Doctor Who_ Match of the Day - Chris Boucher [3]
‘You hit it,’ Leela said reasonably.
The TARDIS whispered to itself and wheezed a little, like a heavy sleeper stirring from a dream. The random drag seemed to the Doctor to have become a less random and more definite drag. It felt to him as though the half-dimensionality was filling and the TARDIS was struggling to create a place for itself, and for them, in a continuum where they had no previous and future existence. At these moments there was always and forever so much adjustment to be made, so many discontinuities to be cauterised, so many causal links to be jury-rigged and patched. An infinity of previous and future interactions had to be unpicked and reweaved in less than the shadow of an instant. But this was happening much too quickly. This was underpowered. This was going to be uncomfortably lumpy.
Jerro Fanson lit a rolled smoke, rehearsed a couple of confident smiles, then keyed the number of the Zone Three Sports Desk. Michaelson was on duty. ‘Mickey! Good to see you,’ said Fanson, flashing the better of his two smiles.
Michaelson’s thin face smiled back. ‘Hello Jerro.’
A promising start: Michaelson wasn’t known as Miserable Mickey for nothing. ‘Got something good, Mickey. Wanted to give you first crack.’
‘Generous of you.’
‘You know me Mickey, all heart.’
Michaelson scowled suddenly. ‘A giant-hearted carrion eater. What is it you want to sell me Fanson? Your boy Keefer?’
‘You make him sound like a fistful of slime,’ said Fanson, with more than a touch of genuine anger. ‘Let me tell you something -’
‘No!’ snapped Michaelson. ‘Let me tell you something. I liked Keefer, as much as you can like any of them. He was a natural. And he had guts. He would have made Prime sooner or later.’
‘What do you mean would have done?!’
Michaelson stared out of the screen for a long moment.
‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘Don’t know what?’ yelled Fanson. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. That I don’t know!’
‘Reefer’s dead.’
‘Dead? When? Where?’
‘Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. On the motorway.’ He paused to punch the retrieval sequence on a small display unit.
‘Yeah here it is. R4 southbound, junction 4 by 12. Head shot, high-velocity long gun. Spot challenge, notified and accepted an hour before.’
Fanson relaxed and smiled. ‘For a minute there I thought you were serious. When did you take up practical jokes Mickey?’
‘It’s on the computer, Jerro. Notification, place, result. I’m sorry man, I assumed you knew.’ Michaelson gave a slight shrug of embarrassment. ‘I thought that’s what you were trying to sell me.’
‘It was,’ said Fanson.
‘I knew it!’ Michaelson raged. ‘You scuffling parasite!’
‘Now wait a minute, Mickey.’
‘Don’t Mickey me, Fanson. You just blew every connection with Zone Three. You’re out, man!’
Before Michaelson could hit the disconnect switch Fanson keyed the emergency jammer. The picture went hazy for a moment then cleared. ‘Now you listen to me Michaelson. No scrawny little staffer tells me what connections I do or don’t have with Zone Three or any other company! Do you hear me Michaelson?’
Michaelson smiled sourly. ‘I hear you,’ he said softly. ‘I hope it was worth the fine. Or is this really an emergency?’
‘It is for you! Somebody’s screwing up your data input.
Keefer’s alive!’
‘Are you saying it didn’t happen?’
‘Oh it happened all right,’ said Fanson, his temper subsiding.
Michaelson looked back at his display unit. ‘R4
southbound, junction 4 by 12?’
‘Right,’ said Fanson.
‘High-velocity long gun?’
Fanson nodded slowly. ‘Right. But there was no spot challenge.’
Michaelson spoke quietly as though suddenly afraid of being overheard: ‘Come on the notification is here. According to this you accepted it an hour before the kill.’
‘That’s crud!’ snapped Fanson. ‘Are you calling me a liar? It was a chancer! He tried for it. Keefer killed him.’
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. For each, the sincerity of the other was obvious and unnerving.
Michaelson broke the silence. ‘What’s going on Jerro?’ he said very softly.
The TARDIS shuddered,