Doctor Who_ The Awakening - Eric Pringle [18]
4
Of Psychic Things
Utterly perplexed by this development, the Doctor simply gaped as the limbs bursting out of the wall finally became still. A youth stood beside him, coughing and spluttering and beating dust. out of his clothes.
These were genuine seventeenth-century garments – a loose leather jerkin that had seen much better days, a shirt of coarse grey homespun cloth, ragged trousers and heavy buckled shoes. The body inside them was short and stocky, topped by a round moon face wearing a truculent expression. He was filthy dirty. His fingers bled from their efforts at battwring masonry and the light dazzled his eyes.
He rocked on his heels, spitting grime from his mouth, and looked belligerently about him.
When his eyes focussed on the astonished Doctor, they opened wide in surprise. ‘What took ‘ee zo long?’ he demanded, in a thick, antiquated burr. ‘I bin in thur for ages!’ Then he noticed the Doctor’s clothes, and his voice trailed away in awe.
Now the Doctor found his voice. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, giving what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
Evidently it wasn’t, because the youth retreated with a worried and uncertain look on his face. The Doctor offered him an even more confident smile, and held out his hand.
‘I’m the Doctor,’ he said.
The youth withdrew some more. He backed right away from the Doctor’s hand. ‘Doctor?’ he asked. ‘Doctor bain’t a proper name.’ Then he cocked his head on one side and said in a proud voice, ‘Will Chandler be a proper name.’
Encouraged, the Doctor moved towards him. The effect was an immediate return to belligerence: startled and aggressive, the youth stooped and picked up a stone to defend himself. He had his back against the wall, and could go no further.
‘Get ‘ee off me,’ he demanded.
‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘I won’t let ‘ee.’
The Doctor paused. He regarded this Will Chandler very carefully, and with some uncertainty. After all, he reflected, it isn’t every day that you see somebody come out of a wall. His mind raced, forming theories and as readily discarding them. There was one idea, however, which would not go away; it steadily gained conviction in the Doctor’s mind, even though he knew it was impossible.
Suddenly Will Chandler’s aggression left him; he winced and held his right hand tenderly. ‘My hand’s hurtin’,’ he muttered, all at once feeling sorry for himself.
The Doctor held out his left hand. ‘Show me,’ he said firmly.
Tentatively, Will raised his arm. The Doctor took hold of it gently and felt it all over, not just for breaks or other injuries but to confirm for himself that this youth was actually real. The arm was solid enough, and warm, and the flesh yielded under his fingers. Apart from grazing and bruising, it was intact.
The Doctor nodded towards the shattered wall. ‘What were you doing in there?’
‘It’s a priest hole, ain’t it?’ Will said truculently. ‘I hid from fightin’.’
The Doctor frowned. ‘What fighting?’
The question revealed ignorance of large proportions, seemingly, or even stupidity, for Will’s face puckered up into a disbelieving smile and he withdrew his arm from the Doctor’s hand.
‘What fightin’? Ho, wur you been, then?’ There was genuine puzzlement in his voice.
The Doctor felt that his idea was gaining ground, and credulity. Casually he put his hands into his pockets, then leaned down towards Will’s face. ‘What year is it?’ he asked him.
Will reacted with a broad grin. ‘I knows that un,’ he said in a pleased voice, as if he was answering a teacher’s question in school. But despite his confidence he hesitated, walking around the Doctor and getting his brain into gear, making sure he got this right. ‘Year’s ... zixteen hunnerd an’ forty ... three!’ He finished with a triumphant flourish, but his hand was hurting again and he sat down in a pew and nursed it, grunting with the pain.
‘Sixteen hundred and forty three, eh?’ The Doctor looked at Will Chandler with much sympathy but, as yet, not a lot of understanding. His idea had been valid, after all. He was not really surprised, for