Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [5]
Insecurity and the Doctor.
Chris looked up at his companion sitting opposite him in the restaurant. The Doctor was still eating; stabbing each piece of food with his fork, examining 7
it with a myopic childlike intensity, before popping it into his mouth, his face contorting with pleasure as he relished the flavours. It was as if the man had never eaten anything before. Sometimes Chris thought that the Doctor woke up every morning and encountered the Universe afresh.
Roz used to say that the Doctor was a one-thousand-year-old toddler. Constantly surprised and enchanted by the Universe as he encountered it. Despite being envious of such an innocent view of the world, they both knew that this was only half the picture. The other half was only rarely glimpsed and, like a mountain seen through mist, could never be wholly comprehended. The Doctor had travelled more widely than anyone else that Chris had ever met, and it was clear that the Doctor always knew more than he would – or perhaps could – say. For the knowledge he had acquired on his long travels seemed to bind as much as it helped him. Chris was still only just beginning to appreciate how different from everyone else the Doctor really was.
Their relationship had changed in the weeks since Roz’s death. It was only since she had gone that Chris realized that he always encountered the Doctor as Roz’s partner. It was hard to adjust to travelling alone with the little man.
The Doctor himself had said very little since Roz had died, and nothing of how he felt about her death.
They had spent the last month or so making a series of brief visits in the TARDIS, only staying in one place for a matter of days, or even a few hours.
Chris could only remember a handful of their destinations: a junk market on a small low gravity moon where the Doctor had rummaged through endless skips full of battered electronic equipment, looking, he said, for spares; then on to a water-covered world where they had swam with the nomadic amphibi-ous inhabitants; and most recently a transport museum housed in an artificial satellite where Chris had selfconsciously flown an assortment of aircraft while the Doctor had looked on, like an estranged father weekending with his son.
Finally, the Doctor had brought them to Earth, his home from home. Somewhere, he had said, where they might rest for a while.
According to the Doctor, the city was London and the year was 1958. Chris looked around the small restaurant to which the Doctor had brought him. The restaurant appeared to attract a wide variety of people. A young woman sat at the bar smoking a filterless cigarette. She wore a tight black sweater, her hair was dyed brilliant orange and hung down to her shoulders where it curled under itself. She was either very ill, or had been over zealous when applying her make-up as she had a ghostly pallor and bloodless lips. The paleness of her face was contrasted by her eyes which were heavily outlined with black mascara. She seemed completely oblivious to everything going on around her, intent on smoking her cigarette which she did with great intensity and affectation.
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An elderly woman sat on her own at a small table away from the bar drinking a pint of dark beer. She had finished her meal some time ago and was now murmuring softly to herself. Every few moments she would pour some of her beer on to the bench beside her where a small terrier would jump up and lick the puddle dry. For some inexplicable reason this caused the