Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [34]
‘There!’ he said. ‘What d’you think?’
Calamee looked down at what the Doctor had drawn.
The Esperons
hunched around it were muttering, pointing. It looked like a strange, surreal landscape – on the left hand side were two huge, blobby figures, presumably people. Their faces were smooth and featureless, and it looked as though they were kissing – or eating each other – blending into each other where they met.
They had items of cutlery in their hands, as if about to tuck in to a feast. On the right hand side of the picture was a wooden chest, pieces of bacon or meat hanging limply over the opened drawers.
Calamee took a breath.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘ Autumn Cannibalism,’ he said triumphantly, beaming at the confused faces in the crowd around them. ‘Salvador Dali. I knew it meant something.’
‘And what does it mean?’
The Doctor stared at her before letting out a long sigh. ‘Oh!’ he whispered.
‘I thought you might be able to tell me.’
‘So excuse me for asking,’ said Calamee, leaning forwards across the restaurant table, ‘but who are you, exactly?’
The Doctor’s head jerked back as if she’d slapped him, although his eyes never left hers.
‘I mean,’ she continued with a curious little purse of her lips, ‘you come bowling into me, knock me down, pull me back up and then I follow you halfway across the city; we have some bizarre séance to get you in touch with your memories – well, some of them – and all I know about you is that you’re an offworlder that seems to have done something to mightily upset the Imperator. And that you’ve got a picture of some weird painting in your head and don’t know why. I’ve told you all about me, but conversations are two-way things, you know. Or have you forgotten all that, as well?’
Calamee sat back and folded her arms, like a teacher waiting for a wholly inadequate explanation for why a pupil’s homework had failed to materialise.
‘I’ve told you,’ he said levelly but with just a hint of a twinkle in his voice.
‘I’m the Doctor.’
Calamee shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not who you are. That’s what you call yourself. That’s a job title. I want to know who you are: where do you come from? How old are you? Are you married? D’you have a girlfriend? A boyfriend? What about 60
your family? Friends? What job do you do? What’s your name? ’ She looked at him. ‘I can’t help feeling that these are things that you’re choosing not to tell me.’
For a moment, Calamee wanted to laugh: the Doctor’s face had gone so blank that it was entirely conceivable that someone had simply turned him off. He continued to stare at her as if she hadn’t spoken.
‘Well?’
‘I’m the Doctor,’ he repeated slowly, as if to a slow but much-loved child.
‘And as Madame Xing just explained, I have a memory like Swiss cheese.’
‘I haven’t a clue what that’s supposed to mean, but it sounds to me like you’re hiding something. I’m not judging you,’ she added gently. ‘I just want to know what makes you tick. Since we met, you’ve hardly said two words about yourself, whereas you already know almost my entire life story.’
The Doctor arched an eyebrow.
‘And that’s my fault?’
Calamee ignored the slight.
‘What is it then?’ she pressed on. ‘You on the run? A criminal. Or are you just running away from the past?’
‘It’s the present that matters,’ countered the Doctor evasively. ‘And the future of course. Where would we be without that, eh? I’ve lost count of the times when I’ve thought there wasn’t going to be one – only to discover three turning up at once –’
‘Stop it,’ said Calamee levelly. ‘Now you’re just prevaricating.’
‘What an excellent education your parents must have bought for you. You really should introduce me to them, you know. I’m sure we’d have a lot in common.’
Calamee sighed heavily. Nessus started trying to clamber up on to the table and she pushed him down again. He squeaked.
‘This memory thing’s very convenient for you, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘It stops you having to give anything away, doesn’t it?’ She paused and picked at her plate. ‘Or maybe