Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [16]
Oh, no.
‘Under the bed, quick.’
The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but such was the panic on Jack’s face that he allowed himself to be ushered under the other single bed in the room. A moment later there was a knock at the door. As he lay there in the dust, staring at the criss-cross of wire that formed the base of the bed, he was aware that Roslyn Forrester would have had a few arch comments to make about him being secreted away in a young man’s bedroom.
He heard the door being opened and the heavy footsteps of a large man enter the room. From his low vantage point, he could only see the newcomer’s black shoes and trouser bottoms. The man’s voice was old and low. He said he had come to collect some money. The implied threat he made when Jack replied that he didn’t have it suggested that the man was not from a bank or a reputable company. A loan shark? The instalment due sounded considerable and the Doctor wondered what Jack had needed the money for. The young man didn’t seem to own much, the room he shared was barely furnished, and Jack’s clothes were neither new nor expensive.
Well, he wasn’t going to find the answers to his questions down here. Despite Jack’s strange request for him to remain hidden, the Doctor was about to climb out from under the bed and ask, when he caught sight of a magazine tucked beneath the mattress – presumably by Jack. As he pulled it through one of the diamond-shaped gaps in the wire frame, a few small brown envelopes slipped from its pages.
The title of the magazine was Physical Strength and Fitness. The Doctor grinned. He’d forgotten how innocent mid-twentieth century Britain could be. It was a magazine for weight trainers. Most of the text was made up of dietary advice for those in training and excited reports of national competi-tions and championships – presumably included to encourage the dispirited.
However, the Doctor suspected that it was the pictures which had attracted Jack to the title. They were all of young men exhibiting the results of the hard work they’d done in the gym. Some of the models had been photographed nude, but the publishers had discreetly superimposed black underwear over the offending parts of the photographs. To the Doctor, this coyness seemed somehow representative of the age.
There were some loose pages that had obviously been torn from other exercise magazines. Pictures of healthy looking young men flexing muscles and lifting weights. All of the models in the pictures had cherubic expressions and 27
golden hair. The Doctor was reminded of the boy who died at the hospital.
Reminded of the blood making pink streaks in the fair hair.
The envelopes, which had been secreted between the pages of the magazine, were all addressed to JACK BARTLETT, ESQ and also contained photographs. Or rather, the Doctor discovered after examining them, each contained a single copy of the same picture. From the grainy texture of the image it was clear that the picture had been taken from a distance, probably with a telephoto lens. The picture was of two young men sitting on a bench facing each other. Despite the poor quality of the photograph, the two men were easily identifiable. The blond boy, his hair dark in this picture, was reaching out to touch Jack’s face.
There was something familiar about the envelope. A fault in the typewriter had meant that the ‘Q’ in ‘ESQ’ had been printed slightly lower than the other letters in the line. The Doctor had seen this before. When he’d called at the flat earlier that evening, there had been a similar letter for Jack on the sideboard in the hall. He’d noticed it while Mrs Carroway had been bitterly sounding off about the inadequacies of her tenant – three months behind with the rent and coming in at all hours from those pubs in the West End.
Jack’s voice, raised in anger, brought the Doctor into the present. ‘That’s too much! I can’t get my hands on that much. They’re already asking questions at work. I’ve given you money this