
It’s Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays. It’s October, which means the Great Pumpkin, harvest, and ourĀ wedding anniversary, not in that order. And over at Penguin, Justin Richards has released a new book entitledĀ Time Lord Fairy Tales. Aimed at theĀ 7-11 age bracket, it promises to be “A stunning illustrated collection of fifteen dark and ancient fairy tales from the world of Doctor Who.”
But which fairy stories, you may ask? Well, this is one of the digital download summaries:
The Scruffy Piper
Read by: Nicholas Briggs
Space Station Hamlyn is under siege. Thousands of small metal creatures are flying through space, sent by silver warriors to burrow inside the station. The crewās only hope is a slightly scruffy-looking stranger, with a recorder and a mysterious blue box . . .
And I confess that when I read this synopsis, my first words were “Oh, bugger”. Because I’ve just spent eighteen months writing (and a good deal more time planning) aĀ Doctor WhoĀ novel which runs along very similar lines.
There are differences, of course. Richards has produced a short story aimed at children. I’ve produced a full-length novelĀ set in twelfth century Hamelin – specifically, Hamelin after the Piper has been and gone, when the Doctor arrives to find a town that’s a shell of its former self. The story of the Pied Piper tells of one lame child who did not make it through the rock face before it closed, and it was thisĀ that provided a starting point. How would such a boy be treated in the wake of such a terrible thing? Would he be a victim? A pariah? A political pawn? What about his parents? It’s into this situation that the Doctor isĀ thrust – but he hasn’t been in Hamelin long when the murders begin…
Is there a bit of flag-planting going on here? Probably. Am I territory marking?Ā Well, I’m trying not to. But I know how this works: I know that somewhere along the line, if this ever sees the light of day, I’m going to be told that I stole the idea. And I can deal with that. No one can copyright an idea and I’m sure that I’m not the first person to join the dots between the Piper and the Doctor (and that’s even discounting the quite splendidĀ Challenge of the Piper). Do I think it’s better than some Past Doctor Adventures? Well, yes, to be honest. It’s not exactly Booker material, but at least it’s consistent and tells a reasonable story, which is more than you can say for [THIS TEXT HAS BEEN AUTOMATICALLY CENSORED BY THE AUTHOR’S INNER DIPLOMAT].
I’m also not stupid: actual publication of this thing is (at time of writing) nothing more than a pipe dream. Unsolicited fiction is generally ignored these days, and everyone and their grandmother has written aĀ Doctor WhoĀ novel. Thus when I visited a local writer’s event the other week I was advised – before I heard about this new bookĀ – to get the thing online in the meantime. “You might as well publish it,” the affable Australian to whom I was speaking said. “You won’t make any money, but there’s no law against it, andĀ at least it’s out there.”
But I can’t bring myself to share the whole thing yet. It’s finished, but it’s not ready. It’s three hundred pages and on a good day it feels like a complete novel, with subplots and character development and an interesting story. On a bad day it feels like bad fanfic – desperate writing with a continuity obsession that rivals that of Ian Levine with a headache. There is a whole storylineĀ that I’m still not convinced should actually be there – something that sort of works but which, I think, might be a colossal white elephant.
If you really want to read the whole thing, I’ll supply it on demand. But I’d rather get it polished first (Emily has, just this evening, pointed out that I need to establish whether or not Amy was in the Guides or the Scouts, as currently she’s in both).Ā I am having it read by several people who will hopefully give me varying pieces of advice that I’ll take on board or politely discard.
However. The first chapter is, at the moment, about as good as I’m going to get it,Ā and it’s incidental to the story, so you can read it. Here’s the first bit. The rest will follow next week. Hey, it worked for Dickens, and he got to hang out with the Doctor.

—
Chapter One, Part One
The time rotor in the middle of the TARDIS control console was stuck. Normally it glided up and down the column with a sort of calm fluidity, in the manner of a descending lavatory ballcock or a thirty-seven-year-old woman doing yoga. It was a graceful motion, one that seemed firmly at odds with the ship’s trademark wheezes and groans. But not today. Today it seemed to catch a few inches from its usual peak, where it would sit there, trying to move, but apparently caught fast.
The ship itself was not stuck, of course The Doctor had explained that while the time rotor’s mechanism appeared to be malfunctioning, the time rotor itself was not. āStill the same old TARDIS,ā he said. āThe rotor’s caught, but it’s still working. Except – ā
āExcept what?ā came the voice from below.
āWell, except that we’re careering backwards through time and I don’t know how to stop it,ā the Doctor replied.
āThat’s not exactly what I’d call working.ā
āThat’s not exactly what I’d call a skirt, Pond. You look like you forgot what you were doing halfway through getting dressed. Now hand me that spanner.ā
The Doctor was perched on top of the console, legs spread slightly apart in order to minimise the likelihood of one of the sudden backwards tumbles for which his current incarnation seemed to be so notorious. It was no fun having to go through clumsy phases, the Doctor mused as he loosened one of the glass plates that hid the inner mechanism. That was the problem with regeneration. You never knew when loss of coordination would show up. It was like having to go through puberty again. The Doctor was fairly sure he’d done that on at least three occasions over the years, as a side effect of the body clock reset that hit him whenever he suffered a mortal wound. That was something they didn’t teach you at the academy.
Amelia Pond was leaning casually against one of the nearby columns, arms folded, watching with a composite of affection and amusement. The Doctor never seemed so at home as when he was knee deep in circuitry, she thought, or so frustrated. Many was the time she would enter the control room and find him cursing in what she assumed was Gallifreyan. He was one of these well-intentioned types who never read the manual. He reminded her of her own fath-
ā Except she couldn’t remember her own father.
Why couldn’t she remember her own father?
Amy was comfortable with the idea of fathers as an abstract concept, of course. The notion sat with her. But it occurred to her now, within the quiet and solace of the time machine, even as the ancient elf behind her worked himself into a frenzy amidst a maelstrom of grunts and curses, that she never really thought about her parents. They seemed to exist in a vacuum; she didn’t know because it never occurred to her to ask about them. It wasn’t that her family history was entirely unknown. She could remember her aunt well enough, and those eerie, moonlit evenings at the house in Leadworth, where the beams floodlit the room and seemed to strike everything except the crack in her wall. But beyond that…it wasn’t a taboo topic, just one that had never come up. Amy wondered why she’d never asked.
This troubled her. There was something else; something that sat undiscussed. There was an elephant, and every so often it would stretch out a wrinkly, invisible trunk and tap her on the shoulder. It was a shadow in a mirror, a trick of the light, a thing that you could have sworn moved even though you saw nothing and knew it wasn’t possible. There was something that the Doctor wasn’t telling her.
Truth be told, there was plenty that the Doctor didn’t tell her. She didn’t know his name; that was off-limits. He wasn’t grumpy about it, but early conversations they’d had made it clear that this was like discussing an old marriage with a new partner, or like a kid she’d gone out with at seventeen who’d lost his sister to cancer and would clam up for the reset of the evening if her name was ever mentioned.
āWhy on earth would you want to know my name, Pond?ā the Doctor had asked her. And curiously, she’d been unable to come up with an answer that made any kind of sense, largely because when viewed in human terms it was a stupid question. But the Doctor, of course, wasn’t human. She knew that much. And he was the last of his kind; she knew that much as well. He didn’t talk about Gallifrey. That was off-limits, geographically and conversationally. Amy gave a mental shrug. There were other things to worry about. Such as why she could smell ā
āā burning?ā
Atop the control panel, the Doctor swivelled. āBurning? Are you sure?ā
Amy nodded. āOver there.ā She pointed to the east wall, or what the Doctor always referred to as the east wall, although how he had worked this out was beyond her comprehension. The TARDIS could reconfigure rooms any way she wanted ā and frequently did, often just to perplex the Doctor ā but currently the east wall led through to the kitchen.
The Doctor gave her a look. āAmy, did you leave the toaster on again?ā
Despite herself, she felt her eyes rolling incredulously. āThat one time -ā
āYes, and I’m still trying to get the smell out of the Bandulucian rug. Cost me a fortune, that rug did. And I had to pay extra postage. Honestly, Ebay. I ask you.ā
āDefinitely burning,ā Amy said, trying to steer him back to the subject.
āFine,ā sighed her host, opening a panel below the handbrake and pulling out a small fire extinguisher and two bright green kite-shaped pieces of plastic that Amy supposed ā correctly, as it turned out ā were gas masks.
āPut this on,ā he said, holding one to his face and hefting the extinguisher in the other hand. āIn case of emergency, exits are over there.ā He gestured over his shoulder at the TARDIS doors, and then turned his attention to the east wall. āSmells like it’s coming from one of the adjoining rooms, anyway. We’ll investigate, but keep directly behind me. And if I say run, run.ā
āWhere to?ā
āAway from whatever is that’s chasing us. Honestly, do I have to start drawing pictures?ā
The two of them left the deep blue of the control room and wandered through into a spacious kitchen area. Carved into a large U-shape measuring fifty square feet or more, the black marble work surfaces flanked a central breakfast area with metal bar stools arranged round a raised table. The worktops were late twentieth century in design but filled with gadgets and models from all epochs of culinary history, with a slight bias towards 1950s Earth. A well-thumbed Mrs Beeton sat propped up against a beige mixing bowl, which in turn sat next to a set of pan scales. When she’d first explored the kitchen, Amy had opened the book to find a faded inscription, scrawled in black ink: To my dear Doctor, with love as always. Thank you for the shortbread recipe.
There was no time for browsing today. The Doctor skirted elegantly round one side of the U-shaped counter, opening cupboards and checking behind jars and mug racks. Amy followed his lead and moved to the other end, ignoring the colossal fridge that dominated the far end. A minute or so later they had exhausted the last cupboard and found nothing. The Doctor spun on his heel and began pacing, chewing on a fingernail. āNothing. No sign of anything.ā
āI didn’t imagine it,ā said Amy, with more than a trace of indignance.
āI know you didn’t. I can smell it as well, now. But there’s no trace of any loose wires, nothing left lying around.ā His eyes wandered across to the far corner. āDid you check the fridge?ā
āWhy would I check the fridge?ā
āIt can still burn. I know it’s cold, but – ā
The Doctor stopped, mid-sentence. The fridge had wobbled.
āDid you see that?ā The moment the words were out of Amy’s mouth she regretted them, but if the Doctor found her response banal, he was gentlemanly enough not to show it. āYeah. Something in the fridge.ā
āSomething still alive?ā
āEither alive or in the throes of death, hence the wobbling. Sadly it’s impossible to know, unless we open it.āĀ The Doctor grinned, despite himself. āSchrƶdingerās fridge.ā
āHow did it get in?ā she asked.
āThat market we visited on Roxx 3? It probably sneaked on there. You know, when I had the TARDIS doors open for a moment. But I still don’t know what it is.ā
āIt’s not gonna be, like, a huge dog sitting on top of a temple?ā
āNo, not in a fridge. Cat, possibly. Chinchilla, even.ā
The Doctor inched closer to the door of the large white refrigerator. āOnly one way to find out.ā
Keeping at arm’s length, and holding the sonic screwdriver pointed forwards in his other hand, like a magic wand ā which, in a way, it was ā the Doctor grasped at the handle and swung the door open. Inside were several shelves stocked with yoghurt, shrink-wrapped vegetables ā some of Earth origin, many not ā and cheese, At the top, there was a large ice box.
At the bottom, there was a ball of blue fur. With ears.
The blue furball was eating a carrot. When it noticed the fridge light come on and the temperature start to creep up, it halted abruptly. The ears swivelled upwards like satellite dishes and faced the Doctor. The half-eaten carrot fell from what Amy assumed was a mouth and hit the plastic base of the fridge with a thud. It rolled forwards and out and landed on the kitchen floor.
The furball’s ears twitched slightly, as if waiting for a response from the Doctor. The Doctor squatted, beaming with delight. āA moss ball! My goodness, this is a blast from the past. And he’s hungry!ā He cocked his head on one side and poggled the moss ball’s ears; not that there was much else to poggle. āThat explains the burning smell, anyway.Ā They’re always a little malodorous when they’re eating.ā

Amy glanced at him and then at the blue bundle of fluff, not really sure how she should respond. āA what?ā
āA moss ball. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you.ā
āIt’s not ā actually made of moss, is it?ā
āNo, it’s basically mammalian in composition. Well, half mammal, half arthropod. It comes from the sea forests of Hathendia.ā
āThat sounds like something out of a fantasy novel.ā
āOh, it is, Amy. It really is. Try and imagine the bluest, most brilliantly sparkly ocean you’ve ever imagined, right? Now, take that and turn it into a forest. With blue foliage on the trees. Plants that are aquamarine. Turquoise tree trunks.ā
āWhat colour is the sun?ā
āThe sun is yellow, of course, but it hardly ever shines. Instead they have millions of fireflies, all lighting up the place. Completely harmless. Well, apart from the ones that aren’t.ā
āAnd this ā thing? It lives there?ā
āYes, it does.ā The Doctor leaned in closer to get a better look at the stowaway. āThe fur is basic camouflage, of course. It looks like any other plant. Which is very handy, because it’s preyed upon by a very nasty creature called the snapweazle.ā
āOK,ā said Amy. āThat’s a seventies kids show waiting to happen.ā
āBeen there, done that. 1770s, of course, and a different planet. Anyway. The moss ball is a herbivore, but the snapweazle is a hundred per cent carnivorous. Nasty bite. And completely silent, so you seldom hear them coming.ā
āDoctor ā ā
āThis little fellow looks positively starving. My guess is a snapweazle chased him out of the woods and he kept running ā well, rolling ā until he wound up in someone’s bag. And that someone was probably some sort of space tourist, and they went to Roxx 3, which is where it escaped from their baggage and found its way to the TARDIS. Hopefuly the snapweazle didn’t follow.ā
āDoctor?ā Amy’s voice carried an urgency that the Time Lord, who was now monologuing as if there were no tomorrow, missed completely.
āThat’s the other thing about snapweazles, you see, Amy. They’re the most persistent psychotic plants in the known universe. Once they find a moss ball they like, they’ll pursue it across the stars. Well, never mind, little guy. You’re safe in here, aren’t you?ā The Doctor gripped the furry ball in his hands and gave it a nose rub.
āDoctor…ā
āAnd then, of course, there’s the fact that the snapweazle gets bigger and bigger the hungrier it gets. And it’s standing behind me right now, isn’t it?ā
āYes, it is.ā
Read Part Two
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