Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [49]
‘Hello,’ Harris heard the Doctor say. Absurdly, the little man doffed his hat at the machine. ‘I’m the Doctor, and these are my friends. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
The black cab came to a stop a few yards ahead of him. It moved so smoothly that Harris thought it could have been skating on ice.
‘Now what manner of creature are you, hmm?’ The Doctor’s voice was an awestruck whisper. He sounded as if he was actually expecting a reply.
The cab didn’t reply, of course. Harris became aware that it was moving almost imperceptibly from side to side. He was struck by the impression that it was making its own evaluation of the Doctor. As if it were sizing up the pathologist.
‘How can we communicate?’ the Doctor said, frowning. ‘You don’t seem to be able to talk, and I can’t be sure if you can hear me. Which is a shame, because I think you and I need to share a few words about road safety, if you catch my drift?’
The vehicle slid forward a few inches at this remark. Harris hurried forward to join the Doctor in case the driver should try anything. He noticed that Jack reacted identically to the threat to the Doctor, keeping pace with him.
Close up, Harris could see that the cab’s surface wasn’t metallic at all, but was matt and looked as if it might be tacky to the touch. Even the windows were dull and opaque. It was almost as if it were only a plastercast of a real car. Just a moulded shell. He began to reach out to the cab, before thinking better of it and pulling his hand back. He glanced up at the Doctor. ‘Do you think there could be someone inside?’
81
It was Jack who answered his question. ‘Don’t be stupid. How could anyone get in there? It’s completely solid, like a jelly.’
Bloody insolence. ‘When I want your opinion, young. . .
man,’ Harris
started, unable to hide the disdain in his voice, ‘I’ll ask for it.’
‘I hate to interrupt you both,’ the Doctor began quietly, ‘but could you give me a hand? I’m afraid our friend here has taken a shine to one of mine.’
Harris felt a chill sweep through him as he caught sight of the Doctor’s arm.
He was vaguely aware of Jack gasping in horror next to him.
The Doctor’s left hand had disappeared beneath the surface of the cab’s bonnet. All around his wrist a moist black something was pulsing, slowly and rhythmically.
And then it began to suck the Doctor inside itself.
82
Interlude
Gilliam’s Story
Gilliam had dreamt of the song. In her dream there had been words. Words full of answers, but too faint to grasp their meaning. She woke with the taste of the desert in her mouth. It reminded her of eating sandwiches on a beach with her family when she was a little girl, the grit crunching loudly in her skull.
It took her a few moments to orientate herself to her surroundings. For the last twenty-five years she’d woken up in a bed the size of a small swimming pool, surrounded by attendants waiting patiently to prepare her for the business of the day. Waking up alone on a thin roll of bedding in a thermo-tent was going to take some getting used to. Gilliam got up and stretched her aching joints in the cool of Petruska’s bedchamber. The privacy was priceless though.
Before continuing her work she walked around the ruins. Guards had been positioned around the ancient palace at discrete intervals. The king’s orders, no doubt. She had to admit that she was surprised that he hadn’t had her physically dragged back to his side.
There was a small commotion further down the slopes; two guards were trying to stop an angry group from climbing further. Gilliam pulled her hair out of her eyes, it was a multi-media crew. She thought she recognized the reporter. An odious woman who’d written a lurid and very unofficial biography of her the previous year. She hurried back under the protective canopy of the ruined palace.
The easy successes of yesterday were not repeated. The computer didn’t manage to repeat its miraculous performance. The screen of Gilliam’s terminal was littered with possibilities