Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [93]
‘I’ve never been to New York before,’ said Vincent. ‘How about you?’
‘Never been out of England,’ said Justine. ‘Well, across the Channel a few times, to Paris and Amsterdam. But never out of Europe before.’
Vincent took her hand as they turned away from the spattering grease and laughter and scents of the market place. ‘That used to be something called The Inn on the Green,’ said Vincent, ‘before the riots took care of it.’
They walked side by side, occasionally bumping against each other, still a little clumsy with each other, moving deeper into Central Park. Vincent looked at Justine whenever he thought she wouldn’t notice. They had been able to take off their breathing masks once they were a few hundred metres inside the park and he couldn’t get enough of looking at her.
Justine was wearing her hair in dreadlocks with bright beads fastened in it. Under her eyes she’d pencilled circles of kohl. The beads rattled close to his ear when he hugged her.
When Vincent thought she might see him looking at her face, when he thought he might embarrass her or annoy her, he’d just look at her hands. Small vulnerable‐looking hands with bitten nails and dirty fingers. He wanted to kiss her fingers. He wondered how much longer they could spend in the park.
‘Won’t the others be getting worried about us?’ he said. ‘The Doctor and what’s‐her‐name. Heart? Queen?’
‘Ace.’
‘Yeah. They said for us to meet them somewhere on Fifth Avenue, didn’t they?’
‘Number One, Fifth Avenue,’ said Justine. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of time. I just had to see some trees.’
‘I guess it’s okay,’ said Vincent. But Justine wasn’t looking at him. She was watching a pack of boys coming towards them along the footpath. They were jogging in a group, all with shaven heads and sleeveless tee‐shirts. Vincent didn’t recognize their image. New‐style skinheads, maybe. Oi Boys, they called themselves. The Eastern European synthesis. Or maybe it was some new kind of youth gang Vincent hadn’t heard of yet. Justine had let go of his hand and was watching the boys.
‘Maybe we should go back to the market,’ said Vincent.
‘I don’t think we have time.’ Justine didn’t take her eyes away from the approaching group. The jogging boys seemed to be heading directly towards them.
‘We could run,’ said Vincent.
‘I’m not running. I’m your bodyguard. The Doctor said to look after you.’
Vincent felt a queasy warm excitement in his stomach. ‘Look after me? We can look after each other,’ he said. ‘Take my hand.’
Justine clasped his hand again, her fingers cold against his. Immediately he began to pick up images. Recent memories coloured with her emotions. They were fresh and raw, flashes of New York she witnessed since their arrival.
The innocent gap‐toothed smile of a child prostitute. The same smile on her mother’s face, the family resemblance striking, as the mother haggled with a group of soldiers over her daughter’s price. The little girl had coloured squares of foil braided into her long blonde hair to make her look pretty. Inside the foil squares were condoms. Her mother was looking after her.
Skyscrapers against a sky the colour of weak tea. Air so thick with hot rolling dirt that you swallowed it instead of breathing it. If you didn’t wear a mask on the streets the air choked you, but the masks were expensive. Old men and women tottered past with pieces of bedsheet taped on their faces. There were three neat black patches on those white masks, a small black dot by each nostril and a large one over the mouth.
Cars. Cars everywhere. The taxi drivers were all armed and they advertised their weaponry, stencilled paintings of automatic rifles on the doors of the cabs, to reassure customers and discourage robbery. The Sikhs were the most heavily armed. The cabs also advertised in‐car entertainment including well‐stocked bars and