Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [125]
And then the Doctor released his hand and suddenly, she was back in the Tropics, blinking through her shock.
‘We remember you, Petruska, First Queen of Kr’on Tep,’ the Doctor whispered, as he placed his hands around the Petruska mannequin’s head and transferred the memories to the woman lying motionless on the floor.
She was standing in shadow on a small stage above the auditorium of the Top Ten Club, hugging a bottle of what looked like spirits. She was singing softly, wordlessly to herself, reminding Chris of a distressed child.
Chris paused at the back of the club, before walking across the empty dancefloor to the foot of the stage, his shoes sounding loudly on the polished wooden floor. He looked up at the woman on the stage. There were dark rings under her eyes; she didn’t meet his gaze.
‘Patsy?’ he said, even though he knew that it was her.
She took a swig from the bottle. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she slurred. ‘There’s an emptiness inside of me. A hollowness.’
Chris swallowed, painfully.
‘I’m beginning to die, aren’t I? You don’t want me, so I am going to die.’
‘I wish I could help you –’ he began.
‘That’s ironic because I was made to help, Christopher. That’s. . . that’s what I’m for: therapy.’
Chris’s frustration surfaced. ‘Well it’s crukking bad therapy, Patsy. This isn’t living it’s like. . . oh I don’t know, it’s too easy being in love with you.’
‘You’re in love with me?’ She blurted out, taking a step nearer the edge of the stage, and the hope in her voice made Chris wince.
‘What? No! I don’t know. How could I be in love with you? You’re just the memory of a friend.’
‘I have no memory. It’s like looking into the mirror and seeing nothing but the mirror. Since you’ve gone I’ve lost sight of who I am. I only remember 218
myself in little glimpses.’
‘I didn’t ask for this, Patsy.’
‘And I did, I suppose?’ her voice flaring with anger, echoing in the empty hall. ‘Did I ask to be born? Did I?’
‘You lied to me, deceived me with that story of being a refugee, of coming from another planet. Goddess, I can’t believe I fell for that.’
Patsy smiled for the first time. ‘You wanted to play the intergalactic hero.
So I let you. You lied to me too. You never told me about. . . about her.’
‘Thank the Goddess!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who was she, Christopher? Who am I?’
Chris looked up at the tragic figure above him on the stage. There was little of Roz Forrester in her now. ‘She was my partner. My friend.’ He paused, before adding, ‘She died.’
Patsy nodded to herself as if this information helped her make sense of something inside her.
‘When I was with you, it felt so comfortable. I could almost cope with Roz being gone because you were so like her, even though I never really noticed.
I don’t think I wanted to notice. But I know the truth now. Patsy. . . couldn’t you. . . well. . . couldn’t you meet someone else?’
‘I don’t want anyone else. It’s too late for that. I only want you. I was born when you met me. I died when you left me. I lived for a few hours while you loved me. That’s all, Christopher. That’s all.’
Gilliam watched as the Doctor asked Tilda if he could borrow her car.
‘I can’t risk taking Petruska into the TARDIS. Who knows what dreams and needs the old thing might project on to her.’ The Doctor shivered to himself.
‘I don’t think I’m ready to face that.’
Reluctantly, Tilda handed over the keys. ‘That car is my pride and joy. If anything should happen to it –’
‘Don’t worry, I shall treat it as