Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [37]
Ace peered at the window, the cards and their scrawly handwriting bleached out in the orange sodium light of the streetlamp, and shook her head. ‘No missing sheep here –’ She stopped suddenly and turned to him. ‘The kid – the kid who told me how to get to Graystairs. He said something about missing sheep – and wolves.’
‘Wolves? Around here?’ He shook his head vaguely.
‘Doubtful.’ Suddenly he hooked his umbrella over his arm and looked up and down the street, frowning, as if something incredibly important had occurred to him. ‘Right,’ he said decisively. ‘You can keep yourself entertained for a while, can’t you?’
‘How hard can it be? We’ve been here a whole day and the biggest threat we’ve faced has been Megan’s cooking.’
But he wasn’t listening. With barely a backward glance, he set off in the direction of the TARDIS. ‘See you back at the hotel,’ he called over his shoulder. Ace could only stand and watch him go, wondering what had suddenly got into him.
‘But what about Michael?’ she said quietly.
But he was too far away to hear. Maybe he hadn’t spotted the fact that Michael just happened to have been one of the men in the photo in Joyce’s mum’s room. She had been about to suggest that they find where he’d pitched up his tent and have a word: for all they knew, Joyce had decided to spend a night under canvas. But he obviously had better things to do. She felt a little slighted, and wondered if his disappearance was connected with whatever had happened aboard the TARDIS.
The wind was whipping up around her and she could feel a faint drizzle in the air. Michael’s earlier directions had been vague; but the village was small, and the bright moon overhead cast a cold light over the houses and fields. The lighted street through the village led, alarmingly quickly, onto a darkened country road. Having grown up amongst the suburban bustle of Perivale, Ace was surprised and a little disconcerted at how eerily quiet the countryside was, and after fifteen minutes of walking she began to wonder whether she shouldn’t go back. But Michael hadn’t been telling the whole truth earlier, and she wanted to know why.
She soon found his camp site – a vague glimmer of warm orange through a hedge, away in the corner of a field. The ground was wet and sticky and sucked at her boots as she leaped over the nearest gate. ‘I should get a clothing allowance for all this,’ she muttered to herself. Stepping tentatively across the grass, she made her way across the field to the tent and the sputtering fire outside it. Hunched over it, white enamel mug in hand, was Michael. Ace gave a deliberate cough, and he spluttered and spilled his tea.
‘Who’s there?’ He turned sharply, his eyes wide, and Ace noticed how his hand went automatically to his side.
‘Only me,’ Ace said, dropping down to join him beside the fire. ‘Now, how about telling me exactly what you’re doing in Muirbridge. And yes, a cuppa would be lovely.’
The Doctor paused near the war memorial in the centre of the village. From its coal-black shadow, he watched as Ace walked off down the lane and vanished into the night. Moments later, someone stepped out of a side street that led back towards Graystairs. They held themselves oddly, pained, and the Doctor could see that they were limping. In thoughtful silence, he watched as the figure headed up through the village in the direction of the hillside where the TARDIS stood.
In silence, Ace watched Michael brew the tea and throw a few more sticks on the fire. Her front felt lovely and warm, but she could feel the drizzle soaking into the back of her jacket. He still hadn’t answered her question. She watched him carefully as he handed her a mug. He seemed to have changed from the bright, carefree – and eminently fanciable – man she’d met that afternoon. Now he was secretive and taciturn and loath to look her in the eye. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes until Ace set her cup down on the wet grass and said: ‘Right, enough secrets.’
He looked at