The Xanthous Knight
Another out-of-print short story, from the Tommy Donbavand benefit anthology, A Second Target For Tommy, published in 2018.
The creator of the Scream Street books and television series, prolific contributor to The Beano and author of the Doctor Who novel, The Shroud of Sorrow - amongst many other writing credits; Tommy Donbavand passed away, from cancer, a year after the book was published.
Once again, in light of how this story came into existence; please consider making a donation to a cancer charity of your choice.
Rain lashed the dark city.
The downpour slaked all hope from every borough.
The man waited at the bus stop, pulling his mackintosh tighter, ice-water saturating his clothes and chilling him to the marrow.
It was all he deserved.
The bus to B-Town arrived after a torturous delay. The man stepped aboard, sifting through his change with frozen fingers. It was as cold on board the bus as it was outside. The heating was broken, the driver informed him, and the route was being diverted, in order to avoid roadworks at the N-Town/D-Town flyover.
None of this made any difference to the man. He paid his fare and found a seat, then gazed out into the darkness.
The bus pulled away.
"Cheer up, Boss," said a voice that wasn't there.
Lightning slashed the sky and thunder replied, like the sound of the end of the world.
The journey home took twice as long, but the man did not notice. What difference did it make? Urgency was a thing of the past. He shivered, his teeth chattered, and the rain continued to fall.
The bus arrived at his stop. Stepping back out into the deluge, the man wandered into the off-license at the top of his road. The shopkeeper knew better than to attempt any exchange of pleasantries anymore. He just passed the man his usual bottle of whisky and took his money.
Trudging up the hill, between the familiar rows of terraced houses, the man paused at his front door, retrieved his keys, turned the lock and entered.
The stale stench of discarded take-away cartons did not even register with the man, as he switched on the two-bar electric fire and the TV. He peeled off his sodden coat, letting it slop onto the floor. Retrieving a grubby glass tumbler from the wreckage on the coffee table, the man poured himself a hefty measure of whisky, then slumped into the armchair. The news channel mumbled things and images flickered across the man's retina.
He swigged his whisky and felt nothing at all.
A rhythmic tapping.
It took a moment for the man to realise what was happening. Someone was knocking on his front door.
He stopped and listened.
The tapping came again, louder this time.
The man took another swig of his whisky.
The knock became an insistent pounding, the whole room shook with each impact. The man leapt to his feet and charged over to the front door. Flinging it wide, he found a small man in a Panama hat, standing beneath an umbrella, his fist raised to continue knocking in earnest.
"Ah!" said the little man, with a start. "You're in! Excellent!"
"You've got the wrong address," came the grumbled reply.
"No, I don't think so," said the little man. "This is number twenty-nine, isn't it? I'm the Doctor. Do you think you could let me in? The intensity of this precipitation is somewhat distracting, don't you think?"
The Doctor gave a hopeful smile.
"Look, 'Doctor'," said the man. "I don't know what you're selling. Whatever it is, I don't really care. I just need you to stop banging on my door, OK?"
"If you let me in, I will no longer need to bang on your door," said the Doctor.
"Go away!"
"I need your help!"
"Leave me alone!"
"I can't do that, Eric!"
The man paused. His eyes widened.
"Eric," the Doctor repeated. "It is you, isn't it?"
"Who are you?" whispered Eric.
"I told you, I'm the Doctor," steel had crept into the little man's tone. His eyes narrowed and darkened. "And if you don't let me in right now, the safety of the entire universe could be at stake!" The Doctor folded his umbrella, pushed Eric aside and strode into the house. Eric blinked. At a loss of what else to do, he closed the door and followed the Doctor inside.
"Five minutes," said Eric. "Say your piece, then get out."
"Charming home," said the Doctor, warming his hands on the electric fire. "Now, Eric. I need you to come with me to the 51st century. There's a very dangerous situation brewing there, and your skill set could prove to be invaluable..."
"Fifty first century?" said Eric.
"Yes," said the Doctor. "Don't worry, I have the means of getting us there. I just need you to..."
"Get out of my house, you nutter!" screamed Eric.
"Eric..."
"You need to leave!" Eric bellowed. "Did O'Reilly send you!? Is this him!? You tell him to stop pushing his nose into my business!"
"Eric, I've brought you something," said the Doctor, reaching inside his jacket.
"I don't want it!" Eric yelled. "Whatever it is! Just get out!"
"Here," said the Doctor, retrieving the object from his pocket with a magician's flourish.
Eric stopped.
He stared.
Time seemed to stand still.
In the Doctor's hand was a banana.
Eric's eyes widened. The brilliant yellow crescent seared itself into his consciousness. Eric's lower lip quivered. Memories came rushing back. He swayed slightly, overwhelmed at the implications.
"They don't work anymore," he whispered.
"This one will," said the Doctor, handing the banana to Eric. "Why don't you try it?"
"But..."
"You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Crow!" bellowed the Doctor.
Crow.
Eric's mind reeled. The pain of loss. A wave of regret.
"Crow knew the risks!" said the Doctor. "We all know the risks! Would Crow stand by when there was so much at stake? Honour his memory, Eric! The universe needs you!"
Eric paused. The tension drained slowly from his face.
"No," he said, levelly. "The universe doesn't need me; not Eric Wimp or Twinge..."
He snatched the banana from the Doctor's hand and held it aloft, creasing his brow with determination. Then, expertly unpeeling the fruit, Eric bit into the soft flesh, savouring the sweetness, before devouring it entirely.
The Doctor flinched, then dived for cover behind the sofa, just as a lightning bolt fell from the sky and struck 29 Accacia Road.
Two million volts of electricity smashed into Eric's chest. The power flooded into his every cell, charging his body, jump-starting an amazing transformation. Eric's bones cracked, straightened and grew. Muscle and sinew expanded and tightened.
Eric's clothes burst into flames, instantly becoming ash and crumbling away, revealing beneath a startling, new garb. Golden boots and gloves crackled with energy. Muscular limbs and torso were now covered in a deep blue spandex, complementing the Olympian frame. A majestic, golden cloak unfurled like wings from the broadened shoulders. The head was now covered in a blue and gold cowl, with short, noble horns sprouting from the temples.
The transformation was now complete. Where once stood Eric, there now was poised the Xanthous Knight. The Plantain Paragon. The Man of Peel.
The Doctor peered over the debris-covered sofa and blinked.
"As I was saying, Doctor," came the deep, baritone voice. "The universe needs... Bananaman!"
"Indeed," said the Doctor. "Sorry about your house."
"No problem," said Bananaman, holding out his hand and helping the Doctor back onto his feet. "I can always repair it when we return. It's been due a spring clean for a while now, anyway. Tell me; where did you get such a potent banana? I feel more energised than ever before!"
"It was cultivated in some particularly favourable soil," said the Doctor. "Once we complete our mission, we shall be able to plant entire banana grove, after we clear away a weapons factory or two. Blow up the odd reactor."
"Where is this place?" asked Bananaman.
"Villengard," said the Doctor.
"The 51st Century?"
"That's right."
"How do we get there?"
"My time machine," said the Doctor. "The TARDIS."
"Very well," said Bananaman. "Lead the way."
"There is a slight problem," said the Doctor. "The TARDIS is no longer where I left it."
"Where was that?" asked Bananaman.
"Not far," said the Doctor. "On the corner of Bash Street?"
Bananaman rolled his eyes.