TURLOUGH'S TALE Chapter One
I’m a coward. I know that well enough. I fear death. I fear pain. Don’t you? What would you do if you were I, far from home and under the thumb of a beastly tormentor? I don’t have the courage to bear the torment, nor have I the courage to do what is being demanded of me: to kill the Doctor.
He shouldn’t be all that hard to kill. He’s a bit hard to pin down – always on the move, for one thing, and always getting us into situations in which cooperation in order to save our lives takes precedence over doing that particular deed.
Look at him, squatting there by the stream, examining some kind of plant, the sun making a halo of his hair. He’s no saint but what has he done to deserve me, or my sponsor, for lack of a better word? Still, killing him is the only way I can free myself from the Black Guardian.
I’m pretty sure the Black Guardian has no intention of keeping his end of the bargain and getting me off this wretched planet. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kill me just because, even if I manage to kill the Doctor for him. This is self-defense and it might not even work.
Now that Nyssa’s gone, only Tegan stands in my way. That girl doesn’t trust me. The Doctor himself is naively trusting. I could poison him, or smother him in his bed – but I’d have to kill Tegan too and that wasn’t part of the bargain. I mean, she’s not wrong about me! I can’t blame her for hating me. I almost like her for it. Damn it, despite myself, I like the Doctor too.
If I can get the Doctor alone outside of the TARDIS, kill him, hide his body and then send Tegan out looking for him, then all I have to do is figure out how to operate the TARDIS and off I go. Maybe The Black Guardian would even show me how to do that. I’m not holding my breath on that one.
Now’s my chance, really. We are outside the TARDIS, he is alone, and perhaps even unaware that I have stepped outside. He won’t be occupied by that plant forever, though, I am unarmed, and he will have to be killed so suddenly and quickly that he has no chance to regenerate. I need to get some kind of weapon ready, then lead him away from the TARDIS on some pretext or other.
This is a lovely spot, densely wooded and stream-streaked: the perfect setting for my purpose.
So much for getting a weapon: here he comes, smiling his sunny smile at me, so I’d better just improvise. “Doctor,” I say, “I could swear I heard a voice coming from over there,” and I point into the woods. Instantly he is serious and stares where I point. “A child’s voice,” I add, thinking, very good, very clever, now he will be looking down all the time and as soon as I find a big stick I can thwack him on the back of the head. “There it is again! Did you hear it?”
The Doctor frowns and says “No,” and then, “Show me.” I am only too happy to lead him into the woods. My mind is set. This is my last chance. I am suppressing all feeling, not just fear, not just regret, as he has been nothing but kind to me, but all feeling. I am numb and glad of it.
“I am certain I heard it around here, but it seems to be coming from over that way now.”
The Doctor frowns again. “I don’t hear anything. Are you sure?” Does he suspect? No, he doubts his own senses before it can occur to him to doubt me. How do such people exist?
“Very sure, Doctor.” I lead him deep into the woods, turning often, getting him good and lost. Then I slip away. It’s surprisingly easy. He doesn’t realize right away; his concentration is always like that, so deep that he seems distracted but it’s not distraction, but rather its opposite: focus, laser-sharp and exclusive. Then he does notice, and begins to call me.
“Turlough? Turlough? Where have you got to?” Then, to himself, “Surely he hasn’t gone and got himself lost?” I can hear him moving about, not crashing through the brush but crackling through it, in my direction actually, but I’m well hidden… and armed. Not only have I acquired a stick with just the right heft to it, I also stumbled upon an amazing treasure under the circumstances: a rusty switchblade knife, monogrammed “Q.R.” and terribly muddy. If I attack the Doctor with this, if I fail to inflict a mortal wound he will likely die of tetanus or some other deadly infection. I suppose I should use the stick first and then find the most merciful route for the knife to follow. Who am I kidding? I shall find the easiest route, not the most merciful. I slip the knife into my pocket.
He’s crunching right past me; what, that isn’t manmade, is noisier than a forest floor? I raise the stick and swing it the way I’ve seen baseballers do on TV. The sounds are similar: the crack of the bat against the ball, the crack of my stick against the back of the Doctor’s head; maybe the latter sound was a bit deeper. He makes a peculiar grunt and falls forward, landing face-down and all sprawled out in the brush. Dropping the stick, I have this crazy concern that he could have put an eye out so I roll him over, eliciting a groan, and his face is scratched but his eyes are unharmed, tightly closed, then moments later open but unfocused. There is blood on the brush where he fell, and I am taken aback by that, too. Well, what did I expect? He groans again. If I wait any longer he will become fully conscious and I will have missed my chance. I feel for the knife in my pocket but don’t take it out. Instead, I put my hand on the Doctor’s chest and feel around for a vulnerable spot, but instead discover two hearts! What if I stabbed him in one but the other kept beating? Could I make myself stab him twice? I am not at all sure. I pick up his right arm, then drop it. Why waste time there when his throat is such an easy target?
