Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [87]
‘What’s your favourite flavour?’ she asked, frightened by the note of hysteria in her voice. She found herself rocking back and forth, gently, as though comforting a child.
‘Boysenberry ripple,’ said the Doctor, after a moment. ‘The perfect counterbalance of textures and colours. And the flavours – the intense sweetness of the syrup, the civilized blandness of the vanilla… You mustn’t let him through the door, Ace.’
‘No.’
There were lights and shouts now, but no one could see them, no one took any notice. ‘He was born five centuries ago and hasn’t ever eaten an ice‐cream cone. He doesn’t understand the important things in life. Life’s short but it’s sweet, and he wants it to go on and on… No matter what, Ace, you mustn’t let him in.’
‘I promise you,’ she said. ‘He won’t be coming through.’
* * *
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.
* * *
‘Do you know what you’ve just done?’ shouted the doorman.
‘I just shot John Lennon,’ said Mark.
* * *
Morning.
Outside the apartment building on 72nd Street, a crowd has formed overnight, like dew. The people in the crowd are young and old, many without coats, some in evening dress. They have come out of their homes, out of bars and restaurants. They hold candles, or flowers, or one another, speaking in hushed voices.
A hot dog seller saunters up the street, his cart slowing as he nears the margin of the crowd. ‘Hey. What’s goin’ on?’
‘John Lennon is dead,’ someone breathes.
‘Naw,’ says the hot dog seller. ‘Y’mean it? Naw.’
But there’s blood and chalk on the steps, and the building’s gate is decorated with roses and Christmas wreaths, bits of tinsel blowing in the winter wind. Boomboxes play Beatles music, or the same news report, over and over.
After a while the hot dog seller closes up his cart and joins the crowd, listening.
* * *
Benny woke up with a start. The dawn light was squeezing in through the bars on the window, making her squint. Her mouth tasted terrible and she was cramped all over from sleeping sitting up, leaning against the window‐sill. She stretched gingerly, listening to her joints crack. Getting too old for this, she thought.
Body count: Ace asleep on the floor, stretched out like an enormous cat. Cris in his bed, looking awful. The Doctor at the writing‐desk, examining the print‐outs Benny had made the night before. He held them close to his face, peering at the tiny computer print.
‘I thought it was particularly appropriate,’ said Benny softly.
The Doctor glanced at her. ‘Yes?’
‘The location of the last recorded copy.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘How are you?’
He waved the question away. ‘I imagine Huitzilin succeeded in having most copies destroyed during the Christian purge of Aztec religious books. Like Tlacaelel’s rewriting of Aztec history – Huitzilin covering his trail. That’s why the Institute only had one page.’
Benny picked up one of the print‐outs. ‘According to this, the Nahuatl text was never written down. All that exists are the painted pictograms. Unless we have an Aztec priest who can translate for us, we won’t have the full text.’
‘Given the power in that one page, I imagine the Codex Atlaca is capable of doing its job without a translator,’ said the Doctor. He tapped a pencil against the print‐out. ‘We just go there, get it, and get on with it, Bernice. We can’t waste any more time.’
‘What about Cristián?’
The Doctor turned. The Mexican was watching them quietly from his bed, hands clasped together.
‘That’s very much up to him,’ said the Time Lord.
* * *
Interlude