Free Falls the Shadow by Daniel O'Mahony

upsetting experience. If that had come about through a long period of contact with Cranleigh, Bernice could understand it. The woman’s hair was long, dark brown and worn loose. It was also slightly damp and carried with it the faint smell of shampoo. There was something soft about her eyes, which Benny put down to the natural bemusement of finding a total stranger lurking, knife in hand, in your boyfriend’s wardrobe.
    Bernice smiled uncomfortably. The woman didn’t smile back.
    ‘You see,’ the woman turned to address Cranleigh, ‘There’s no one here.’
    Benny froze. The woman turned to take one last glance back into the wardrobe, her eyes met with Benny’s for an instant. In that instant the woman seemed to see Benny for the first time, a flicker of realization crossing her face. Then the eyes parted and the recognition faded.
    ‘You know,’ the woman murmured, voice a little shakier, a little less certain, ‘for a moment I thought…’ She stopped herself and shook her head. ‘There’s no one there. Trust me.’
    The door was closed and the wardrobe filled with darkness.
    Okay Benny, two – no, three – possible explanations. She might be more of a headcase than he is: not implausible under the circumstances. This might be something devious – maybe this girl knows something.
    Or maybe she hadn’t noticed. That instant when their eyes met –
that
had been genuine. She had seen Bernice for that instant, then dismissed her as a figment of her imagination.
    Whatever it was, she wanted to get out before the woman changed her mind and came back for another look. She tucked the knife carefully into her boot, then slipped into the hole. Even if it turned out to be a dead end, she could always turn back and risk a night of eavesdropping. The darkness was ominous but it offered escape.
    She pushed forward into the gloom, imagining that she could hear voices ahead. No, not voices. Someone laughing. Giggling like a manic child.
----
    The kitchen was little more than a scullery. It was a drab workspace tucked away behind a featureless door at the back of the house as if it was an embarrassment to the architect. From the look of things it was used as no more than a cupboard, a passage through to the back garden, a place to do the washing up.
    But it
was
used.
    The Doctor had spent some time wandering around the passages of the ground floor, following his nose. Close to the stairwell the passages had been draughty and functional, lacking carpets or even wallpaper. The further from the staircase he got, the better decorated the passages became. Furniture, pictures, ornaments adorned the warm corridors. Oak panels replaced bare plaster. The plain doors of the earlier section, cardboard‐
thin and covered in layers of flaking grey paint, gave way to heavy, elaborately decorated entrances of varnished oak.
    The scullery was empty, but confirmed his feelings. The house was occupied. It was a home. Tins, cartons and boxes were stacked neatly in the cupboards; a pile of freshly washed plates was still dripping soapy water onto the draining board by the sink; fresh footprints stained the check‐
pattern lino; a half‐
empty mug of lukewarm coffee sat on the kitchen worktop beside a crumpled magazine:
Green Finger Tips Monthly
open to a well‐
thumbed page on cultivating exotic plants in a temperate climate.
    The Doctor picked up the magazine and flicked through it. It was proof that this was someone’s house and that he, and Benny and Ace, would be in trouble if they were caught.
    How much trouble, he wondered? Perhaps it would be trouble with an ordinary householder, accompanied by a threat of petty but complicated legal action. Perhaps it would be trouble with the sort of people who could reach into the time vortex and snatch the TARDIS like a fairground game. Deciding that he’d rather avoid either, he dropped the magazine back onto the table and made for the door. Time to round up his accomplices. Ace first, since