Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book One - Lawrence Miles [127]
Sarah came to a halt, largely because the people around her had come to halt. A single crowd was gathering near the centre of the arena, where the locals were gawping at something Sarah couldn’t see. She was smaller than most of the townspeople, though, so she managed to squeeze between some of the taller men, trying very, very hard to ignore the scents of body odour and tobacco, until she found a spot that gave her a half‐decent view.
There was a stage at the dead centre of the travelling show. She could see it all now. A circular platform, made out of wood, planted in the dust of the arena. It was only a couple of yards wide, and there were glassy‐eyed locals gathered all around it, staring up with their mouths hanging open. Drooling, probably. The showman on the stage was making the most of his space, throwing open his arms and whirling around like a drunk, facing every part of the crowd in turn.
‘No distortions here,’ the showman told the crowd. He wasn’t using any kind of speaker, but his voice was exactly the right pitch to carry around the arena, zigzagging to and fro between the columns of people. You wouldn’t be able to hear all the words from the back of the crowd, but you could make out the rhythm wherever you were standing, the rattle and flow of his routine. ‘No genetic sleight of hand, no biological cover‐ups. No animals, and nobody born in a test tube. This is the one thing you’re guaranteed of. Whatever we are, it’s what we’ve chosen to be. All our mutations, all our kinks, all our quirks. We’ve developed them. Nurtured them. To show the universe what one single species is capable of. To show you all how far we can push our genetic envelopes.’
The man fell silent then, and swept his eyes around the crowd, with his arms still splayed out windmill‐fashion. It was only when he was facing Sarah, staring right down at her, that she realised he didn’t actually have eyes. The showman was wearing a blindfold, and even in the fading light she could see the dirty little spots behind the cloth. Suggesting that someone or something had poked his eyes out.
Then again, it could have been a prop.
‘We’re specialists,’ said the showman. The crowd was still drooling at him, even though Sarah could tell that most of the locals weren’t following a word of what he was saying. ‘We’ve all chosen a path, and pushed ourselves as far along that path as possible. Every one of us has taken another step away from normality. Just look at Melmoth, the Map of Scars. He could almost be a normal human being, if you squinted at him in a bad light. Mr Zarathustra? The same goes for him, excuse the cranium. The Worm‐Boy? Anyone would think he was just a freak of nature. But… but…’
He looked up at the sky then, pondering his next words. Whoever this man was – probably I.M. Foreman himself, by the sound of him – he knew how to time a dramatic pause.
‘But nobody’s yet been able to explain the If, apart from the If himself,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Or herself. Or itself. And of course, there’s always AKA. The full‐time metamorph.’
He dropped another pause into his spiel then, and smiled to himself, so everybody could see how much he was enjoying it. ‘My own speciality’s a little one, compared to some. It’s me who has to organise everything, remember. Somebody has to keep things running. Somebody has to sweat blood for the good of the show.’
With that, he stretched out his arms as far as they’d go, and tilted back his head to smile up at the stripy black clouds. Nobody in the crowd took their eyes off him, Sarah included. He reminded Sarah of some cut‐price Christ figure, grinning up at the kingdom of God as he dangled on his cross.
Seconds later, there was a strangled gurgling noise from the audience. It took Sarah a while to work out why, because she’d been so busy watching I.M. Foreman’s face, and staring into the halo of yellow‐grey sunlight around his head, that she hadn’t immediately