Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias Part 8

A single bare bulb illuminated the curving stone steps, worn concave at their edges by years of use. The flaking, whitewashed walls gave off a damp, clammy tang that seemed almost refres.h.i.+ng to Ace after the smells of the house. She caught up with the Doctor at the bottom of the steps. The room before them was long and wide, with a low ceiling striped with bright, fluorescent lights, tinted a peculiar orange, strangely at odds with the rest of the room: a series of surgically clean stainless steel benches took up the centre with more of them ranged around the edges, interspersed with huge, fridge-like pieces of equipment. It was more like a morgue than a laboratory. The air was clean and antiseptic-smelling, and reminded Ace, uncomfortably, of hospitals. The whole place had obviously been refitted, the only concession to the past being a wooden panel on the wall, with six fat brown Bakelite light switches mounted on it.

The Doctor was slowly drifting round the room like a curious and slightly befuddled ghost, opening cupboards, running his fingers along shelves of carefully labelled gla.s.s jars of white and blue powders and crystals, dear liquids, substances that looked like milk or gravy. A door set into the far corner of the left-hand wall led, presumably, to other rooms. The Doctor picked up a beaker of clear fluid from a bench and examined it before giving it a sniff and placing it back on the glinting steel surface. Having completed his circuit of the laboratory, he returned to Ace and tapped his chin with the handle of his umbrella.

'Well?' she asked. 'Alien bodys.n.a.t.c.hing conspiracy or what?'

'Hmm? Oh, all fairly humdrum, Ace. Centrifuge, gas chromatograph. Nothing particularly out of place.' He looked vaguely disappointed and Ace's face fell.

'So we're looking for a missing woman and someone with minimalist tastes in interior decor, are we?'

The Doctor patted his lip and c.o.c.ked his head on one side.

'And, of course, there are the lipmarks on that beaker.' He gestured at it.

'So? Someone wanted a gla.s.s of water and couldn't be bothered getting a cup.'

'Maybe, Ace, maybe. Only it's not water. It's ammonium sulphate.'

'And that's bad?'

'For any human that drank it, yes.'

'I don't understand. What's happened to you?'

George looked Harry up and down. Gone was the slightly tired, slightly feeble friend who could hardly remember any more than he could anything beyond last week. He'd been replaced by a somehow taller, somehow stronger stronger man, whose eyes blazed where once they'd been tired and dull, whose chin jutted defiantly where once it had drooped. George sat on the bed in Harry's room as Harry paced up and down, impatient, irritated and almost incandescent with energy. man, whose eyes blazed where once they'd been tired and dull, whose chin jutted defiantly where once it had drooped. George sat on the bed in Harry's room as Harry paced up and down, impatient, irritated and almost incandescent with energy.

Harry looked away, ran his hand through his hair. 'It's only a matter of time, and then you'l remember too.' He turned back to his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder. George almost recoiled at the pent-up anger and rage that he felt in that touch, that he could see in Harry's eyes.

'Trust me,' said Harry.

'So what is it that you remember? You said everything? So the treatment's worked? Why are you so reluctant to talk about it?' George reached out his hand to his friend's arm, but something held him back, stopped him from actually touching him. 'This is what we're here for, what we've always wanted. For G.o.d's sake Harry, don't shut me out of it now.'

Harry gave a low chuckle almost a growl and shook his head slowly. 'Believe me, George, when the time comes for you and it will you'll see it for yourself.' Harry put his hand to his forehead and turned away.'D'you mind if I get some sleep now?'

he said, his voice suddenly a dry husk of what it had been before.

George hadn't thought: this must be taking it out of his friend. He raised himself from the bed, knees protesting painfully, and crossed to the door.

'Promise me you'll bang on the wall if, well, if... you know...

if you need anything.'

Harry nodded slowly as George wished him goodnight and left.

Harry listened as George padded down the corridor and went into his own room, closing the door behind him. He sat down on the bed, cradling his head in his hands. It was all there all the memories, all the images. As if someone had taken a sledgehammer to the walls around him, walls he'd known for so long that he'd forgotten they were there. He remembered places, faces.. everything. But 'everything' seemed too small a word for it. He had his life back his life his life.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, unable to block out the torrent of sights and sounds that rushed through his head, a torrent so violent and chaotic that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hold anything for long enough to look at it, to listen to it. It was like someone had crammed huge slabs of someone else into his head, crowbarring them in w.i.l.l.y-nilly. Surely the memories should have been familiar if they were his own. He opened his eyes and stared at the flowers on the curtains, trying to damp down the fires that burned in his mind. Relieved, he felt them subside a little although they continued to flicker, filling up all the dusty corners and shadowy nooks with bronze flame.

Harry waited another few minutes, sniffing back the tears that he didn't realise he'd been crying, and then rose from the bed, turned out the light and set off down the corridor. A fire had been ignited inside him a fire that needed feeding.

Mrs Wesley stood in front of the bathroom mirror and tried to pinpoint the exact moment that the world had jumped back into focus. It was as though she'd spent her whole life looking out through dirty windows, not realising that they were dirty because they were all she'd known. And now someone had finally given the gla.s.s a good clean. Suddenly, everything seemed sharper, more in focus: she could remember names, places; she could remember what she'd had for tea the previous day; and she could remember why she was here she was here to be cured.

And unless all this was another cruel part of her illness the treatment seemed to be working. She remembered her knitting and shook her head, half in amus.e.m.e.nt, half in horror at how she must have looked to others knitting and re-knitting the same square of green wool, day in, day out. But that was all over. She stared at the woman in the mirror, realising with a growing smile how attractive she actually was. She tugged a few errant strands of brown hair into place and collected her accoutrements together.

Moments later, she closed the bathroom door behind her, toilet bag clutched in her arm and jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder.

'Oh Harry!' she exclaimed, her laughter defusing the hysteria that she felt bubble up inside her. 'Don't do do that!' that!'

Harry smiled but not the cheery, cheeky smile that Mrs Wesley was familiar with. This was more of a sneer, cold and calculating. Mrs Wesley wasn't sure she liked it very much. In the past couple of days, there were quite a lot of things that she was realising she didn't like about this place. Maybe they'd been there all along and she just hadn't seen them.

She looked at Harry, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. His hand stayed on her shoulder.

'What's wrong?' she asked..

'Everything's fine,' he replied in a soft voice. 'I just thought I'd offer you an escort to your room, Doris.'

She pulled her head back a little and raised an eyebrow: she wasn't keen on being addressed in so familiar a way, especially by someone she hardly knew. 'You seem different, Harry are you alright?'

'Oh yes, Doris I'm more than alright.' His eyes gleamed.

He smiled devilishly and tapped the side of his head. 'It's all coming back to me. All of it.'

'That's wonderful, Harry,' she beamed, relaxing a little. 'I must admit, I'm feeling a lot better myself.' She took a closer look at this new, invigorated Harry.

As if he'd read her mind, he smiled. 'I feel like a new man,'

he said, and slipped his arm into hers.

The numbers streamed past her like bubbles rising from the depths, splitting, multiplying as they fled upwards into the night.

Part of her felt detached enough to observe the clear, mathematical beauty around her, to even make sense of some tiny, tiny part of it all. The rest of her was fenced off from her perceptions as if someone had neatly bisected her brain, leaving half of it to be integrated into whatever vast matrix spread around her, half of it to observe, neutrally, uninvolved.

She felt an itch, deep inside her head, but she had no body with which to scratch it.

She watched the numbers coalesce and crystallize around her, fading out of the velvet darkness, rainbowing through colours she never knew existed. The symmetries were beautiful, breathtaking. But just as she began to understand a fraction of what they were all about, her attention would be caught by something else, like a b.u.t.terfly in a poppy field, unable to settle.

But it didn't matter. Wherever she turned, there was some new puzzle, some fresh algorithm being enacted around her. And attention, she knew, wasn't required. Her presence her conscious awareness was almost a side-effect, an observer powerless to interfere in the abstract machineries that wheeled around her.

She had no idea how long she'd been here if 'here' meant anything at all. Some internal clock told her it was just a few hours but for all she knew it could have been days or weeks. But for now, she tried not to think about that: there was too much to see and experience here.

This was pure, pure heaven particularly for a physicist like Joyce.

Chapter Five.

Ace and the Doctor slipped quietly out through the darkened kitchen and stood at the back of Graystairs. The evening was cold and silent, and the Doctor could feel frost in the air. They had spent a fruitless fifteen minutes slipping through the shadows of Graystairs, listening to the comforting sounds from the television room, the laughter of the residents; they'd tiptoed along thickly carpeted corridors hearing gentle snores from early retirers; and they'd tried a couple of door handles, discovering only fitful slumber. But no Joyce and no Norma. And impending bedtime meant that they'd come increasingly close to being caught, so they'd decided to leave and try again later.

The Doctor watched Ace blowing thoughtful clouds of steam into the air, glowing in the pale moonlight. She caught him staring.

'Well?' she asked.

'Very, thank you.'

'You know what I mean. What now?'

'I think a return visit is called for, but not until everyone's gone to bed.' He glanced at his new pocket watch. 'Give them a few hours and then we'll see. Meanwhile...'

'Somewhere warm would be nice, Ace ventured, another frosty cloud escaping her lips. Suddenly, she turned her head at what sounded like the soft crunch of footsteps around the corner of the house. The Doctor followed her gaze. 'I was going to tell you before, she hissed, pressing him back into the darkness of the kitchen wall. 'I got a really weird feeling earlier like someone was watching me. In the village and then in the woods near Graystairs. Maybe I've got a stalker.'

'Or an overactive imagination.'

In silence, they scanned the darkness, but no one and nothing came around the corner.

'See?' the Doctor said eventually. 'Now come on we've got a missing woman to find.'

As the two of them rounded the corner of the house and headed for the steps that led down to the car park, the Doctor glanced back at the darkness they'd left behind, and gave a tiny nod.

In his room, Harry sat on the bed and locked his fingers together, trying to stop himself from shaking. He closed his eyes but Mrs Wesley's face screamed out at him from the darkness and he opened them in shock. It was how it had been how it always would be. He looked at the backs of his hands, pictured them holding the pillow down over the woman's face, clenching; he remembered his pulse racing as he pulled his head back, trying to avoid her thras.h.i.+ng arms. And as she deflated under him, like a battery-powered toy running down, he'd seen her knitting on the dressing table...

Like a man who's been fed on bread and water for a lifetime, it was as if he was suddenly faced with a banquet. He had to feed. It was only right, after all. Mrs Wesley's mind may have cleared, but she was other other. She didn't matter.

Harry flexed his fingers as, unbidden, a single word came to his lips.

Tulk.

The Doctor browsed the litter of yellowed cards blu-tacked to the window of the post office while Ace stomped her feet and rubbed her hands noisily and pointedly. Eventually, her patience exhausted, she dug him in the ribs.

'No mention of Joyce then? Woman lost. Please call. Reward. Woman lost. Please call. Reward.

That kind of thing?'

He waved her flippancy away with a scowl and pointed to a number of the cards. 'Rather a lot of dogs and cats gone missing recently, don't you think?'

'Maybe she's set up a pet sanctuary.'

'The devil's in the details, Ace. You can learn a lot about a place by looking at its small ads.'

'And what do a lot of missing dogs and cats tell you, then?

Apart from there are a lot of careless owners?'

'Dogs and cats don't go missing on this scale, Ace. Not in a place like this. They value their homes and food and warmth too much.' He stopped and frowned, drumming his fingers on his chin. 'Something someone said earlier... sheep. Missing sheep.'

Ace peered at the window, the cards and their scrawly handwriting bleached out in the orange sodium light of the streetlamp, and shook her head. 'No missing sheep here ' She stopped suddenly and turned to him. 'The kid the kid who told me how to get to Graystairs. He said something about missing sheep and wolves.'

'Wolves? Around here?' He shook his head vaguely.

'Doubtful.' Suddenly he hooked his umbrella over his arm and looked up and down the street, frowning, as if something incredibly important had occurred to him. 'Right,' he said decisively. 'You can keep yourself entertained for a while, can't you?'

'How hard can it be? We've been here a whole day and the biggest threat we've faced has been Megan's cooking.'

But he wasn't listening. With barely a backward glance, he set off in the direction of the TARDIS. 'See you back at the hotel,' he called over his shoulder. Ace could only stand and watch him go, wondering what had suddenly got into him.

'But what about Michael?' she said quietly.

But he was too far away to hear. Maybe he hadn't spotted the fact that Michael just happened to have been one of the men in the photo in Joyce's mum's room. She had been about to suggest that they find where he'd pitched up his tent and have a word: for all they knew, Joyce had decided to spend a night under canvas. But he obviously had better things to do. She felt a little slighted, and wondered if his disappearance was connected with whatever had happened aboard the TARDIS.

The wind was whipping up around her and she could feel a faint drizzle in the air. Michael's earlier directions had been vague; but the village was small, and the bright moon overhead cast a cold light over the houses and fields. The lighted street through the village led, alarmingly quickly, onto a darkened country road. Having grown up amongst the suburban bustle of Perivale, Ace was surprised and a little disconcerted at how eerily quiet the countryside was, and after fifteen minutes of walking she began to wonder whether she shouldn't go back. But Michael hadn't been telling the whole truth earlier, and she wanted to know why.

She soon found his camp site a vague glimmer of warm orange through a hedge, away in the corner of a field. The ground was wet and sticky and sucked at her boots as she leaped over the nearest gate. 'I should get a clothing allowance for all this,' she muttered to herself. Stepping tentatively across the gra.s.s, she made her way across the field to the tent and the sputtering fire outside it. Hunched over it, white enamel mug in hand, was Michael. Ace gave a deliberate cough, and he spluttered and spilled his tea.

'Who's there?' He turned sharply, his eyes wide, and Ace noticed how his hand went automatically to his side.

'Only me,' Ace said, dropping down to join him beside the fire. 'Now, how about telling me exactly what you're doing in Muirbridge. And yes, a cuppa would be lovely.'

The Doctor paused near the war memorial in the centre of the village. From its coal-black shadow, he watched as Ace walked off down the lane and vanished into the night. Moments later, someone stepped out of a side street that led back towards Graystairs. They held themselves oddly, pained, and the Doctor could see that they were limping. In thoughtful silence, he watched as the figure headed up through the village in the direction of the hillside where the TARDIS stood.

In silence, Ace watched Michael brew the tea and throw a few more sticks on the fire. Her front felt lovely and warm, but she could feel the drizzle soaking into the back of her jacket. He still hadn't answered her question. She watched him carefully as he handed her a mug. He seemed to have changed from the bright, carefree and eminently fanciable man she'd met that afternoon. Now he was secretive and taciturn and loath to look her in the eye. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes until Ace set her cup down on the wet gra.s.s and said: 'Right, enough secrets.'

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Even in the flickering firelight, his eyes still managed to s.h.i.+ne blue. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'This afternoon, you never got round to telling me why you're here.'

'What's to tell? Just a camping trip.'

Ace snorted. 'Yeah, and the rest. How come when I mentioned we were friends of Joyce's you went all funny on me?'

'Did I?'

Ace took a gulp of her tea. Staring away into the night, she casually said: 'Why should you be so suspicious of Joyce's friends, then?'

'You've lost me,' he said, but Ace could sense an awkwardness in his voice. 'I don't know who this Joyce woman is.'