Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [27]
Of the three, the Doctor found the last the most interesting: he seemed detached from everything around him, troubled in some way that the Doctor found instinctively intriguing. When the waitress came over to ask him if his sandwich was OK, the Man jumped and nodded eagerly, embarrassed. Over the top of his book, the Doctor watched him stir his tea listlessly, trying hard not to clink the spoon against the side of the cup.
The man looked to be in his seventies, casually dressed in a thick grey cardigan. He had slicked-back white hair and black-framed glasses hiding deep-set, worried eyes. He looked a little lost and confused – and somewhat out of place in Muirbridge’s one and only teashop. The Doctor watched as the man stared at his hands – first the palms, then the backs; he flexed his fingers, observing the joints; then he examined his fingernails, frowning curiously.
The Doctor slid the book into his pocket, picked up his tea and the remains of his scone, and crossed to the man’s table. He smiled his most disarming smile. ‘I’m the Doctor, and I couldn’t help but notice that you seem rather preoccupied with your hands,’ he remarked, slipping into the empty seat opposite him.
The man glanced down at his long, thin fingers and then back at the Doctor. ‘There’s a phrase, isn’t there?’ he said distantly. ‘“Knowing something like the back of your hand”
Surely it’s impossible to ever forget what the backs of your hands look like?’
‘There’s no such word as impossible. Apart from in the dictionary, of course. And one of the marvellous things about humans is that they’re capable of any number of impossible things – either before or after breakfast.’
The man’s eyes narrowed – more out of curiosity, thought the Doctor, than suspicion. ‘You talk as if you’re not human.’
‘Well,’ the Doctor replied airily, evasively, ‘it’s such an imprecise term, isn’t it? Physiology, physiognomy...’ He leaned forwards and studied the man’s face. ‘Nature. Some of the most human people I’ve come across haven’t been within a billion miles of a piece of DNA. And some of the most inhuman wouldn’t have stood out in an identity parade with Nelson Mandela and Gandhi. So which category do you think you fall into?’
The man pulled back sharply in his seat at the suddenness of the Doctor’s question. ‘I have to go,’ he said, pushing himself away from the table and standing up.
The Doctor raised a hand, realising that he’d been a tad too forthright: the man was scared, and he should have seen it earlier. ‘Maybe I can help you.’
‘I have to go,’ repeated the man, reaching for the door handle. The Doctor noticed the waitress staring at the man.
Running out without paying your bill around here was, no doubt, a social gaffe of the highest order. As the Doctor turned to reassure her he felt a cold gust of wind from the open door, and heard the tinkling of the bell. By the time he’d got to his feet, rooted around in his pocket for a handful of coins and slapped them on the table, the man had gone. The Doctor stood outside in the bright spring sunlight, annoyed at himself. He tapped his upper teeth with the tips of his fingers, and tried to remember what little he knew about iridology.
The gentle warmth of the sun had been replaced with a cool, spring chill. Harry and George watched Megan rounding up the other residents of Graystairs who were foolish – or rebellious -
enough to still be out in the garden. There was something about Megan, Harry thought wryly, that encouraged rebellion: he could imagine that some of the more feisty residents at Graystairs might have formed a resistance movement, and were,