Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [21]
‘Oh, the Doctor? Nah, just a mate. I look after him. Sort of bodyguard, really.’
Michael looked momentarily confused, as if mentally juggling to correct some preconception he held about the Doctor and Ace’s relationship. She jumped in, too quickly. ‘Oh it’s not like that – he’s old enough to be my grandad!’
Michael laughed and shook his head, his pale blue eyes smiling as he shared Ace’s embarrassment.
‘No, no, that’s not what I... I thought, I mean, I wondered if you’d come here for Graystairs. Sorry.’ He looked away, and Ace felt a flash of relief that she wasn’t the only one stumbling around, blind, in this conversation.
‘No, we’re looking for a friend of the Doctor’s.’
‘And have you found him?’
‘Her. No. The Doctor seems to think something’s happened to her.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed, thoughtfully, and Ace saw his jaw Bench. ‘So who is she, this mystery woman?’
‘Her name’s Joyce Brunner. She and the Doctor used to work together.’
He nodded slowly. Then, as if suddenly remembering the carrier bag in his hand, he took a step backwards. ‘Right, well good luck. Gotta get back. See you later, maybe.’
‘Oh, right.’ Suddenly, Ace felt a flash of disappointment. Just when she thought she’d made a new friend – and not a bad looking one at that – he was off. ‘Yeah. See you later.’
And with a short, sharp smile, Michael turned away and headed up the street.
As he disappeared around the corner, Ace hitched her rucksack onto her back and turned towards the pub. There was still that pint to attend to. Out of the corner of her eye, back along the street towards the war memorial that stood in the circular grassy clearing at the centre of the village, she caught a flicker of movement. But there was no one there. She felt the hairs on her neck rise. She’d never been quite sure whether she’d believed all that guff about being able to sense when someone was watching her – but if it was true, then this must be what it felt like. She stood and surveyed the village. A couple of teenage backpackers, kitted out in yellow and blue cagoules and woolly hats came round the corner, struggling with an unruly map that fluttered and flapped, desperate to get out of their grip. She checked her watch and realised she’d spent the best part of two hours getting nowhere. Maybe she should go and find Joyce’s mum, and see if she had seen Joyce. She had no problem finding someone who knew the way to Graystairs: the first person she asked – a rather unlikely-looking youth with acne and a bike that was far too big for him – pulled a loony-eyes face at her.
‘What d’you wannae go up there for? You a nutter or what?’
Despite the fact that it was language that she herself might have used to describe Alzheimer’s sufferers, Ace suddenly felt very defensive of Graystairs’ patients. ‘0i!’ she said, indignant.
‘That could be your grandad or grandma up there one day.’
‘Not likely,’ the youth sneered in a heavy Scots brogue that rendered his words all but unintelligible. ‘All of mine are dead –
apart from my mam’s mam, and no one knows where she is!’
‘Scared ‘em all away did you?’
The youth gave a mock laugh. ‘It’s about a mile up that way
– up the hill. You cannae miss it. You have to go up a lane through a wood. And it’s haunted. And there are wolves,’ he added, baring his rickety teeth.
‘Yeah, course there are,’ Ace said, turning to go.
‘Suit yoursel’,’ the lad said, remounting his bike and pushing away on it. ‘What d’you think’s eating all the sheep?’ And, flicking a V-sign at her, he pedalled off frantically.
And indeed the lad had been right – at least about how far Graystairs was. From the main road it was clearly signposted.
She wouldn’t have fancied trying to find it in the dark, though: the road wove through a densely wooded area, daffodils and crocuses freckling the ground, leading slowly upwards until, through a break in the trees, she saw the house. With the sun behind it, throwing the front into shadow, it looked grey and gloomy, and Ace could well believe the youth’s story about it being haunted.