Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [72]
He heard a sound, knew that it had meaning even though he couldn’t work out what it was. It seemed to speak to something inside him, and he let himself be guided by it. They were moving now... that way. His surroundings were mysterious, dark and full of meaningless shapes and colours, tastes and smells and textures, all mingled up in a whirling, synaesthetic samba; but he trusted the other person to know where they were going. The world rushed past, a shredded tapestry of remembered things, hastily re-patched in his head as he went. Perhaps that was the wrong approach; his conscious mind was clearly not working properly. He should switch off his conscious censor, stop trying to analyse everything, trying to actively make sense of the world.
He tried to relax, and let himself be guided by whoever it was at his side.
‘Do you do this sort of thing everyday?’ panted Alexander as they flopped down outside the tent. He examined the empty whisky bottle disconsolately and remembered that there was another on the boat.
Ace grinned. ‘I reckon the tweedies will be back at the cottage and will have discovered the broken window by now, so if they’re going to come after us, it probably won’t take long.’
‘D’you reckon they will? Come after us, I mean?’
‘Well, they’ll know we’ve been in the cottage and discovered their dark, stinky secret – even if we don’t have a clue what that dark, stinky secret means. If you were them, what would you do?’
Alexander considered. The thought of being hunted down by two elderly people in wellingtons with an asthmatic dog seemed vaguely ludicrous. But then he thought about the slimy coffin in the cottage, and suddenly it didn’t seem so ludicrous after all.
Ace suddenly sprang to her feet. ‘The radio! You said you had another radio in the tent – let’s see if we can call for help.’
‘Like who?’
‘I dunno – police, coastguard... anyone we can get through to.’
Alexander pulled the tent flap aside, and Ace followed him in. A couple of mattresses with scrunched up sleeping bags lay at one side; at the back was the radio. Ace squatted down beside Alexander whilst he flicked switches and turned dials.
‘Come on, come on,’ Ace harried him.
Something was wrong. The ‘on’ light was stubbornly steadfastly refusing to live up to its name. He slid the radio forwards - the back was a tangled bird’s nest of torn wires and ripped-out components.
‘This is trashed,’ he said softly, his voice despondent and dead. ‘There’s no way we’ll get this working in a month of Sundays. With both radios gone, we’re cut off.’ He looked up at Ace, bleakly ‘We’re really on our own now.’
Michael hesitated for a moment before ringing the bell. He kicked his feet on the welcome mat as he heard footsteps inside.
Through the frosted glass of the door panels, he could see someone coming towards him, silhouetted in the light from the other end of the hallway.
‘Hello, he said, as a cheery, middle-aged woman opened the door, wiping her hands on her blue apron. ‘Is Doctor Brunner in?’
‘Well, well,’ she said, beckoning him in, beaming beatifically.
‘Someone is popular today! Come on in, you’re letting all the heat out.’
He smiled awkwardly and stepped into the hallway, the smells of cooking and furniture polish wafting over him. In the distance, he could hear the radio.
‘Have a seat in there, she said, gesturing towards the lounge.
‘I’ll see if she’s in.’
She vanished up the stairs, humming brightly to herself.
Michael stepped into the lounge, but didn’t sit down. A knot of twisting nerves was forming in the pit of his stomach. Overhead, he could hear footsteps, doors opening and closing. And then more footsteps, descending the stairs.
His mother stepped into the room, and for a moment he had the impression of someone scared of what she might find there.
And then suddenly she was wrapping her arms around him, holding