Doctor Who_ So Vile a Sin - Ben Aaronovitch [133]
Apparently there were lots of happy endings as well. The Empire’s in good hands with Leabie, he reckons: she’s going to do a lot for the Ogrons and the Earth Reptiles and Jeopards and all the other oppressed peoples. Genevieve was rescued by one of the rebels, Simon Frederson, and Vincenzi and Sokolovsky are generals or something now.
Chris’s mood changes a lot, especially as he tells all the little stories from their adventure. Gods, diary, I had forgotten how young that young man is. He was terribly stiff-upper-lip when he first arrived, then later on he was crying his heart out while Jason fidgeted and I sat next to him and held his hand, and the next morning he was almost cheerful.
He’s not going to get over this for a long time. He’s going to think he’s got over it, and find out he hasn’t.
The Doctor… I don’t mind admitting it, diary, the Doctor scares the hell out of me.
Chris says he seemed OK for a little while after the heart attack. He spent some time in the TARDIS infirmary, waving little medical machines over himself. He spent some time in the conservatory, sitting among the plants.
He slept. A lot. That in itself is worrying.
After a while he spent all his time sleeping.
He wakes up from time to time. He said hello when they first arrived. Then he just dozed off on a sofa while we were eating cucumber sandwiches and talking. Chris carried him up to the guest room and put him to bed.
308
Jason wandered over to the tents and found a Caprisian dealer who had a battered wheelchair for sale. We spent the morning fixing it up.
Each morning and afternoon we’ve wheeled the Doctor out into the sunlight. I hope it does him some good. There’s a sort of back yard, a half-hearted garden which Jason and I tinker with from time to time. There’s a lovely view, looking down the slope across a stream and into the jungle. The weather is cool, so we tuck a soft blanket over his legs.
I can see him from the window as I write this. He looks positively ancient.
I’ve tried talking to him. Sometimes he comes out of it for a while, says hello. He knows who I am, and where he is, but he just isn’t interested.
Diary, it’s as though he’s run out of steam. He’s got nothing left he wants to do, and no energy left to do it. He’s just waiting to die.
It’s unbearable. He is – was – is the most alive person I’ve ever met.
Later. Chris and I spent the afternoon cleaning out Roz’s room aboard the TARDIS. Chris did the guns, I did the frocks.
There was a surprising amount of stuff in there; I’d expected something more Spartan, more along the lines of Ace’s room. A soldier’s room.
There was the usual odd collection of furniture you find in TARDIS rooms, an expensive Shaker chair and a locked writing desk. It took me almost ten minutes to pick the lock, feeling guilty all the time. There was nothing in there but a couple of old issues of Badge and Bust.
The guns were in a huge metal cabinet, also locked. There were a lot of them, from a standard Adjudicator-issue blaster to a flintlock rifle to something big and chunky and very twentieth century. Chris probably knew their names; I had no idea.
He took each gun out, carefully, checking it over. ‘We could just move the cabinet,’ I suggested.
309
‘No,’ said Chris. He sat down on her bed, a creaky old brass affair, and unzipped the bag he’d brought. ‘We should take this room apart.’
Roz kept her clothes in a big wooden cupboard against the wall. I knew she had quite a few outfits, though nothing like the number I’d accumulated in my travels aboard the TARDIS… but I was surprised by the number of slacks and jeans and shirts. And boots, half a dozen pairs, carefully cleaned. And dresses. I couldn’t ever remember seeing Roz in a dress, except for the wedding on Yemaya… She must have worn them a few times.
Why couldn’t I remember?
‘I wonder if it would be OK if I looked after