Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [11]
They sat face to face under the naked lightbulb. The madman’s eyes were very wide, and his gaze was held by the visitor’s. It was unusual for an Indian to have blue eyes.
‘Can you remember, Feliciano? Can you remember that day, that moment?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, I know you’re in there.’
‘No.’
‘You remember it clearly. Far too clearly.’ The little man’s voice was equal parts compassion and anger. ‘It plays over and over again inside you.’
‘No.’
One part of the attendant’s mind knew that he ought to stop this, whatever it was. He ought to challenge the little man, raise the alarm. Another part was fascinated by the one‐sided conversation, wondering what secrets might be hidden behind the mask of madness. A third part of his mind was screaming at him to run away before something unspeakable happened.
‘You’re in there, Feliciano. Behind the Blue. I see you, even if no one else can.’
‘No.’ A single tear meandered down the Indian’s cheek. ‘No.’ He leant forward until his head was resting on the visitor’s shoulder. It was the only gesture he could make.
‘Tell me,’ said the Doctor.
‘May your heart open!’ pronounced the madman, his voice muffled. ‘May your heart draw near! You bring me torment, you bring me death.’
The Doctor’s face creased in intense concentration as the madman spoke. ‘I will have to go there where I must perish. Will you weep for me one last time? Will you feel sad for me?’ The words degenerated into sobbing.
‘Where must you go?’ said the Doctor.
With the suddenness of a snake striking, the madman sat back. ‘Otiquihiyohuih,’ he snarled, with a smile.
The Doctor grabbed his shoulders. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘Who?’
The lightbulb swelled into brilliance and exploded. The attendant screamed in the darkness. A great hot wind rushed through the cell, pushing him off his feet. He scrambled in the dark for the door, the floor, but there was only blackness, and he was falling.
There was the smell of flowers and blood. And then there was silence.
* * *
Chapter 2
Nine‐tenths Below the Surface
It took Benny a moment to identify the image, a half‐remembered picture from some ancient film.
The respirator clung to Ace like a facehugger.
Benny had parked Cristián in bed and grabbed a taxi, alarm crawling through her in waves. She didn’t want to leave him alone. She had to leave him alone. He was scared of hospitals and he was looped, his eyes careering all over the place. She had left him in his bed, babbling in Spanish and Nahuatl.
Now she found the tears trying to crawl out, and forced them back down. You’re in charge, it all depends on you: squeeze out questions, intelligent questions, instead of salt water. ‘What happened?’ she said.
The medic was harassed, her greying hair wriggling out of its bun. ‘We don’t know yet,’ she said, standing by the bed like a mourner at a grave. ‘I’ve ordered a CAT scan for the morning. Possibly some sort of epileptic episode.’
‘She doesn’t have epilepsy,’ said Bernice.
The woman tilted her head, non‐committally. ‘The scan will tell us if there’s brain damage or a tumour.’
Brain damage or a tumour. ‘Where was she when it happened?’
‘A hotel up on Guatemala Street. I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me.’
Benny nodded.
Ace the tough as leather, Ace the invincible. Ace with her head on a thin hospital pillow and a plastic mask on her face, wired to machines that squiggled and bleeped. It was too early in the game for things to be this bad.
She wanted to stay next to Ace’s bed. But she had to find the Doctor. Whatever in hell was going on, she needed to find the Doctor.
She found him in the basement.
She had been wandering in a shocked daze through the hospital, trying to remember where the entrance was. Somehow she’d ended up on the lowest floor, in dimly lit corridors, her footsteps echoing horribly