Doctor Who: The Twin Dilemma

DOCTOR WHO

THE TWIN DILEMMA

ERIC SAWARD

For Katia, with fondest love

DOCTOR WHO THE TWIN DILEMMA

Based on the BBC television serial by Anthony Steven by arrangement with the British Broadcasting Corporation ERIC SAWARD

W.H.ALLEN-LONDON

Original script copyright © Anthony Steven. 1984

'Doctor Who' series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1984, 1985

The BBC producer of The Twin Dilemma was John Nathan Turner, the director was Peter Moffatt.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham Ltd, Kent for the Publishers. W.H. Allen & Co. PLC

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

CONTENTS

The house stood on Lydall Street. It was part of a beautifully preserved Georgian terrace, its graceful facade as pleasing today as when it was first built in 1810, some five hundred years earlier. In fact, Lydall Street was the only Georgian terrace left standing in the metropolis. It was also the only street with houses built of brick. To the people who lived in the flameproof, plastic buildings of the city, Lydall Street had enormous charm, an incredible sense of history and a tactile quality missing from their own mirror-smooth, vinyl environment.

The reality of living there was, of course, quite different. The houses were draughty, uncomfortable and cost a fortune to maintain. Although it was an honour to be allowed to occupy such a dwelling, it was also vital that you were rich. Some people said it was better if you were mad. The truth was, of course, it was better if you were both.

The family who occupied number twenty-five possessed the above qualifications in great abundance. But they also possessed a much greater and more precious gift - genius. The Sylvest family, for it was they who occupied number twenty-five, were all gifted mathematicians.

Professor Archie Sylvest was a tall man with a grey, matted thatch of hair that wouldn't lie neatly however much it was combed. His face was florid and his waist thick from drinking too much Voxnic (a delicious alcoholic beverage made from fermented vision seeds). As it was again chic to be fat, and, as Voxnic was this season's most fashionable drink, Archie was able to pat his paunch with considerable pride as he ordered yet another round.

In fact, Archie should have been totally happy. His wife, Nimo, was a stimulating companion. He loved his work at the University.

Wallowed in the company of his students. Revelled in the respect shown by his fellow lecturers. Loved drinking too much Voxnic with computer programmer Vestal Smith, a person of deep warmth, deep personal understanding and even deeper blue eyes.

In fact, Archie would have been totally happy if it hadn't been for one thing: he was frightened to go home.

For there were his twin sons.

Romulus and Remus Sylvest were twelve year old identical twins.

Such was their precise mirror image of each other, even their parents were occasionally confused. This gave the twins enormous pleasure and they would go out of their way to create even further embarrassment. The trouble was, they didn't know when to stop and they would go on and on and on. Their insistence verged on the psychotic. For a while Archie and Nimo wondered what the blending of their genes had created, but slowly, painfully, the truth emerged - the twins, like themselves, were gifted mathematicians.

Unfortunately the genetic mix that had provided the twins with their talent did not cover other areas of their intellectual development. In many ways they were dumb. And when it came to emotional maturation, it had required several psychologists and a battery of complex tests to establish the evidence that there had been any. The truth was that their genius had done little to enhance them as human beings. Instead their gift sat on them like some congenital malformation, distorting the shape and symmetry of their personality. But unlike a club foot or a hunchback, which could be surgically corrected, their disfigurement had proved incurable. They would forever remain immature mischief-makers with the mathematical ability to destroy the universe.

Archie knew this and it terrified him. Nimo knew it too, and, like her husband, she had turned her back on the problem hoping it would go away. Archie coped by trying to swamp his responsibility in a sea of Voxnic in the company of computer programmer Vestal Smith. Nimo consumed her time a little more productively in the accumulation of academic degrees. But even she was beginning to wonder whether embarking on a fifth Ph.D

was really a worthwhile way for a grown-up person to spend their time.

The house was quiet. Archie stared at the reflection of his tired face in the bathroom mirror and wondered whether there were any poisons that would defy the pathologist's skill. He found it therapeutic, while combing his hair, to plan the demise of his children. When Archie had first mentioned his macabre preoccupation to his psychiatrist, he had expected cries of outrage and despair, along with a prescription to raise his dose of Mestobam to five hundred milligrams per hour. But instead, the analyst had sighed, switched on an ancient recording of a Bartok string quartet, lit a cigarette and said, somewhat bored, 'Infanticide is a very common fantasy amongst the intelligentsia. In fact,' he continued, pausing only to fill his lungs with smoke, 'I only become worried when a patient doesn't harbour the desire to murder a close relation.'

Archie had felt horrified by this news. The thought that most of his friends and colleagues stalked the metropolis with murder in their hearts was one thing, but the revelation that his fantasy was ordinary induced a mental relapse requiring many months of deep and intensive analysis. It wasn't until a full year later that Archie felt able to return to the thoughts of murdering his children. This had been prompted by remarks his psychiatrist had made one dank winter morning, when Archie was feeling smugly at peace with the world.

'You know, Sylvest, your psyche has become lopsided,' the doctor had said, reaching for yet another of his specially made cigarettes.

'Your problem is that you lack feelings of guilt, anguish, turmoil.'

He paused for a moment and blew a smoke ring. Archie watched, impressed by the psychiatrist's skill.

'You are too calm. Someone of your intellectual ability requires a damper, a neurosis, to complement the creative side of their personality.'

Archie had looked puzzled. He had spent a fortune having himself straightened out. Now the man who had helped him achieve his cheerful, contented disposition, was telling him he was too happy.

What does the fool mean! Archie pondered, undecided whether to sue the doctor for malpractice, or simply punch him on the nose.

But before he could make up his mind, the psychiatrist had said,

'Your life is too cosy. You are far too gifted to spend your days regurgitating tried and tested facts to your students. Too dynamic to waste your evenings in front of the viddy-screen.' The doctor leant forward and stared directly into Archie's eyes. 'You are a theoretical mathematician. It is time you went back to your proper work!'

Poor Archie gazed at the tiny, ruptured blood vessels in the corneas of his accuser's eyes and knew that what had just been said was true. His feeling of well-being was a lie. Original thought had become alien to him. He had grown lazy, undisciplined. Archie's face sagged as feelings of guilt began to course through him once more.

'Feeling guilty isn't enough!' The doctor's voice stabbed at him.

'You once told me you hated your children.' Archie nodded. 'Then do something about it! Negative neurosis eats at the very being of a person. Everyone hates their children, wife, mother or father for one reason or another. To want them dead is not enough. You must do something about it!'

The words echoed inside Archie's head as he wondered whether his analyst wasn't moonlighting for Murder Incorporated.

'Well...' said Archie, somewhat stiffly, 'you prescribe that I should kill my children?'

'No ...' The psychiatrist slouched back in his chair. 'I want you to think positively about killing them. Imagining them dead isn't enough. In your mind, you must work out a way of committing the perfect murder.'

'And then?'

'And then you will have power over your fantasy. When that occurs, you will be able to control it. Turn it to work positively for you. You understand?'

Archie didn't.

'I know that you love your children, but you are also jealous of them. That's why you want them dead. But if in your mind you can also kill them, then you will have turned a negative neurosis into a positive one. By seeing your fantasy for what it is, you will come to understand your jealousy.'

Archie thought for a moment. 'But should I find a way of committing the perfect murder, and then decide to carry it out, what will happen?'

The psychiatrist smiled. 'If your crime is perfect, then no-one will know. But should you have made a mistake, then you will go to prison for the rest of your natural life... And I will lose a very lucrative client.'

Archie involuntarily reached for one of the doctor's cigarettes, lit it, then coughed. Although he hadn't understood what the analyst had said, it would give him a great deal to think about.

'You may go now,' said the doctor dismissively. '1 will see you the same time on Thursday.'

In front of his bathroom mirror, Archie continued to idly comb his hair. The conversation with his psychiatrist had taken place some months earlier. He still didn't fully understand what had been said and neither had he worked out a way of committing the perfect murder. Although his guilt had returned with a vengeance, and he still hated the twins, he had at least started to work again, which gave him a certain satisfaction. All in all, life had become much as it was a year ago, except for one thing: he had developed a taste for specially made cigarettes.

As usual, Archie's hair remained impervious to the activity of the comb and he gave up. Instead he set to work on a large blackhead he had been cultivating. As his stubby fingers pummelled and massaged the blocked pore, his concentration was interrupted by the bang of the front door. Nimo had gone out without saying goodbye to the twins. Archie knew this would cause offence and now dreaded to say goodnight to them himself.

The offending pore liberated, Archie slipped on his best evening jacket and glanced at himself in the mirror. Pleased with what he saw, he then made his way along the hall towards the twins'

bedroom. Downstairs he could hear the gentle whirr of well-oiled machinery - the android babysitter had arrived. Archie smiled. He knew the twins hated androids. Androids had no sense of their own importance and therefore were impossible to embarrass. It will drive them wild with frustration! he thought.

As he approached the twin's room, he slowed his pace. His nerve was going. So it was with some trepidation he tapped on their bedroom door. Not waiting for them to reply, he pushed it open and entered.

Poor Archie wasn't very good at pretending. The smile that covered his face would have caused a cat to laugh. His mouth was twisted and strained and the muscles in his cheeks twitched with the effort of keeping his lips apart. The smile itself resembled a terrible razor slash, his red lips the open wound, the white teeth standing in for the exposed bone. 'Hallo, boys,' he said, attempting to maintain the smile. This made him sound like some tenth rate ventriloquist, the fixed smile preventing him from moving his lips and forming his words properly.

Romulus looked up from the book he was reading and cast an indifferent look at his father. 'You've been squeezing your blackheads,' he said at last. Archie's expression collapsed, his confidence shattered. 'I hope you've washed your hands. I don't want you touching me with bacteria-covered fingers.'

Archie opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I want to kill them! he screamed - but he only shouted this inside his head. I want to tear them limb from limb! But out loud he muttered 'I've come to say goodnight.'

Neither one of his sons replied. Romulus returning to his book and Remus continuing to rummage in a large wooden toy box.