Doctor Who_ The Banquo Legacy - Andy Lane [1]
Perhaps, he thought, Pamela would want to talk. She often did. He enjoyed listening to her, despite her childlike nature. She would tell him how beautiful the storm was and how she was not in the least frightened by it. And he would tell her about what was happening in the village, all the local gossip. How her cousin was up at the Manor, and what they were saying this week about her dead grandmother. Pamela would tell him how silly they all were and how they ought to be looked after properly. And Thomas would laugh and leave her to eat her bread, hoping the storm would soon abate.
A piercing scream rebounded along the corridor. Thomas absently kicked at the door it came from as he passed. He was wondering again why William was such a sickly child. Best not to worry, Doctor Merrick had said.
Pamela too had been a sickly child when Thomas had first seen her four years ago – was it really that long? Now she was fit and healthy. A healthy body if not a healthy mind.
‘Why is she here?’ he had asked. And they had told him. He still found it hard to believe. She was a good girl. Slow and childlike even now, her attitude lagging behind her nineteen years. But she meant well. Everything she said and did she believed in her heart was for the best. So few worries. For Thomas, even the small cut on the neck from shaving remained an annoyance as it rubbed against his starched collar.
He balanced the tray on one hand as he pushed the key into the lock with the other. A metallic scrape, a staccato click, and the heavy door swung slowly open.
She noticed at once. ‘What have you done?’ Pamela’s eyes were wide with worry.
‘It’s only a scratch. From my razor.’ He put down the tray, fingers grazing at the thin red line.
‘But, doesn’t it hurt, Thomas?’
He laughed at her concern. ‘It’s just a little blood. That’s all.’
She looked at him for a moment, thoughtful. ‘I must kiss it well again for you,’ she said at last.
He laughed at her serious manner. ‘All right.’ He wished he had a daughter like her, to help nurse his sick son.
She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the scratch at his neck. He smiled as she reached up and put her arms round his head. Her lips closed warmly on the thin red scratch as she closed her eyes.
He felt strangely tense, despite her closeness and the moisture of her mouth sucking slightly at his neck. Thomas closed his arms around her, protecting her, and felt the heat from her body as he embraced it.
‘She killed a cat.’
He heard the voice drifting out of the dead years, and then his own voice answering. ‘That hardly seems enough.’
An invisible chuckle. And then: ‘She drank its blood,’ came the cold reply as she buried her teeth in his soft throat.
* * *
For a second his frame went rigid. Then he relaxed, his weight falling on her receiving body as his warmth and life throbbed into her. She held him upright, pressed hard against her hot breast, her mouth wide open.
After a while she opened her eyes, relaxed. She listened to the moon-red rain spattering against the flagstones outside and the blood dripping to the floor. She felt warm and vital. Ready to go out. Ready to play.
* * *
Robert Dodds – the Robert Dodds – tied his dressing gown cord with a flourish. Hands lightly but firmly in the pockets, he looked around the chamber.
‘Get thee to bed,’ he said hugely to a chair by the window, then turned smartly towards the door. He removed a cigar from the box on the dressing table and held it cradled in his hands in front of him. He glared at it furiously, eyebrows knitted in concentration as from the base of his stomach he declaimed: ‘Is this –’
He broke off, concentration suddenly snapped, and glanced around. Nothing seemed amiss. So why was he suddenly so nervous? He felt a chill, as if a door had been opened and the storm outside was working its way in towards him.