Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [40]
Chris met her gaze, raised an eyebrow and adopted a bored tone. ‘I’m way ahead of you. Now tell me something I don’t know.’
Gordy Scraton stood on Old Compton Street staring at the burnt out shell of the building opposite. He was quite oblivious to the other pedestrians going about their lunchtime business. His attention was entirely focused on the building opposite him. He looked upon the still-smoking ruin as an artist might look upon a newly completed canvas.
What had been the home to filth was now just blackened rubble and char-coal timbers. He hoped some of them had died in the fire. They didn’t deserve to live. Not around here. Not in his part of town.
This was only the beginning. Just the start. The blackened gap left in the row of townhouses reminded him of a mouth after a rotten tooth had been pulled. A proud smile crept across his face. Well there were gonna be more rotten teeth pulled in Soho before he was done. It was going to take a long time to get Soho back to how it should be. Back like it was when he was a kid playing footie and trailing after Albert and his mates. Back when it was a place where there weren’t any blacks on the streets. When there weren’t any filthy queers.
Last night had only been the start. It wasn’t going to be easy. Or cheap.
He’d had to pay those lads a packet to put the Molotov cocktail through the window. Hard cash on top of enough drinks for them to pluck up the courage.
But it was worth it. Once the other clubs heard about it they’d swiftly agree to his terms. Despite the Doctor having put an end to his blackmailing operation, the threat of another petrol-bombing would bring in a wave of new cash.
When the devil had spoken to him that morning he’d offered him more riches if Gordy continued to do his bidding. Gordy had promised that the little paperboy, Dennis, would be seen to shortly. And he’d keep his promise to do the devil’s work. It wouldn’t do to disappoint him. But only after he’d dealt with the Doctor. Only after he’d really hurt him. The Doctor and the boy.
Gordy stood and watched the smouldering building for a few more minutes, before turning and walking away.
∗ ∗ ∗
67
The TARDIS welcomed Chris with a gentle humming which permeated its every room. His relief to be back within the indestructible walls of the Doctor’s time-ship after a night in the cold police cells was immeasurable. Nothing, bar the odd transtemporal being – which were, thankfully, rather thin on the ground – could gain entry to the TARDIS uninvited. Feeling safe and secure, Chris showered and quickly towel-dried himself, pleased to wash the grey stain of soot from his body. Fresh faced and blow-dried, he fingered his Adjudicator armour lovingly for a moment before, regretfully, leaving it in his room and heading for the wardrobe.
He popped his head around the doors of the in-house library, swimming pool and theatre hoping to catch sight of the Doctor. There was no sign of him in any of these places, which wasn’t really a surprise. Chris could usually tell if the Doctor was aboard the ship. It wasn’t anything tangible, just a general feeling of alertness and expectation in the air when the Doctor was around.
At the moment, the cool, dimly lit corridors of the ship suggested that it was slumbering, patiently awaiting its master’s return.
The wardrobe door was locked. A sign pinned to it read CLOSED FOR RE-FURBISHMENT in neat, hand-printed letters. Typical. The wardrobe was an expression of the ship’s eccentricities: it was rarely to be found in the same location twice and changed its layout and style on an almost daily basis. The last time Chris had visited, it had been a huge warehouse of a room, with wicker baskets piled precariously