Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [127]
‘A bit of teenage angst, nothing to worry about,’ Tilda interrupted. ‘Poor kid was worried about you. You know what teenagers are like.’
‘Not really,’ the Doctor said, frowning. ‘I’ll speak to him later,’ he muttered, as if he were adding the task to a long list of chores, and then he ducked back down the stairs.
Tilda and Gilliam exchanged glances.
Chris sat on the edge of the stage of the Top Ten Club. Patsy lay on her back, her head resting on his lap. They’d sat like that for what felt like hours, him gently stroking her hair, trying to think of words of comfort. Part of him wanted to leave, find the Doctor; but the terrible consequence of walking out on her kept him there. He felt utterly trapped.
‘You’re going to continue travelling with the Doctor, aren’t you?’ Patsy asked suddenly.
He’d forgotten about her ability to know what he was feeling.
‘I don’t know.’ Even as he formed the words he knew that he had already made his decision. He didn’t belong here and despite his earlier anger with the Doctor, he wasn’t ready to leave him just yet.
‘I see,’ Patsy said sitting up. She swung her legs over the edge of the darkened stage and lowered herself into the auditorium. ‘No point in me hanging around prolonging the inevitable,’ she said, and walked out of the club.
Feeling like a murderer, Chris hurried after her.
The Doctor accelerated down a pitch-black country lane, navigating partly from memory and mostly by instinct. As the sports car rattled over a cattle grid he thought he heard a muffled voice cry out. He glanced at the silent 221
woman in the passenger seat; her face was still, her eyes fixed on some distant point in front of them.
Shaking his head in puzzlement, he returned his attention to the road.
A small white sign declared that it was fifteen miles to Healey.
By the time Chris stepped back on to the street, Patsy had disappeared. While they had been in the Top Ten Club, a thick smog had descended, coating the streets, and filling the air with its heavy, oppressive atmosphere. He heard the sound of a window smash a little way off and heard male voices shouting something unintelligible and triumphant.
He had no idea which direction Patsy had taken. The smog had reduced visibility to only a dozen metres. Damn! He shouldn’t have let her storm off like that. There was no telling what could happen to her in the state she was in. No telling what she might do to herself. Feeling crippled with responsibility, Chris chose a direction at random and headed off. He’d only covered a few metres when he heard a woman’s voice cry out.
Patsy! It was hard to ascertain which direction her cry had come from.
Trying to convince himself that he wasn’t just guessing, he turned on his heel and started to run in the opposite direction.
It was after midnight, when Inspector Harris left the Middlesex Hospital. The casualty department was like something out of the war. It had been a long time since he’d seen the wounded have to wait to receive treatment.
He’d stayed with the injured boy he’d found in the riots until a nurse had come to dress the wounds on the lad’s face.
There was still the sound of fighting coming from the nearby streets, but Harris didn’t have the energy or the stomach to deal with any more violence.
Without knowing why, he made his way to the Tropics.
The club was silent, but the door wasn’t locked so he let himself in, noticing as he did so that his hands were shaking. The cold?
There was a handful of people sitting quietly on the sofas, cradling drinks.
A heavy silence filled the room. Harris was reminded of the underground shelters during the war. Tilda looked up from the bar when she saw the door open.
‘Oh it’s you,’ she said. Not the warmest welcome he’d ever received. ‘How’s our Lil then?’
The middle-aged policeman opened his mouth, intending to complain yet again about her disrespectful language, and took himself completely by surprise by bursting into tears.
Tilda’s harsh