Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [9]
Bernice silently jerked her thumb at Cristián’s computer.
The Doctor beamed, his bad mood forgotten. ‘I should have thought of that,’ he said, jumping up.
He started up the computer, found Cristián’s password taped to the keyboard, drummed his fingers on the table while the PC connected with the newspaper’s mainframe. Within a minute he was in their archives.
The screen went white, changing to a scan of the newspaper’s front page. The Doctor glanced at the headlines, paged down, and again. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘February 21, 1978. The sacrificial stone at the base of the Great Temple was uncovered by electrical workers laying cables under Guatemala Street. Depicting the goddess Coyolxauhqui, it –’
‘What’s this?’ said Bernice, poking a finger at the screen.
‘“Our Lady deluged”,’ the Doctor translated from the Spanish. ‘“At least three dozen chilangos were admitted to the Hospital of Our Lady last night, suffering from an unidentified illness. Each victim collapsed suddenly for no apparent reason. Staff have not released the names of the victims, nor have they given any indication of what the illness might be. All the victims were Indians”.’ He typed rapidly, calling up an index, and the screen emptied and filled in rapid succession. ‘This one’s a week later. It says that the illness is still being hushed up. “One of those struck down was the famous clairvoyant Señor Feliciano Nahualli, whose readings have been sought by celebrities”.’
‘What happened to him?’
The Doctor called up the index again, and scanned a page, absently rubbing his wrist. ‘Nahualli is still at Our Lady. He never regained his sanity.’
* * *
Preston had retreated after dessert. Ace had been surprised – no coffee, no come‐back‐to‐my‐room? But then she’d thought about his memories, and the old woman’s groceries lying scattered on the street like green tears. He wouldn’t want to talk to her again.
Her sunglasses reflected the mirrored wall of the lift back at her. She watched the foyer disappear behind the doors. The floor lurched gently as the lift started to move.
Whatever it was, it hit her all at once.
She made a tearing breathing sort of noise and hit the wall of the lift, spinning around, her own reflection looking back at her. The reflection was clawing at its left side. Her sunglasses came off as she spun around again.
When Ace had been four years old, she had been stuck in a lift when the doors closed unexpectedly behind her. She had been too little to reach any of the buttons.
Ever since then, she had had a recurring dream about a lift that went sideways, that became unreasonably small, that went impossibly fast.
Now she was in a lift that did all of these things. The mirror cracked clear across as she smacked into it, her mouth open in an O of surprise. She clawed open the zipper of the jacket, tore loose the Browning 9mm pistol that was taped to the skin under her T-shirt, clutched it uselessly as she spun and fell. The carpet was rough under her cheek. The gaffer tape tangled in her fingers.
Someone put their hand in through her face. They hadn’t bothered to cut their fingernails.
Pieces of mirror showered onto her. If she screamed, the carpet ate the sound.
* * *
It was a quiet evening.
Bernice and Cristián played draughts on the card‐table. The television lit the walls in alternating dark and light blue. Capitan Picard was arguing soundlessly with an alien. Cristián had had to explain to Bernice that it was not a documentary.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Bernice.
Cristián kept his eyes on the board. ‘Do you resent being left here as my nurse?’ he said.
Bernice laughed, surprising him. ‘I hadn’t thought of it in that way. Look, you did have a pretty serious experience this afternoon.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Cristián. He moved a quarter that was substituting for a missing piece.
‘I just want to know if I can help,’ said Bernice gently.
‘Help,’ said Cristián. ‘Just keep playing draughts with me.