Doctor Who_ Rip Tide - Louise Cooper [11]
'I'd put something on it, if I were you.'
'You sound like Mum! Don't worry; it'll go. Probably something I was using at work.'
'Sue them, then; I would,' said Nina doggedly. 'It's the in thing. The compensation culture.'
'Yeah, yeah. You try it once you're out of college and working, that's all I can say. Go on, go to the loo and stop fussing.'
They went their separate ways, and after a couple more beers Steve forgot about the rash. None of his friends seemed to notice, and by the time the band had packed up and Victor was firmly telling the stragglers that he'd lose his licence if they didn't go home, he was mellow and yawning and, as he didn't have a particular girlfriend at the moment, looking forward to his bed for the sheer pleasure of a sound night's sleep.
The hand that held the device was shaking, and if she didn't make it stop, she was likely to cut herself badly. She set it down for a few minutes and performed a mental exercise to calm herself It worked, not perfectly but well enough to steady her, and she picked up the implement again and held it to the side of her own head.
The blade sliced silently and easily through the black hair, and in a short time the bulk of it was lying at her feet. When the job was done she felt cooler and more like her real self; all the same there was a faint pang of sadness at seeing the great mass of hair go. She had enjoyed the novelty of it. But the thing had to be done.
The grief inside her was still like a hard, tight knot as she prepared for the second phase of the transformation. She could not cry, but she hurt, hurt, hurt, and a succession of 'if onlys' paraded through her mind in a dismal procession. If only he had not gone out. If only the failure had not happened. If only she had gone with him, been there; perhaps she would have been able to do something.
But he had gone, and it had happened, and she had not been there. She needed to be strong; not just for his sake but also for her own. What needed doing, she must do alone. They had ignored one of the major rules, scorned what they saw as the set attitudes and rigid thinking of the rule-makers. And now that this hideous thing had happened, she could not go back. Well, perhaps it was a kind of rough justice. Perhaps it was no more than she deserved.
Yet there had to be a chance ... hadn't there? She couldn't give up. He would not have wanted her to give up. However afraid she was, however great the grief inside her, she had to carry on, and try to find a way.
A strange, thin howling sound tried to rise up from her throat and her hands started to tremble again; ferociously she brought herself back under control and the noise and the shaking subsided. Stage two. She had enough of the hair left on her head to pass muster; all that remained was to make the other change. A small, vacuum-sealed pouch was beside her. She picked it up, broke the seal, and drew out what looked like a pair of thin red plastic gloves. She put on the gloves, then slowly and carefully began to smooth both hands over her scalp. Over and over, she worked with methodical concentration, as her newly shorn hair began to change colour.
A FEW DAYS...
Small communities tend to have efficient grapevines, and by the start of the
following week the body in the sea was the talking point of the village.
The victim was male, and was young, but he had still not been identified. That was not necessarily unusual; what did capture the interest of everyone, however, was the growing rumour that there was something not quite right about the body. Someone whose brother-inlaw worked in the local hospital's pathology department started the ball rolling in the Huer's Arms one night, and it wasn't long before the story began to build up. Apparently, the medics who had carried out the postmortem had discovered that the victim had been suffering from some kind of degenerative illness, though – according to the brother-in-law – they had thus far been unable to identify it. And that wasn't all. The young man appeared to have undergone