Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [47]
Except on nights like this one, when he worked very late. So she sat quietly in the hall, a book of The 1001 Nights open on her knee, reading but also alert, more alert than reading, truly, for the man behind the study door was more wonderful than anything in the stories. His ship was grander than any magic carpet, and he commanded beasts. Time itself submitted to him. And yet he could sit in a room in a house like any man. The room should explode, she thought. The house should burn. How did they contain him? And it was just as she was thinking this, as if in answer, there came a crash from the study.
She was through the door in an instant, but of course the room was not exploding. Indeed, in the light from the fire and the desk lamp, everything was quite in place and peaceful, except that she could not see Sabbath. Had he gone? Then she heard a groan from behind the desk.
He had fallen from his chair. His eyes were shut and his face pale as death. She stared at him, panicked: he was too large; she could never move him. Dropping to her knees, she pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed at the drops of sweat on his brow and upper lip. He was cold and his breathing was irregular and shallow. At her touch, his eyes opened slightly, but they were dull and unseeing. It was then she noticed, as he moved his head slightly and the lamplight fell more fully on him, that distortion she had seen around the Doctor.
Furiously, she called his name and shook him. She pinched him. Finally she slapped him, and slapped him again, and then began hitting him in rage and terror, her hair coming loose and falling down into her face, half-blinding her. Though she wasn’t crying, she made a strange moaning noise. She clasped her hands and pummelled his chest, as if her fists were a hammer and she could knock consciousness back into him. Should she pray? But to whom or what? ‘Ah, Jesus,’ she gasped – she couldn’t help it. ‘Ah, Jesus and Mary.’ No, that was wrong. That would kill him. ‘Ah, the Devil!’ she cried, and then, at once, he sat up so abruptly he knocked her over.
He immediately reached a hand to the edge of the desk, to keep from falling again. His face was still pale, and he looked at her confusedly. She sat up, catching her breath, pushing back her hair. It was a miracle, surely. She had prayed to the right one. He put his other hand to his chest, where she had pounded him, and winced. The ironic glint came back into his eyes and he looked at her with sardonic appreciation. ‘Congratulations, my dear. You have just invented what will someday be called CPR.’
He placed both hands on the desk and, with a grunt, heaved himself to his feet. She saw the sweat break out again on his face. She sat with her clenched hands at her mouth, staring up at him. ‘It was him.’
‘What?’ he said distractedly.
‘Him. The Doctor.’ He glanced down at her irritably. ‘He did this.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sabbath hoarsely. He moved carefully around the desk and towards the fire. She knew better than to try to help. She watched him walk slowly to the leather armchair and, equally slowly, sink into it. His damp face glistened in the firelight. He stared at the flames, breathing deeply and raggedly.
She stood up. ‘It was,’ she insisted stubbornly.
Without looking at her, he waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave me.’
So she returned to the