Doctor Who_ History 101 - Mags L. Halliday [70]
She made a show of looking at it again, taking her time, avoiding his intense stare. Then she carefully refolded the paper, felt it falling back into its familiar shape. She held it out between two fingers, let him take it back. Shook her head.
For a moment, she saw something horribly like fear in his eyes and then he was smiling, all lightness. He stood, offered his hand to her. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.’
She smiled listlessly as she let him pull her out of the chair. She scooped up her handbag as she passed the bed. She was getting sick of this room, of the same faces in the same bars. She knew the Doctor would be charming, doing his finest small talk, with tales of implausibly famous people and places. The sort of anecdotes that would fill several years of a chatshow. Even that had lost its fun, she’d missed several last week, tuning out in favour of watching strangers walk past. Right now, she could do with that familiarity.
She had her hand on the doorknob when someone knocked on the other side.
She pulled the door open quickly. ‘Jueves, I –’
A scruffy man stood there, true. Several days stubble, the stench of stale tobacco and wine.
‘Hey Anji.’
Fitz surprised her with a swift hug and then pushed past her into the room. He’d gained a knapsack from somewhere, a grey blanket tied to it with bale-twine. And a stink that quickly filled the small room. He was dropping the bag on to her bed and then he and the Doctor were embracing. Anji glimpsed the relieved smile on the Doctor’s face and guessed that she looked the same. Fitz.
He was looking at them both now, looking them up and down and frowning. ‘You look a right state.’
‘Oh yes, and you look wonderful. Have you been sleeping in a ditch?’
‘Not every night. I got your note. What the hell’s been going on?’
* * *
Fitz sat in the funky armchair, detailing his journey.
He’d been running on nervous energy, on the thrill of getting back to the TARDIS. Finding it apparently dead and abandoned, he’d felt that exhaustion, as if every second had become a weight tied to his legs. He’d wanted to cry. Everywhere he went in this country, he found homes abandoned, destroyed, the faint aftersmell of panic. The refugees on the roads, the burning houses of Guernica, the empty farmhouse and now this, his own home made lifeless. Then, in the fluxing light, he’d seen the note scrawled over the blank wall where the archway to the kitchen ought to be: Hotel Oriente, Rm 102.
He kept glancing at Anji. The Doctor looked much the same as always, although he’d switched to the dark red coat and shirt. He was the same about the eyes, the same posture. It didn’t look as if he had spent five months stranded here. In contrast Anji looked tired, thin. Her eyes held dark blue shadows below them, her hair long and less smoothed down. Her eyes still flashed annoyance frequently enough though. He’d been spoilt in his ten or so days, travelling with someone who knew ways around the rationing. He doubted it was quite so easy in this city.
‘So,’ the Doctor prompted, ‘Guernica?’
‘That’s the odd thing. I saw three distinct versions, all overlapping. And I really saw them, really believed them. Each one was true, the real version, yet they all contradicted each other.’
‘So which one was real?’
Fitz frowned at Anji’s question. ‘Well, that’s why we’re here, right? The perception of the event has been changed so it’s no longer a big deal. That’s why we came here, remember?’
Anji shook