Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [116]
‘I’m not a junkie,’ said Justine. ‘I’m a soldier for a cause.’
‘Of course you are, dear,’ said Mrs Woodcott. And as she said the words they seemed to echo in Justine’s head. A rush of déjà vu began to hit her.
She had heard exactly those words before, in exactly this place. In a pub called The Moonchild on the corner of Powys Square. In a small backroom of the saloon bar with nicotine‐coloured walls and ceiling and heavy old wooden tables. A glass of Polish vodka was in front of Justine, ice melting and thinning the alcohol. The old woman called Mrs Woodcott was sipping a port and lemon. Any moment now Mrs Woodcott would say –
‘What are you looking at, dear?’
‘The policemen.’ There were three policemen over by the crowded bar. One of them met her glance as she looked across at them. None of the men wore uniforms but Justine could spot a policeman in plain clothes, even in the Saturday crush at the bar. The undercover men all had something subtly wrong with their faces. An unhealthy colour, pale and splotchy. It made Justine think of mushrooms you found in the autumn, on the damp underside of a log. You rolled the log over, looking for treasure, and all you found was the wood rotting away to dark coffee granules to feed the clinging fungus.
Or maybe it was the just the lighting in The Moonchild. A line of multicoloured Christmas lights was strung up over the bar. Above the Christmas lights was a crossed pair of sabres from some antique war. They were old but they looked remarkably clean and sharp. Justine had to tear her eyes away from them, from the light gleaming on their blades.
Now two of the policemen were staring at them, not bothering to conceal their interest. Mrs Woodcott stared back at them, unperturbed.
‘London’s finest.’
‘Has this place become a CID boozer or something?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Mrs Woodcott. She made no move to hide the pill she’d placed on the table. It was a fat shiny black and yellow capsule. Justine quickly put it away in the place she prepared.
‘That’s a nice locket,’ said Mrs Woodcott.
Justine wasn’t listening. She was looking at the policemen again. They were all smiling. Their teeth appeared to be unnaturally sharp.
‘I know what you use those pills for, you know,’ said Mrs Woodcott. ‘You young people. All you goths and punks and crows. You use them for nice things like morgue parties.’
Justine nodded, unable to reply. She was sweating heavily again. The door of the pub had opened, bringing in a flood of cold air that found its way to the saloon bar. Justine shivered as it hit her. Following the cold air through the pub door was the uniformed policeman. The one she’d asked about directions. His face looked worse than before.
Mrs Woodcott had a large fabric Harrods bag. She put her purse back inside it and as she did so Justine got a look at the other contents. Old jam jars full of the black and yellow capsules. Mrs Woodcott saw her looking and took out one of the jars, setting it on the table in plain sight. The policemen were all staring, including the PC who’d just walked in. Justine tried not to let it bother her. She was still shivering although the pub was warm again. Mrs Woodcott picked up the jar and shook it. The pills rattled loudly. ‘Beautiful aren’t they?’ Did you know that the yellow and black colour combination is used in nature to signify a virulent poison?’
‘Poisons are drugs and drugs are poisons,’ said Justine. ‘It’s just a matter of terminology.’
‘Commendably suicidal attitude,’ said Mrs Woodcott. ‘Now, let me tell you about this capsule. I like to think of it as what our American friends call a “double header”. The first and most significant component is a synthetic variant on tetrodotoxin. Tetrodotoxin is a naturally occurring and highly potent neurotoxin. It is found in the puffer fish