Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [99]
And the little boy on the theatre table in front of her would die.
She shook the thought out of her mind and picked up a scalpel from the instrument tray. Julia Mannheim could feel the director’s presence, his eyes burning into her as she worked.
‘Is there a problem, Doctor Mannheim?’ Moriah enquired softly, from a position close to the door.
She glanced over at him, only his grey eyes were visible above his surgical mask. She shook her head, ‘No, director, everything’s fine.’
‘Not getting sentimental?’
Julia forced a smile. ‘About one of the Toys? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Good. You understand how important it is for all the rogue therapeutic instruments to be deactivated. I will leave you to your work. If you should need me, I will be in my study.’
She felt rather than heard him leave the huge, shadowed operating theatre.
Julia exhaled slowly and felt her body relax. His presence always made her feel claustrophobic, hemmed in, as if she were under constant surveillance. It was something to do with his eyes, they looked so old and tired.
She would finish up here and then go and have a lie down.
Pulling the Toy’s skin taut between her fingers, she prepared to make the incision with the scalpel. She pressed the blade to the Toy’s throat, felt the skin begin to part.
Someone made a tutting noise behind her. Julia froze, a tiny scarlet line appearing in the scalpel’s wake.
‘What kind of Mother would I be if I let you do that to one of my boys, hmm?’ The woman’s voice was hard, and filled with judgment and contempt.
Julia whirled round to see a tall woman standing near the door to the theatre. The woman was tall and rakishly thin. She was holding her chin tilted upward, her dark eyes fixed on Julia, like an eagle targeting its prey. Julia thought she looked like English grandeur personified.
‘ Your boys?’ Julia could only stutter in reply. The aristocratic woman intimidated the hell out of her.
The woman ran long fingers through her severely combed back black hair, before striding across the room to where Julia stood. She plucked the scalpel from between Julia’s fingers and put it firmly back in its tray.
Julia could only watch as the woman lifted the anaesthetized Toy from the table. As she gathered the boy in her arms a look of recognition passed between them.
170
‘I know you,’ Julia murmured, trying to remember where she had seen this mysterious woman before.
The woman nodded, curtly. ‘It’s time we had a little talk, gal.’
Tilda Jupp lit a filterless cigarette and pulled heavily upon it as she walked through the forest of dormant Toys which were scattered through the abandoned ward. She left clouds of hazy smoke behind her in the room’s stale air.
Julia had watched the woman hand the little coloured boy to the Doctor.
Somehow Julia hadn’t been at all surprised to see the little man again. The Doctor had sat the unconscious boy on his hip, as if he’d been looking after children all his life. Julia wanted to say something to the Doctor, but he lingered at the doorway, content merely to watch the proceedings.
Two teenagers entered the room soon after that. Julia recognized one of them as the juvenile male from the mortuary. The Doctor had said that the boy was his friend. The other was a tall, lanky West Indian, who cried out with joy when he saw the coloured boy in the Doctor’s arms. Julia knew the expression on his face all too well; she’d seen that aura of bliss many times before in her work at the Institute. The West Indian was bonded with the Toy.
Her professional curiosity was aroused – she had only ever seen Toys interact with people with severe mental illnesses. She found herself wondering what needs the Toy was reflecting in the young coloured man. That the Toy had been transformed into a child was an indicator in itself. Perhaps the West Indian