Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [30]
‘I did it to myself,’ the first Octave said. ‘I thought it would be...’ He trailed off.
‘What?’
The Octaves shook their heads, not meeting his eyes. Tears appeared on their faces.
‘Let me help you.’ The Doctor stepped towards the first Octave. They all flinched back. ‘Please.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Let me try.’
‘Too late,’ said an Octave behind him. The Doctor turned. ‘I’m different now.’
‘Than what?’
‘Than myself,’ said another Octave.
‘I am,’ said a third, ‘a “we”.’
‘Too late,’ they all repeated, eyes down.
‘No,’ the Doctor protested, though he suspected they were right. ‘You can’t know that.’
‘You can’t help,’ said the first Octave. ‘What could you do?’
‘I have a machine –’
‘No!’
‘No more machines!’
‘He has a machine, but it can’t help.’
‘Who does?’ The Doctor turned on the Octave who had spoken last. He looked away. So did the others. ‘And why can’t he help you? Or won’t he?’ Silence. ‘Where is this machine?’
The Octaves’ heads snapped up. Sixteen eyes stared at him suspiciously.
‘Why do you want to know?’ said an Octave to the Doctor’s left.
‘Perhaps if I saw exactly how this –’
‘You don’t know?’ said another. ‘If you don’t know how it happened, how can you help?’
‘There are many ways of –’
‘It’s the machine, isn’t it?’ said the first Octave. ‘Not me. Not... us.’
‘You –’
‘– just –’
‘– want –’
‘– to –’
‘– find –’
‘– the –’
‘– time –’
‘– machine.’
‘I don’t care about the machine!’ said the Doctor in exasperation. ‘I already have –’
One of the Octaves hit him. It wasn’t much of a blow, but it knocked the Doctor off-balance, and as he staggered another Octave looped an arm around his throat, jerking him upright. Two others seized his arms and they began to drag him towards the wings. As the remaining five closed in, the Doctor managed to kick one of them in the stomach. They all stumbled and groaned and he wrenched free, but before he could get three steps they were on him again, grabbing his limbs, his hair, his clothes, twining their arms around him, moving as one.
‘Don’t be a fool, Octave!’ the Doctor yelled, struggling against the clutching hands. ‘Let me help you! Let me – mmph!’
A handkerchief was jammed into his mouth and they barrelled him into the wings and fell with him to the floor. The Doctor twisted and fought as they spread his arms and legs, but against so many he might as well not have bothered – one Octave gripped his head, another two pinned his arms, two each leg and – Hang on. He turned his head as much as he could, searching the curtained shadows. That was only seven. Where was – He spotted the last Octave over by the backstage wall, hauling on a rope. The Octaves holding him had drawn away as far as possible, the two at his left leg keeping hold only of his foot and ankle. They were all looking up.
The Doctor followed their gaze. It took him a moment, peering into the high darkness, to discern a lumpen shape moving slowly upward. He knew what it was, had known as soon as he saw the Octave at the rope: one of the heavy sacks of sand that served as a counterweight to lift the painted backdrops of the stage sets. As Octave didn’t use backdrops in his act, this one was free to be utilised for other purposes. The Doctor wondered exactly how much it weighed. At least thirty pounds. He imagined that when it crashed down on to his chest it would, in addition to crushing his remaining heart, drive the edges of his smashed ribs right out through his back and into the floor.
In this, as in so many other predictions of his long life, he was correct.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Anji started awake, confused. She had been dreaming that she was in a large house, in a storm, and that somewhere an unsecured door, caught by the wind, was banging and banging and banging – that there were steps on the stair and voices in the hall and then just one voice, and she was sitting up in bed, blinking, listening to Fitz say, ‘Anj! Anj, wake up!’
There was a policeman in the sitting room, admitted by the landlady, knocked awake and still in her wrapper. The hearth was cold and