Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [15]
The late Bob Burgess had exploited this, having her record old show classics and then milk even the slightest double-entendre in the lyrics for their every last innuendo. When Patsy Monette sang ‘All of Me’, it was no longer the appeal of a spurned lover but an invitation to bed. Unsurprisingly, the nation’s youth had taken her straight to their hearts. Girls wanted to be like her, and boys just wanted her full stop.
However, Jeffrey suspected that this public infatuation might soon come to an end. Physically, Miss Monette looked terrible, and if the public became aware of her point-blank refusal to take time off and mourn her husband respectfully, her fortunes might well take a change for the worse.
The manager of the Top Ten Club had been in three times that week to see her show and there were rumours flying around that he was already looking for someone else to take top billing. Steeling himself for the task ahead, Jeffrey set off to try to warn the singer.
Jack’s window opened, letting in a blast of night air and the Doctor, who was carrying a little boy in his arms. It was Dennis.
25
‘I found him on the fire escape. Is he a friend of yours?’
Jack nodded, lifting the boy out of the Doctor’s arms and laid him down on Mikey’s bed. ‘My roommate’s little brother.’
Dennis’s whole body was shaking violently. His dark brown eyes were glassy and unfocussed, his teeth chattered noisily. Dennis didn’t appear to hear anything that was said to him. Jack looked up at the Doctor. ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘Shock,’ the Doctor replied. ‘He needs to rest.’ He leant over the boy and gently touched his finger to Dennis’s forehead. There was a fizzing sound like a badly wired plug and Jack tasted a tang in the air, like electricity, and then Dennis relaxed into a deep sleep. It was as if the Doctor had just turned the little boy off like an electric train.
‘There,’ the Doctor said, as he tucked Dennis in. ‘He should sleep for a few hours.’
Jack watched as the Doctor carefully examined Dennis’s head and neck.
The Doctor probed the little boy’s throat with his fingertips, as if he were searching for something beneath the skin. Jack wondered whether he should stop the Doctor. After all, he didn’t really know anything about him. What would Mikey say if he came and saw the Doctor here? The little man didn’t look like a real doctor in his funny hat and clothes. He looked more like a magician or someone from the circus. Someone who travelled. But there was something about his hands. They moved over Dennis’s body with the keen but impassionate interest of a healer.
‘I didn’t thank you,’ the Doctor murmured, still intent on his examination.
‘What?’
‘For saving my life. Outside. You were very brave.’
‘Oh.’ Jack had never saved anyone’s life before. An embarrassed grin started to creep across his face. ‘You. . . you’re welcome.’
‘But please, please don’t do it again. You might get hurt, and I have too much blood on my hands as it is.’
Bemused and deflated by this remark, Jack looked away, the smile dying on his face. His eyes settled on the Doctor’s hands. There were reddish-brown stains framing his fingernails and shirtcuffs. It looked like. . .
‘Jack,’ the Doctor started, as his examination came to an end. He paused and took off his battered fedora, placing it carefully – no, respectfully – on the bed next to him. ‘Jack, I have some bad news for you.’
The front doorbell sounded. Saved by the bell, Jack thought. A voice deep down inside of him was whispering that he really didn’t want to hear whatever it was that the Doctor had to say. Jack swallowed down the anxious feelings that accompanied that thought, waved the Doctor into silence and hurried 26
to the door. In the gaps between