Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [32]
She flicked a pea skilfully across the room where it fell into the cold fireplace, raising a halfhearted plume of ash. ‘This is daft. Instead of sitting here being waited on by that great gawk, we could be searching for Joyce.’
‘Well,’ said the Doctor, and steepled his fingers together, elbowing the paper serviette in its pink plastic serviette ring out of the way. ‘Let’s think about this logically...’
Through the open door to the lounge, they could hear the dreary monotone of Megan calling the balls as the bingo got under way.
‘Two fat ladies... number six.’
‘Joyce’s note told me that something strange is happening here, and asked me to come and look into it.’
‘Which we’re doing,’ Ace said.
‘Key of the door... number ten.’
‘Which we’re doing. Something she found made her suspicious enough to write to me, rather than call the police.
And it was obviously something personal enough for her not to contact UNIT.’
‘On its own... twenty-six.’
‘And Mrs Christmas hasn’t seen her since yesterday. So why don’t we have a look around this establishment now, whilst it’s quiet,’ the Doctor said, pushing his plate away from him with a sigh. ‘Judging by the deathly silence in there, there’s a good chance that most of the residents will be in their rooms.’
‘Probably boarded themselves in to stop her getting at them.
And from what Claudette said, half the staff have left recently, so it should be even quieter.’
‘Two little ducks... number thirteen.’
‘You know,’ said the Doctor archly, glancing towards the lounge, ‘something doesn’t add up around here.’
Ace gave a grin as they stood up quietly and headed for the door to the hallway. Ducking back to the lounge, she opened her mouth to call ‘bingo’ as loudly as she could – only to find it smothered by the Doctor’s hand as he dragged her away.
‘Spoilsport,’ she muttered.
Throughout tea, Harry had been silent and withdrawn, eating his fritters with his head down. George sat opposite him, picking at his food. Every time George thought of a harmless, friendly comment to make, he only had to catch sight of Harry’s face, dark and intense – creepy, frankly – and he changed his mind.
Since Harry’s odd outburst in the gardens, they had hardly spoken. Connie and Jessie, the two dippy sisters, had come along to call them in for the meal, chattering away about how they were off for their next treatment session straight afterwards, and how they were so excited that they’d lost their appetites. Jessie, George thought, was showing definite signs of improvement – at least compared to Connie: she seemed less easily distracted, more focussed than she had before. Maybe she was going to be the next to recover. Megan had seen them and, with wild, cartwheeling motions of her arms, had waved the four of them back into the house. They’d trooped in for tea – and George had noticed a couple of newcomers at the other end of the dining room – a middle-aged man and a young girl, maybe his daughter.
Something in Harry’s changed manner scared George; and yet, he felt a creeping envy. Was this how he would be when his treatment finally kicked in? It wasn’t how Jessie seemed to be responding to hers. Was there any guarantee that it would work for him at all? Sometimes he felt so angry with himself, with his screwed-up, broken brain. He knew that he was in Graystairs because he wasn’t altogether there. Most of the others denied there was anything wrong with them, claiming Graystairs was some sort of holiday home and they were there just to give their sons or daughters or spouses a bit of a rest. But George knew the truth. He seemed to remember coming to Graystairs on a coach, along with a dozen other muttering, incoherent people, all of them gazing around, bemused and baffled. That had been..
he wasn’t sure, but it must have been a couple of years ago at least. Before that there was nothing. He remembered, shortly after they’d arrived, talking to Megan, and her filling him in on all sorts of details from his past – the colour of his wife’s hair, the number