Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [52]
There was no answer. He hoped that she wasn’t going to be awkward or put up a fight: he needed to reinstall the processors
– or find replacements. He crouched down and peered into the room. There was no sign of her. Where could she be hiding?
And then he saw a circle of red lights begin to cycle on a display panel on the far wall, and through the triangular viewing hole in.
the airlock door, he saw her. She was waving!
‘Two sugars for me, I think,’ said the little man brightly. ‘It’s been one of those nights.’
He removed his hat, placed it on the back of a chair, and sat down.
Joyce stared at him. At the umbrella with the red question-mark handle that leaned against the arm of the chair and the paisley-pattern scarf around his shoulders; at the tightly pursed lips; and at the bright, squirrel-like eyes that now twinkled at her, as if waiting for her to reach some decision. Mary hovered in the doorway, an arched eyebrow and a knowing smile suggesting that she viewed the arrival of both Joyce and the Doctor at such an early hour as more than just a coincidence. No doubt, Joyce thought tiredly and with a hint of irritation as Mary floated off to fetch the tea, it would be halfway round the village by lunchtime.
Had the man seen her watching him through the crack in Mum’s door? Had he followed her here, only to make ludicrous claims about being the Doctor?
‘You’ll understand my scepticism,’ she said a few minutes later as he rooted through the plate of biscuits for the jammy one, ‘but am I expected to take your assertion that you’re the Doctor on trust?’
He smiled, almost as if he relished the challenge. ‘Not at all, not at all. I must admit, I generally don’t have much of a problem convincing people of who I am after a regeneration.
The Brigadier is one of the few that has occasionally taken some persuasion.’ He smiled again. ‘But old Alastair always comes round in the end.’ He sipped at his tea, his eyes never leaving hers. She’d heard that the Doctor had changed his appearance in the past, but she’d always assumed he was just a master of disguise, not a shapeshifter. But there was something in this bizarre little man’s eyes, something sharp and incisive, puckish and poignant, all at the same time; something that definitely reminded her of the Doctor she knew. As she watched him drink his tea, it was still hard to reconcile him with the man she’d seen only a couple of months ago, storming down the corridors at UNIT HQ, heading for some explosive confrontation with Lethbridge-Stewart. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep; maybe it was whatever that machine had done to her head. But as she drank her own tea, Joyce realised that, somehow, he’d already half convinced her - and without even trying.
‘When we last met,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘we spent an afternoon in Brighton. It rained all day and we had to take shelter. Where did we go?’
The little man thought for a moment. ‘When we last met, it was in Cromer, and it was a gorgeous day. Windy, but gorgeous.
And we walked along the beach, threw pebbles into the sea, and talked about Michael and Terrance; and then you insisted on paying for afternoon tea. If I recall correctly, you told me that you weren’t one of my “dolly-bird” assistants, and that you were quite capable of paying your own way, thank you very much.
And I notice you’re still using your maiden name.’
He leaned forward and, as if he’d read her mind, said: ‘Yes, Joyce. It’s definitely me. What do you think of the new, economy-sized Doctor, then?’ He scanned himself up and down as if he’d never really looked at himself before.
Joyce gave a sigh and sank back into the upholstered bliss of the sofa. ‘It’s... very different. Something of a shock, naturally, but after what