Doctor Who_ Hope - Mark Clapham [33]
Powlin was exasperated. How does that help us?
The Doctor smiled, leaning across the desk. It tells us one thing about the reasoning behind these crimes. They are not prejudiced or psychotic they are functional. Someone is murdering these people for a coldly thought out, rational reason.
Another morning and, thanks to the vagaries of time travel, a morning less than a day after the previous one. Anji was woken from her brief rest by unpleasantly harsh sunlight coming through an uneven, tinted window. The window was high up in the wall, but as the wall of the small room wasnt that tall in the first place, the light still shone right into Anjis face.
Anji rolled over in the small, cramped bed and bumped into the wall. No space, not like her bed in the TARDIS, or the one in her old flat. Space was clearly at a premium in Hope, especially when it came to staff quarters. The walls were rough and metallic, and the room was smaller than some of the cells Anji had been thrown into in her time with the Doctor. All the same, there was a vaguely homely feel to the place, as the previous occupant had painted the room in warm colours, obviously trying to make it cosy rather than confined. The result was a childs dream of a room, an oddly shaped and confined space straight out of a storybook. Unfortunately for Anji, she was rather bigger than a goblin or a moomin and kept bumping herself trying to move around.
With her back turned to the window, Anji felt the light from that alien sun on her neck. It was an odd feeling, unlike the sensation of feeling the sun anywhere back on Earth; not like the blazing sun of the tropics, the baking sun of Spain, or the ozoneenhanced sun of a summer in London. Anji found herself smiling at the memory of that day in Green Park, a couple of years ago now. Having more thoughts of Dave made her smile, then frown, then squeeze her head into her pillow, uncertain of what she should be thinking.
Anji pulled herself up on to one elbow, sighing deeply. She felt slightly queasy, in that uncertain state where she didnt know whether to sleep some more or get up. Which would be better, which would be worse? She elected to get out of bed and face this new day. And preferably find somewhere out of the sun.
Through these mean streets, thought Fitz, walks a man who is not mean. A man who is not cruel, but may possibly be quite cowardly, if things really did get too mean. OK, so maybe Fitz wasnt Raymond Chandlers idea of a rockhard detective, determined to get to the truth in a morally uncertain world. But did Philip Marlowe ever have to deal with acid seas, toxic fogs and being half strangled by some loony halfrobot death cult? No, he didnt. If he did, maybe Marlowe would have acted a lot more like Fitz. Then again, maybe he wouldnt.
The previous night Miraso had led them down narrow corridors and up winding stairs to the staff quarters, where the Doctor had wished them a brief good night and disappeared into one of the empty rooms. Fitz had never known the Doctor to be much of a sleeper, but these days who could tell? Perhaps he just needed quality brooding time, and Fitz was happy for him to take it by himself. Anji had also gone straight to bed, leaving Fitz alone in his own small room, staring at the blotchy, low ceiling. A Town Called Hope, he thought. There was a song in that, but without his guitar he couldnt really work on a tune. Besides, he might have difficulties rhyming anything with cyborg.
Fitz fell asleep, halfformed lyrics drifting through his head, and was woken early in the morning by the pacing of the Palaces staff as they started the day. He wandered out into the corridor, greeting a couple of the reduniformed staff he had met the night before. A quick poke around in the Doctors room revealed he was gone, though the bed had been slept in the sheets were twisted out of place, so either