Doctor Who BBCN10 - The Nightmare of Black Island by Doctor Who Page B

the shadows, but Ali seemed to be determined to join in the ‘adventure’.
    Rose beckoned her across and Ali darted over to where Rose was crouched. Rose caught her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes.
    ‘I need you to be very quiet now. You see those windows across there?’ Rose pointed across the courtyard. ‘I’m gonna go and have a look. Once I’ve done that, I’m gonna look in the bins and then we’ll go back down the tunnel to find Billy and the others, OK?’
    ‘OK.’
    ‘Now I want you to stay hidden here.’
    Ali opened her mouth to protest, but Rose raised a finger to her lips.
    ‘I mean it, Ali. It’s not a game. Stay here, all right?’
    The little girl didn’t look happy but she nodded nonetheless. Satisfied, Rose peered out into the courtyard again. It was still deserted.
    68

    ‘Well, now or never,’ she muttered to herself.
    Slipping out of the lean-to, Rose hurried across the courtyard, keeping to the wall, using the piles of furniture as cover. There was no movement from the house, no light from any of the windows. There wasn’t even any birdsong. It was eerie.
    A noise made her start and she ducked down behind a high-backed chair. A door opened and a white-coated figure emerged, carrying a bulging black refuse bag. The figure crossed to the bins and tossed the bag in, then hurried back inside the house.
    As the door slammed shut Rose shot a look over at where Ali was hiding. She had tucked herself deep into the shadows of the lean-to.
    Rose waved at her to stay put.
    One eye on the door, Rose darted across to the house, pressing up against the stone, making herself as small as possible. She ducked down, peering in through one of the narrow windows. The glass was filthy and she had to wipe at the dirt with her sleeve. She cupped her hands around her eyes, pressing her face against the glass.
    The room she could see was large and low-ceilinged, lit by a single light bulb. Dozens of cardboard boxes piled high with books and ledgers were stacked against one wall, rolls of carpet underlay against another. A wine rack full of dusty bottles and spider’s webs dominated a third wall and an old exercise bike was propped up in the far corner.
    It was like a million cellars in a million homes: boring, dull and ordinary. Rose felt a wave of disappointment. She’d hoped to be able to report back to the Doctor with proof that Morton was up to no good and, given what the boys had told her, she’d thought the cellar was her best bet.
    She cursed under her breath. This was turning out to be a waste of time.
    She was about to go to investigate the tall metal bins instead when something caught her eye in the shadows of the cellar. A bag tossed casually into a corner, half covered with an old tarpaulin. A long canvas bag, with fishing rods protruding from the open zip.
    Rose’s heart leapt into her mouth. Her dream. The fisherman. This was the proof that she’d been after, an indication that he had been 69

    down at the shore. She leaned her weight against the window frame, seeing if it would move. The catch inside flexed slightly but the frame held. She wasn’t going to get in here.
    She started to work her way along the wall of the house, pulling and pushing at each of the narrow windows in turn, oblivious now to the rain that had started to pour from the leaden sky. There! One of the catches was loose, the screws pulling from the rotten wood. She needed something to lever with.
    Keeping low, she ducked over to the pile of furniture. Leaning against the back of one of the chairs was a roll of stair carpet. The house was quite old-fashioned. If she was lucky. . .
    She pulled the chair to one side and allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. There. Stair rods. Perfect. Hefting one of them in her hands, she crossed back to the window. Slipping the stair rod through the narrow gap, she levered it back against the brickwork. The rod bent slightly, but she could feel the rotten woodwork starting to