Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias - Mark Michalowski [77]
‘And you didn’t think to say anything?’ Alexander yelled.
John clenched his jaw ‘And how exactly was I supposed to tell you? You were still over there with that bloody girl.’
Alexander let that pass. ‘You could have sent up a flare or something.’
‘Why? For all we know it’s a friend of hers. He – or she –
did come up from the same bit of water after all.’
Alexander grimaced and turned back to the island. From here he couldn’t see either Ace or the mysterious newcomer that John had seen surface. He pushed past John and fetched the binoculars from the cabin. But, sweeping his gaze over the island, he still couldn’t see either of them. Perhaps John was right: perhaps it was a friend of Ace’s – maybe even this mysterious Doctor – and the two of them had gone in search of the elderly couple. But Ace hadn’t exactly given the impression that the Doctor was an Olympic swimmer. A hundred if he was a day, she’d said. That didn’t sound like the figure John had described.
Alexander was still feeling guilty about returning without Ace. He’d never been one for selfless acts of courage, but leaving her there with a couple of weird old people seemed a bit crap, even for him. He tried to console himself with the fact that Ace had insisted. But he hadn’t tried very hard to dissuade her, had he? He’d played it down to John; he knew what he’d say, telling him he never had the courage of his convictions.
‘Why don’t you try to get the radio fixed?’ he said to John, trying to be practical.
‘Yeah, answered John. ‘I suppose one of us should do something useful.’
Alexander bit his tongue, clenching his fists until John had taken the remains of the radio back downstairs. Tentatively, he reached out to touch the handrail – and recoiled with a yelp as he heard the crack of the electrical discharge and felt the pain in his hand. The dome was still generating its magic static – even if John managed to repair the radio, Alexander suspected that it would be just as useless as the other one.
Michael paused for a moment, his fingers on the handle of the door to the kitchen extension at the back of the house. Through the frosted glass panels there was no sign of movement inside.
Gently, he opened the door and slipped in. The smell of grease and overcooked cabbage assailed him; on the cooker was a huge pan, bubbling and steaming away. He grimaced, and checked the corridor. Taking a deep breath, he headed for the hallway. A couple of times he had to back into the shadows when he heard voices, and only once did anyone see him – but it was an old man who just nodded politely and went on his way.
Soon he found himself at the foot of the stairs; he could hear the TV in the lounge, and two women arguing about whether this new-fangled ‘Channel 4’ would be nothing but violence and pornography like everyone was saying: Michael grinned when he heard one of them saying that she hoped it would. There was no sign of Mum – she must already be inside. He stopped in front of the main door, realising that he didn’t know where his gran’s room was. Should he just try doors at random, or should he see if he could find one of the battier residents and ask them, hoping they wouldn’t start shouting the place down at the sight of a stranger? Before he had the chance to do either, he heard a shout: a woman’s voice, calling for help from under the stairs.
Suddenly, the door to the cel ar was slammed open and a little man tottered out, lurching around as if drunk. His cream hat was jammed on the back of his head, apparently defying gravity as he staggered into the wall.
And just behind him, struggling to keep up despite a painful-looking limp, was Ace.
Chapter Twelve
‘Don’t just stand there!’ grimaced Ace. ‘Help me!’
For a second, Michael was frozen, not sure what was happening, whether Ace was talking to him. He took a step forward to help the man when