Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [90]
He’d lost the case, possibly his job, and certainly any chance of promotion in the next century. Not to mention any respect he’d ever earned from his colleagues over the years. And all because he’d believed the Doctor and his lies. He ought to hate the little man. But he couldn’t find it in himself to feel hatred towards the Doctor. He was angry with him. He was bloody angry with him. But he couldn’t imagine ever hating someone who was infuriatingly unique as the Doctor.
A traveller in space and time.
No, it was impossible. The very idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it?
The cell door slammed shut behind the Doctor. The clanging of metal on metal rang in his ears for a few moments. He leant against the door staring down at his shoes while he waited for the noise to recede. His shoelaces had been removed, presumably to prevent him from trying to hang himself, and without them his feet felt as if they were rattling around inside his battered spats.
He had a companion in his cell. An elderly rake of a man who was sprawled on one of the concrete benches. The Doctor wandered over and went to doff his hat before realizing that he’d lost it somewhere along the way and so scratched his head, unnecessarily, instead.
‘Hello, I’m the Doctor.’
‘Good show,’ the man whispered. ‘Got here in the end then. What kept you?’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was expected,’ the Doctor answered, perching next to him on the bench. ‘Can I be of assistance?’
‘Bit too late for that I’m afraid, old chap.’
The Doctor surveyed his new patient. There weren’t any obvious signs of injury, although the man’s skin looked dangerously thin, almost translucent.
The Doctor hesitated before resting his hand on the man’s forehead to test his temperature, for fear that the slightest pressure might tear the old man’s fragile body.
‘Did young Cwej send you?’ the old man asked.
153
The Doctor froze. ‘Christopher Cwej?’
‘That’s the boy. Nice young man. Turned a few heads at the club, I can tell you. Saved a few lives too.’
‘That sounds like Christopher.’ The Doctor felt oddly choked. He’d barely thought about Chris since they’d parted. He’d deliberately put him out of danger and out of mind. Thinking of Chris only reminded him of Roz and he wasn’t ready to face those feelings. He couldn’t. Not yet.
‘How did he save lives?’
‘There was a fire at the club. Christopher got everyone out. Came back for me.’
As much as he had tried to protect Chris, it was clear that the young man had found his own adventures in Soho, just as the Doctor had.
You can’t wrap people up in cotton wool, Doctor, he told himself. Not without suffocating them. He had a sudden desire to see his friend. Since Roslyn’s death, their friendship had become strained, awkward. The Doctor had buried his feelings and, he realized, he’d buried himself with them. An image of Bernice appeared in his head, wagging a finger at him and accusing him of being a typical bloke. The Doctor smiled at the memory of his dear friend. He wanted to see Christopher. Wanted to tell him that he missed Roslyn Forrester too.
‘Did Christopher get the message to Mother?’ the old man murmured, drift-ing off into sleep even as he spoke.
‘Message?’
‘To get our people out of Healey.’
The Doctor’s eyes opened widely. ‘Healey? You sent Christopher to Healey?
When was this?’
The old man only muttered something unintelligible in reply.
Were his friends for ever to be in peril? The Doctor gently loosened the old man’s cravat. His patient protested a little as the Doctor probed the base of his neck. There were two pronounced lumps beneath the skin on either side of the old man’s throat. They were swollen to the size of plums, inflamed and sore.
‘Not long now,’ the old man whispered, confirming the Doctor’s thoughts.
‘Please,’ the Doctor begged. ‘Please wake up. You must tell me what you know.’
The whisky glass was still full on Chief Inspector Harris’s desk. He’d made a promise to himself that he would either drink it and then go home to tell