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Dead of Winter - James Goss [36]

By Root 293 0
’s leave the future be.’ The Doctor shrugged. It was exactly the tone of the lady next door about her cat’s massacre of the dawn chorus. It’s just a cat. They don’t know any better. Sometimes the Doctor can be both patronising and chilling. He whirled around. ‘Which is the point – Time is like a big messy house of cards that just keeps teetering higher and higher into infinity. So brilliant, so delicate, so much of it. And you don’t want to go fiddling with any of the cards. Believe me.’ He clapped his hands together and caviar went all up the walls. ‘Broken hearts everywhere.’ He spun round again. ‘Dr Bloom really is amazing. He’s curing people from a dreadful disease, but he’s doing it about a hundred years early. And that’s not good.’ He glanced at the ground and looked a bit sheepish. Eventually he continued, the words dragged out of him. In that moment his great, stretchy rubber face was so kind and so sad. ‘Which brings me to you, Prince Boris. And I’m sorry, but here’s the thing… I think you’re one of the nicest Russian aristocrats I’ve ever met and not been forced into an arranged marriage with. You are kind and brilliant and make lovely coffee and probably ensure that every one of your serfs gets a goose at Christmas. That’s good. And what’s dreadful is that you’ve got this awful wasting disease… a disease that will shorten your life. Only it isn’t doing that any more, is it?’ Suddenly, without moving, the Doctor was staring out the window, no longer looking Boris in the eye. Like he couldn’t bear to. Boris had gone very, very still, every word the clang of a dreadful bell. ‘You are getting better. And I really don’t think you should be. It’s not just you, either…’

Rory took my hand. He knew what was coming.

‘You see… this place is expensive. You’ve got to be rich to come here. Which, sad to say, in this time means that you’re probably important. Maria’s mother has a lovely house in Paris. A really lovely house in Paris. Practically a palace, isn’t it, Maria?’

Maria nodded solemnly. She looked so scared. I held out my hand, and she came and perched on my lap.

It was just the four of us against him. Four lonely, scared humans staring at the dreadful alien. Who just wouldn’t shut up.

‘Even nasty old Mr Nevil is actually an MP. Hard to believe it of someone with such awful table manners, but there we are. I hate to say it, but if he lives ten more years, that’s ten more years before people stand a chance of electing someone nice.’ The Doctor stopped, his hands in his pockets, glaring out of the window down at the sea. ‘Then there’s silent Helena Elquitine – she’s doing advanced logarithmic tables a decade before the man who dreams up the computer is even born. She’s utterly amazing – imagine if she finished her work – Napoleon might have radar and remote-controlled missiles.’ He glared at Boris and Maria sternly. ‘Please forget I’ve even said the words Napoleon or radar immediately.’ Prince Boris tried to look nonchalantly bored, but I could tell he was deeply interested.

The Doctor carried on. ‘Every single patient here is part of the house of cards that makes up history. If it was just the odd one or two then I could look the other way… but no. Every one of you.’ He faltered, miserable. ‘Every single one of you.’

The Doctor sank down on the end of the bed, not looking at us. A wind started up outside, rattling against the window, pulling cold air through the room. The Doctor’s voice was so quiet I barely heard him over it. ‘I hate my life sometimes,’ he sighed.

Rory spoke. If I ever, ever forget why I love him, it’s for moments like this. When we’ve been overcharged in a restaurant or the Doctor’s sentenced a whole load of innocent people to death. No one else knows what to say, but Rory will just say something. He looked just as pained as the Doctor – not surprising since he’s just had the Doctor’s memories stamping around in his head. ‘So it’s got to be stopped – but what’s causing it?’

‘Oh, not Dr Bloom, poor silly booby.’ The Doctor spread caviar on a cracker, the knife scraping away at it over and over

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