Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [51]
That was the shape of what they were facing. An enemy who knew what they were doing, who stayed hidden until he was ready to strike, and who could erase them from the face of reality with a touch.
And you couldn’t shoot him.
So she’d just have to think of something else.
Her routine was finished. It had burned off part of her anger, but mostly it had just made her tired. She wandered out of the gym and threw herself into the pool, still wearing her leotard, and allowed herself to sink to the bottom, blowing out a lazy stream of bubbles.
After a bit she hauled herself out and crouched next to Bernice, who sat with bare feet in the water, one arm wrapped around a pot‐plant as though it were her best friend. A near‐empty bottle was tucked into the plant’s soil. Bernice stared into space as Ace extracted the bottle and sipped from it.
They just sat there for a bit.
At last Benny said, ‘He asked us for our help. And we killed him. What did we do wrong?’
‘It was his call,’ said Ace. ‘It was a good call. He saved your life. That was pretty tough of him.’
‘If only the Doctor had done something.’
Ace looked up, across the pool. After a moment, Benny followed her gaze to the Doctor. The Time Lord was standing there with his hands in his pockets, watching them, trying to decide whether he should say something or not.
‘We have to go.’ His voice was hesitant. ‘We’ll be landing soon.’
‘What’s the point?’ said Bernice. ‘Cristián’s dead.’
‘Cristián’s not dead,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not now. We have to go and find him.’
Benny peered blurrily at the Doctor. ‘What’re we going to do?’ she said. ‘We screwed up. Cristián died because we screwed up.’
‘Cristián Alvarez,’ said the Doctor, ‘is not the be‐all and end‐all of this situation. Something is happening which is much larger than Cristián Alvarez. He’s dead in 1994. It is now 1968, and it is snowing outside, so bring something warm.’
‘Something’s changed,’ said Bernice, her eyes locked on the Doctor’s.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Someone’s changed something. We need Cristián’s help to find out what.’
* * *
Cris’ feet start to tingle, tingling inside his shoes, until the itching drives him crazy and he sits down in the snow, fumbling with the laces. His head is spin dizzy and his fingers are fizzing worse than his feet.
He stumbles off down Baker Street, past the place where the Apple Boutique used to be, with its rainbow cosmic guru colouring the building wall. The snow kills the buzzing in his feet as he tracks around a broken bottle.
A London bus goes past, its horn sounding a single blast that makes Cris’ brain feel as though it’s trying to crawl out through the top of his head. He feels a sudden intensity, lodged between his lungs, a star brighter than the Three Wise Men saw. He puffs out a great breath. That’s what he’s looking for.
Some woollen‐coated woman gives him the eye as he drags himself onwards. Maybe he shouldn’t have left his shoes behind; someone will steal them. She’s probably thinking of rivers of blood, trying to work out what race he is. Her eyes say, you see all kinds around here, with those hippies just moving in and taking the place over. Maybe she’s a landlady, likes to throw people out after the police come.
Mother of God! What’s happening to me?
The burning in his chest spreads down the back of his neck, driving him on, past the entrance to the Tube and through a gate. The sounds from the station feel like pins and needles inside his head – someone shouting the evening paper, the rush and whoosh of conversation as the crowds come and go, the rumbling of the trains themselves, like the earth clearing its throat.
His hands shake. He holds them up to his face, flicking his black hair out of his eyes. My hands are shaking. My eyes feel like they’re coming out of my head. How can I get away, get away from this?
He stuffs his trembling hands into his pockets. Don’t let them see, don’t let anyone see. The burning