Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [131]
‘Bring her to me.’
‘And if she is all that you remember and desire will you leave here?’
‘If she is as you say, what reason would I have to stay?’
‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ the Doctor whispered to himself. He beck-oned the woman out of the darkness. Maintaining empathic control over the Toy wasn’t going to be easy without any physical contact. He crossed his fingers behind his back and took a deep breath.
Petruska stood a few feet away from Moriah. Despite her strange clothes she looked composed and regal. Moriah reached out to touch her face, hesitantly, as if he were expecting the worst; but not, the Doctor noted, without hope.
The Doctor closed his eyes. He concentrated on Petruska’s song. The song he had read on the walls of Gilliam’s memories. He focused upon its gen-227
tle, seductive melody, careful to ignore the words which were tucked away between its notes. In his mind, he sang the song to Moriah, following the delicate verses and feeling himself lifted by the confident march of the chorus.
When the Doctor opened his eyes again, Moriah had wrapped Petruska in his arms and they were kissing passionately. When they finally broke off, Moriah’s grey eyes were shining with tears.
‘You have brought her back to me,’ he said, choked. ‘She is exactly as I remember her when she was by my side.’
The Doctor smiled tightly, careful to keep giving voice to the song in his mind. He could already feel Moriah’s own resistance to Petruska. He could feel the man-god’s unconscious guilt crashing against her, unable or unwilling to hear and accept her song of love. Somewhere deep inside the centuries-old man, the Doctor was sure that Moriah knew that he was unworthy of his queen.
As the Doctor moved quickly over to one of the globes and began to programme the coordinates of the gateway, he began to improvise his own harmonies to the melody of the song, working hard to provide a sound full enough to drown out Moriah’s insecurities. It wasn’t easy: conducting a choir of internal voices was one thing, but simultaneously writing additional patterns for them to sing was quite another.
‘I have kept my side of the agreement, Moriah,’ the Doctor said through gritted teeth. ‘Now it is time for you to honour yours. It is time for you to leave.’ He pulled his paisley handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at the beads of cold sweat which had formed on his brow.
He wasn’t going to be able to keep this up for much longer.
‘Can’t go on,’ Chris panted. ‘Pain. Hurts so much. Got to rest.’
Patsy glanced behind them into the smog. There was no trace of the monstrous vehicle that had swallowed Gordy Scraton, but it couldn’t be far behind them. She had the distinct impression that it was playing a game of a cat and mouse with them.
‘Come on Chris, don’t give up on me now.’ It was perverse, but ever since he’d been shot, she’d felt stronger, clearer headed. More herself. Whoever that was.
He needed her. And his need was keeping her alive. His need was all the blood in her veins and all the air she needed for her lungs.
Patsy half dragged, half carried Chris to the side of the road, just as she saw the black cab emerge through the smog behind them.
She looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. They’d walked further than she’d thought and were back outside the Top Ten Club. A small fire escape spiralled up to the roof of the club – if they could get even a few steps 228
up the fire escape then they would be safe from the taxi which was bearing down on them.
She tipped Christopher on to the fire escape ahead of her and he sprawled on the first couple of steps. He was half-conscious now, but still grunted in pain as his shoulder hit the iron bannister.
Patsy jumped up beside him, her lungs aching with the strain of her exer-tions. The cab was still coming. It slowed at the base of the metal staircase and seemed to hover uncertainly. Up close she could see that its surface was matt and tacky. Grit and small stones were embedded in the surface of the strange vehicle;