Doctor Who_ Camera Obscura - Lloyd Rose [75]
It stopped at the bars. Incredibly, the Doctor smelled roses.
What was this thing? Was he hallucinating? Was this all some sort of weird fever-dream? He breathed quietly, inhaling the gentle, sweet scent, waiting. For several minutes, nothing happened. The Doctor began to relax. Maybe he was hallucinating. He really had no exact idea of how ill he was –
Something snaked through the bars and around his wrists.
The Doctor yelled in surprise. A hand grabbed his mouth, silencing him. A human right hand, as far as he could tell. The left hand ran over him curiously, as if trying to figure out whether he were human. There was something wrong with its little finger. The odour of roses intensified. The Doctor thrashed, trying to free his mouth, to roll as far away from the thing as possible. It was a primal response. He knew he was in immediate, terrible danger, that whatever held him was misconceived, unnatural to the deepest degree, a wrong thing –
‘Hmm,’ it said.
The left hand withdrew. He heard an angry yank at the padlock, then a hiss of frustration. With one less hand on him, the Doctor managed to get his feet against the bars and shove backwards. His back hit the wall. His mouth was free, but the thing pulled on the cord around his wrists. Grimly, the Doctor braced his feet against the bars and pulled back. The cord cut into his wrists, and he gave forward for a moment so that he could grasp some of its length with his hands. It felt like – it couldn’t be! But it was. He was gripping appliance cord, the hard-rubber coated wire manufactured after the 1930s. What in the name of heaven was going on here?
He and the creature on the other side of the bars rocked back and forth, like children playing tug of war. The Doctor’s palms burned, but at least he’d relieved some of the pressure on his wrists. He thought he could hang on. Anyway, it couldn’t get him out. He wondered whether to call out. Probably no one would hear him, but maybe he’d panic the other into retreating. He took a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Chiltern! Your monster’s got me!’
The thing hissed. Great. He’d insulted it. ‘Chiltern!’ he roared again. Suddenly something touched his throat. Something very sharp and very thin. A needle? The Doctor froze. The creature dragged him to the bars. The needle went away and the hand returned, pressing against his chest for a minute, then moving up to his neck, running a thumb softly along the pulsing artery.
Then, abruptly, it released him. The Doctor fell back, bruising an elbow. He heard his unwelcome visitor turn away, its breathing harsh. The Doctor lay as he had fallen, listening to its laborious, dragging departure. The scent of roses faded. Silence returned.
The Doctor took a deep breath. He was trembling, and not from weakness. What had just happened? Was he caught in a drug-Induced dream? Was some force playing tricks with his mind? Either was preferable to the idea that the encounter had actually occurred. Unfortunately, each was also more unlikely.
Was it gone for good, or at least for a while? He thought so. Whatever it had wished to know about him, it seemed to have found out. And what was that? A dozen speculative answers ran through his mind. He dismissed them. It was foolish to try to understand the situation without more information. He curled up again, this time with his back to the gate and – just to be on the safe side – his hands and feet tucked as well out of reach as possible, and let himself sink at last, after days of needing to, into the deepest healing trance of which he was capable outside the TARDIS.
He left one ear awake, so to speak, in case a return visit sounded imminent. But nothing disturbed the silence, and he drifted away on a black sea, rocked by waves of sleep and something more than sleep. He lay absolutely still, not moving even a finger, and it must have been many hours before a noise penetrated his rest that called for attention. He woke up immediately. Someone was descending the steps. The Doctor sat up. He felt much