Doctor Who: Amorality Tale

200 Pages·2002·0.86 MB·English

by  Bishop David

AMORALITY TALE
DAVID BISHOP

Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd,
Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane
London W12 0TT

First published 2002
Copyright © David Bishop 2002
The moral right of the author has been asserted Original series broadcast on
the BBC
Format © BBC 1963
Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC

ISBN 0 563 53850 3
Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright © BBC 2002

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Cover printed by
Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton
Alison, for loving me
Contents

Introduction
Prologue
Wednesday, December 3, 1952
Thursday, December 4, 1952
Friday, December 5, 1952
Saturday, December 6, 1952
Sunday, December 7, 1952
Monday, December 8, 1952
Epilogue
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgements

Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, And unawares morality expires.
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left nor
glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating
word;
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall And universal darkness buries
us all.
Alexander Pope, 1688-1744
Morality Tale: n. a kind of drama (popular in the sixteenth century) in which
the characters represent virtues, vices etc.
Prologue
London – December, 1946
Ernie Evans stamped his boots on the stone steps outside St Luke’s Church,
trying to keep his feet warm. The temperature was close to freezing and Ernie’s
breath hung in the air like a cloud. The short, pinch-faced man blew on his icy
fingers and pulled the heavy greatcoat tighter around his chest. In the distance a
bell mournfully chimed twelve times.
Ernie had been waiting for nearly an hour and his patience was wearing thin.
Five more minutes and he was leaving. Didn’t matter how good a deal the Yank
was offering for the hooky cigarettes, it wasn’t worth freezing outdoors in the
middle of winter. You could catch your death of cold doing this. Ernie was just
about to give up and go home when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps,
coming from the west. The black marketeer slipped back into the church
doorway, melting into the shadows.
A lone figure was walking along Old Street from Charterhouse. The man was
tall and broad-shouldered, with a face some would consider handsome. His black
hair was swept back from his forehead with Brylcreem, making it shine beneath
the street lights. Metal buttons glinted on his American army greatcoat. The end
of a cigarette glowed red in his left hand. The soldier stopped outside the gates to
St Luke’s and took one last draw on the cigarette before crushing it underfoot.
He turned and looked up at the church entrance.
‘You got the money?’
‘What took you so long?’ Ernie demanded.
‘Had to dodge the military police.’ The soldier smiled wolfishly. ‘Apparently
there’s a crackdown on American troops fraternising with your wives at night.
We’ve been leaving behind a few too many unwanted pregnancies.’
Ernie emerged from the shadows and skulked down the steps. ‘Bloody
Yanks. The war’s been over a year – why don’t you go back home?’
‘My unit’s shifting back to the States next week. Soon enough for you?’
Ernie shrugged his round shoulders. ‘Got my stuff?’
‘Got my money?’
‘You first.’
The soldier pulled a carton of cigarettes from within his coat.
‘The rest is nearby in a truck. Now where’s the money?’
Ernie dug a roll of bank notes from his pockets and began counting them out.
‘One hundred, like we agreed.’
‘Two hundred. The price is now two hundred.’
‘You what?’ Ernie squinted up at the American. ‘That’s well out of order!’
‘Take it or leave it. I’ve got plenty of buyers if you’re not interested.’
‘Flaming daylight robbery, that’s what it is!’ Ernie grumbled, digging into
another pocket for more money.
‘Not at this time of night.’
Ernie pulled out a second roll of notes, much larger than the first. The
soldier’s eyes widened at the size of the roll – it was big enough to hold several
thousand pounds. Ernie counted out two hundred pounds and offered it to the
American. ‘Here’s your money – I hope it chokes you!’
The soldier’s face hardened to a malevolent glare as he pulled a revolver
from his pocket. ‘Change of plan. Give me all your money and I’ll let you live –
probably.’
‘You bloody...’ Ernie began as he stared at the gun. ‘You won’t get away with
this. I’ve got friends who don’t take kindly to strangers with shooters invading
their patch.’
‘You forget, I’m being demobbed back home in a week. I’ll be long gone
before your friends can do a thing.’ The American smiled blithely at Ernie. ‘So,
what’s it to be? Give me all your money and walk away alive. Sounds like a
good deal to me. I mean, I wouldn’t have thought your pathetic life was worth
half the cash you’re carrying. But still, considering the alternative...’
‘What’s that?’
‘I shoot you and take all your money anyway.’
‘You won’t shoot – too much noise.’
‘You want to take that chance?’

Ernie swallowed hard. He knew he should have brought a weapon along
tonight but hadn’t counted on things turning nasty. The Yank had seemed a safe
bet when Ernie met him in the pub two days ago, charming all the women and
buying all the men a drink. Later the soldier had approached Ernie, saying he
understood there was a market for surplus US Army items missing in transit. A
deal had quickly been struck and a meeting arranged for the following night.
Now Ernie was regretting the greed which had led him to this situation. He
reluctantly handed over all his cash.
‘Good choice. I like the English – so polite, so trusting.’
Ernie resisted the urge to attack the soldier. Don’t let him goad you, the black
marketeer repeated to himself, don’t let him goad you.
‘You’ve got all me money, what do you want now?’
‘I want to see the look on your weasel-faced features when you realise I’m
going to kill you anyway,’ the soldier replied.
‘What?’ Ernie asked, not immediately understanding. Then realisation was
swiftly followed by incredulity and anger. ‘Why you –’
His words were cut short by the American smashing the revolver into Ernie’s
face. The soldier beat his victim repeatedly about the head with the butt of the
pistol. Ernie collapsed to the ground, trying to call out for help. Still the blows
rained down on him, one crushing his windpipe and silencing his voice forever.
As Ernie lay on the cold stone steps gasping for breath, the American
serviceman straightened up and looked around him.
Nobody was watching, nobody had seen what happened. He smiled at his
victim, ‘You know the best part of all this? The gun wasn’t even loaded.’
Ernie was fighting to stay conscious. He knew he was badly hurt and
probably dying. His legs had gone numb during the beating and his arms did not
respond when he tried to protect himself from the blows. Stupid way to die, he
thought. Survived a war just to get beaten to death less than a mile from home
over some stolen smokes.
Ernie felt himself drifting away but a voice caught his attention. It was the
American talking, but he sounded more like a frightened child now.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’

Ernie was confused. It sounded like the American was having a
conversation, but there was nobody else speaking.
Ernie’s eyes had swollen shut but he could still feel a bright light blazing
down on to him from above.
The American fell to the ground beside him, like someone kneeling in
genuflection at a church service. What was going on?
‘Forgive me and I will become your servant for the rest of my days!’
Ernie decided it didn’t matter anymore. Cold and exhaustion overwhelmed
him. He relaxed, as if he was sliding slowly down into a cold sea. He
remembered going to Margate as a child on a Bank Holiday outing with his
Mum. The scorching sun turned the beach into a hotplate as he ran down to the
water’s edge, burning the soles of his feet. But that was years ago and his Mum