Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [120]
‘You see,’ Mrs Woodcott’s head was saying, ‘these hallucinatory dreams are triggered to occur after the amphetamine takes effect. They happen as you begin to wake up. They help you orientate yourself and prepare yourself for consciousness.’
‘They’ve been a great help, thanks,’ said Justine. She nudged Mrs Woodcott’s head with the toe of her shoe and sent it splashing into the brimming urinal.
The head surfaced, spluttering and blinking. ‘You should listen to me, dear. I am, if you like, the voice of your conscience. You are probably close to waking up and there are things you must remember.’
‘I know. I’m beginning to remember some of them. Like Vincent. He’s the reason I’m here.’ Justine had to shout to make herself heard. The policemen were outside the lavatory door, trying to batter it down. ‘I like all sorts of stupid things about Vincent. The way he talks and the way his mouth looks when he’s smiling. And I like the fact that he’s got powers. It’s like he has a demon inside him.’
‘That’s nice, dear,’ said Mrs Woodcott, bobbing in the reeking urinal puddle.
‘I want to get rid of that crap haircut of his and teach him things. Teach him not to say any of those stupid American things. Get him to dress nicely. Go to the pub with him. Show him off to people. And, you know, maybe use that demon in him a bit.’
‘Ah, young love,’ slobbered Mrs Woodcott’s head. Bubbles were trickling up from her mouth as she began to go under.
Justine dragged her out of the urinal and slammed her into the nearest sink. ‘I guess I really do like him a lot.’ She ran the taps, cleaning off Mrs Woodcott and her own hands. ‘That’s why I took that capsule in the drugstore. It was supposed to make me look like I was dead.’
‘Oh it did, believe me, it did.’
‘Then I was supposed to be picked up by a medical team. It’s a bit like a morgue party. They take me somewhere and I wake up inside, when they least expect it. Except I’m going inside a place called the King Building. That’s where they took Vincent. It’s all part of the Doctor’s plan.’
‘But the point is, they didn’t keep Vincent there,’ said Mrs Woodcott from the sink. ‘And don’t talk to me about the Doctor’s plan. You didn’t even wait until you were properly briefed.’
The battering noises were getting louder. It sounded as if the door would come off its hinges any second.
‘I’m supposed to wake up inside the King Building and let the others in.’ Justine took Mrs Woodcott’s head out of the sink. She set it upright on top of a cigarette‐burned towel holder. Mrs Woodcott’s eyes were on the same level as Justine’s now.
‘But you couldn’t wait for the proper time could you? You stupid girl.’ Mrs Woodcott’s voice was changing. It was more like a young woman’s. And there was something subtly different about her eyes. Justine noticed that the pounding at the door was subsiding. It wasn’t as if the policemen were giving up. They were still attacking with ferocity but the sound itself was growing distant. It was as if someone was turning the sound down on a video.
‘Am I coming out of the drug now?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ said Mrs Woodcott in her young woman’s voice. There was something familiar about that voice. And the eyes. Justine could identify the eyes now. They weren’t Mrs Woodcott’s.
They were Ace’s.
In fact it was Ace’s face she was looking at. Ace standing in front of her, instead of Mrs Woodcott’s head propped up on a towel container. Justine looked around herself. She wasn’t in the men’s room of a pub any more. She was in a big open‐plan office with floor‐to‐ceiling windows. Beyond the windows was the night skyline of New York, glass skyscrapers with random small squares of light where people were working late. This office was deserted. From what Justine could see it was full of desks and computers, each desk