Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [44]
Trix pushed her way through against the flow, and glanced back briefly to see Fitz strolling nonchalantly towards her.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked an elderly woman at her side, who was grasping an oversized handbag like a talisman. The woman started, obviously surprised at Trix’s sudden appearance.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered, keeping her eyes on Trix as if she expected to be mugged by her at any moment. ‘Some sort of fuss.’
Helpful, thought Trix. She could have worked that out for herself.
Suddenly, the crowd around her surged backwards, almost knocking her over. The elderly woman caught her elbow, steadied her, as the mass of people carried on moving. She heard shouts and cries – and even a scream. And then, all of a sudden, she was at the front of the crowd.
Standing at the centre of a wide circle of people brandishing sticks, pieces of chairs and railings, was Deel’s pet – the night beast.
Fitz’s composure in the face of the creature was remarkable – and a little bit disturbing. He hadn’t quite been himself since Trix had found him unconscious, and this stand-off made her wonder whether he hadn’t suffered some quite severe brain damage. Not that Fitz was a coward. Not usually. But his sense of self-preservation was usually pretty good. So to see him standing his ground against the night beast was, to say the least, worrying.
As they’d watched the night beast – and although they hadn’t had a good look at whatever had been in Deel’s cage, the low grumble that issued from the thing in front of them left Trix in little doubt that it was the same species, if not the same individual – Fitz had started tufting and clicking at it, like you might do with a cat or dog, trying to get its attention. It had turned 79
slowly towards him, rotating at the waist in a most unnatural manner, and had proceeded to enter what looked like a staring contest with Fitz.
‘Just leave it, Fitz,’ Trix said quietly. He’s not worth it, she added in her head.
‘Look at it, Trix,’ he answered, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Look at its body language.’
‘Bugger its body language – look at the size of it.’
‘I don’t think it wants to hurt me.’
‘Have you forgotten what happened to you and the Doctor?’
As Trix found herself in the front row, Fitz squeezed in beside her, saying nothing, and she felt her stomach lurch as he proceeded to take a confident step forwards and thrust his hands in his pockets. The creature tipped its head on one side, straightened up, and then leaned forwards slightly – the creature’s equivalent of sticking its neck out, imagined Trix, as she realised that she’d been sheltering behind Fitz. Not something she’d normally consider doing. It was at least seven feet tall, and much more imposing than the shadowed glimpses they’d got from the cage would have suggested. Its head was low and sloped straight down to its shoulders, with no hint of neck.
Huge, muscly arms – the kind, thought Trix, that you saw on men who were constantly accompanied by vests and gym bags – gave the night beast an un-gainly, top-heavy appearance, further compounded by the slim waist. But then its body fanned out again, with vast, sinewy thighs and broad feet with widely splayed toes. The whole thing was covered in what, at first sight, looked like bluish-black hair, but on further examination more resembled fine, straight pieces of wire. Its mouth was comically small, just a tiny ‘o’ in the middle of its face; there were no signs of nostrils, and its eyes