Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [22]
‘Interrogate?’ The Doctor sounded affronted.
‘In here,’ barked Grek, propelling the Doctor into the now‐empty conference room.
The place stank of gas. The Doctor cleared his throat noisily and sat down in a canvas chair, mopping his perspiring brow with a silk handkerchief.
Grek began to pace up and down and the Doctor watched him with some amusement. ‘Aren’t you going to shine a light in my face? Or haven’t you had the electricity laid on yet?’
Grek spun round, his face a picture of anger and puzzlement. ‘What?’
‘It’s one of the hoarier cliches of interrogation, in my experience.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘Do what?’
‘Talk!’
The Doctor laughed lightly. ‘Second nature. I’ve been doing it all my lives. As an aid to communication it’s quite without parallel.’
Grek bent down and gazed into the Doctor’s impenetrably dark eyes. ‘What kind of beast are you?’
The Doctor gazed back levelly, unblinking. ‘I’m not a beast. I’m the Doctor. And if you’ll stop treating me like an exhibit in a circus, I’ll explain myself to you.’
Grek stood up sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘No. No, it’s impossible. You’re some kind of freak.’
‘I did know some Siamese twins once,’ said the Doctor, glancing introspectively at the low ceiling. ‘And the odd hermaphrodite. Very odd, in fact. But I wouldn’t count them amongst my closest acquaintances.’
Grek turned slowly, his pearly teeth biting into his lip. ‘You’re a spy, then. Some sort of experiment the Cutch have devised. Get behind the lines, gather intelligence…’
‘I’m a little conspicuous for a spy, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Then what are you?’ hissed Grek, grabbing the Doctor by the shoulders.
‘I’ve told you. I’m the Doctor. I’m just passing through.’
The two men were silent for a long moment, as though daring each other to move. Then the tension was broken by a light, rattling sound.
The Doctor glanced up and saw that the gas jets were shaking in their housings. Grek spun round as the map instruments on the long tables rolled onto the floor.
The room suddenly shook as though it had been rammed, and Grek tumbled into the Doctor’s arms.
‘Get down!’ shouted the Doctor, leaping from his chair and pressing Grek’s head towards the planked floor.
The walls were shuddering now, struts bursting asunder, sending rivulets of black mud cascading into the room.
‘We must get to the surface!’ screeched Grek, attempting to stand. He buckled instantly at the knees as the ground swayed beneath his boots.
‘No! Stay down!’ shouted the Doctor above the increasing din.
Grek ignored him and crawled across the floor towards the lurching doorway. The gas‐frames creaked ominously.
Grek had almost reached his goal when the floor buckled under him, sending him crashing into the corner. Above, the fragile ceiling beams groaned as mud pressed down from the surface.
The Doctor shot a glance at the splintering beams above the dazed Grek and made a split‐second decision. With surprising strength, he upturned the long refectory table and tipped it over Grek.
The Ismetch leader looked up confusedly as the table blocked his view. Almost immediately, a great corner of the beamed ceiling came crashing down, thudding onto the table and littering it with timber, mud and masonry.
As the tremor rolled to an end, the air was filled with dust and gas. Grek peered through the murk, the table shadowing his dazed face, and saw the Doctor smiling down at him.
‘Well, Commander,’ said the little freak, ‘I think I just saved your life.’
* * *
Night was coming on fast. The jungle was disappearing in an inky haze, trees and foliage rustling like restless, shadowy giants. The chirruping of insects continued unabated.
The sentry looked around uneasily. The rain had let up but there was now an incessant dripping from the soaked jungle canopy which did nothing to calm his nerves.
He adjusted the strap of his rifle and began his regular patrol, boots sinking deep into the marshy ground. A falling star caught his eye and he looked up at the