Short Trips 9 - Monsters by Ian Farrington

Short Trips 9 - Monsters by Ian Farrington

Author:Ian Farrington [Farrington, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ibm
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


The Doctor didn't know how to respond to this. He was extremely flattered that his heroes had heard of him,

but he was quite aware that a lot of alien races didn't hold him in such great esteem, because of his habit of

stuffing up their plans.

Èrm, yes,' he admitted.

The alien turned its back on the Doctor, and with a chorus of hisses and grunts and unpleasant abdominal noises,

convened with its fellows. The Doctor flashed a sheepish smile at all the Greenford residents who, mobile phones

clamped to their ears, were watching this from the sidelines, the mixture of excitement and envy apparent.

The alien leader turned to face the Doctor again. 'Fancy a drink?' it rasped.

Nyssa didn't know where her kidnapper's hand had been, but she knew where it was now; stuffed in her mouth.

She had been rooted to the spot when the aliens had arrived in Greenford Broadway, unable to do

anything, even if she had known exactly what to do. No one around her had seemed upset by their arrival. No, that

wasn't quite true. There had been a reaction, but it was a positive one; excitement rather than fear and panic.

Normally she would applaud such a rational and humane reaction from one species to another, but this time it just

didn't feel right.

Now she was being bustled along an alleyway filled with dustbins to who knows where. Of the identity of her

kidnapper she hadn't a clue. He was a man, of medium build and well-done body odour.

They reached a wooden gate through which the man led Nyssa, across a cramped muddy garden bordered with

bluebells, past a washing line on which hung a row of pale blue Y-fronts with once-white trimming, and into a

small house via a red back door.

Once inside, the man let go of Nyssa, and she took a deep breath, hoping to rid herself of the taste of the man's

nicotine-stained hand. Unfortunately the house smelt even worse than the hand, of an aroma unfamiliar to Nyssa,

although the chemist in her surmised that it was evocative of some kind of green vegetation, albeit in a dampened,

maybe heated state. She examined her surroundings. It was a kitchen, not very clean, in some state of disarray.

Soiled crockery was piled up totteringly high beside a basin, wallpaper of a floral nature threatened to peel away

from the wall any minute now, while the tiled ceiling was a peculiar shade of dirty orange.

All in all, it was exactly what Nyssa expected a Greenford habitation to be.

An old lady, blue of hair, ornately rimmed spectacles roosting defiantly on the bridge of her nose, was tackling the

washing-up, sleeves rolled up, a peach-coloured fuzzy hat pinned to her head. When she saw Nyssa, she put down

the gravy boat she was scrubbing and approached, curiously.

`Hello, dear. Would you like a cuppa?'

The Doctor sat on the floor of his cell and wondered what had gone wrong.

Again.

It had all started out so amicably. He couldn't remember the last time an

encounter with a new species had begun so promisingly. The aliens (whom he had



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