A sound of a car window being smashed came from behind them.

"Ah, there they are." And he walked off to scold Blanche for trying to teach Cre'at how to break into cars.Curtis watched him stride off. He frowned for a moment, and then a look of excitement mixed with apprehension filled his face. The clothes. The attitude. Surely it couldn't be. Then a floating metal head bobbed around the corner. Well, that was that question answered.

* Greetings, musty smelling, military primitive. *

On behalf of the people of Earth, may I offer the hand of friendship?"

* Would you like a vegetable product? * Came the metallic reply. From around the corner came the sounds of scolding and an indignant reply. This was getting surreal. Curtis peered into the rumpled paper bag that the floating head had clutched in a hand that seemed to telescope out from one of it's ears. Inside was a small lump of mouldy sweets.

"Er, no thanks. So, how do you know the Doctor? And which one is this?"

* Doctor? I know no such individual. Are you broken and in need of assistance? Is this the cause of the musty smell? * Curtis decided to let that go; after all, it had been a long and rather hot day.

"This isn't the Doctor? Then who...? Oh no, not the Master!"

* Master? Doctor? Do you like people with titles? Have you a title and wish to compare it with these people? Do they have a musty smell? * The volume of the argument from around the corner increased. Then there was a muffled thump and a yelp of pain. Blanche walked smugly towards them.

"Wotcha, mate. I'm Blanche and this," she indicated the head, " is Cre'at. He's a sort of balloon. "

* I am a Sot'm. I am not a balloon, Blanche. *

"Well, I'm pleased to meet the two of you. Who's the eighties reject?"

"I heard that, human!" Macfadyan walked from around the corner, limping slightly. "I am Lord Macfadyanagogobibblebibblelungbarrowmas. That's two bibbles and one s."

"And you're a Time Lord, yes?" Macfadyan looked slightly surprised.

"Yes, I am. How did you know that?"

"We aren't without our sources. Your not the first Time Lord to visit us."

"Hmmf!" Macfadyan gave a grimace, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. Then:

"Well, lets be off then."

"Where to?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, child, I would have thought that it was obvious. The scene of the taxi driver's death."

"Are you offering your help?" Curtis mentally crossed his fingers. If he could get the Time Lord's help then this thing could be sorted in short order.

"No, I'm going to sort this out because it needs sorting out, not to assist a primitive military organisation." Macfadyan sniffed derisively. With that he walked off to the Land Rover with the globe and wings of the UNIT emblem on its doors. Curtis sighed. Whoever this Lord Macfadyan was, he certainly had an attitude. Still, the help of a Time Lord would be invaluable.

It was only on the car journey to Faldouet that Curtis remembered that if a Time Lord was involved then it usually meant that the entire world was in danger.

Bright yellow tape sealed off the area around the Stones at Faldouet. A car was parked on the grass verge, driver's door open. A couple of floodlights illuminated the scene, reflecting off the metallic strips on the jackets of the Police personal left to guard the scene. Curtis showed them his UNIT pass, and then led his bizarre entourage to the chalk outlines that dotted the area around the car.

"According to the pathologist, it seemed that the cabbie exploded. Hence the various markings." Curtis explained.

"Yes, I had gathered that, Crumbly." Macfadyan crouched down to examine a particular area more closely.

"Curtis." corrected the officer.

"Mmm? What?" mumbled Macfadyan, lost in thought.

"Oh God! This is gross," complained Blanche. She shivered. "And it's bloody spooky here."

* Would you like... *

"No! That's the last thing I need."

Macfadyan walked towards the dolman. Yes. There was something here. A trace.He stumbled and put his hand out to steady himself on one of the stones...

He was standing on a bleak heath land. He couldn't move his hands; they seemed to be tied behind his back. All around him, primitive humans in animal skins chanted some mantra or other. Their leader came forward and screamed something in his face.

Unclean. Monster. Nightmare. Then strong hands pushed him onto his back atop a large flat stone. The leader raised his flint blade.

"No!" he screamed.

The blade flashed down.

Chapter Nine - Small Bushes With Very Sharp Thorns

Caroline Saracin couldn't sleep. Thoughts kept racing through her head. Thoughts of La Hougue Bie. Thoughts of how she had to succeed with the redevelopment plan. Thoughts of Mark La Plan that set her pulse racing and not with desire. Anger, yes. Hatred, yes. Nothing more. Eventually she gave up trying to sleep. Wrapping a robe around her she walked into the lounge of her spacious house. That was one of the perks of the job, a large house overlooking St. Ouen's bay. Looking out of the windows during the day, she could see the length of the bay, all the way to L'Etaq. Suddenly decisive she grabbed the phone. If she was awake then she could see no reason why William shouldn't be also. Anyway, she had instructions for him.

It was going to be a beautiful day, thought Blanche. The sunrise was simply one of the best that she had ever seen - on any planet. She turned away from admiring the sky and walked back to where Macfadyan lay unconscious. The Time Lord was sprawled next to the standing stones; Cre'at and the rather dishy UNIT officer were respectively hovering over and sitting next to him. He had been out for hours now and though she would never tell him, she was starting to get worried. The last time he had woken up shortly after collapsing but this time was different. He was twitching and muttering things like:

"I'm going to be the saviour of the cosmos!" and "I am not him!"

Whatever was going on in that head of his, she really did NOT want to know. And as for all that stuff about "beans", well, she had decided to start praying for a world-class psychiatrist. Or should that be out of this world? She chuckled to herself.

"Oh that's just typical. I should have known you'd have found this funny." Macfadyan opened his eyes.

* You are undamaged? *

"Yes. Yes, I think so. That was... intense; I think should be the word. And Interesting might be the next word I'd use."

"Would you care to explain what happened?" said Curtis. "I thought that Time Lords were sturdier than this. I didn't expect them to faint at the sight of a bit of blood."

"Faint? Blood? What the...?" Macfadyan struggled to his feet. "I did not faint!" There was a snigger behind him. He gave Blanche a glare then turned back to Curtis.

"What I just experienced, child, was a telepathic contact. A contact of the most unusual kind. It seemed to be a temporal contact. Quite unusual." He moved off, muttering to himself.

" 'Child'?" said Colin.

"Oh ignore him. He just likes to feel superior." replied Blanche.

* He is superior to most life forms, Blanche. He is a Time Lord. * Said Cre'at, matter of factly.

"Hah! You might like to think that, but I don't. And who does he think he is, rubbing it in at every opportunity?"

* He is Lord Macfadyanago... * Cre'at didn't get the chance to finish his sentence. No way was Blanche going to get involved in one of Cre'at's literal conversations.

"Yeah, yeah. We know, Cre'at. He doesn't let us forget."

Curtis' radio crackled into life. He listened to it for a minute, sighed, replied then put it away.

"Macfadyan?" he called.

"That's Lord Macfadyan to you, human." came the reply.

Curtis marched over to Macfadyan, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the others.

"Listen, Time Lord, I don't have the patience for your attitude. People are dying here. Try caring." Macfadyan opened his mouth to protest but wasn't given the chance to get a word out.

"We've just had my office on the radio. Three bodies were just found at Fort Regent. Now, either get your head out of your arse and help us before anyone else dies, or get the hell off my planet!"

Macfadyan looked at Curtis for a second. Then he turned and started walking towards the car.

"C'mon, human, I believe you have bodies to look at."

Resisting the urge to just shoot the man down where he stood, Curtis followed him.

Once again, Macfadyan seemed to sleep during the car journey. But not for long.

"Are we going anywhere near that La Plan fellow's house?" he asked.

"Yes." said Curtis.

"Well, would you mind dropping us off there? I have a feeling that his local knowledge and his understanding of this island's history may be of some use."

"Very well."

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. Even Blanche was quiet, the oppressive atmosphere quelling any curiosity she had.

Curtis dropped them at a small cottage in St. Saviour's, then drove off, the car tyres squealing in protest. Macfadyan brushed himself down, warned the other two to let him do the talking, and then marched up to the front door.

In the bushes across the road, William Small watched and sighed. He would have to wait. Once La Plan was alone then William could act. And when he did...

Chapter Ten - 'Take me home, I need to see where I come from.'

Mark La Plan was dozing fitfully in an armchair next to the fire in his sitting room when a loud knock at the door jolted him awake. Rubbing his eyes he shuffled towards the front door. As he raised his hand to open the door, he noticed that he was shaking. Another nightmare. He was almost becoming used to them. Almost. Sighing, he turned the handle and pulled the door open.

* Greetings, human. Would you like a vegetable product? * said the floating metal head.

He came round to see the face of a teenage girl looking down at him in concern.

"Mac, he's awake." She said over her shoulder.

"...Which is why I said to leave the talking to me, Cre'at. Ah, good. Make some coffee please, Blanche. We have a long day ahead of us." The girl vanished to be replaced by a plump - ish, blond haired man dressed in the worst eighties fashion had to offer.

"Is this the part when you tell me to stand and deliver?" Mark mumbled.

"No, this is the part where I advise you to take it easy getting up and then lead you to an armchair. Then I ask why you kept pleading with me to take you home."

"What was that floating thing?"

"I asked first!" came the reply. "Here, let me help you up, take it easy." Macfadyan guided Mark into his armchair.

"I was dreaming. I think."

"Well, the 'floating' thing is called Cre'at. He's a Sot'm. An alien. Not from this planet. Got that? Good. Oh, and I'm an alien as well. Hope that helps. Dreaming of what, exactly?"

Mark felt his strength returning.

"Look, just who are you nutters?"

"Take it easy, Mr. La Plan. Ah, here comes Blanche with the coffee. I shall explain. Would you like a chocolate button? You could do with the sugar." Macfadyan offered a large bag of Cadbury buttons. "We are very interested in La Hougue Bie burial mound. Its history, its myths and legends. And I believe that you are the ideal person to ask. Dreaming of what?"

"Well, I can certainly help with your research. As for the alien part of your story, well, your floating head over there indicates I should keep an open mind."

"Excellent. I see you're a scientist at heart. And again I ask, dreaming of what?"

Mark sighed.

"For the last few months I've been having these dreams. They started off as quite pleasant, though I always woke with a, well, a sort of melancholic ache, you know what I mean? Then, recently, they've become horrible. I keep seeing cavemen! You know, furs and all that? And they keep killing me. And I still want to be there even though they kill me. I HAVE to go there, but I don't know where it is. How can I want this? How can a dream get to me like this? Am I going mad?"

Macfadyan looked keenly at Mark.

"No. No, I don't think so. You see, I've had the same dream."

Outside Fort Regent's ghost train, Curtis sighed and pulled the cover back over the body. He straightened and looked up and down the east ditch. The Fort was shut to the public. He'd made sure of that. No need to panic anyone. The three youths had died of fright, judging by the looks on their faces. Things were getting serious. Time to call in the troops. He walked back to his small office in the piazza and reached straight for the phone.

"Operator, please dial this number and say "Brie". No, I am being serious. No, really. Yes, that's right, "Brie". No, I'm not some nutter. I said I'm not... Look, can I speak to your supervisor?"

It was turning into one of those days.

Blanche was bored. It was now early evening and the day had been spent waiting on Macfadyan as he and Mark had poured over old books and charts. Enough was enough.

"I'm going for a walk." She announced.

"Mmmff." Was the only reply she got.

"Oh sod you." She said and walked to the door.

In the bushes across the road from the cottage, William Small tensed as the door opened and a teenage girl emerged. Looking up at the glorious evening sky and nearly missing her footing because of it, she started to walk down the road.

"Interesting." William said. Then he turned to his companion. "Looks like La Plan has friends. I wonder what would happen to his crusade if one of them vanished and he was advised to scale back his protests? Off you go then. Make sure she's uncomfortable. Take her to Jardain D'Olivier. The ruined fort has a few supplies stashed. I'll come to you later." Nodding his compliance, the man moved silently out of the bushes and began to follow Blanche. William allowed himself a smile. And Caroline thought he had no brains. Perhaps this would show he had.

It tensed, awake again. It had realised the last night that there was a lot of what it needed on the island. So many people. So much emotion. And it now knew which emotions were the strongest. Hate. Fear. It began to move.

After a few minutes walking, Blanche had come to a small car park that had been signposted: Val De La Mar Reservoir - public footpath. There was a picture of the reservoir on the sign. All in all, it was just the thing she had been looking for. A quiet country walk. She started off down the path. Behind her, small time crook and blackmail victim of Caroline Saracin, Terry Le Main worriedly followed her.

"Crumbly?" Macfadyan spoke into the phone.

"That's Curtis." Came the resigned reply.

"Yes, yes, whatever. Look. Meet me at La Hougue Bie in 2 hours."

"Look, Macfadyan, I have better things to be doing then being a taxi service for you. People are dying, and I'm trying to do something about it."

"Well, ok. Shame though. You'll miss the rather fun spectacle of yours truly solving your problems for you."

"I'll be there."

"Thought you might, child. Don't be late." Macfadyan put down the receiver. "Now, I think we have time for another coffee and a review of the facts. I'm pretty sure I'm right and all the research we've done today just confirms it. Hah, is Crumbly going to be surprised?" he chuckled.

"Macfadyan, look, is there any way of doing this without, well, you know..." Mark asked.

"I'm sorry. But I really think that this is the only way." Macfadyan said, almost gently.

It was getting stronger, influencing more and more. Hate. Fear .Hate Fear, they were so easy to control.

In St. Helier a man hit his wife. In St. Lawrence a barroom brawl flared up from nowhere. In St. Ouen two feuding farmer's and their families went for each other with pitchforks and scythes. Small incidents, but enough to feed the fire. Before long, entire neighbourhoods were descending into chaos and bloodshed. Soon the whole island would be a slaughterhouse.

Blanche was starting to get the creeps. The light had faded. The only illumination there was came from the full moon and it's reflection on the reservoir. That in itself was spooky enough but then she had heard the footsteps. She started to walk faster in the hope that the path would come to an end or she would meet someone coming the other way. The bushes and gorse crowded her making it hard to see who was behind her. The footsteps kept pace with her and now she could hear the harsh breathing. She started to run, rational thought giving way to fear. Behind her the footsteps got closer. Then it was over. She tripped over a tree root and landed painfully. She turned and looked up through the fast forming mist.

"C'mere, bitch." Said the figure that emerged. Then he stopped, staring beyond her. "No. No nononono." He began to shout. Blanche turned around slowly. Two huge red eyes were forming out of the mist. Her breath caught in her throat and she forced herself to see this as an opportunity. Just as she was about to make a run for it, the eyes let out the most god - awful scream and rushed towards the man. His scream blended in with the painful noise coming from the eyes, then he simply burst like a wet bag, organs falling to the floor. And that was when Blanche finally panicked and ran.

After a few minutes, the path widened out into another car park. There was nobody around and she carried on running, the pain in her leg ignored. Foolishly she kept going in a straight line, crossing the road and entering the sand dunes that bordered the whole of St. Ouen's bay. She knew it was behind her, playing with her like a cat with it's favourite toy, somehow she could feel it. She stopped quickly to catch her breath. And that's when the scream came rushing toward her. She stumbled back, lost her footing and all went black.

The pain brought her round a minute or so later. Her right leg was in agony. She couldn't really see but it felt like it could be broken. She looked around herself but all she could see was a small patch of stars. I must have fallen into some kind of hole, she thought, blearily. Vaguely she remembered something the German Underground Hospital tour guide had said about the Nazi invaders building a network of bunkers around the coast of the island. Trust me to find one when I least want one, she thought. Macfadyan's never gonna let me forget this.

Then she felt it, the presence with her in the bunker. It was coming towards her, getting faster and faster, rushing through the tunnels towards her. Then...

The Dalek spun around, gun blazing blue light. She ducked and at Macfadyan's shout ran for the door of the control room. But this time it shut in front of her. She heard the gun roar again and heard Macfadyan scream. Then the blue light hit her.

The lizard lashed out with it's tail, catching Macfadyan by surprise and knocking him off his feet, his blaster falling several feet away from him. He was shouting for Cre'at but the lizard was too quick. Rushing forward it reached her and lunged hungrily towards her. She could smell the rotting flesh stuck in it's teeth. The jaws closed around her.

She was strapped to a wall, she could see Macfadyan shouting at her through the protective screen in the wall. He ran his hand through his dark hair. He was trying to climb up onto a control console, reaching desperately for something out of her eye line. Then he stopped and she saw his shoulders slump. He turned towards her, tears in his eyes. His mouth moved, "Blanche". He placed a hand on the protective screen. Then the white light flooded down towards her.

"I must say, for a primitive mode of transport, this is quite enjoyable." Said Macfadyan as the wind blew through his hair. Mark's old-fashioned maroon roadster was eating up the road. Beside him, in the passenger seat, all Mark could do was groan and hold on for dear life and prey that his insurance covered him for accidents caused by mad alien travellers. Above them, Cre'at kept pace with the cars crazy twists and turns.

"How far to La Hougue Bie?" asked Macfadyan.

"About 4 miles." Came the shaky reply.

"Hmm, about 3 minutes then."

Mark groaned again and flicked on the radio. There was just static. He fiddled with the tuner but whatever band he set it to the result was the same.

"Now that's ominous," said Macfadyan.

"Why? The north coast transmitters probably out. It happens sometimes."

"No. It's more than that. Can't you feel it? The heaviness in the air? I think our friend has got a lot stronger. And that means we have to succeed tonight. Or there may not be a tomorrow for this island of yours."

Behind them, William Small struggled to keep up with the crazy red car. His driving experience was limited to Jersey and its 40-mile an hour speed limit. He glanced at the speedometer of his Vectra. It was touching 65. Never again, he vowed. Then he saw something that made him realise that he didn't need to speed.

"La Houge Bie - 3 miles." Read the road sign. William knew exactly where they were going. He smiled and started to think about the reward he would seek off that bitch Caroline. He'd start with certain papers being destroyed. Then he'd destroy her.

His boss on the other hand was lying in a pool of her own blood in a small room off Fort Regent's piazza. Caroline had been attending a meeting of shop owners from the Fort when all hell had broken loose. The atmosphere had been a harsh one as it was, the shopkeepers angry with her for the rent increases. But something had come to the meeting and now Caroline would not be charging rent for anything ever again. Mind you, after killing her, the shopkeepers had started on each other, petty squabbles becoming the reasons for so many deaths. And so it continued.

Yes! It was strong now. So strong. Soon, a voice said. Soon you will be able to leave here. Soon. Soon.

The last thing that Bernard Du Pres expected to see was a small - ish figure stumbling in front of the headlights of his car. The last thing he then expected after slamming on the brakes was for the figure to limp heavily to his door, wrench it open and a fist to come flashing in at him. The last thing that he then expected to see was that his killer was a teenage girl. Killer? Oh yes, the silver blade of her knife had slit his throat. No doubt there. The last thing that he saw was his car being driven off in a squeal of rubber. Then he laid his head on the cold tarmac and peace claimed him. He had expected that. The blood pouring down his front and onto the road was a dead give away.

St Helier was rioting. The police were doing their best to contain it, but they were helplessly outnumbered. It didn't help that slowly but surely, policemen and women; both Uniformed and Honoury were joining the rioters. There didn't seem to be any set pattern to the riot, people were just lashing out at everybody. And it was spreading. Reports were coming in of similar situations around the island. And through it Lieutenant Colin Curtis struggled. He was making towards La Hougue Bie and his appointment with the Time Lord. Something tickled the back of his mind, making his heartbeat faster with fear. Calling on his training with the Zen brigade in Aylesbury, he edged his car around a burning taxi and turned onto St. Saviour's Hill.

Macfadyan emerged from the burial mound nodding his head and muttering excitedly to himself about measurements and block transfer. Mark sat forlornly on a bench outside the gift shop. Silhouetted against the night sky was the first of the builder's JCBs. They had started work before the JADC had been able to file its court protest. A holding order had been placed on the work to allow for public consultation but now it was all for nothing, he thought. He looked at Macfadyan, wondering just what sort of creature could do the things he claimed he would do to sort out this bizarre danger. Then he looked at Cre'at and decided that some things he just wouldn't understand.

A car screeched to a halt, not stopping in time to avoid crashing through the thin wooden entrance gates.

"What on Earth?" Mark yelled and started towards the car. The driver's door creaked open and Blanche emerged, limping towards the burial mound.

"Macfadyan!" he called.

"I'm a bit busy at the moment. What is it?"

"Its your friend. She's hurt." Macfadyan looked up then moved quickly forward towards the girl. He faltered when he saw her injuries.

"Blanche, just what have you been doing, hmm, child?"

She looked at him. Their eyes met...

He was standing in one of the most surreal places he had ever been. Around him was the primitive heath land of his dream. The roundeled walls and crumbling brick slum buildings that were dotted around the place were from different times and different places. Ahead of him, sitting on his stuffed dodo from the TARDIS was Blanche. He walked over to her, skirting around a wall. He saw she was sitting next to an ancient figure dressed like some kind of high priest.

"Blanche?" said Macfadyan, his words echoing strangely. There was no response.

"She cannot speak, Lord of Time. Her mind is gone." Said the priest.

"Gone? How?"

"I truly do not know. The first thing I am aware of was being in a hole in the ground and having knowledge of things not in my world. Before that there was darkness. And before that was death."

"Your death, I take it?"

"Yes, mine. I was sacrificed. I was their priest but I scared them. They sacrificed me to make amends to Orb for my misdeeds."

"I see, tell me more."

"I could hear them, you see? All of them. All the thoughts of my tribe were laid open to me. At first I thought that this was Orb granting me power The figure that approached me in my dream and told me to drink was cloaked in our religion.. But soon it was unbearable. I feared for my mind. And the others feared me. They sacrificed me and took my body form my home to this island burial ground across the sea. They moved great stones the distance between my home and here in the time it took the sea to leave and give up its bed and then return."

"Now that I'm impressed by."

"My people were able to achieve great things. We were builders and farmers and we ruled our lands totally. We praised Orb and received an abundance of food for our efforts. But I will see my home no more."

"Hmm, you look very young to be a high priest."

"I was made priest because of my power. Orb had blessed me and I was holy."

"Ah, religion. I never bothered with it myself, though my people used to. We banished our monks and embraced reason. And reason tells me that you my friend are a gifted telepath whose powers seem to have manifested themselves at adolescence. As for your dream figure, I expect you ate too much cheese that night. It seems you were more powerful than you thought, though. Somehow your powers survived your death, lying dormant in the burial mound until they started digging. And as you had no reasoning for yourself you latched on to those around you. You embraced their emotion as their rational thoughts were beyond your understanding. However, it seems that in your loneliness you boosted their feelings too high. And killed them. Not your fault, of course. I mean, I can hardly ask what you were thinking now, can I?"

"It was only your friend that gave me thought. I don't know what happened, but I awoke in her. I was confused. I had all these other memories. I could move the horseless carriage and knew what I had to do. I came here, though her memories were fast fading."

"Hence your little mishap at the gates. So, what can I do for you?"

"I wish to go home. I know you can take me. Please, take me home."

"It will be my pleasure."

William walked through the shattered gates of La Hougue Bie. His jaw dropped open at the sight before him. A whirling funnel of mist, not unlike a tornado, was spinning down to the ground, a dark, misshapen figure stood at its epicentre. Then everything happened at once.

There was the sound of a car pulling up in the road behind him. He heard the door open and slam shut and heavy footsteps approach. Mark La Plan was stumbling towards him, yelling something about getting away from the funnel. Then the mist evaporated, revealing the tall blond man, the girl from the cottage held in his arms. He gently lowered her to the floor.

"Ok, that's enough. Say still. Miss Saracin has had enough of you, La Plan. It's time to chair the big protest meeting in the sky." William pulled out his gun and turned slightly towards Mark.

"Say goodnight."

"Goodnight." said the blond man. There was a blinding blue/white flash of light and a noise like hell itself. Then there was nothing.

Curtis couldn't believe his eyes. The charred smoking figure of William Small crumpled to the ground revealing a smug looking Macfadyan holding some kind of tubular weapon. Anger flared inside him.

"That was murder!" Macfadyan raised a casual eyebrow at this.

"He had the audacity to point a gun at my friend here," he indicated Mark, " and I don't like jumped up humans who go around doing things like that." He looked at Mark.

"Well, goodbye, my friend. You should have peace of mind now. Cre'at, c'mon, we are leaving." The floating head hovered over to Macfadyan.

* What about Blanche? She is broken? *

"Oh don't worry. There'll be another one along in five minutes." Macfadyan held up a curious black rod with flashing lights along one side. "Goodbye, Crumbly. Do try to get some intelligence, will you?"

"You are going nowhere." Curtis pulled his revolver and pointed it at Macfadyan. "You are under arrest for murder."

Macfadyan tutted at him. Then he gave a huge wink. His finger moved slightly on the rod.

From all around came a strange discordant electronic bleeping sound, a wheezing groaning noise fading up from it. And the burial mound vanished, replaced by red and white striped candyfloss booth. Then it to vanished, leaving nothing behind but empty dirt and two very confused humans.

Normandy in France is a beautiful place. Rolling hills and farmland go on for miles. With a discordant, electronic beeping, wheezing groaning sound, one such field suddenly gained a large hillock.

Inside the TARDIS Macfadyan double-checked the instruments on the console. Cre'at had taken the empty shell that was Blanche's body to the resyk chamber and would then activate another clone. Macfadyan could have done it himself from the console but he was tired. The solution to the problem had been simple enough. Materialise around the burial mound and transport it back to France. But what bothered Macfadyan was the fact that it had taken him so long to work out what was going on. The very first inkling of telepathic activity and he should have unshipped the psychic containment units. Instead, according to the news reports the Ship was feeding him, several thousand people had died on Jersey. He knew he should be concerned, but a shadow in his mind smoothed the worry away. They were only humans. Primitives. And as for himself, well, a picnic would be just the trick to relax and refresh him. Almost without him noticing, his hand reached out and set random co ordinates. Just for a second he paused and felt Fate calm him.

He pulled the master power switch.

(With apologies to Karen)