BBC Cult Dr Who - The Sands Of Time Read online

  Doctor Who

  The Sands of Time

  By Justin Richards

  Illustrated by Peter McKinstry

  Table of contents

  Instalment One

  Instalment Two

  Instalment Three

  Instalment Four

  Instalment Five

  Instalment Six

  Instalment Seven

  Instalment Eight

  Instalment Nine

  Instalment Ten

  Alternative Ending

  Author's Notes: Instalment One

  Author's Notes: Instalment Two

  Author's Notes: Instalment three

  Author's Notes: Instalment Four

  Author's Notes: Instalment Five

  Author's Notes: Instalment Six

  Author's Notes: Instalment Seven

  Author's Notes: Instalment Eight

  Author's Notes: Instalment Nine

  Author's Notes: Instalment Ten

  Author's Notes: Alternative Ending

  Instalment One

  Ancient Egypt - c5000BC

  The woman was still alive as unnatural thunder cracked across the sky. The lightning forked through the thrashing rain, stabbing at the desert sand. Rain splashed across the dunes, running down the bank towards the entrance of the tomb, washing over stone that had been parched for a thousand years.

  She was hardly more than a girl, her eyes betraying her fear as she shivered in the warm rain. The priests stood either side of her, holding her arms out from her body. Their heads were lowered - perhaps in shame, perhaps in an effort to keep them dry.

  She screamed as the spirit she hosted was split, ruptured and ripped from her mind. She collapsed to her knees, held up only by the grip of the priests. Damp sand gritted into the white cotton of her dress. The muscles in her neck tightened with the pain and her cries echoed through the night, blotting out the thunder. But she was still alive.

  The gods watched from the ridge, silent and still. The rain running down their masked faces and splashing from their robes. Then Anubis and Horus stepped forward and made their considered way down towards the burial party. The lightning flashed across their ritual masks, picking out the reflective detail of the gold and deepening the dark holes of their eyes. The woman raised her head slightly as they stopped in front of her. Her left eyelid flickered while Anubis raised the lid from the canopic jar. Then her body spasmed again as Horus touched her cheek, drew out the enclosed spirit, left her with only the instinct and intuition she had inherited.

  She was still alive, but Rassul did nothing.

  He watched as they dragged the girl's sagging body towards the tomb. He followed, taking his designated place as the last of the relics were carried after her. The ring of Bastet, born on a velvet cushion; the snake statue of Netjerankh; the scarab bracelet; the figure of Anubis, god of the rituals of death. Rassul followed, holding the hourglass before him like the talisman it was. And at his back he could hear the Devourer of the Dead snapping in frustration as she was cheated of her victim.

  The girl was still alive as they removed the dress. She could stand alone now, unmoving apart from her eyes. She was still alive as Anubis directed the priests to smear her naked body with bitumen.

  She was still alive as they started to smother the bandages round her. And Rassul did nothing.

  As the wrappings reached her face she screamed again, head back and mouth wide, as if to remind them she still had her tongue. A single word, screamed in terror, anger and accusation. A single word hurled at Rassul as he stood before her. And did nothing. The next twist of cloth cut off her voice, bit deep into her mouth and gagged her.

  She was still alive as the bandages covered her forehead, leaving a thin slot through which Rassul could see her eyes widen. She was watching him, locked on to him. And he could see her pupils dilate, could almost feel her terror.

  The opening of the mouth. Her scream had been like a pouring in of energy. His muscles tightened and his whole body tensed. A single word.

  In that instant he knew what he must do, saw his destiny mapped out like a procession snaking across the desert. He felt his life stretch out ahead of him, guided inexorably towards a new purpose.

  Rassul placed the hourglass in the appointed position. He watched them lower the mummified body into the inner sarcophagus and drag the heavy lid across it. He watched the priests follow the gods from the tomb. He turned back as they reached the doorway, bowed in reverence, and made to join the procession.

  Then he reached out, and turned the hourglass over. A tiny trickle of sand, a thin line of time, traced its way into the lower glass bowl. Rassul watched for a moment, then followed the last of the priests. He waited outside as they closed and sealed the doorway.

  The gods were already gone. The priests waited no longer than was necessary to complete the final rituals. Like Rassul, they had heard the thumping on the inside of the sarcophagus. Like Rassul, they knew she was still alive.

  Mena House Oberoi hotel, Giza - September 1896

  Lord Kenilworth spluttered into his single malt, wiped a sodden handkerchief round his damp collar, and looked again across the room. He was sitting alone at a map-strewn table close to the window. He had been examining the maps for most of the afternoon, tracing out routes to possible sites and discarding them for lack of substantiating or corroborative evidence. Across the extensive hotel gardens outside, if he cared to look, he was afforded an excellent view of the pyramids. But for the moment, the presence of the man who had entered the bar puzzled him more than the ancient monuments he had spent a good deal of his forty-seven years studying.

  'Good God, Atkins,' Kenilworth blurted, half rising as the man approached him. 'What the deuce?'

  'I'm sorry, sir. I realize this is somewhat unexpected.' Atkins lowered his head slightly as he spoke. 'But a matter has arisen.'

  'Unexpected? I should say so.' Kenilworth waved the tall man to a chair, and wiped his brow.

  Atkins sat, assuming an upright posture which emphasized his near-immaculate attire. If Kenilworth noticed the mud and sand clinging to Atkins' shoes and the cuffs of his trousers, he did not mention it. He waited.

  'So what is this matter that brings you all the way from London? What is it that causes you to neglect your duties - and my household, I should add - and come to Cairo in person rather than send a telegram?'

  Atkins coughed politely. 'We are actually in Giza, sir.'

  'I know where I am, thank you. And I rather think I may be permitted to stray a couple of miles from my residence. Especially since my butler seems to have wandered several thousand miles from his.' He gave a single curt nod to emphasize the point. Then he laughed, a short snort of mirth. 'You gave me quite a turn though, I don't mind admitting.' Kenilworth set down his drink on one of the maps, rubbing his thumb against the cool surface of the glass for a moment.

  A shadow fell across the table, and he was suddenly aware that another figure had joined them. The man was standing beside Kenilworth's chair, silhouetted against the window and framed between the shapes of the pyramids outside.

  'Who the devil are you, sir?' Kenilworth asked, pulling the maps off the table and rolling them up. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Atkins grab the whisky tumbler a moment before the map was pulled from under it.

  'This gentleman, sir,' Atkins said quietly as he replaced the tumbler on the table, 'has a proposition which I believe you will find of interest.'

  'Does he indeed.' Kenilworth peered into the setting sunlight. The man was tall, but Kenilworth could make out no features. There was just a shadowed oval where his face should be. 'Well then, sir, out with it. What proposition is it that causes y
ou to hijack my man and bring him half across the globe?'

  The man's voice was young, but at the same time it commanded respect. It was cultured, lacking any discernible accent beyond being English. 'You are looking for a tomb,' the man said. 'A blind pyramid south of Saqqara.'

  Kenilworth's eyes narrowed. 'How do you know that?' He turned to his manservant. 'Atkins?' he asked accusingly.

  Atkins shook his head, a barely perceptible gesture. 'I think you should listen to the gentleman, sir. I have good reason to suspect he can provide useful information.'

  Kenilworth snorted again, and reached for his drink.

  'Really. And what information, pray, can you provide me with?'

  The man straightened up again. 'You must be prepared for some hardship, I'm afraid. There will be danger, death even, ahead of us. But if you're agreeable I can offer my services to your expedition.'

  'And what exactly are you offering?'

  The man turned away, towards the window, and looked out at the pyramids. The sun was edging down between them, its rays streaming across the hazy desert sands. He was silent for a moment, as if considering. Then he seemed to come to a decision and turned back to face Kenilworth.

  'I can lead you to the tomb,' he said.

  Cranleigh Hall, Oxfordshire - 1926

  The orchestra occupied a large area of the terrace. One end of the lawn was taken up with the buffet and bar, the rest was free for the guests. Some of them stood and ate; some of them chatted idly amongst themselves; some of them danced in the small area of the terrace free of musicians; some of them watched the dancers as they skidded merrily through the Charleston.

  Lord and Lady Cranleigh weaved their way endlessly and effortlessly through the guests. They smiled and exchanged small talk. They nodded and accepted good wishes and compliments. They agreed with any comments offered unless they related to religion or politics, in which case they went out of their way to be non-committal before moving hastily on.

  'Beautiful, absolutely beautiful,' Smutty Thomas told them for the fourth time as he waved his most recent flute of champagne vaguely in the direction of the happy couple. 'Lovely church. Bishop's a good sort.' Champagne splashed on to the grass at Lady Cranleigh's feet. She smiled, pretending not to notice.

  'Speeches - excellent. Superb,' Smutty Thomas concluded, nodding enthusiastically.

  Lord Cranleigh laughed. 'We haven't had the speeches yet.'

  Smutty Thomas frowned with some difficulty. 'Well,' he decided at length, 'they will be good.'

  'Indeed they will,' a voice said from just behind Cranleigh. It was at once breathless and controlled, as if the speaker had just run a hundred yard dash but not broken a sweat. 'I shall especially enjoy the anecdote about the pig in Exeter College.'

  Lord Cranleigh gaped. 'How could you possibly know -' he began, turning to face the man who had spoken. As soon as he saw who it was his surprise turned to delight and understanding. 'Doctor,' he said with a beam, 'how good of you to come.'

  'Not at all.' The Doctor smiled back and took Cranleigh's proffered hand.

  'Congratulations. The wedding cake tastes lovely.'

  'We haven't cut it yet,' said Lady Cranleigh.

  But her husband just laughed again and waved an admonishing finger at the Doctor. 'I can never tell when you're joking, Doctor.'

  'Are you here alone?' Lady Cranleigh asked. She had been looking past the Doctor, scanning the nearby guests for his companions.

  'I'm rather afraid I am.' The Doctor's smile faded.

  'May be just as well,' Cranleigh observed. 'I rather think Miss Nyssa's appearance here might cause some little confusion.' He turned to the swaying Smutty Thomas. 'You know she's the image of Ann,' he confided. 'Two peas in a pod. Quite uncanny.' But his friend seemed more concerned with keeping his champagne within the confines of the wavering glass than in Cranleigh's words.

  Ann Cranleigh patted the Doctor's shoulder. 'It's nice to see you, anyway,' she said. 'But you must bring Nyssa and Tegan and Adric to visit us soon. You are always welcome here.'

  'Indeed,' Cranleigh agreed with his wife. 'We owe you a lot, Doctor.'

  'Thank you,' the Doctor said. He bit his lower lip as if pondering something important.

  'I know you're a little busy at the moment,' he said at last, 'but I was wondering if you could do me one small favour.'

  'Anything I can do, Doctor,' Cranleigh said seriously. 'So long as it's not money,' he added with a wink.

  The Doctor laughed. Then at once he was solemn again. 'No, it's not money. And actually, it's really your wife I must ask. Though I can give you a little while to think about it.'

  'In that case,' Lady Cranleigh took the Doctor's arm, 'you can ask me as we dance.'

  'Dance?' The Doctor was dismayed. He twisted round as she led him towards the terrace and shot Cranleigh a despairing glance.

  Cranleigh raised his glass in response. 'See you later, Doctor,' he called, turning back in time to catch Smutty Thomas as he fell.

  Kenilworth House, London - 1965

  Aubrey Prior froze. The glass hovered for a moment in front of his open mouth, then he blinked suddenly and put it down. The light from the heavy chandelier reflected off the cut facets of the lead crystal and made the vintage port glow as if lit from within. It was one of the best of the many ports that Aubrey Prior had tasted.

  'How long have you known? Are they sure? My God, how do you -' Aubrey shook his head. 'Sorry, I - Sorry.'

  Cedric smiled sadly across the room. He was standing with his back to the fire, resting his arm along the mantelpiece. 'I've known for quite some time really,' he said. 'Though it took me a while to believe it.'

  'But there must be something - some treatment or other. If it's a genetic instability or defect in the DNA -'

  Cedric held up his hand to stop his nephew. 'In a few years I can believe that you and your colleagues will have tinkered around with our genes to the point where you can cure anything, Aubrey.' He stared distantly at the chandelier for a moment. 'But I don't have a few years. All I have is a few weeks.'

  'Weeks?'

  Cedric Prior nodded. 'Three at the most, apparently. Though God knows I feel better now than I have in ages.' He looked round the drawing room, slowly scanning the furniture and ornaments. To his nephew he looked as if he was seeing the room properly for the first time. Or the last. 'I was hoping that he would come during my lifetime, that I would find out at last what it's all about . . .' His voice tailed off and he shook his head slowly and sadly.

  'He?' Aubrey stood up and went over to join his uncle at the fire. They were friends as well as relatives, and Aubrey had been looking forward to the evening for weeks. Probably for longer than his uncle had left to live. He put his glass down on the mantelpiece. Suddenly he didn't seem to want the drink.

  Cedric Prior was still staring into space, his eyes glazed over. Aubrey waited a while, but his uncle seemed deep in thought. 'Would you like me to . . .' Aubrey gestured vaguely towards the door.

  Cedric looked at him. 'What? Oh, no. No. Sorry I was -' He looked towards the door where Aubrey had pointed. 'Yes, yes. We must go. It's time you knew about your duties, knew about the task our family is charged with.'

  Aubrey followed his uncle into the hall, wondering vaguely if his brain had been affected by the illness. He was becoming certain of it when Cedric Prior led him to the cupboard under the stairs and indicated that his nephew should follow him inside.

  'In there? Really, Uncle, I do think -'

  'Come along, I've waited all your life to show you this.' Cedric grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. Then he immediately stooped down and started to fumble with the floorboards.

  Aubrey peered over Cedric's shoulder, and saw that he was levering up a brass ring set into the wood. As soon as his fingers could gain purchase on the ring, he pulled. And a section of the floor of the cupboard lifted up accompanied by a cloud of dust. 'A trapdoor.'

  Cedric smiled and nodded. 'Down you go.' As his un
cle stood aside, Aubrey could see a set of stone steps leading down into the cellarage beneath.

  Aubrey had expected a dim area filled with cobwebs and dust. Instead he was greeted with a large stone-floored room, brightly lit and draped with deep red velvet curtains round the walls. On low tables and shelves around the room were various ornaments and statuettes. But Aubrey hardly noticed them.

  On the far side of the room, was a dais. Two stone steps led up to the raised rectangular area. And standing on a stone table in the middle was a sarcophagus.

  Without looking to see if his uncle was behind him, Aubrey walked slowly across the room towards the coffin. His feet rang on the stone floor, the sound deadened and absorbed by the heavy curtains. As he stepped up to it, he could see that the sarcophagus was dark with age. Once it had been covered with intricate, colourful hieroglyphics, three rows of tiny pictures around the outside of the human-shaped case. But now they had faded and blackened in the air so that only the outlines and shadows of them were visible as they caught the light.

  Aubrey reached the top step, and looked into the coffin. He drew in his breath sharply as he saw the bandaged body. From the size and shape he assumed it was, or rather had been, female. He shook his head in disbelief. 'My God. How long have you had this here?'

  Behind him, at the foot of the staircase, Cedric Prior laughed. 'I didn't put this here. I wasn't told who did.' He stepped forward, lowering his voice slightly. 'And I knew better than to ask.' He stepped slowly up to the sarcophagus and stared inside for a while. 'She is your responsibility now, Aubrey.'

  'Mine?'

  'Oh yes. As my sole heir you will get the house and all its contents. Including her.''But what? I mean -' Aubrey waved his hands over the bandaged form. 'What's it for? What do I have to do with her?'

  'Probably nothing. She lies here like this, untouched and undisturbed until our family's duty is discharged.'

  'And when is that?'

  Cedric reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. It was brittle and yellowed with age, and a fleck of paper flaked off and floated to the basement floor as he teased open the end. From inside he drew a piece of card. He handed it to his nephew.