Post by Fitz Kreiner on Jan 6, 2011 0:24:27 GMT
Tom stood in Crompton’s office, hands behind his back and his head bowed. He was already deeply ashamed of his outburst in the Master’s cell. He should never have let him get to him like that. What would the Doctor have said if he’d seen his outburst?
“Mr Rowan.”
Tom looked up as Crompton sat down on the opposite side of the desk. The man was a pompous fool with a ridiculous combover that fooled no one. Tom found that he was going to struggle to take this ticking off seriously, at least from a person who looked like a beetroot, in colour and shape, and with a combover.
“You are aware that behaviour like that which you have just displayed cannot be tolerated in this institution? Especially with such prisoners as that, and with you being a member of UNIT.”
“It was a one off, it won’t happen again,” Tom started.
“You’re damn well right it won’t!” Crompton bellowed, slamming his hand down on the desk. “For starters, you are no longer allowed in the institution to talk with the prisoner,”
Tom sighed loudly and rolled his head. He didn’t know why he had to stand here and take this. “Is that all Kevin?” he asked sarcastically and secretly enjoying the look of rage on Crompton’s face. The large vein in the man’s forehead looked as though it was about to explode. “You see, I’ve got some rather more important matters to attend to rather than have you give me a rollicking as though you’re a headmaster.” Tom turned and made for the door.
“Mr Rowan,” Crompton yelled, getting to his feet.
“I think you’ll find, Kevin, that I answer to a power higher than just UNIT, and if I need to speak to the Master, then I will. I can have you replaced here with one phone call. If you want to keep your job, bear than in mind, savvy?” Tom raised his eyebrows and smiled, enjoying the look on Crompton’s face as the ruddy man sat down heavily on his chair. With a slight nod of his head, Tom turned and left the office.
Still trembling in rage, Crompton reached for the telephone on his desk. Picking up the receiver, it dialled automatically to the front desk. “This is Governor Crompton,” he bellowed into the receiver. “You’ve a Mr. Rowan on his way down to you. I want you to make sure that he leaves the premises. Escort him out if you have to, but make sure he leaves.”
Not waiting for a reply, Crompton slammed down the receiver before turning to the drawer in his desk which contained the direct line. When he picked up the phone, it automatically dialled out to the number.
“Hello,” the voice said.
“Sir,” Crompton said, before swallowing. “I think we’re starting to have a very big problem with this Tom Rowan.”
“Explain,” the voice demanded.
“He was just here, at the institute,” Crompton started.
“So I gathered,” the voice replied sardonically.
Ignoring the tone of the voice, Crompton continued. “He attacked the prisoner in his cell. Had him against the wall with his hands around his throat.”
“I trust Mr. Rowan was removed from the cell,”
“Of course,” Crompton said. “And I’ve barred him from the institute. But he is so insolent, I’m concerned that he’s going to try to come back somehow.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” the voice replied. “But don’t worry, I’ve got Mr. Rowan under observation. You won’t have to deal with him for much longer if he continues with this behaviour.”
“Still, sir,” Crompton said, shifting in his chair. He was still furious and knew that he’d be in trouble if he showed his anger on the phone. “With all due respect, I think he is going to continue to be a nuisance for us.”
“For you, you mean,” the voice replied. “Mr. Rowan is under investigation and if he continues as he is, then I shall take measures against him and any collaborators he has.”
Crompton was unsure what to say until the line died. The other end of the phone had been put down. Putting the receiver back in the cradle, Crompton closed the drawer and drummed his fingers on the desk. Deciding finally on what to do, he crossed to the hidden security panel and activated the cameras in the prisoner’s cell.
The prisoner was sat in his chair as if nothing had happened. He had picked up his news paper and smoothed it out and was reading again. He still had his cigar and had poured himself another brandy. Picking it up, he held it up to the camera as if in a toast, looking directly out of the screen before taking a sip and continuing with reading his paper.
Switching the monitor off, Crompton turned away frowning. The camera in the prisoner’s cell was well hidden. How did he know it was there?
James Duncan replaced the receiver on the telephone and grimaced. It seemed that Crompton was never off the phone to him; if it wasn’t regarding The Prisoner, these past couple of days it was regarding Rowan. The man had only seemed to have come into existence the past couple of months. There was no record of his birth, National Insurance, driving licence, school or anything else. No aliases, police records or other known names for the physical appearance matched.
He had first seemed to come to light during the Derbyshire incident back in late July, being the mysterious ghostly image that had appeared to many people before the incident had worsened. After that, he had appeared briefly in reports from military personnel stationed there before appearing again in September during the Camden incident and then since the Colesham incident in October, working for UNIT.
Duncan had done some personal research into the man, he intrigued him. He was supposedly an associate of the Doctor, a mystery man so infamous he had numerous files on him; each of him. That was something else that perplexed Duncan, the Doctor. He was secretly grateful that he hadn’t appeared yet however. He had been told of the Doctor and the danger he may have posed. If this Tom Rowan was an associate of the Doctor, and the Prisoner, with whom he had been having some treasonous and disconcerting conversations with according to Crompton, then he had to be investigated, maybe even dealt with if the need arose.
Despite this, Duncan smiled as he sat back in his luxurious leather chair. Despite being mere days until his coronation as King of Great Britain, Duncan still enjoyed a very hands-on approach to a lot of his work. Now situated in the Tower of London, he was able to engage with parliament a lot more, taking several trips down the river, and was ideally situated for many things. He had been advised that the Tower would be the most ideal place in London, and indeed England, for his seat of power. And he knew it was a long standing symbol of power.
He continued to work late into the night on many matters, including policing and military matters, which he was satisfyingly in control of. He had two reports now on his desk from Captain Morris of UNIT and one from General Bailey, regarding Tom Rowan. He had already read them and was decided; he wanted to meet this mysterious Tom Rowan, whether it be informally or whether he needed being arresting. Fortunately, arrangements had already been made, and he was expecting a visitor to organise things.
A knock on his door brought him out of his reverie. Looking up, Duncan looked at the large oak doors.
“Come,” he said loudly.
The door opened. “Sorry I was delayed, sir, I was delayed with some important matters.”
“Not more important than our own matters, I trust Daniel?” Duncan said smoothly.
Sir Daniel Ashfield crossed the room, his footfalls softening as he passed from the stone floor to the plush rug as he approached the large mahogany desk. “Matters regarding some of our new statutes, sir,” Ashfield said as he approached the desk.
“Please, sit,” Duncan said. “And don’t forget; it’ll be ‘sire’ rather than ‘sir’, soon.” He smiled.
“Crompton again?” Ashfield asked.
“Indeed,” Duncan said, pushing the files towards Ashfield. “It seems that our friend Mr. Rowan has been paying several visits to the Master. You are familiar with the Master?”
“You mean the alien bastard who caused the death of my Susanne?” Ashfield almost snarled. “The alien interloper who has brought numerous alien scum to this planet over the past thirty years, a mass murderer, terrorist and only Master at being criminal. I know him.” There was nothing but contempt in Ashfield’s voice as he spoke.
“I see you do,” Duncan said, with a thin smile. “Let me summarise for you, Daniel,” he said, sitting back and pyramiding his fingers. “It does indeed seem as though when UNIT first had a Dr. John Smith, more commonly known as the ‘Doctor’ on their staff the Master began to make his appearances, during quite a prolific time for alien attack. Now, according to these reports, it seems as though our Mr Rowan is another of their ilk.”
“You mean he’s another alien interloper?” Ashfield asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Daniel,” Duncan said. “According to these reports here, it seems that Mr. Rowan is one of the same race as the Doctor and the Master. Not only that, but he appears to have been in collusion with the Master.”
“You want him arrested?” Ashfield asked. “It can be arranged I’m sure. You have the power to do that, don’t you?”
“I could,” Duncan said slowly. “But I want to speak to him. Possibly this Master character too.”
“No disrespect sir, but why can’t you just go to Wingmoore?” Ashfield asked.
“Too high profile,” Duncan replied. “The future monarch of Great Britain visiting one of the country’s most infamous prisoners? There’s a reason why his prison location has never been revealed to the public, Daniel,” Duncan said.
“Then what do you suggest, sir?” Ashfield asked.
Duncan leant forward over the desk and smiled. “You, Sir Daniel, are going to visit UNIT HQ in Camden with General Bailey. I want you to collect me this Tom Rowan and then collect me the Master.”
“Right now, sir?” Ashfield asked.
Duncan made an exaggerated point of looking at his watch. “I don’t think quite just now, do you, Daniel?” he said. “The morning will do very well; I’m not in any great rush.”
“Very well, sir,” Ashfield said, reaching out and taking the files.
“I think you will want to cast an eye over the files on the Doctor and Master too before you go,” Duncan said. “I want you to be totally up to scratch with these people before you engage them.”
“Yes sir,” Ashfield said, getting to his feet before catching himself. “I’m sorry, sir, is that all?”
“Yes, thank you, Daniel,” Duncan said, sitting back in his chair. “I look forward to hearing from you in the morning for a progress report.”
Nodding, Sir Daniel turned and left the office as James Duncan smiled, watching him go. Things were going well for him. Not only was he exactly where he wanted, but he had complete control over the police and military and he was finally going to have the two largest threats to his regime brought to the most secure place in the country.
Getting to his feet, James Duncan crossed to one of the wood panelled walls and reached up to the iron light fitting. Pulling sharply, a panel swung open revealing a complex piece of alien machinery. Standing back, Duncan waited. Finally the machinery seemed to come to life, the flashing of lights paused briefly before continuing in the opposite direction around the drum-like central section.
“Are you there?” Duncan asked after several seconds.
“Yes,” the machine-like voice replied.
“I’ve issued orders for the two possible threats to our future to be brought here,” Duncan said. “When your leader arrives, he will have them to question.”
“General Kortath will be arriving on the next transport,” the voice replied. “The Ikthaari will have much to thank you for.”
Tom sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes as it was driven back from the Wingmoore Institute by Corporal Loding. Several times Loding had tried to engage Tom in conversation, he normally had wanted to run things through after his visits there, at least he had the last time, even if it was just running through things himself using her as a sound board. Still, Loding had felt a little dejected as they had struck up quite a good friendship in the last few weeks.
“You sure there’s nothing to talk about?” Loding asked.
“Meh.” Tom shrugged. “Can we turn left here?”
“Yeah, sure,” Loding said with a smile as she swung the car down a different road to the route they would normally take. “Why?”
“I just wanna take a short walk, clear my head,” Tom said.
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Right up ahead and then about half a mile,” Tom said, not paying any attention to any of the surroundings.
“Very specific.” Loding smiled again. “What’s around here?”
“Just parks,” Tom replied, “nothing in particular.”
“Want me to hang around? Pick you up or anything?” she asked.
“I’ll make my own way back,” Tom said softly.
“Ok,” Loding said as she pulled the car up at the side of the road. “Is this fine for you?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, already climbing out of the car. “I’ll see you back at the HQ.”
Closing the car door, Tom turned, pulling his leather trench coat around him before trudging off across the open parkland beside the road. He glanced over his shoulder as Loding drove off slowly, before starting to pick up speed. Waiting until he was sure that she was out of sight, Tom turned on his heel and walked back in the opposite direction. Upon reaching the road he looked down, in time to see Loding turn a corner some distance down the road and disappear from sight.
Crossing the road, Tom walked a little way down the street before turning up a private road, large houses spaced on either side of the tree lined street. Pausing, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the slip of paper he’d written the address on before he had left the HQ earlier in the day; he was on the right road.
Double checking the number on the paper, Tom looked at the number of the house he was stood outside before swiftly calculating how far he had to walk up the road. Checking the number on the nearest house, Tom turned and started walking up the road. It was quiet and he could see through some of the large bay windows, tasteful Christmas decorations. He was in no doubt that this was a reputable neighbourhood. It had to be the right place, he was in no doubt.
It took him several minutes to walk up the road and to the correct house. It was situated at the head of the cul-de-sac, a warming glow coming from the windows. Tom looked at the front of the house as he walked up the path. The garden was immaculate, even in the dead of winter, bushes neatly trimmed, flower beds carefully attended.
Upon reaching the door, he found himself pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Would he be remembered? Were they even in? Tom shook his head to clear these thoughts. He was playing it like the Doctor, and it always worked for him. Besides, there were lights on, they were surely in.
Stepping up to the door, he lifted the heavy metal knocker before knocking. It took several long seconds before the door was finally answered. The woman who answered was in her late sixties, her blonde hair fading into a mature silver, swept style. She was wearing a white Arran pullover, a simple black skirt and carpet slippers. “Yes?” she asked, looking at Tom. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, erm, I hope so,” Tom said, faltering. He realised he probably looked a little intimidating dressed mostly in black, with a long black leather coat and hat. “I’m looking for someone, just hope I’ve got the right address,” he said, fishing in his inside coat pocket.
“There’s only myself and my husband here,” the woman said.
“And I think it’s him I want,” Tom said as he produced his UNIT ID. “My name’s Tom Rowan, and I want to talk to him about someone called ‘The Master’.”
“Mr Rowan.”
Tom looked up as Crompton sat down on the opposite side of the desk. The man was a pompous fool with a ridiculous combover that fooled no one. Tom found that he was going to struggle to take this ticking off seriously, at least from a person who looked like a beetroot, in colour and shape, and with a combover.
“You are aware that behaviour like that which you have just displayed cannot be tolerated in this institution? Especially with such prisoners as that, and with you being a member of UNIT.”
“It was a one off, it won’t happen again,” Tom started.
“You’re damn well right it won’t!” Crompton bellowed, slamming his hand down on the desk. “For starters, you are no longer allowed in the institution to talk with the prisoner,”
Tom sighed loudly and rolled his head. He didn’t know why he had to stand here and take this. “Is that all Kevin?” he asked sarcastically and secretly enjoying the look of rage on Crompton’s face. The large vein in the man’s forehead looked as though it was about to explode. “You see, I’ve got some rather more important matters to attend to rather than have you give me a rollicking as though you’re a headmaster.” Tom turned and made for the door.
“Mr Rowan,” Crompton yelled, getting to his feet.
“I think you’ll find, Kevin, that I answer to a power higher than just UNIT, and if I need to speak to the Master, then I will. I can have you replaced here with one phone call. If you want to keep your job, bear than in mind, savvy?” Tom raised his eyebrows and smiled, enjoying the look on Crompton’s face as the ruddy man sat down heavily on his chair. With a slight nod of his head, Tom turned and left the office.
Still trembling in rage, Crompton reached for the telephone on his desk. Picking up the receiver, it dialled automatically to the front desk. “This is Governor Crompton,” he bellowed into the receiver. “You’ve a Mr. Rowan on his way down to you. I want you to make sure that he leaves the premises. Escort him out if you have to, but make sure he leaves.”
Not waiting for a reply, Crompton slammed down the receiver before turning to the drawer in his desk which contained the direct line. When he picked up the phone, it automatically dialled out to the number.
“Hello,” the voice said.
“Sir,” Crompton said, before swallowing. “I think we’re starting to have a very big problem with this Tom Rowan.”
“Explain,” the voice demanded.
“He was just here, at the institute,” Crompton started.
“So I gathered,” the voice replied sardonically.
Ignoring the tone of the voice, Crompton continued. “He attacked the prisoner in his cell. Had him against the wall with his hands around his throat.”
“I trust Mr. Rowan was removed from the cell,”
“Of course,” Crompton said. “And I’ve barred him from the institute. But he is so insolent, I’m concerned that he’s going to try to come back somehow.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” the voice replied. “But don’t worry, I’ve got Mr. Rowan under observation. You won’t have to deal with him for much longer if he continues with this behaviour.”
“Still, sir,” Crompton said, shifting in his chair. He was still furious and knew that he’d be in trouble if he showed his anger on the phone. “With all due respect, I think he is going to continue to be a nuisance for us.”
“For you, you mean,” the voice replied. “Mr. Rowan is under investigation and if he continues as he is, then I shall take measures against him and any collaborators he has.”
Crompton was unsure what to say until the line died. The other end of the phone had been put down. Putting the receiver back in the cradle, Crompton closed the drawer and drummed his fingers on the desk. Deciding finally on what to do, he crossed to the hidden security panel and activated the cameras in the prisoner’s cell.
The prisoner was sat in his chair as if nothing had happened. He had picked up his news paper and smoothed it out and was reading again. He still had his cigar and had poured himself another brandy. Picking it up, he held it up to the camera as if in a toast, looking directly out of the screen before taking a sip and continuing with reading his paper.
Switching the monitor off, Crompton turned away frowning. The camera in the prisoner’s cell was well hidden. How did he know it was there?
*
James Duncan replaced the receiver on the telephone and grimaced. It seemed that Crompton was never off the phone to him; if it wasn’t regarding The Prisoner, these past couple of days it was regarding Rowan. The man had only seemed to have come into existence the past couple of months. There was no record of his birth, National Insurance, driving licence, school or anything else. No aliases, police records or other known names for the physical appearance matched.
He had first seemed to come to light during the Derbyshire incident back in late July, being the mysterious ghostly image that had appeared to many people before the incident had worsened. After that, he had appeared briefly in reports from military personnel stationed there before appearing again in September during the Camden incident and then since the Colesham incident in October, working for UNIT.
Duncan had done some personal research into the man, he intrigued him. He was supposedly an associate of the Doctor, a mystery man so infamous he had numerous files on him; each of him. That was something else that perplexed Duncan, the Doctor. He was secretly grateful that he hadn’t appeared yet however. He had been told of the Doctor and the danger he may have posed. If this Tom Rowan was an associate of the Doctor, and the Prisoner, with whom he had been having some treasonous and disconcerting conversations with according to Crompton, then he had to be investigated, maybe even dealt with if the need arose.
Despite this, Duncan smiled as he sat back in his luxurious leather chair. Despite being mere days until his coronation as King of Great Britain, Duncan still enjoyed a very hands-on approach to a lot of his work. Now situated in the Tower of London, he was able to engage with parliament a lot more, taking several trips down the river, and was ideally situated for many things. He had been advised that the Tower would be the most ideal place in London, and indeed England, for his seat of power. And he knew it was a long standing symbol of power.
He continued to work late into the night on many matters, including policing and military matters, which he was satisfyingly in control of. He had two reports now on his desk from Captain Morris of UNIT and one from General Bailey, regarding Tom Rowan. He had already read them and was decided; he wanted to meet this mysterious Tom Rowan, whether it be informally or whether he needed being arresting. Fortunately, arrangements had already been made, and he was expecting a visitor to organise things.
A knock on his door brought him out of his reverie. Looking up, Duncan looked at the large oak doors.
“Come,” he said loudly.
The door opened. “Sorry I was delayed, sir, I was delayed with some important matters.”
“Not more important than our own matters, I trust Daniel?” Duncan said smoothly.
Sir Daniel Ashfield crossed the room, his footfalls softening as he passed from the stone floor to the plush rug as he approached the large mahogany desk. “Matters regarding some of our new statutes, sir,” Ashfield said as he approached the desk.
“Please, sit,” Duncan said. “And don’t forget; it’ll be ‘sire’ rather than ‘sir’, soon.” He smiled.
“Crompton again?” Ashfield asked.
“Indeed,” Duncan said, pushing the files towards Ashfield. “It seems that our friend Mr. Rowan has been paying several visits to the Master. You are familiar with the Master?”
“You mean the alien bastard who caused the death of my Susanne?” Ashfield almost snarled. “The alien interloper who has brought numerous alien scum to this planet over the past thirty years, a mass murderer, terrorist and only Master at being criminal. I know him.” There was nothing but contempt in Ashfield’s voice as he spoke.
“I see you do,” Duncan said, with a thin smile. “Let me summarise for you, Daniel,” he said, sitting back and pyramiding his fingers. “It does indeed seem as though when UNIT first had a Dr. John Smith, more commonly known as the ‘Doctor’ on their staff the Master began to make his appearances, during quite a prolific time for alien attack. Now, according to these reports, it seems as though our Mr Rowan is another of their ilk.”
“You mean he’s another alien interloper?” Ashfield asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Daniel,” Duncan said. “According to these reports here, it seems that Mr. Rowan is one of the same race as the Doctor and the Master. Not only that, but he appears to have been in collusion with the Master.”
“You want him arrested?” Ashfield asked. “It can be arranged I’m sure. You have the power to do that, don’t you?”
“I could,” Duncan said slowly. “But I want to speak to him. Possibly this Master character too.”
“No disrespect sir, but why can’t you just go to Wingmoore?” Ashfield asked.
“Too high profile,” Duncan replied. “The future monarch of Great Britain visiting one of the country’s most infamous prisoners? There’s a reason why his prison location has never been revealed to the public, Daniel,” Duncan said.
“Then what do you suggest, sir?” Ashfield asked.
Duncan leant forward over the desk and smiled. “You, Sir Daniel, are going to visit UNIT HQ in Camden with General Bailey. I want you to collect me this Tom Rowan and then collect me the Master.”
“Right now, sir?” Ashfield asked.
Duncan made an exaggerated point of looking at his watch. “I don’t think quite just now, do you, Daniel?” he said. “The morning will do very well; I’m not in any great rush.”
“Very well, sir,” Ashfield said, reaching out and taking the files.
“I think you will want to cast an eye over the files on the Doctor and Master too before you go,” Duncan said. “I want you to be totally up to scratch with these people before you engage them.”
“Yes sir,” Ashfield said, getting to his feet before catching himself. “I’m sorry, sir, is that all?”
“Yes, thank you, Daniel,” Duncan said, sitting back in his chair. “I look forward to hearing from you in the morning for a progress report.”
Nodding, Sir Daniel turned and left the office as James Duncan smiled, watching him go. Things were going well for him. Not only was he exactly where he wanted, but he had complete control over the police and military and he was finally going to have the two largest threats to his regime brought to the most secure place in the country.
Getting to his feet, James Duncan crossed to one of the wood panelled walls and reached up to the iron light fitting. Pulling sharply, a panel swung open revealing a complex piece of alien machinery. Standing back, Duncan waited. Finally the machinery seemed to come to life, the flashing of lights paused briefly before continuing in the opposite direction around the drum-like central section.
“Are you there?” Duncan asked after several seconds.
“Yes,” the machine-like voice replied.
“I’ve issued orders for the two possible threats to our future to be brought here,” Duncan said. “When your leader arrives, he will have them to question.”
“General Kortath will be arriving on the next transport,” the voice replied. “The Ikthaari will have much to thank you for.”
*
Tom sat in the passenger seat of the Mercedes as it was driven back from the Wingmoore Institute by Corporal Loding. Several times Loding had tried to engage Tom in conversation, he normally had wanted to run things through after his visits there, at least he had the last time, even if it was just running through things himself using her as a sound board. Still, Loding had felt a little dejected as they had struck up quite a good friendship in the last few weeks.
“You sure there’s nothing to talk about?” Loding asked.
“Meh.” Tom shrugged. “Can we turn left here?”
“Yeah, sure,” Loding said with a smile as she swung the car down a different road to the route they would normally take. “Why?”
“I just wanna take a short walk, clear my head,” Tom said.
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Right up ahead and then about half a mile,” Tom said, not paying any attention to any of the surroundings.
“Very specific.” Loding smiled again. “What’s around here?”
“Just parks,” Tom replied, “nothing in particular.”
“Want me to hang around? Pick you up or anything?” she asked.
“I’ll make my own way back,” Tom said softly.
“Ok,” Loding said as she pulled the car up at the side of the road. “Is this fine for you?”
“Yeah,” Tom said, already climbing out of the car. “I’ll see you back at the HQ.”
Closing the car door, Tom turned, pulling his leather trench coat around him before trudging off across the open parkland beside the road. He glanced over his shoulder as Loding drove off slowly, before starting to pick up speed. Waiting until he was sure that she was out of sight, Tom turned on his heel and walked back in the opposite direction. Upon reaching the road he looked down, in time to see Loding turn a corner some distance down the road and disappear from sight.
Crossing the road, Tom walked a little way down the street before turning up a private road, large houses spaced on either side of the tree lined street. Pausing, he reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out the slip of paper he’d written the address on before he had left the HQ earlier in the day; he was on the right road.
Double checking the number on the paper, Tom looked at the number of the house he was stood outside before swiftly calculating how far he had to walk up the road. Checking the number on the nearest house, Tom turned and started walking up the road. It was quiet and he could see through some of the large bay windows, tasteful Christmas decorations. He was in no doubt that this was a reputable neighbourhood. It had to be the right place, he was in no doubt.
It took him several minutes to walk up the road and to the correct house. It was situated at the head of the cul-de-sac, a warming glow coming from the windows. Tom looked at the front of the house as he walked up the path. The garden was immaculate, even in the dead of winter, bushes neatly trimmed, flower beds carefully attended.
Upon reaching the door, he found himself pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Would he be remembered? Were they even in? Tom shook his head to clear these thoughts. He was playing it like the Doctor, and it always worked for him. Besides, there were lights on, they were surely in.
Stepping up to the door, he lifted the heavy metal knocker before knocking. It took several long seconds before the door was finally answered. The woman who answered was in her late sixties, her blonde hair fading into a mature silver, swept style. She was wearing a white Arran pullover, a simple black skirt and carpet slippers. “Yes?” she asked, looking at Tom. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, erm, I hope so,” Tom said, faltering. He realised he probably looked a little intimidating dressed mostly in black, with a long black leather coat and hat. “I’m looking for someone, just hope I’ve got the right address,” he said, fishing in his inside coat pocket.
“There’s only myself and my husband here,” the woman said.
“And I think it’s him I want,” Tom said as he produced his UNIT ID. “My name’s Tom Rowan, and I want to talk to him about someone called ‘The Master’.”
