Love Is A Silent Thief

For Comic Relief; here’s a Doctor Who short story I wrote back in 2004, for the Big Finish anthology Past Tense. It’s called The Thief Of Sherwood, and it remains one of my favourite Doctor Who things that I’ve done. Sadly Past Tense is long out of print, and so is Re:Collections which also included it, as Big Finish no longer have the rights to release Doctor Who short stories in print. As you will see, this story wouldn’t work if read aloud, so there’s no chance of it being released that way either. And, as the rights have reverted, I thought it would be nice to share it. If you read it and enjoy it, please make a donation to Comic Relief.

 

[When it was printed in Past Tense, the editor, Ian Farrington, went to great pains to use the correct typefaces. Unfortunately I cannot reproduce that to full effect here. Please also note: this is the story as delivered; it was slightly re-written in Past Tense to link up to Joe Lidster's story That Time I Nearly Destroyed The World Whilst Looking For a Dress]

The Thief Of Sherwood

“At one time, I suggested giving the Doctor an adventure where he met Robin Hood!” – William Hartnell

--

Radio Times, 19th September 1964:

5.30

DR. WHO

An adventure in space and time

starring

WILLIAM HARTNELL

WILLIAM RUSSELL

JACQUELINE HILL

and

CAROLE ANN FORD

*

The Deserted Castle

by Godfrey Porter

Dr. Who.............................William Hartnell

Ian Chesterton......................William Russell

Barbara Wright......................Jacqueline Hill

Susan Foreman....................Carole Ann Ford

Little John...............................Archie Duncan

Will Scarlet …………...............Ronald Hines

Sheriff Of Nottingham….…Frank Thornton

Maid Marion………….............Judith Denton

Peddler…...…………..………..Milton Johns

Villager……………………….Carl Bernard

Man-at-arms………………………Ivor Colin

Title music by Ron Grainer

with the BBC Radiophonic Workshop

Incidental music composed and

conducted by Harper C. Bassett

Story editor, David Whitaker

Designer, Barry Newbery

Associate producer, Mervyn Pinfield

Producer, Verity Lambert

Directed by, Patrick Whitfield

Is the castle as deserted as it appears? Or is it

a trap for the unwary traveller?

--

Radio Times, 19th September 1964:

DR. WHO

and the Outlaws

We all know that it is impossible to wind back the hands of history - and equally impossible for us to launch ourselves into the realms of future space. Impossible for us - but not for the strange old gentleman of time and space, Dr. Who (William Hartnell) - who has no problem in travelling to far-flung worlds or through time to the dark days of twelfth-century Sherwood.

Such is the setting for Saturday’s instalment of a new tale for the Doctor and his group. Written by Godfrey Porter, the story is essentially a re-telling of the Robin Hood myth - the travellers become involved in a case of mistaken identity which leads them to the dungeons of the infamous Sheriff of Nottingham. The story does not affect the course of history but instead utilises it as a thrilling backdrop for adventure.

--

Radio Times Doctor Who 10th Anniversary Special, 1973:

The Bandits

The TARDIS lands in the dungeons of Nottingham castle. Ian and Susan are captured and brought before the Sheriff. The others are captured by bandits and taken to Sherwood Forest where they discover that Robin Hood is Ian’s double. The Merry Men elect to rescue Ian and Susan but the attempt fails and Robin is killed. The Doctor saves Susan from execution by posing as a monk. Ian gives away all of Robin’s loot.

--

Doctor Who – Story Nine, Doctor Who Weekly 26, 1980:

THE THIEVE OF SHERWOOD

This six part adventure was first shown on BBC television on September 19th, 1964.

The TARDIS has recently journeyed through the fourth and fifth dimensions. From their positions by the controls the Doctor, Susan, Ian and Barbara watch the scanner. They have landed in sheer darkness!

They emerge into a dungeon cell. A skeleton is chained to the wall! “That was a human being. We are on Earth!” proclaims the Doctor. They decide to split up to explore. The Doctor and Barbara go upstairs and discover they are in a deserted medieval castle.

Ian and Susan, meanwhile, meet a pretty young girl called Marion being held prisoner. Ian attempts to force the door to her cell, but the lock is too strong. He heads back to the TARDIS for cutting tools, but discovers that the door to that cell is now also locked. They are not alone…

The Doctor and Barbara reach a nearby village. The houses are all boarded up and the occupants live in fear for their lives.

Back in the dungeons, the man-at-arms who watched Ian and Susan meets with the Sheriff Of Nottingham. “Your plan has succeeded, my Lord!” he says. “The bandits have entered the castle!”

Ian and Susan are shocked when a portcullis drops, trapping them. Suddenly soldiers emerge from every door and passageway. It is a trap!

The Doctor and Barbara attempt to return to the castle… but are caught by a gang of bandits who take them to their hideout in Sherwood forest. “Unhand me,” cries the Doctor. “This is no way to treat a Gallifreyan!”

The bandits identify themselves as Little John and Will Scarlet. Barbara guesses they are being taken to meet Robin Hood! The Doctor is more sceptical. “Robin Hood is a myth. He is no more real than Sherlock Holmes!”

But the Doctor is proved wrong when they arrive at the outlaw’s lair. Their leader, Robin Hood, steps out of the shadows. And he looks exactly like Ian!

--

Doctor Who Episode Guide, Doctor Who Monthly 51, 1981:

THE OUTLAWS (Serial I, 6 episodes)

The Deserted Castle (19th September 1964)

A hushed silence falls over the forest clearing as the Doctor and Barbara await the arrival of the murderous bandit leader, Robin Hood. They are shocked when Robin is revealed to be Ian’s double!

The Thief Of Sherwood (26th September 1964)

Learning that he has Robin prisoner in his dungeons, the Sheriff of Nottingham orders his execution. But it is Ian who is placed in the stocks. The man-at-arms raises his axe…

The Alchemist (3rd October 1964)

The Doctor convinces the Sheriff that he can create gold. But it is a ruse, and using gunpowder, the Doctor blows the door of the workshop off its hinges. But he is knocked unconscious by the explosion, as the flames lick ever nearer.

Errand Of Mercy (10th October 1964)

The Merry Men’s rescue attempt has failed, and Robin and Susan have sought sanctuary in the castle dungeons. But they are discovered by the Sheriff’s guards and Susan is horrified as Robin is run through with a sword.

Ransom (17th October 1964)

Ian (posing as Robin) has agreed to meet the Sheriff to arrange Susan’s release. As he enters the peddler’s shop, he discovers the owner’s corpse and realises that he has entered a trap. The door opens and a shadowy figure approaches Ian’s hiding place.

A Guest For The Gallows (24th October 1964)

In the forest clearing, Ian has returned Robin Hood’s gold to the villagers, and the four travellers have returned to the TARDIS. As the take off sound begins, the Doctor warns of a build-up of “space pressure” outside…

--

Gallifrey Guardian, Doctor Who Monthly 69, 1982

THIEFS RE-CAPTURED!

A television station in Cyprus has returned three prints from the missing William Hartnell story ‘The Theives Of Sherwood’ to the BBC film archive at Windmill Lane.

The prints comprise parts 1, 2 and 4 of this classic adventure where the Doctor encounters Robin Hood and the Sheriff Of Nottingham. Part 6 is already held by the archive, but parts 3 and 5 remain sadly missing, but BBC archive selector Sue Malden remains hopeful of more Doctor Who episode finds in the future.

--

  
Doctor Who – A Celebration, 1983

The Thief Of Sherwood

Billed in the BBC press handout as a ‘thrilling adventure with Robin Hood’, this story followed in the tradition of the serials Ivanhoe and William Tell. However, it was also a sophisticated and witty exploration of how legends might arise.

Landing in the dungeons of Nottingham castle during the time of the Crusades, Ian and Susan are captured by the Sheriff. The Doctor and Barbara meet the less-than-philanthropic Robin Hood, who turns out to be the exact double of Ian. The Doctor plans to negotiate his companion’s release by offering the Sheriff the secret of alchemy. When Robin is killed, Ian substitutes for him and leads the Merry Men in an attempt to rescue Susan before she is executed. The Doctor intervenes at the last moment, posing as the priest giving the last rites, and Ian returns the bandits’ plunder to the villagers, thereby creating the myth of Robin Hood.

--

Radio Times Doctor Who 20th Anniversary Special,, 1983

The Thief Of Sherwood was an intelligently-scripted piece of historical adventure, with Ian playing a dual role, himself and Robin Hood, who was Ian’s double. Robin Hood was depicted as a villain, and when he is killed, Ian replaces him and seals his reputation.

--

Doctor Who – The Thief Of Sherwood, Target Novelisation, Godfrey Porter,  1986

First Extract from the Letters of Barbara Wright

Should I ever return to your front room, Auntie Margaret, what a story I would have to tell! Ever since I was shanghaied into time and space by the Doctor, my life has been a succession of unsavoury disasters. Poisoned by radiation, hailed as a goddess, possessed by an alien brain and let down by a Frenchman, nothing could have prepared me for my current ordeal. Kidnapped by a band of uncouth, unwashed and unshaven bandits, I found myself thrust into their dismal forest lair, a collection of makeshift tents camouflaged by foliage. My wrists were chafed by bondage and my ankles ached from walking the miles from Nottingham to Sherwood. I collapsed at the feet of an exceptionally malodorous figure and found myself at the unfriendly, not to mention business, end of a crossbow. But although I was hungry, tired and soaked to the skin, my spirits remained undampened as I thought of happier times and places, and in particular of your toasted buttered  muffins.

You may recall me mentioning one of my colleagues, Mr Ian Chesterton. You recommended him to me during one muffin encounter as a ‘very eligible young man’. Well, as I looked up I discovered that the figure at the friendly end of the crossbow was the exact double of that very eligible young man. Admittedly his hair was bedraggled and his chin was bearded, and his cheeks were smeared in mud, but otherwise it could have been the Ian with whom you once enjoyed several steaming mugs of Ovaltine.

In my confusion, I asked him in what boys’ play-acting game he was indulging. He responded in a thick brogue that I should not speak unless ordered to. I quickly realised that this was not my Ian, but perhaps one of his less salubrious ancestors.

Despite our predicament, my companion, the Doctor, had lost none of his gumption. He travelled the universe as though inspecting a rather dissatisfactory country garden. Upon learning that the name of our lime-garbed companion was Robin Hood, he tutted like a parakeet. ‘My dear sir,’ ejaculated the Doctor. ‘Whomsoever you might be, you are not Robin Hood. Robin Hood is a character originating, I believe, from the ballads of the late middle ages!’

Robin responded to the Doctor’s outburst pointedly with his crossbow. ‘I am Robin Hood,’ he snarled. ‘The most feared, most deadly outlaw of them all! I pillage, I murder, I show no mercy. Not to the King’s men, nor his citizens, nor quacking old beggars!’

‘Who are you calling old?’ snapped the Doctor. ‘I would have you know I am in my prime.’ His fingered his lapels like a barrister in an Ealing comedy. ‘So you are Robin Hood are you? Hmm. So do you steal from the rich and give to the poor?’

There was an incredulous silence. And then a roar of laughter rocked the glade.

‘Give to the poor, lads?’ he shouted. ‘Why should we do that? We steal from the poor too!’

--

Archive: The Thief Of Sherwood, The Doctor Who Magazine 103, 1985

EPISODE THREE

Ian’s life is spared when the castle receives a new visitor – the Doctor, posing as an apothecary to King John. The Doctor tells him that he is on his way to tell the King of a means to turn base substances into gold. He will grant the Sheriff the secret in return for Ian’s safe release. The Sheriff greedily agrees.

The Merry Men then recapture Barbara and the peddler. He is forced to tell them about the secret passageway into the castle. Robin decides he will go with Little John to rescue Marion. But in the tunnel they are ambushed by guards. Robin is left for dead.

Little John is brought before the Sheriff and forced to reveal the location of the bandits’ hideout. He is locked up with Ian, who he cannot believe is not his friend Robin.

In the meantime, the Sheriff sends his men to Sherwood to kill the Merry Men. He then visits the Doctor in the castle workshop. The Doctor is about to demonstrate how he will turn charcoal, saltpetre and sulphur into gold. As the Sheriff watches, the Doctor sets light to the mixture. The resultant explosion blows the workshop doors off their hinges and knocks the Doctor and the Sheriff unconscious. The workshop is filled with flames.

--

Interview: Godfrey Porter, Doctor Who Magazine 172, 1991

“After demob, I returned to Oxford to finish my history degree. I studied mediaeval literature, which would later stand me in good stead on Doctor Who.”

Godfrey entered television scriptwriting by an unusual route. “My landlord was working as a writer on a series called William Tell, and in lieu of rent I would occasionally fill in bits of script for him. When he moved on from the show, he recommended me to the producer. So after that I did some scripts for ATV, an adventure series called Longboat which was about the Vikings. That was huge fun, and I edited some shows for ATV, and then along came Doctor Who.”

“I had to do it. My kids wouldn’t believe I was a writer unless I did a Doctor Who. We’d all been watching it since the one with the Daleks. I knew David [Whitaker] through the Screenwriters’ Guild, and suggested a Robin Hood story.

“I’d watched William Hartnell, who I thought had been very good in Brighton Rock. I liked him. He was very professional, but he could be short-tempered with less experienced actors. But he was always charming to me. I didn’t realise he was ill, I thought that was the acting.

“The idea was to do a serial set in the past, but to make it a mixture of fact and fiction. To explore how legends might be shaped on the basis of second-hand accounts. For a children’s show, it was quite sophisticated.

After Doctor Who I worked at Rediffusion, writing a series called The Long Arm which was a precursor of Z Cars. I then did some editing work on Compact and a couple of episodes of The Challengers with Dennis Spooner.

Godfrey did submit one more script, during the 1970s. “There was one I wrote called “Doctor Who and the Sprites”. It would have been for Tom Baker, but the script editor at the time wasn’t keen, so I never finished it.”

--

The Discontinuity Guide, Virgin, 1995

DIALOGUE TRIUMPHS

Sheriff of Nottingham: 'You claim to practice alchemy?'

Doctor: 'Practice? Never, my dear sir - I am a professional!'

Barbara: ‘Historians never let facts get in the way of a good story.’

FLUFFS

William Hartnell: 'I will turn these base substances into pure coal!'

TRIVIA

William Hartnell was absent from the recording of episodes four and five due to illness, necessitating a last-minute script re-write.

Each episode was structured so that William Russell’s costume and make-up changes could take place during recording breaks.

GOOFS

The TARDIS landing sound can be heard after it has materialized.

When Robin wakes up after being knocked unconscious, he is in a different tunnel.

After the gaoler has locked Susan in with Maid Marion, the cell door swings open.

Robin’s accent and moustache varies from episode to episode.

Much of the story is historically and geographically inaccurate.

FASHION VICTIM

Robin’s costume is replete with a leather jerkin and peacock-feathered cap.

--

  
Doctor Who: The Television Companion, BBC Books, 1998

ANALYSIS

Perhaps aware that a Robin Hood action adventure serial may be beyond the constraints of Doctor Who’s budget, Godfrey Porter decorated his scripts with occasional vignettes of comical humour – perhaps most conspicuously in the whimsical digression of the Doctor bluffing as an incompetent and hapless alchemist. He also avoided concentrating on the physical action sequences, instead making the story a farce of mistaken identity and an exploration into how modern myths and romances may arise.

‘What makes this story is Robin’s characterisation’, documented Gary Russell in the second issue of Shada dated January 1981. ‘William Russell gives one of his finer performances in the dual role of Robin and Ian, making Robin an unsympathetic and callous treat. The only drawback is the “trouble-up-at-t’mill” accent he adopts.’

The production, whilst not perhaps revisiting the glories of the preceding historicals, was quite good. The finished product is polished if lacking in scale, though Barry Newbery’s detailed and richly-textured sets are deserving of being singled out for special attention.

All things considered, whilst not an undisputed classic, ‘The Thief Of Sherwood’ is something of a curate’s egg.

--

The Time Team, Doctor Who Magazine 285, 1999

EPISODES 046 TO 053

The Team have assembled at Peter’s for another eight exciting episodes of monochrome magic. As Peter sends young Harry to bed, Clayton, Jac and Richard return to the edge of their seats, where they had been left sitting by the previous instalment, Errand Of Mercy.

‘Robin Hood is dead!’ gasps Clayton. ‘But he can’t be! He was a real historical figure, like Marco Polo and the Scarlet Pimpernel!’ Jac corrects Clayton. ‘No, he’s fictional. That’s what this story is all about. And the Scarlet Pimpernel wasn’t real either.’ ‘He was,’ protests Clay. ‘If he’s not real, then who killed The Hunchback Of Notre Dame?’

Peter returns with a cheeky dry chardonnay. ‘What I like about this story is that you’re always watching it with a view to how the mythology built up afterwards. Very clever’ ‘It is very self-referential,’ agrees Jac. ‘The story is almost a post-modern deconstruction.’ Richard breaks his silence. ‘I wish there were more monsters. And there is too much talking about stuff that we don’t get to see.’

For Ransom, it’s back to the crackly tape recording. Jac has some reservations. ‘The Sheriff’s plan makes no sense. When he learns the whereabouts of Robin’s den he sends all his guards to destroy it, leaving the castle unguarded.’ ‘He does only have two guards, to be fair,’ muses Peter.

Ian returns to the hideout where the Merry Men are not feeling quite so merry, believing their leader to be dead. Until Ian dons the legendary feathered cap. ‘It’s very touching seeing Ian reunited with Barbara,’ says Jac. ‘She was obviously attracted to Robin, as he was Ian with a bit of rough thrown in, but with Ian it’s true love.’

The Sheriff’s latest nonsensical plan is to exchange Susan for Robin. The venue is, conveniently, the peddler’s shop. ‘Everything happens in that shop!’ snorts Peter. ‘I’m surprised he keeps that secret passage of his secret, what with everyone popping in and out all the time!’ ‘It is good to see him back, though,’ says Jac. ‘He is a wonderfully devious character.’ ‘Yes,’ adds Clay as a packet of Wotsits explodes over his lap. ‘Milton Johns, you’ve been gone too long.’

But when Ian enters the shop, he discovers the peddler has peddled his last. Ian ducks for cover as a cloaked figure enters the shop…

‘It’s Billy!’ shout the Team in unison at the beginning of  A Guest For The Gallows. ‘But where has he been for the last two episodes?’ complains Peter. ‘The last we saw of him he was coughing and falling through a window into the castle moat!’

--

Archive: The Thief Of Sherwood, Doctor Who Magazine 332, 2003

A Guest For The Gallows

The Doctor warns that Ian has walked into a trap. Sure enough, the Sheriff’s guards emerge from the secret passage. The Sheriff decides to execute Susan in the village square the following morning. Returning to the camp, Ian, Barbara and the Doctor learn of the Sheriff’s plan from Maid Marion. Still posing as Robin, Ian strikes a bargain with the villagers.

The next morning, Susan is brought before the gallows and a priest administers the last rites. However, before the execution can begin, the villagers and the Merry Men attack and the priest reveals himself to be the Doctor. The Sheriff flees, deciding that it would be safer to join the crusades.

As the villagers celebrate, Ian rewards them for their help by handing them the bandits’ gold. From now on, the bandits and villagers will work together. Marion says her farewells to Ian and promises to keep Robin’s memory alive. It will be her love-struck and ill-informed accounts of Robin Hood that form the legend.  Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor sets the controls for 1964, but the fault locator warns of a build up of space pressure outside…

In Production

A Guest For The Gallows was recorded the following day at Riverside Studio 1, on Friday 25 September; main recording took place between 8.00 and 9.45pm.. The episode began with a re-enactment of the previous week’s cliff-hanger, but without Milton Johns reprising his role. The opening title captions were superimposed over eight feet of 35mm stock film of woodland taken from The Norman Conquests. A recording break was scheduled before the execution sequence to allow Hartnell to change into the priest’s habit, and a second break allowed the regular cast to move to the TARDIS set.

Unfortunately the fight sequence caused some parts of the cramped set to visibly shake! The Sheriff’s escape on horseback utilised the footage that had been pre-filmed at Ealing nine weeks earlier on 35mm. The TARDIS dematerialisation was achieved using an inlay effect, and the episode ended with the caption ‘Next Episode: Planet Of Giants’.

During editing, a single cut was made to A Guest For The Gallows at the end of the rescue sequence to remove a shot of a collapsing scenery flat! This removed the final lines from the scene where it is hinted that the Doctor may leave Earth without Barbara or Ian. ‘You promised to get them home,’ replies Susan. ‘You made that promise to me, too, grandfather.’

The Thief Of Sherwood was previewed in a half-page Radio Times feature headlined ‘DR WHO and the Outlaws’; illustrated by a photograph of Robin, Susan and the Doctor. The serial was praised in The Daily Sketch, whilst a letter in Junior Points Of View indicated that the historical inaccuracies of the serial had provoked a lively classroom discussion.  The Morning Star was more critical, wishing for a return of the ‘villainous Dalek creatures from outer-space’. The BBC board of managers were concerned about the storyline seeming too frivolous, and Kenneth Adam, Director of Television, said that his three-year-old daughter thought history adventures were silly because ‘you always knew they would end happily’.

Early episodes of the serial ran opposite the end of the ITV shows Thank Your Lucky Stars and Hawkeye And The Last Of The Mohicans (ATV London). The ratings were weak at first but improved due to the earlier nights and the move to a 5.30pm time slot. 

The Thief Of Sherwood was marketed by BBC Enterprises as a set of 16mm film recordings. Australia purchased the serial in May 1965 and rated it ‘A’, though after removing the sequence of Robin’s death it was revised for ‘G’. It was first broadcast in November 1965. The serial was also purchased in 1965 by Hong Kong, Jamaica, Nigeria, Singapore and Zambia. In 1966 it was sold to Cyprus, Kenya, New Zealand and to Saudi Arabia in the early 1970s. By 1974, BBC Enterprises had withdrawn the story from sale and the prints were junked.

On Wednesday, 17 August 1967 all six 405-line master tapes were cleared for wiping. The BBC Film Library retained a 16mm print of A Guest For The Gallows, and in 1982 Cyprus returned episodes one, two and a slightly trimmed print of episode four. A complete fan-made audio recording survives, along with some poor quality silent 8mm extracts filmed off-screen from the Australian transmissions. These include clips of the Doctor preparing the gunpowder and the Sheriff questioning Barbara. A version of A Guest For The Gallows with an Arabic soundtrack also exists in a private collection.

In 2004, The Thief Of Sherwood was cleaned up by the BBC’s unofficial Doctor Who ‘Restoration Team’ and released on a BBC video, with linking narration by William Russell substituting for the missing instalments.

With thanks to the Time Team and Andrew Pixley, to whom this story is dedicated.

If you have enjoyed this story, I would be delighted if you could make a donation to Comic Relief. .

Hallowed Ground

This short story was original published in the Big Finish anthology Short Trips: A Universe of Terrors in 2003. It’s been out of print since 2009 (approx) and the copyright has reverted to me, so I thought I’d share it with you as a little Halloween treat. If you read it and enjoy it, I would be delighted if you could make a donation to Comic Relief.

Note: this is the text as submitted (with a few corrections) so may differ from the published version. It remains my copyright and may not be reproduced without my permission, and may be deleted from this blog without warning!

MAURITZ

The darkness was so absolute, so intense, I felt that if I were to reach out my hand, I would be swallowed up. All I could see was a shifting blur of after-images as my eyes struggled to accustom themselves to the deep, blotted night. The gloom seemed to press itself against me, my skin prickling to its touch. I drew in a breath of clammy air, thick with the smells of corrosion and decay.

A torch clicked into life and its beam swung through the darkness, picking out ever-falling apparitions of dust. The beam drifted across the stone floor and scuttled up a pillar of crumbling plaster, its glow weakening as it crossed the vaulted ceiling and then brightening as it settled upon the opposite wall. More brickwork, rotten and stained, strangled with creepers and moss. A number of archways, each leading into blackness.

The beam drifted around the chamber, awakening more dust phantoms, gauging the extent of the room. The heaviness of the atmosphere gave me the impression of being far underground. I shivered and put my hands in my pockets as I followed in the Doctor’s footsteps.

The Doctor halted and announced in his boom of a voice, “Shop!”

“Where are we, Doctor?” I asked.

“Literally or philosophically?” The Doctor strode across the floor, his long scarf sweeping the dust behind him. He seemed distracted, hunched in thought.

“Either?”

“Ah”. The Doctor turned his wide eyes upon me and shrugged, breaking into a conspiratorial grin. “In that case, I haven’t the faintest idea”.

“You should know,” I told him. The Doctor possessed a vast intellect – he was the greatest scientist I had ever known - but he could also be frustratingly whimsical. Indeed, he sometimes took a strange pride in his foolishness. My own belief was in logic, in rigorous thought; a belief the Doctor did not share. “You claim you can control the TARDIS”.

“Just because one can do something, does not mean one should,” countered the Doctor. “A wine cellar, without the wine? An unoccupied crypt? How cryptic.” The Doctor lifted his head to address the ceiling. “Hello? Anyone home?” His words echoed back at him indignantly.

I glanced away from the Doctor. Down one of the passages something flickered, casting flitting shadows across the rough walls. Two lamps bobbing in motion, held by two figures in robes, one tall and stooped, one standing at about my height. They remained motionless, as though watching us, their faces obscured by cowls.

“Doctor-”

The Doctor dashed to my side melodramatically. “What?”

I shrugged to indicate the passageway, but the figures had gone. The archway led to blackness once more.

“I thought I saw-” I began, but the Doctor shushed me, a finger to his lips.

I listened. I could hear the sound of footsteps, a steady pat-patting upon the ragged floor. They seemed to be approaching from every direction. I backed towards the TARDIS. The empty archways loomed threateningly around us. The footsteps grew nearer, nearer still, and halted.

“Welcome,” said a voice behind me.

A figure stood between us and the TARDIS. A figure draped in robes, its face hidden by a hood. The habit was of a coarse, woven material, unornamented and hanging in folds. It raised a lantern in one hand as if in greeting.

The Doctor’s expression dropped into concern. “Hello,” he began cautiously, avoiding eye contact. “You don’t know me, but I am…”

“The Doctor,” answered the figure. It had the voice of old man, breathy and hesitant, the words scraping at its throat. It turned its facelessness towards me. “And Adric”. The figure raised its hands and lifted its cowl to reveal a drawn, lined face, the features set in a downcast frown, the hair thin and moon-white. His eyes were grey and lifeless. He bowed, and smiled, revealing worn, yellow teeth.

“Welcome,” he said, facing us in turn, his expression softening. “My name is Mauritz”.

Each passageway was submerged in darkness, the only illumination the swinging, oversized shadows cast by Mauritz’s lamp. We followed the scuffle of his footsteps up narrow stairwells, the mould-encrusted walls barely a shoulder width apart, and passed through vaulted chambers identical to the one in which we had arrived, each one in a differing state of disrepair. And at no point did we pass a window, or catch sight of any natural source of light.

The man who led us did not utter a word. Every question the Doctor and I put to him was answered only with a beckoning motion. Occasionally Mauritz would disappear completely from sight, ducking into a side-passage, only to emerge from another passage a moment later. He repeated this trick time and again, seemingly unaware of doing it.

We emerged into a long, dusky hall lined with reading desks and bookcases. The bookcases extended to the ceiling on three levels, each accessed by a balcony, accessed in turn by stairwells. Each bookcase brimmed with tomes and parchments, each bound in a cover of what appeared to be leather.

Seated at the desks, what appeared to be monks leafed through the ancient tomes by the gleam of their candles, their identities shrouded in the same anonymous robes.

We moved wordlessly through the library and arrived at a heavy door. Mauritz unbolted the lock and led us into a spartan dormitory. A fireplace was set into one wall, and he quickly set to work on it, gathering up coals and puffing the embers with the bellows until it finally snapped into warmth.

Three high-backed chairs surrounded a wooden table; to one side was a drape that I presumed concealed a bedchamber. Again, there was no window.

Without a word, the man ushered the Doctor and I into the chairs. The door creaked open and one of the monks entered, his face again obscured by his cowl. He carried three steaming bowls, and set them on the table before us, bowed and left.

I was famished, having not eaten for several hours, and dragged the bowl towards me, feelings its heat tingling my numb fingers. The soup’s steam was rich and spicy, and the liquid contained clumps of white meat. I was about to bring the bowl to my lips when the Doctor shook his head in warning.

“What is the soup?” he asked nonchalantly, sliding his bowl away from him.

“We are provided with a supply of meat,” answered Mauritz.

“Cattle?” said the Doctor.

“We make the most of that which we have.”

“We?” I asked, reluctantly putting down my bowl. “Who are you? What is this place?”

“A monastery?” suggested the Doctor.

“A place of study. Of contemplation, certainly. You are not hungry?”

I looked again at my soup. Following the Doctor’s lead, I shook my head. “Maybe later?” I smiled apologetically.

“Of course.”

The Doctor stood, the low ceiling causing him to stoop. He ruffled his hair. “So would you say it was more a university?”

“All will be explained.” Mauritz rose from his chair. He considered for a moment, then smiled in decision. “If you are ready, I will show you the citadel.”

We found ourselves in yet another vaulted chamber. Treading across the flagstones, I would have believed we had returned to the chamber in which the TARDIS had landed, except that a section of the wall had collapsed to reveal the cloisters beyond. Six monks busied themselves at the wall, clearing away the rubble and bracing the ceiling with wooden joists.

I had been handed a lantern, and walked over to the damaged wall, the shadows snaking away as I approached. The masonry lay in an advanced state of decay, the plaster crumbling to the touch. It seemed strangely brittle. Ground creepers coiled through the cracked flagstones.

A monk cemented a new brick into place, smoothing the edges with plates of wood. I sensed the Doctor and Mauritz approaching behind me, the light of their lamps conflating my own.

“This quarter of the citadel is currently uninhabited,” explained Mauritz. “And undergoing renovation”.

The Doctor looked bleak. “No sooner do you put it together than it falls apart.”

 “Indeed,” said Mauritz, covering his face with his cowl and moving amongst the identically-dressed monks.

The Doctor took a brick from the pile, weighed it in his hands and then returned it. He looked for Mauritz amongst the monks, and remarked offhandedly, “Where do you get the bricks from?”

“We make the most of that which we have.”

“Like the cattle?”

One of the monks lifted his cowl, revealing Mauritz’s features. “What we cannot use for food, we employ elsewhere.”

“So nothing goes to waste?”

“Inevitably there is always waste. That is taken to the gardens. Follow.”

The gardens turned out to be a chamber of the same dimensions as the library. The ground, however, consisted of soil, broken up into avenues. Dozens of monks toiled in the murky candlelight, hoeing the earth and planting bulbs. Others harvested the crop, which consisted of spindly growths, somewhere between a mushroom and a coral, that reached to little above knee-height. The gnarled stems and branches of the organisms were covered in transparent grey leaves and sickly, pale pod-fruit. Evidently whatever they were, they did not require natural light for sustenance.

We watched as a monk brushed some dirt over the bulbs and mixed it with compost, the rotten remains of fruit and meat.

“So everything is ploughed back,” said the Doctor. “Home-grown, very efficient. Don’t need to pop out to the supermarket much?”

“No,” replied Mauritz. “We do not require outside support.”

“Not at all?” I asked. “But you must, occasionally. You can’t just live on this -”

“We never leave the citadel.”

“Why?” I removed" my hands from my pockets and clapped my fist on my palm for emphasis.

A silence fell over Mauritz as he turned to the Doctor. Whilst I had been talking, the Doctor had strolled over to the monks, watching in fascination as they dug one of the fungus-corals out of the ground. He wandered around them, oblivious to the fact he was trampling over the crop. “Hello, I’m the Doctor,” he said genially, addressing one of the robed figures. “So you’re on gardening duty, eh?”

The figure did not respond. The Doctor gave a nonplussed pout and turned to another figure. He blocked the monk’s way. “Still, I’m sure it’s all worth it, come supper time”. The monk did not respond.

“Not trappists, are you?” inquired the Doctor as he advanced on another monk. He brushed his nose and grinned. “If you don’t want to talk about it I’ll quite understand.”

The monk ignored him and turned his back on the Doctor. As he did, the Doctor leaned forward and pinched the top of the monk’s cowl, drawing it back suddenly to reveal the monk’s face

He was an elderly man, hairless, with lined features fixed in a downcast frown, his eyes buried in wrinkles. Black marks freckled his saggy, ghost-pale skin. He was obviously exhausted, close to death.

It was Mauritz.

Or, at least, an older version of Mauritz. This man was at least twenty years the elder of the man standing beside me.

The Doctor dashed over to another of the monks and tugged back his cowl. Again, it revealed the same face, but this time the man was about the same age as Mauritz. He did not seem startled or shocked. He simply gazed ahead, his eyes devoid of expression.

One by one, the remaining monks solemnly removed their hoods. They were all the same man, some little older than Mauritz, some twenty or thirty years older.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the original Mauritz. “I should explain.”

“Cloning?” I suggested as we wound our way up yet another steep staircase. The climb was exhausting, the steps narrow and worn smooth, the walls dribbling with condensation. “You’re all clones of the same man?”

“Nothing so rudimentary.” Mauritz pushed open another door, and we emerged into a vaulted chamber. Again, the chamber was identical to the one in which the TARDIS had arrived, but it had the appearance of being recently constructed. The plaster that covered the walls was smooth and clean. The lines of the brickwork were fine, the paving stones free of dust or grime. The air smelt clear and cool.

“You know,” remarked the Doctor, rubbing his lips. “I’m beginning to get the feeling we’re going round in circles.”

I agreed. I had felt a fleeting sensation of déjà vu. If I did not know better, I would say that had been visiting the same chamber, over and over again. But throughout our time in the citadel, we had never walked down a staircase, only up. So it was impossible.

“No, Adric, this is the chamber in which the TARDIS arrived,” said Mauritz. “Or rather, the chamber into which your TARDIS will materialise. You see, in this part of the citadel, you have yet to make your visit.”

“What?” exclaimed the Doctor, somewhat over-loudly.

“Time is not an absolute here.” Mauritz walked to the centre of the chamber, and gestured expansively. “This citadel comprises all pasts, all futures. Take this chamber. We can visit this room at any point in its history. The day it was built, or a day a later, or a hundred centuries later. Every room, at every point in time, exists within the realm of the citadel!”

I was beginning to understand. “You mean, you can travel into the future, just by walking into another room?”

“Precisely,” smiled Mauritz. “We can access any time, in any future.”

“Just a short hop down a corridor and fa-zam! You’re back where you started, but in the next week?” suggested the Doctor.

“The… geography is inevitably a little more complicated than that, but yes. As you might expect, the more distant the future, the more inaccessible. A thousand years hence may be many miles distant.”

“Of course, of course. It’s all relative.” The Doctor grinned a wild grin. “So here we are,” he said, waving his lantern-light across the chamber. “Standing in the middle of last Wednesday.”

“So that’s why you said there was no outside,” I breathed, patting my hands together. “Because in every direction, there is no boundary to the citadel – there is merely more of the citadel, or rather than same citadel again, but at another time. More of the same rooms, extending further and further into the future.” I could barely contain my awe. To stand inside such an achievement of multi-dimensional engineering, I felt suddenly giddy.

“Infinite?” asked the Doctor, as though enquiring about the weather.

“Impossible to tell. But to answer your next question, yes, it is a closed system,” said Mauritz.

“Hence the recycling. No supermarket.” The Doctor wandered the chamber, lost in thought. “You have to make the most of what you’ve got, I see, because there’s nothing else…”

“It’s incredible,” I said, jogging over to Mauritz. I couldn’t help myself burbling over with enthusiasm. “A four-dimensional space, mapped into three-dimensions. Of course, mathematically it’s quite straightforward…”

“A four dimensional space?” muttered the Doctor derisively, staring at his shoes. “Five dimensional!”

“Five?”

“The Doctor is correct,” said Mauritz. “The citadel does not merely allow access to one future. It permits passage to every potential future.”

“Every potential future?”

“Every probability is played out somewhere within the confines of this building. Naturally, the more remote the possibility, the more remote the region. But,” Mauritz leaned closer to me, fixing my eyes with his, “take this chamber for instance. In ten years’ time, it may have fallen into disrepair, or it may have been adapted for a new use. Both possibilities exist within the citadel.”

“A multiplicity?” I grinned. “But how do you do it?”

“The technical explanation is not relevant.” Mauritz collected his lamp and headed for the door opposite. “Let me show you the new library. Or, to put it another way,” he paused, “let me show you the library when it was new.”

It was the same library, the same long, solemn hall, the same three galleries of bookcases. But a gust of warm air brushed our faces, and there was no taste of dust, no aura of decay. Hundreds of monks filled the chamber, occupying every desk, scratching away at parchment. Others bustled from bookcase to bookcase, recovering and filing the leathery tomes. Others hurried in from adjoining passageways, heaving in piles of dust-coated book. The chamber echoed with hushed words.

“So you can go to this same library in the future,” said the Doctor, “see what will be written in ten, twenty years time, and bring it back here?”

Mauritz nodded.

“And no fines to pay?” He grinned that irreverent grin again.

Mauritz smiled and shook his head.

“You must have a very efficient filing system,” joked the Doctor. “But what about paradoxes?”

“Yes,” I shuffled forward. “What if you go into one of the future libraries, take out a book, and in the process of bringing it back cause it not to be written?”

“Every potential future is as valid as any other,” explained Mauritz. “Paradoxes may either stabilise or collapse.”

“Stabilise?” I couldn’t help but assume a note of superiority. “But that’s ridiculous!”

Mauritz did not reply, but his expression disagreed.

“But it’s not just every potential library that exists, is it, Mauritz?” said the Doctor darkly, his gaze averted. He nodded towards the monks. I had almost forgotten. Beneath those cowls and robes, they would all be identical copies of Mauritz.

“No,” said Mauritz. “Every potential future version of myself also exists.”

“Together?” I shook my head in disbelief. “You mean they… are all future versions of you?”

“Indeed. Learning from each other. Passing on their knowledge. All of them,” he blinked sadly, “what I am to become.”

I watched the monks in awe. The same man, at different stages in his life. Some hunched with age, others standing tall. Muttering to each other, passing parchments between them, oblivious to the sheer… impossibility of it all.

“For every potential course of action, there will be a future me,” said Mauritz, folding his arms. “A future that I can learn from.”

“And thus know in advance the outcome of every decision,” said the Doctor delightedly. “So you can predict events with the benefit of hindsight. How dreadfully cunning!”

“You mean,” I began, clicking my fingers in realisation, “if you have a choice, you can go and visit a version of yourself from five years in the future, see how things turned out, and compare notes?”

“Precisely. For every choice, every alternative is played out within the realm of the citadel.” Mauritz paused. “There is one more thing I wish to show you. Or would you prefer… to return to your craft?”

The Doctor and I exchanged glances. The Doctor stared at me with his wide, grave eyes, and I was gripped with a sudden foreboding. I shivered. For a moment, I considered suggesting we go back to the TARDIS. But, no, it was too fascinating an opportunity. We had to see more.

“So be it,” said Mauritz, leading us to one of the passageways. “If you will join me-”

After an exhausting ascent up another sheer stairwell, we emerged from the citadel and I took in a lungful of rare night air. We ducked through a low archway and out onto a square balcony at the summit of a high building. Above us hung a heavy iron bell in its tower, ropes looping through open floor-hatches.

I made my way over to the balustrade, rested my hands upon its rough, rusted railings and gazed out across the turrets of what seemed to be a vast city. Everywhere there were narrow, vertiginous ledges and flues and bulwarks. Dark, sinister walls dropped away, some smothered in creepers and ivy, others choked in soot. Many hundreds of feet below us they sank into a tide of undulating fog.

Squinting into the distance, I spotted another bell-tower, its zenith rising through the drifting mist. A collapsed, hollowed-out edifice, it was otherwise in every way identical to the tower in which we stood. Looking to the left there was another bell-tower, again identical. And beyond that another bell-tower, and another, and another, stretching away to the horizon. And not far distant, maybe a mile away, a bell-tower was undergoing construction.

I walked a complete circuit of the balustrade. In every direction, the minarets and ramparts and roofs continued in a never-ending maze of architectural confusion. A sea of buildings extending to infinity, at first similar in their greyness and bleakness, but in the details, each one unique. Acres of slate and coughing chimney-stacks, roof after roof of every incline and variety.

Something caught my attention at the nearest bell-tower. Standing within it, I could see three unmoving robed figures returning my gaze. Oddly, they were of different heights. Then I spotted more of the monks below, strolling through galleries, making their way up and down flights of stone stairs. Constantly in motion, hurrying from doorway to doorway in a ceaseless, mathematical pattern.

“The citadel,” announced Mauritz.

“It’s endless,” I said, glancing up into the cloudless sky. Above us there was a canopy of blackness, scattered with a million untwinkling stars. Utterly still and lifeless. “The stars…”

“Other possibilities,” said Mauritz. “Too strange, too distant to reach.”

We stared out into that infinite, fog-laden night for some minutes, and then the Doctor spoke. He rounded on Mauritz, looked him straight in the face, and asked, “But you still haven’t explained why. What is it all for?”

“Contemplation. Research. Meditation.”

The Doctor pah-ed derisively.

Mauritz continued. “I created the citadel because I wished-”

“You created all this?” I interrupted.

Mauritz nodded. “…because I wished to study. To attain a plateau of pure thought. To create the purest philosophy. To reach understanding.”

“I see,” said the Doctor, then held up a hand. “No, I don’t. You built all this, single-handedly… to have a bit of a think?”

I decided to explain to the Doctor. “But, don’t you see? The intellectual resources here are unimaginable. Because every potential future-Mauritz can put his learning at the disposal of the current generation… every possible avenue of thought can be covered, studied, and recorded. A feedback loop of knowledge... It’s fantastic!”

“Standing on the shoulders of giants,” brooded the Doctor, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

“Adric is correct,” said Mauritz. “For every problem, every solution can be investigated. I have a hundred, a thousand, a million selves to consult.”

The Doctor remained unimpressed. He took another tour of the balustrade, and stared out into the distance. “Or, rather,” he said. “Standing on your own shoulders, and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps.” He rounded on Mauritz. “Don’t you get lonely? I mean, here you are, all on your own, all however-many of you?”

Mauritz bowed. “One is never alone if one appreciates one’s own company.”

We had returned to Mauritz’s dormitory. My calves ached from our long descent, and the heat of the fire came as a joyous relief. I dragged my chair nearer to the hearth and warmed my palms.

The Doctor slouched in the chair opposite, watching as a monk brought in three bowls. The monk handed me my bowl and spoon, and I inhaled a deep breath of the steaming soup. It smelt delicious. I stirred it and some white meat bobbed to the surface.

Mauritz sat at the table and ladled himself a mouthful of the soup. He looked directly at me as he swallowed, a smile wetting his lips. “Please.”

I looked at the Doctor, who was staring vacantly as though awaiting some stage direction. I shrugged and brought a lump of the meat to my mouth-

The Doctor launched himself out of his chair and stood upright. “Of course!” He glared at Mauritz. “A closed system!”

I dropped my spoon. “Doctor-?”

““We make the most of that which we have”,” said the Doctor, hurling each word in Mauritz’s direction. “You don’t keep any cattle here, do you?”

Mauritz did not reply.

“No, of course not, you don’t need to. Where do they go, the future Mauritzes? Where do they all end up?” The Doctor knocked his bowl to the floor. “A feedback loop! They end up right here, on the dining table!”

“What?” I gulped.

“You eat them,” said the Doctor. “There’s nothing else to eat, is there?”

Mauritz did not reply.

“All your future selves – boiled down to soup. And their skin… dried and bound into books. Their bones, baked to make bricks. This whole place, it’s all made out of one thing. You!”’

I looked down at the bowl. The white flesh I had been about to eat lurked beneath the surface. Human flesh. I shivered and felt a sudden coldness as the blood drained from my face.

“For each of my selves,” said Mauritz at last, “there are a dozen or more potential future selves. When they die, they are not left to waste. Just as each of my selves learns from each of his future selves, so, when they die, he will draw nourishment from them.” He looked up at the Doctor and his lips parted into a grisly smile. “Yes. Every brick of this citadel is made of my ground-up bones. Every book in the library is inked in my blood upon my skin. My body fat is used for candles, my hair is woven into twine. And what cannot be used is composted and ploughed back into the soil, to create the plants that give oxygen and wood. I require nothing. I depend on no-one but myself.”

“Well I’ve heard of self-sufficiency,” joked the Doctor humourlessly. “But this is ridiculous.”

“At least,” continued Mauritz meaningfully. “Until you arrived… now I have company.”

The Doctor nodded to me, and I inferred his meaning immediately. He gathered up his scarf, collected a lamp, violently upturned the table, and bolted for the door.

How we found our way back I do not know. We dashed across the library, and hurried down the nearest stairwell, grabbing the walls for balance. I struggled to keep up with the Doctor, barely able to see more than the reflected glimmer of his lantern, whilst also taking care not to tread on his trailing scarf. We passed through dozens of vaulted chambers, all in different states of disrepair; some thick with ivy, some collapsed, some freshly constructed. We hurried through the library, its empty shelves draped with cobwebs, its floor smothered in dust, the air still and silent. We dashed through the gardens, some full of monks tending the stunted corals, others filled with ghost-pale trees.

But after another descent down another narrow staircase we emerged into the vaulted chamber in which we had first arrived. I recognised the patterns of rot that daubed the walls, and our footprints trailed across the musty floor.

The Doctor swung his lamp forward, and in the corner the TARDIS emerged from the darkness. The lamp flame reflected in its windows. A surge of relief filled my heart as we ran towards it.

There was a grinding, churning sound. The light on the TARDIS roof span and flashed. I could almost reach out and touch the surface of the Police Box as it faded from view. I found myself staggering into the square of floor it had deserted. The sound of dematerialization hung in the air for some seconds more.

The TARDIS had gone.

Recovering my breath, I looked up, aghast. The Doctor and I had been joined in the chamber by dozens of monks. Some stood tall and stooped, some were about my height. They lined the walls, each of them in robes, their faces concealed by their cowls. They made no motion, and gave no sound.

Another monk entered and lifted his hood. Mauritz. He raised his lantern, its red flame flickering in his eyes.

“Your time machine has gone,” he said.

I exchanged a worried glance with the Doctor. He looked suddenly unnerved, his expression grim. “We noticed!”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Mauritz. “As you will remember, the citadel does not merely allow access to one future. Every potential future is played out within these walls. Earlier, you had the choice to depart in the TARDIS. There was the possibility you might leave, or the possibility you might stay.” He paused. “But both alternatives occurred. So… there was the Doctor and Adric who returned to the TARDIS and left,” he gestured towards the empty stone floor, “And you. The Doctor and Adric who decided to stay.”

I took a step backwards, my mouth suddenly dry.

“You will join me. As it shall be, so it has always been.”

Mauritz smiled as all the other monks in the room lifted back their hoods. I immediately recognised the faces.

The monks were me and the Doctor. Over and over again. Some looked as we did now. Others were many years older and had grey hair, and lined faces, and watery eyes.

I saw myself as a man of forty, my skin coarsened with age. I saw myself as a man of sixty, my hair thin, my skin cracked and folded. I saw myself as a man of eighty, bald, my skin blotched with cancers.

And the Doctor – that same face, over and over again, but with the eyes increasingly hooded and dulled, the hair increasingly thin and grey. Wearing an expression of infinite sadness and regret.

“You have always been here,” said Mauritz. “Here, by my side. Welcome.”

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