Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [66]
Those pathways were still blocked, keeping the lysergide in circulation. It cut into the dance of his neurotransmitters, made tiny changes to the chemistry of his mind. Gallifreyan biochemistry was not too wildly different to Earth’s, which was why he could breathe the air, eat the food. But the drugs, ah, he had to be careful there. One good dose of aspirin would be enough to kill him.
‘Hey,’ said Lizzie. He glanced up at her, and blinked rapidly, the livid purple of her T-shirt setting off flashbulbs behind his eyes. ‘Come on now. You look like you should lie down.’
‘Unhand me, madam,’ he muttered, as she hauled him to his feet.
‘She’ll be fine there.’ Lizzie ran an eye over Ace, who shrugged in her sleep, a hand batting at the squeaky surface of the beanbag. The Doctor imagined he could hear every single bead rolling around inside it. ‘It’s jingle‐jangle morning now. You come on now and lie down.’
He let her lead him along by the hand. Best to let her continue to believe that this was her idea. Around the flat, people were talking in quiet voices or lying in languid circles, passing a joint from hand to hand in the time‐honoured ritual. In the front room, two women swayed slowly in front of the booming speakers, their skinny arms swinging back and forth to a beat which had nothing to do with the music.
And now the music was flying away, pounding silently at the air, a giant mouth opening and closing. The message was too loud to be audible. It was embedded in the wood of the walls and the floor. It pumped in the blood of the men and women scattered through the house. It danced between the molecules of the cold and smoky air, filling up that microscopic vacuum, until the air was as thick as treacle, every space filled with the hidden message. Waiting to be heard. Waiting to be understood. Waiting to be released.
She led him to a red door, its paint peeling in excruciating detail. Behind the door was darkness and bitter cold, concrete steps leading down. She sat him down on the bed and took away his hat and tie, carried away his jacket over her arm like some mystical maitre d’.
The bed had no blankets, only a single sheet smelling of laundries and ironing. He lay down on his back. Brilliant patterns overlaid the dark ceiling, kaleidoscoping pleasantly. He closed his eyes, and could still see the patterns.
Almost reverently, Lizzie took his left hand and lifted it behind his head. There was a snapping sound and the press of cold metal against his wrist.
She still thought she was in control.
He shrugged, trying to get more comfortable. Once you took your seat on the mystery tour, there was no way of getting off the ride.
And the message went on booming in his ears, just beyond the range of his hearing.
* * *
The bathroom door was propped open with half a brick. Bernice stepped in, feet sliding on the wet tiles. There was a Hendrix poster taped over the mirror, the paper rippled and puckered with moisture. A mouldy curtain hid the bathtub.
A freezing wind was blowing in through the window; a handful of snow had built up on the window‐sill. With an effort, she pulled it closed, the snow wetting her wrist.
Earth was frozen and hostile. And she was alone. It always came back to that; you meet people, you exchange a few words, a few ideas, maybe a little love. And then they move on. The hippies had made her feel homesick for the Travellers, a time she could never go back to, a dream that became diseased and withered away.
She hated evil and she’d seen a lot of it, and she felt as though she’d been fighting it forever, just going on and on… was she really cut out for the Doctor’s big celestial game? It had been fun, a really good laugh, but now it was going sour.
Benny closed her eyes and blew out a white breath into the air, trying