Doctor Who_ Human Nature Part 11

They were both dressed in togas, lying on a lounger in the courtyard of a villa. The only sound was the gentle trickle of a fountain.

'There,' the woman said. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?' Smith was about to reply, but then he was staggering back from a door, dropping his briefcase and clutching his nose, shouting all manner of colourful swear-words.

'It's one of these new automatic jobs,' a voice said. 'Still some teething troubles, what?'

But hadn't his brother told him about that? Funny how close to you some stories got, as if they were memories.

He was waltzing with a woman in a flowery dress, pleased at how her movements matched his. Around him men in uniform were all dancing with their partners.

'Perhaps we could go on somewhere?' he asked.

Under an orange sky, a group of dark figures stood around a singing structure, a million fine chords sighing in the wind. Information was flowing down the chords, being woven together in the mesh they were forming between them. Spirals of microscopic data had been flowing into the loom for days. Now something was due to emerge.

The woman walked forward and touched the chords. Something shaped itself into her arms. A male child.

'Again?' said the child.

'Again?' said Serif.

There was a crash, a thump and the orange sky became plaster-white again.

A woman was looking down at Smith, the remains of a heavy vase in her hands.

Serif was lying on the carpet, his hand an inch from Smith's head, a surprised look on his unconscious face.

'Have you seen an owl?' Smith asked the woman.

'Yes,' said Joan. 'How did you know?'

Smith was barely aware of Joan leaving again to run up the driveway to the school.

She left Serif, who showed no sign of waking up, roughly bound by a sheet. She woke Mr Moffat the bursar up, and demanded to use the school telephone, shouting at the night operator that this was an emergency, a burglar had been caught and the police must be summoned.

A Black Maria stopped outside the cottage and Sergeant Abelard, an old man with a white Kitchener moustache, helped his two constables to lift the still unconscious Serif into the back of the van.

'An anarchist, by the look of him,' said the sergeant. 'One of these Russian fellows like as did Sidney Street. Perhaps it was him set off the poison gas in the hospital.'

'Poison gas?' exclaimed Joan.

'Sorry, madam, I didn't mean to alarm you. It's all dealt with now, the papers will be full of it tomorrow.'

'What happened?' asked Smith. He was wrapped in a rug, a cup of tea in his right hand, his left little finger bandaged up by Joan. She'd winced as he did as she'd bathed the end of it in alcohol.

'Somebody set off what we think must have been a gas bomb in St Catherine's. We wired Whitehall and they said to have the fire brigade hose the place down.

They've been at it all day. Some of those lads got a look inside the place, and what they describe... well, sir, I wouldn't like to repeat it in the company of a lady.

There's a convoy on the way from Clapperton. We'll hand the matter over to the army boys when they arrive. Bit of a feather in my cap to have apprehended somebody, though. What did he want here, do you think?'

Smith stared at him. 'He must have been a burglar. He cut off my finger. Perhaps he was looking... for a ring? No, I don't wear a ring. He knocked me out. And there was something about an owl...'

The policeman flipped his notebook closed. 'I don't think he'll be much help to us tonight, madam. It's understandable. Could I ask you both to call at the police station tomorrow morning?'

Smith and Joan agreed, and thanked the police. The van drove away and Joan pulled up a chair to sit beside Smith, who was still staring vacantly into s.p.a.ce.

'It is odd that you should mention an owl,' she said. 'I was about to go to bed, when I was disturbed by a great clattering at the window. I looked out, but only saw an owl flying away. I glanced down and there were your white gloves. You had left them behind on the sideboard. I had an odd fancy to return them to you. Nothing bold, I was merely going to post them through your letter box, with a note about seeing you tomorrow. When I got here, the door was open and you know the rest.'

'Do I?' Smith smiled gently. 'I'm very confused. I seem to have been dreaming, but I don't quite know where the dream ended and waking up began.' They talked for an hour or so more, and gradually Smith began to feel stronger, the fear of his attack draining from him and reality rea.s.serting itself.

'Do you want me to stay?' Joan asked. 'I am capable of sleeping on a chair.'

Smith bit his lip and a slow grin chased the chill from his face. 'No,' he decided finally. 'You get home to bed.'

'All right,' said Joan. She got up and quickly kissed him. 'Bolt the door behind me.'

'Will I see you tomorrow?'

'That was the plan, but since you are now injured - '

'I can't think of a better cure than looking at you. What'll we do?'

'I shall make a picnic. We'll go along to the police station and then find some quiet spot to eat it, hopefully out of the range of poison gas.' She stopped on the way to the door. 'Oh my goodness, how will we know if our spot is safe?'

'Anywhere that birds still sing,' said Smith, 'one can have a picnic safely.'

Chapter Six.

A Deal with G.o.d

Alexander knocked on the door of the bathroom. 'Bernice, have you drowned?'

There came a satisfyingly loud splash from inside and then a tired mutter: 'Fell asleep. What time is it?'

'Nearly midnight. I've made up the back bedroom for you. Would you care for a cup of cocoa or perhaps some Scotch?'

'A double, thanks. I'll be out in a minute.' When she came out, white, soggy and wrapped in a rather good silk kimono that Alexander had given her, he was waiting in the parlour with two gla.s.ses and a bottle.

She poured and they clinked gla.s.ses. 'So, may I ask as to the nature of your current troubles?' Alexander began, rolling the whisky around his mouth. 'You're proving to be a most exciting tenant. You are not, I take it, actually down from college?'

'No,' Bernice admitted. 'I'm not. Do you want the vague, generalized, believable version, or the absolutely ridiculous specific one?'

'Oh, the latter, definitely. I've been following the affairs of Constance and her like long enough to know that, once embarked upon, rebellion is a positive opiate. I mean that in two ways. Firstly, it's addictive. Secondly, it opens up whole worlds full of new dreams. Do tell me yours.'

'Right.' And, without sparing a detail, Bernice told the whole story of her life and adventures with the Doctor, right up to the present. Alexander's eyes grew wider, and his whisky consumption grew faster, every moment. 'And so, here I am,' she concluded, with a big smile. 'Do you know, I've always wanted to tell somebody all that. I'm sure I'm breaking some sort of rule. What do you think?'

'This knight of yours - '

'No, no, I mean, do you believe me?'

'Do you really want me to?'

Bernice finished off the last gla.s.s and reached for another bottle with a swift wipe of her lips on the back of her hand. 'Yes. Rather terribly, actually.'

'Well, what proof can you offer me? What happens in the next ten years?'

Bernice shook her head. She'd antic.i.p.ated the question. 'I don't think I ought to talk about that. Tell you what, wait a minute.' She hopped up and rummaged around in her pack. She returned carrying her portable history unit and handed it to Alexander.

'There.'

He stared at it then punched a few b.u.t.tons. 'Now how does this work? There's a roller behind this little frame, operated by clockwork, and the words on it appear...'

He fell silent. After a moment, he gently put the unit down on the table, and stared at it.

Then he started to laugh. The laugh grew bigger and bigger. He leapt up and swung Bernice around the room in a happy arc. 'It's true! It's true! You're from the future!'

'Yes, yes...' Bernice found that she was laughing too.

'Now put me down. We still have dizziness in the future.' 'Oh dear...' They slumped into armchairs. 'So, these people who are after you - are they from the future too?'

'Yes. Or at least, I think so. I think they've taken the object, the Pod, which could make my friend himself again.'

'Well, we must try and get it back. I could raise quite a good gang, if I tried.'

'No, you mustn't do that. These people have weapons which could level this place.

We need to sneak up on them.'

'Understood.' Alexander crunched up his face with joy, hanging on to his chair like a boy on a roundabout. 'This is fascinating! What a strange predicament your friend's got into. Why do you think he wanted to be human?'

'I'm not sure. I think he wanted a change, to have a holiday from being him.'

'Maybe there were things that he could only do if he was human. You describe him as a friend. Are you and he husband and wife?'

Benny laughed. 'No. He doesn't really do that sort of thing. He surrounds himself with female company, mind you, quite innocently.'

'And male company?'

'Occasionally. Equally innocently.'

'Well, perhaps he wants to fall in love.'

'He couldn't have thought of that when he did it,' Benny protested uncertainly. 'But you might be right.'

'Oh, I usually am,' muttered Alexander. 'G.o.d, I'm in danger of keeping you up all night. Listen, tomorrow the three of us, you, me and Constance, will go and find this Pod thing, all right?'

'Does Constance have a young man?'

'Well, my chum Richard says so. Not him, but I think there are a few in the Labour group who wors.h.i.+p her.'

'Oh. Odd.'

'Hmm?'

'Nothing.' Benny got up and stretched. 'I'll see you in the morning. I gather that I should put a chair up against my door.'

'Dear girl, why should you?'

'Constance said that you believed in free love.'

'Not with those in distress, loved one! Or those in mourning.'

'Yes...' said Benny. 'Good night.'

After she'd gone, Alexander reached for the history unit again, turning it over and over in his hands. 'My G.o.d,' he whispered, 'I'm glad I lived to see this.'

A little circle of boys had gathered around Timothy's bed, staring down at the body.

They'd tucked him in and told the Prep master that he was feeling ill. Then they'd turned off his bedside lamp and prepared the cold body for bed, folding him into his pyjamas like they were dressing a flaccid, awkward mannequin.

Anand had been locked in a chest and declared ill also. Phipps stared at Hutchinson's stoic features. 'We can't go on with this, Captain,' he said. 'They'll want him for OTC tomorrow. They'll come and see him.'

'Died in his sleep?' suggested Merryweather. 'They'll see the rope marks on his neck, for Christ's sake! And what about the darkie?'

'You could kill him too,' murmured Alton, seemingly amused by the whole business.

Hutchinson glanced up from the body, as if woken from a dream. 'I don't know what you're all talking about,' he said. 'He'll be fine in the morning.'

'Hutchinson,' Merryweather hissed, 'he's dead!'

'He's not dead,' Hutchinson fixed the younger boy with a glare, 'until I say so. Any objections?'

Phipps put a hand to his mouth. He'd been looking ill all evening. 'No, Captain,' he mumbled.

The others replied the same, one by one.

'Good,' said Hutchinson. 'That's decided. I suggest we all retire.'

Somewhere outside of time, in the white void. 'Who are you?' Timothy asked Death.

Death glared at him. 'I'm the sister of Time and Pain and several more. We're the dreams of Time Lords. We leak out across the universe, and occasionally somebody like the Timewyrm gives us form. Certain Time Lords, in their nightmares, or in states like you're in, make sordid little deals with us. We might even take them on as our Champions. We make them pay a price.'