Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [33]
He gave a start as Harry threw down his fork noisily. Some of the other residents at the table threw him disapproving looks especially Beattie – but it was clear Harry didn’t care. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘Hang on,’ George said, positioning his knife and fork together. ‘I’ll come with you.’
It was strange how different smells brought to mind different ages, different memories, thought Ace. The TARDIS always had a cool, neutral smell – hints of ozone and camphor – which she now realized added to its comforting, safe atmosphere. She couldn’t remember the smells of her old home in Perivale, but she knew that if she ever smelled them again, they’d bring up a whole jumble of memories, none of which would be totally comfortable.
Here in Graystairs, the main notes were of pot pourri and pine disinfectant, with tiny hints of... she didn’t like to think of what the tiny hints were. She caught sight of a commode through an open doorway and, instinctively, her hand went to her nose. The Doctor didn’t seem to notice – or, more likely, didn’t care. The two of them did an almost complete circuit of the building, skirting round the main dining room, the residents’
lounge and the visitors’ lounge, before finding themselves back in the hallway. Some of the residents were just finishing their meal, and they almost literally ran into two elderly men with thick, silver-white hair as they came out. The Doctor doffed his hat to them and one of them nodded. His friend seemed distracted, hardly noticing them, pushing rudely between them as he headed up the stairs. The one who’d nodded gave an apologetic smile as he followed his companion.
‘Watch out – here she comes!’ hissed Ace, grabbing the Doctor by the jacket and pulling him into the shadows under the stairs as Megan came charging out, arms flailing, and bellowed up the stairs that they were missing the bingo and that she wasn’t running it for the good of her health. She waited for a moment, hands on hips, and then strode back into the lounge, grumbling under her breath.
‘Aha!’ Ace heard the Doctor say, and turned to find him opening a small door under the stairs.
‘Shouldn’t we be upstairs looking for Joyce?’
‘Cellars are much more interesting places, Ace: they’re where everyone keeps their secrets, as I’m sure I’ve told you before.’
He gave her a crafty look and wiggled his eyebrows. ‘And it might just be where they’re hiding all the missing staff. Come on!’ Ace opened her mouth to say that it was just as likely that Joyce was locked in a spare bedroom, but the Doctor had ducked through the doorway and was already out of sight.
Glancing back to make sure they hadn’t been seen, Ace followed him, pulling the door closed behind her.
A single bare bulb illuminated the curving stone steps, worn concave at their edges by years of use. The flaking, whitewashed walls gave off a damp, clammy tang that seemed almost refreshing to Ace after the smells of the house. She caught up with the Doctor at the bottom of the steps. The room before them was long and wide, with a low ceiling striped with bright, fluorescent lights, tinted a peculiar orange, strangely at odds with the rest of the room: a series of surgically clean stainless steel benches took up the centre with more of them ranged around the edges, interspersed with huge, fridge-like pieces of equipment. It was more like a morgue than a laboratory. The air was clean and antiseptic-smelling, and reminded Ace, uncomfortably, of hospitals. The whole place had obviously been refitted, the only concession to the past being a wooden panel on the wall, with six fat brown Bakelite light switches mounted on it.
The Doctor was slowly drifting round the room like a curious and slightly befuddled ghost, opening cupboards,