Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [7]
‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Thanks.’
Good sign. He went back into the complimentary lounge, trying to guess her age. She followed, hands in the pockets of her jacket. The black‐stockinged legs that emerged from her miniskirt were thicker than Preston liked, muscled. He wondered if she was an athlete.
The machine disgorged two plastic cups of watery coffee. The girl’s shades steamed up as she sipped. ‘Been here long?’ she asked.
Preston shrugged. ‘I’m from Texas. On vacation.’ With Mom and Dad, he didn’t add.
‘And you run out of tourist attractions eventually.’
Dammit, how old was she? The English accent made it even harder to tell. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. How about you?’
‘Well… I’m just curious.’
‘Curious?’
‘Call it a morbid curiosity.’
It took Preston a few moments to work out what she was talking about. ‘Oh,’ he said. Brilliantly.
She took another sip of the coffee.
* * *
Bernice pushed open the door of the flat with her toe and dumped her bags of shopping on the floor. Cristián lay on the sofa, still in his pyjamas, his feet propped up on the arm. The Doctor sat beside him in one of the kitchen chairs. He looked up sharply when she came in. What are you doing back so soon? ‘Where’s Ace?’
‘You were right,’ Bernice said shortly. ‘She had some shopping of her own to do.’ She dragged the groceries into the kitchen.
‘Doctor, Doctor,’ said Cristián, a smile flickering across his face. ‘My wife thinks she’s invisible.’
‘Tell her I can’t see her,’ said the Time Lord, returning the smile.
Cristián’s half‐grin faded into anxiety. ‘They tried counselling me. Hypnosis also. We didn’t get anywhere.’
‘All right,’ said the Doctor. ‘Close the curtains, would you, Bernice?’
She obliged, and sat cross‐legged on the floor to watch. Distantly, the sounds of traffic reached them.
The Doctor folded his hands in his lap. ‘Cristián, you are now in a state of deep hypnosis. Can you hear me?’
The answer was a few seconds in coming. ‘Sí…’ said Cristián dreamily.
‘That’s it?’ whispered Bernice, but the Doctor waved her silent.
‘Cristián,’ he said, ‘how many times have you experienced the Blue?’
‘Four,’ he said. ‘Christmas ’68. And Hallowe’en.’
‘Tell me about the other two times.’
‘One was Christmas again.’
‘And that was in Mexico? Or London?’
‘Not Mexico. Not London. New York, December the eighth, 1980.’
The Doctor’s eyes narrowed, as though he were searching his inner calendar and did not like what he saw. ‘And the other time?’
‘That was Mexico.’ Ocelot jumped up onto Cristián and curled on his chest, purring. Absently, he stroked the cat’s head. ‘Mexico City. 1978.’
‘Can you remember the date, Cristián?’
‘Veintiuno de febrero.’
‘All right. You’re doing very well. Now, I want you to tell me about the time in New York City.’ Cristián frowned, tightening his grip on Ocelot. The tabby squirmed. ‘Let’s start with simple things. Where were you?’
‘In a hotel room. There were orange flowers on the walls.’ He laughed. ‘Hotels always buy the most revolting lampshades and pictures. So no one will bother stealing them.’
‘I want you to think yourself back to that hotel room. Look at your mental map. You are here.’ Pause. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m getting myself a glass of water.’ He laughed again. ‘And they say Mexican water is no potable.’
‘And now what’s happening to you?’
* * *
The sky explodes inside Cristián’s head. The glass of water hits the floor of the bathroom. It shatters, like a grenade, like a rose dipped in nitrogen. Pieces of glass spray in all directions, making screeching music as they skid across the tiles.
He follows the glass to the floor, his cheek slapping the cold tiles. Bits of glass embed themselves in the side of his face. His mouth is open, but no sound is coming out. The scream is too big to fit through it.
* * *
Ocelot squeals and jumps out of his hands. Cristián says nothing, his eyes and mouth dark circles in his face.
‘Cristián?’ says the Doctor urgently. He kneels beside the Indian. ‘Can you hear me? Cristián!’
‘Oh, God,