Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [63]
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor, dawning awareness in his voice. ‘I think you are.’
Fitz suddenly realised, in a moment of bizarre panic, that he couldn’t feel the Doctor’s bottom any more. But that was because, somehow, their bottoms were merging, blobbing into each other. Fitz was sure that neither of them was moving, but it was as though they were sliding into each other, back to back. Already, he knew that their shoulders had melded, as well as the backs of their heads.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me, then?’ Fitz almost wailed as the backs of his knees joined with the backs of the Doctor’s.
‘Oh Fitz, come on! You’re a bright lad. Work it out!’ The Doctor gave a chuckle from a mouth that was now, to all intents and purposes, in the back of Fitz’s head. ‘And think yourself lucky.’
‘For what?’ shouted Fitz as his fingertips, his hands dangling by his side, blurred seamlessly into the Doctor’s.
‘For the fact that we were back-to-back when this all started.’
Fitz/Doctor shuddered.
If the Saiarossans were aware of the night beasts, they weren’t letting them spoil their fun. The Doctor felt a faint twinge of envy as he and Calamee, hand in hand, manoeuvred through the crowds. The smell of food filled the air, and every so often the sky would bloom with fireworks and the people craned their heads back and oohed and ahhed, laughing and hugging as the lights faded. Sometimes, he thought, ignorance really was bliss. And maybe he was making more of a threat of the night beasts than they actually posed.
Calamee didn’t seem too fazed by them – the one that had been killed tonight hadn’t been the first, she’d said, and few people had been injured by them. So he couldn’t explain the nagging feeling that somehow time was running out.
Was there a whole army of them, just outside the city walls, poised to invade?
Was that what he and Fitz had discovered before they’d been attacked and 115
their memories erased? So why hadn’t they been killed? Surely a much better way to keep a secret hidden. Could that be why he had those healed wounds all over his body – a failed attempt to silence him permanently?
A brass band started up just across the street, and the Doctor winced.
He wasn’t at all convinced, despite what he’d said to Calamee, that analysing the night beast’s DNA would give him any great insight into them.
But now that he’d remembered the TARDIS, he had an almost painful ache to see it again. Maybe being inside it would bring back some more memories.
And, more to the point, maybe Fitz and Trix would be there, waiting for him.
But Miranda wouldn’t.
Stop it! he told himself. How many times do you have to mourn someone?
You want to be a martyr? You want to punish yourself for all eternity? Go right ahead, be my guest. But don’t hang it all on Miranda’s death. You’ve worked through that one. Give it a rest.
He shook his head and looked down, realising that Calamee was watching him.
‘Prayer for ’em?’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
‘Prayer for your thoughts?’
He realised what she meant and smiled.
‘They’re hardly worth a penny today, never mind a prayer.’
Calamee squeezed his hand and pulled him through the throngs of people lining the streets, the two of them slipping along like minnows, navigating the human currents. Such a shame, thought the Doctor, glancing up at the derelict buildings around them. So much hope, so much potential, squan-dered, crammed into a dry and dusty dead-end. But the human spirit would triumph in the end; it always did.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Calamee said suddenly.
‘Not much chance of being heard above all this,’ he said, having to lean in close to her to be heard. She smiled at him, and the Doctor felt. . . something. . . Something odd inside himself. If he’d been a romantic, he’d have described it as his heart racing. But he wasn’t, of course, and simply put it down to stress. Calamee turned away as they carried