Doctor Who_ Human Nature Part 9

Joan paused for a moment, feeling Wolsey squirm at the sudden lack of their hands. She wetted her lips and willed herself to form the sound. 'Yes.'

He bent his head to her, and like a little boy just discovering this, took her face in his hands. They were warm and still against the skin of her cheek. She felt that, more than she'd felt anything for years. She closed her eyes. The distance between then and now hurt inside her, and she let go of the breath she'd been holding, letting herself breathe deeply and fast, remembering all the things about being married that she'd enjoyed and let herself forget. Her heart was pounding like a dance, but he was studying her, like a painter, from a distance. She opened her eyes again, and saw that he was terribly afraid.

'Yes,' she insisted. 'Yes.'

'Yes,' he said. And brought her mouth on to his. After a moment, a minute, they parted again. And kissed again, exploringly this time, now that that terrible uncertain thing was dead and they were delighting in the knowledge that this was what they both wanted to do.

Finally they stopped, and Joan let her head fall on to his shoulder, and, in a kind of unlikely stumble, they got up and shuffled back to sit together on the sofa. Wolsey fell off in disgust and stalked into the kitchen.

'May I sit on your lap?' Joan asked. 'I feel, oh, I'm blus.h.i.+ng, like a young maid, and, I must admit, I'm rather enjoying it. You don't think me forward, do you?'

'Oh yes. ..' Smith giggled. 'Forward. As opposed to reverse. I've got all my gears mixed up.' He helped Joan as she got up, smoothed down her skirt and settled back on to his lap. 'This is so ridiculous,' she said, not being able to catch his eye as he awkwardly put an arm around her waist. 'I've been married, I shouldn't feel all nervous like this.'

'I'm, erm, nervous too,' Smith muttered. 'I don't feel as though I've ever done anything like this before.'

'I'm glad you feel like that, because I'm terribly afraid,' Joan whispered. 'You do mean you're my sweetheart, don't you, John? I'm far too old to be ruined. Not that I have been ruined yet. I mean at all. I mean - '

Smith's face hardened. 'Stand up,' he told her.

'Oh no, John...' Joan's voice sounded utterly lost. 'No, please don't. You won't tell, at least say you won't tell, I'll give you anything - '

'Hush.' Smith sternly walked into the hall and picked his hat from the peg. He positioned it carefully on his head.

Joan ran to the door, and pushed herself between it and him. She'd had time to become angry now. 'How dare you use me this way!' she demanded. 'To think I trusted you! I may be ruined tomorrow, but I'll tell you what I think of you first!'

'And what's that?' Smith grinned.

'That - ' Joan frowned. 'That... what are you grinning at?'

'I'm grinning at time. At circ.u.mstances. At my sweetheart.'

'You mean - '

He tipped up the brim of his hat, and, against her slight protest, kissed her again. 'I won't tell anyone, because I don't tell people things I can't believe. You can tell me all about it again tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow.'

Joan laughed with relief and kissed him again, longer. 'So why are you going?' she asked. 'I mean, you could stay for a little while longer at least.'

'I could - but I wouldn't want you to think anything was ruined. Least of all you.'

He put a finger to her nose and opened the door. 'Good night, Joan.'

'Good night, John. Oh -' She stopped him. 'I just realized. Smith and Joan.'

'Well,' said Smith, kissing her knuckle, 'that does sound like a double act.'

And then he was gone, off into the night.

Joan gazed after him until he vanished, him turning and smiling back at her at intervals.

Then she closed the door and leant on it. 'Oh my goodness,' she exclaimed, putting a hand to her breast. 'I think I just started getting younger.'

Smith skipped down the lane, his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune that the Isley Brothers hadn't written yet, a grin that was unwipeable spread across his face.

Up ahead, he glimpsed a street lamp that hadn't ignited, the last one on the comer before the darkness of the countryside swept in.

He looked up at it and raised a hand, intending to tap the pole.

In romantic stories, the gas filament would then ignite. He tapped.

Nothing happened.

Still indomitable, he shrugged, turned and made his way off down the lane.

Behind him, a little corner of light sprang up. He glanced back at it and nodded.

'Yes.'

Chapter Five.

Hurt/Comfort

Excerpt from the writings of Dr John Smith So for what season or circ.u.mstance was I built? My thumbs are useful, my appendix, which hurts sometimes as if newly made, is not. Sometimes it feels as if I'm bigger on the inside physically, too. Joan told me that the Latin I failed to understand referred to that. The school motto refers to the relative dimensions of books. I like that. If you could see information, a book would be like a pin-cus.h.i.+on in your hand.

Still haven't found Gallifrey on the map. Maybe I made it up?

Excerpt from a letter written by Joan Redfern, date unknown I'd forgotten. It was like a sleeping tiger, and it was suddenly awake and upon me again. And it was beautiful. I'd forgotten. It was like a sleeping tiger, and it was suddenly awake and upon me again. And it was beautiful.

As darkness fell across the valley below, Benny and Constance were walking up a narrow lane, past badger sets and through thickets of stinging nettles that Benny had to swat aside with a stick taken from an old elm. They were climbing up to the wooded hillsides, Benny realized, heading in the direction of the statue of Old Meg.

During the walk, while Constance was silent, Benny had come close to despairing.

There'd been no sign of the aliens, if that was what they were. Perhaps the reason that the Pod was gone was that they'd found it and gone too.

She and the Doctor would be trapped here, and she'd have to find a way to survive when the money ran out. Perhaps Alexander would give her a job. At least she could sleep in the TARDIS. If the aliens had the Pod and hadn't left, mind you, the only option was to get it off of them by force. Now, that would be really difficult.

'Have you got arms dumps all over the place?' she asked Constance.

'Yes. Asquith doesn't show any signs of budging, so we're going to start blowing a few more things up.' The young woman had struggled valiantly up the hill, hitching her skirts as they went.

'What if a war starts and other people start blowing things up?'

'A war? With whom? I mean, it looked as if the Germans were going to have a pop a few years ago, but that's all calmed down. Churchill's started to dismantle the Navy, and they're doing likewise. No, it's only now, now that there are no more wars to be fought in this world, that we can really do something about our situation. Asquith thinks he can sleep easy, bar Ulstermen or Anarchists, but he hasn't reckoned with us.'

They'd reached the top of the hill. Benny helped Constance step over a stile, and they walked over to the statue. The old woman sat proudly on a stone chair, her bag clasped in her stone hands, looking down at the valley.

While Constance started to examine the back of the chair, Benny glanced down at the town below. Comfortable lights had popped up all over and the smoke of evening cooking was drifting from chimneys. A line of white steam marked the pa.s.sage of a train along the branch line; she could just hear its sound in the distance, the regular beat of humanity at peace.

She thought of scarlet explosions, for a moment, of beams bursting across the valley, reducing the town to rubble in seconds. Actually, now that she'd got that picture in her mind, something about the valley fitted. A slow trail of brown smoke was drifting from the hospital, which still had a fire engine standing beside it. She s.h.i.+vered.

Constance was examining the base of the statue. 'We'll need a lever of some kind.

What about your stick?'

'I can do better than that.' Benny unfolded a lightweight plastisteel crowbar from her jacket, pushed it into the thin gap between one of the stone panels and the surrounding masonry, and heaved. After much shoving, with Constance's help, the panel came away and fell to the ground. Inside the block were a number of sticks of industrial dynamite, packed in straw with long taper fuses. 'If only Ace were here,' said Benny, frowning at the primitive explosives.

'Who?'

'Absent friends.' Benny reached inside and grabbed a bundle. It was sticky. 'I know nothing about this kind of thing, but this doesn't feel very safe. How long have you had it here?'

'Ever since I stole it from a quarry. The first time I was let out of prison and came down here on holiday, that was, oh, eighteen months ago?'

Benny sucked in a breath, and carefully put the dynamite back. 'I think that's going to be more trouble than it's worth.'

'As you wish.' Constance watched as Benny replaced the panel at the statue's base.

'Is your motive for seeking a weapon purely revenge?'

'Hardly. A friend of mine's in trouble. I have to find a certain object to help him.'

'And where is this object?'

'Ah, that's the question, isn't it? I have a terrible feeling that I know who's got it. In any case, I'm in a bit of a pickle.'

Constance checked the edges of the replaced panel of masonry and straightened up.

'You're not in a pickle at all. Where were you planning on staying this evening?'

Benny knew the answer to that instantly. She'd steeled herself for another night in the woods, already welcoming the idea of being alone like a boxer welcomes the first punch. But Constance gave her a little more heart. 'Perhaps there is somewhere. The house of a friend. If I tried to take that little lot down there, I think I'd explode on the way.'

'I'll go with you.' Constance took Benny's arm and carefully allowed herself to be led down the hillside. 'If I cannot provide you with weapons, at least I can manage moral support.'

'The court martial will come to attention.' Hutchinson banged the gavel on to the three bedside tables that had been lined up in front of him. Tim stood on a bed facing him, a horrified expression already on his face. The other boys stood in a circle around him. 'The case is the crown against Timothy Dean. The defendant is charged with being a bug, and allowing his just punishment to be ign.o.bly deferred by a master. How does the defendant plead?'

Tim stared at the circle of boys. 'I... I don't.'

They laughed. Hutchinson banged his gavel. 'Guilty or not guilty?'

'I'm neither. Or both.' His voice was a whisper, but it seemed to echo from every corner of the dormitory. 'If you're trying me, then you'll decide, won't you?'

'Then another charge is added,' Hutchinson decided. 'Contempt of court and of British justice. Let us first hear from the prosecution.'

'My lord,' Merryweather stood up, a dish rag on his head, clutching the lapel of his blazer, 'the prosecution's case is that Dean, through the extraordinary protection of one Dr Smith, managed to get out of a simple slap with the slipper. This can't be allowed to pa.s.s. The implications for discipline are terrible. I move that Dean suffer the fullest possible punishment, and will prove that this is most deserved. I call no witnesses, since I believe my case is proved by one look at the defendant's buglike features.' He sat down.

'And now the council for the defence,' said Hutchinson. 'Let us hear from Dean's best friend, Darkie Unp.r.o.nounceable.'

Anand looked up from his uneasy place in the circle.

He'd kept his gaze to the ground previously, embarra.s.sed that he was part of this idiocy.

'Darkie Unp.r.o.nounceable!' Hutchinson repeated, looking searchingly around the circle. 'If there is no defence, then we shall proceed straight to the sentence.'

Anand heaved a heavy sigh. 'I'm - '

'No!' Timothy cried. Suddenly, all eyes were upon him. 'There's n.o.body here called that. I'll defend myself.'

'Very well!' Hutchinson beamed, thumping down his gavel. 'What do you have to say for yourself?'

Timothy paused, considering. When he spoke, his voice quivered with fear. If only he'd let Anand defend him. Lately, his thoughts seemed to be full of danger like this, leading him into all sorts of awkward comers. 'I'm sorry that I didn't hear Dr Smith yesterday. It won't happen again.'

'Well, that's all very well,' began Merryweather, 'but there's the matter of - '

'It's just that I've been having these dreams,' Tim continued, oblivious, his voice a whisper that echoed around the wooden comers of the dormitory. 'They distract me. They're with me all day. I see you all die, over and over again. You're screaming, Captain Hutchinson, because you know that something's about to fall on you. Merryweather's only got one leg. Please... does anybody else have dreams like that?'

Hutchinson glanced at the other boys, a wide grin spreading over his face. 'I think we're made of different stuff to you, bug. You can't scare us.'

'I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just saying that I see it all the time, and it distracts me. That's my defence.'

Hutchinson nodded. 'Very well. What's the verdict of the jury? Hands up for guilty.'

All the boys put their hands up but one. Anand. Timothy smiled at him.

'So, guilty it is.' Hutchinson banged the gavel again. He reached behind him, and put a black square of the material used to repair school uniform on his head. 'I sentence Dean to be hanged by the neck until dead. Is the executioner present?'

Phipps raised his hand. In it was a noose made from gym rope. Timothy stared at it.

'You're joking, of course?' said Anand, looking between Timothy and the rope.

'You can't go through with it.'

'Shut up, darkie. Take him to the window.' The boys rushed forward, pulling Timothy off his feet and carrying him towards the window. Somebody pulled it open and propped it up. The noose was thrown around Timothy's neck, despite his weak protests. The other end of the rope was tied around the foot of a heavy wardrobe.

Anand turned and ran for the door, but a couple of boys grabbed him before he got there and sat on him, stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth.

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Hutchinson leapt up on to the bed, swinging the cloth excitedly around his head.

'Executioner, do your duty!'

Phipps supervised the frenzied dragging of Timothy to the window-sill. The boys grabbed his arms, and aimed him like a battering ram for the gap between the window and sill. Chill winds blew in from the darkness outside. The rope swung from Timothy's neck, and he went limp, giving up his struggles.