Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [41]
A low-backed Edwardian nursing chair had been abandoned next to the wardrobe door. Draped over the chair was a navy pin-striped suit. A brown packing label attached to the jacket with a pin read: TIME: MID -TWENTIETH CENTURY.
SPACE: ENGLAND.
STYLE: INCOGNITO.
SIZE: ADJUDICATOR: LARGE.
Chris grinned and dressed. The TARDIS, like its owner, was usually a few steps ahead of him. He admired himself in a nearby floor-length mirror. Despite being labelled as INCOGNITO, the suit was decidedly flashy: the jacket boasted padded shoulders and a fitted waist; the trousers were baggy, but narrowed at the ankles. A knee-length navy coat and felt hat completed the 68
ensemble. It was a perfect fit. Chris tipped his hat at the wardrobe door and left the ship.
The Eastbound train sat waiting patiently on platform three. Chris paused for a moment to admire the huge engine. He gently ran the fingers of one hand along the carriages as he made his way along the platform towards first class.
The carriages of the train were two-tone: dark scarlet and bright yellow. The colours of blood and custard. Chris thought that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He found Patsy sitting in the first-class dining carriage of the train, oblivious to her surroundings and struggling with a champagne bottle.
‘Bloody steward’s disappeared and I can’t wait,’ she explained, intent on trying to loosen the cork. The table was neatly prepared for lunch. ‘Did you find your friend?’ she added, without looking up.
‘What? Oh, no. He wasn’t there.’ Damn, he’d forgotten to leave a message for the Doctor in the TARDIS. Over the last month they had fallen into the habit of leaving messages taped to the control console. Sometimes it was easier than talking.
‘Then it’s just you and me.’ The cork popped, ricocheting across the compartment, smashing a glass on another table. Champagne erupted from the bottle pouring down Patsy’s arm. ‘Good,’ she added, unperturbed by the mess, and poured out two glasses.
‘Here’s to our mission,’ Patsy toasted.
Chris raised his glass and took the tiniest sip of champagne. ‘You still haven’t told me very much about it.’ He set the glass down and moved it purposely to one side. ‘Or about yourself.’
‘There’s not much to tell.’
Chris burst out laughing. ‘You’re an extraterrestrial in hiding on Earth in the 1950s and there’s not much to tell?’
‘You can talk, future boy.’ Patsy glanced at him sharply. ‘Christopher, you’re not going to make this difficult are you?’
‘I suspect I am.’
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you. I come from a place far away from here.
And don’t ask me exactly where,’ she added quickly, ‘because I don’t know things like that.’
‘What’s the name of your planet?’
Patsy appeared to consider this for a moment. ‘Petruska,’ she said, finally.
‘I haven’t heard of it. What’s it like?’
‘Horrible. Authoritarian. Brutish.’ She sighed at the memory. ‘Mother, I mean Tilda, and the Major and I are all members of a racial minority. A 69
servile class. You’ve probably guessed by now that we’re empathic, haven’t you?’
Chris nodded. ‘I felt your concern for the Major during the fire. Like words in my head.’
‘We’re not really telepathic, more empathic, and only when the emotions are intensely felt.’
An image of Roz entered his thoughts suddenly. Staring at him, her face contorted into a sneer. Stay the hell out of my mind.
The train juddered once, and made a series of clanking noises before pushing its way out of Liverpool Street Station.
‘What is it?’ Patsy said, staring intently at him.
‘Telepathy frightens me. I was infected with a telepathic virus. I couldn’t control the ability and.