Doctor Who_ Father Time - Lance Parkin [72]
‘Hello,’ he said. His accent was odd, difficult to place. A bit like Miranda’s.
‘Well done at beating Miranda,’ Dinah said. ‘Not many people do. I used to be able to.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, noncommittally.
Dinah realised her charm offensive wasn’t working.
‘I’m Dinah, by the way. I’m having a party tonight,’ Dinah told him. ‘You can come if you want.’
‘Will the La-Will Miranda be there?’ he asked, looking straight through Dinah and at her friend.
Dinah felt her shoulders sag. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there. Where is it?’
‘Hang on, I’ve got some invites in my bag.’ She rummaged around for them, already wishing she hadn’t bothered to ask him.
He studied the card. ‘Thank you,’ he said again.
Dinah rejoined Miranda. ‘You’re in there,’ Dinah grumbled.
* * *
Ferran watched them go.
The Last One was in his power. He closed his eyes, inhaled, felt some of the Doctor’s memories of her wash over him. They were fading now, like dreams, but he could still catch the sense of them, the emotions evoked. The love the Doctor felt for her, his pride in how she was growing up into a beautiful, talented young woman with the world as her oyster.
To have killed her just then would have been anticlimactic.
For so long he’d been picturing the death of the Last One. He’d thought it would take place in the desert, in warsuits, hydraulic limbs tearing away at the plate armour until she was exposed. Or in a burning building, with the two of them exchanging shouts and screams.
He could kill her at any moment, whenever and however he wanted. To have struck then would have been to slurp down a vintage wine. He would savour this, take his time, make it perfect.
He reread the invitation.
He wouldn’t have to wait long.
* * *
Bob and Alex arrived five minutes early, and Miranda was running five minutes late.
They looked very smart. She was still in her dressing gown, waiting for her nails to dry. She’d worn nail varnish a few times before, but still wasn’t used to it. She rarely wore make-up, but had dabbed on some blue eyeshadow. Bob just gawped at her, clearly astonished and delighted to see her bare legs and a flash of collarbone.
She got them to sit in the front room, telling them that her dad was away. Alex nudged Bob at the news, which made Bob blush. Miranda went back upstairs and got dressed. She’d bought matching white underwear that afternoon when she’d bought Dinah’s present. She put it on, then found jeans and a white shirt to go over it.
Where was her dad? He’d often go shooting off for days at a time, especially now she was old enough to be left by herself, but he was always meticulously precise about when he would return. Miranda wasn’t worried – his absence made a few things she was planning a little easier – but she was curious as to what he was getting up to.
She dabbed on some White Musk, put on her waistcoat and went downstairs.
Bob had brought a camera, and he got Alex to take their picture together, from a number of different angles. There was, Miranda thought, an abstract thrill about the whole situation. But she still felt distanced from it all – like someone looking at the pictures, not the girl in them. Whatever she felt for Bob, and she did have feelings, it wasn’t love or lust.
She tried to analyse it. Power. She had power over him. He’d turn up when she said, he’d phone her up, follow her around, do whatever she said. All because he wanted a glimpse of her body, with the prospect of more glimpses to come. She wondered whether she ought to be worried that the level of control she had over him seemed to be his main attraction.
When the last photo was developed, it would show her grinning a little more broadly than on the others.
Alex handed Bob’s camera back to its owner. ‘We ought to get going.’
‘I’ll just get my bag,’ Miranda told them.
‘Girls can’t go anywhere without a handbag,’ Alex said. ‘Dinah’s the same. I