Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [82]
The cleaner turned, a portly woman in a housecoat. Winter glared in through the dusty glass, making her a rounded, faceless silhouette, the long shape of a rifle clutched in her podgy hands. She was already bringing it up when Ace strode in, knocked it neatly out of her grasp and applied a nerve pinch to the base of her neck that sent her to the floor like a deflated balloon. ‘Ooh, Mrs Knickerbocker’s exploded,’ said Ace, picking up the gun.
The Doctor had been wrong about the precise make of rifle, but otherwise, everything was as he’d described it, down to the ashtray on the window‐sill. At last she was beginning to understand what the Time Lord was up to: his psychic connection with Huitzilin was a two‐way street. What harm could the Aztec do when the Doctor knew everything he thought?
She stubbed out the charlady’s cigarette. She’d been having a quiet smoke, waiting for the concert to get under way. Huitzilin wanted people to see this; their horror would be the sauce on his meal. Ripples of rage and despair would have spread out from this one act. Rippling out –
She felt a violent lurch between her lungs, just like the time in the lift. She grabbed the window‐sill, trying to keep a grip on the rifle, but it wasn’t an attack, it was just an overwhelming sense of presence. His presence.
He pushed a question into her head: why was she fighting him?
Because he was a monster, she answered, and she fought monsters.
But he was the god of war, and she was a warrior. She could always just open the window and do what she’d been trained to do. Do what she was good at.
Ace reeled to the sink, the gun clattering out of her hands. She gripped the rusty sides and threw up. She wrenched open the tap and flushed out her mouth, splashed her face and hands. She was filthy, she was contaminated –
It’s because you’ve been with him too long, said Huitzilin. You might have been a waitress, you might have been a chemist, you might have been a mother if not for him –
I’ll stick with the Doctor! she protested.
Little girl, said Huitzilin, he and I are the same person.
Ace threw up again.
Outside, the guitars paused. There was a smattering of applause, and John’s voice again, ringing out across the street. ‘I’d like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition.’
* * *
The TARDIS stood in the shade of the trees growing alongside Abbey Road. It was still in its police box guise – certainly made it easier to find, as long as you didn’t make an idiot of yourself trying to walk into a real police box.
Benny and Ace walked side by side down the street. They passed the groupies outside the studio and Paul’s house across the road. The hippies took no notice of the time travellers, hanging out for a glimpse or a wave.
‘How’d it go?’ asked Benny.
‘Fine,’ said Ace. ‘No problems. How about you?’
‘Oh, fine.’
They kept walking.
Benny glanced up and down the street as they went into the TARDIS. It probably didn’t matter if anyone saw them dematerialize. After all, what would they do? Tell the police one of their boxes had been pinched?
The doors closed behind them and the rotor began its smooth pumping motion. Slides and controls operated themselves in a ghostly dance. Ace ran her eyes over the console, irritated. The Doctor wouldn’t let her fly the machine, but he couldn’t even be bothered to pilot the TARDIS himself.
From somewhere in the maze of corridors, there was an irregular clattering noise. They followed the sound until they came to a huge, empty room. The Doctor ignored them, his eyes fixed on an archery target perhaps a hundred feet away. The tall bamboo bow was drawn back as far as it would go, the long arrow protruding by a foot or more. He stood utterly still, shoulders and face completely relaxed despite the tension in the string.
Abruptly he let the arrow fly. It shot past the target and made a drum roll sound as it struck the back wall.
The Doctor sat down on the floor, holding the bow across his lap. ‘Not one hit,’ he said, running his hands through his