Doctor Who_ The City of the Dead - Lloyd Rose [89]
The Doctor was having a dream in equal parts frightening and annoying.
Wherever he went - and in the dream he found himself on, for varying reasons, a rooftop, some church steps, a sofa, a beach, a dining room table (surrounded by appalled faces), a staircase hewn from gemstone, the deck of a ship, and far more operating tables than he felt were strictly justified, even for a nightmare - he kept running into a featureless, completely white female apparition who was inclined to be entirely too familiar. Finally, exasperated beyond all courtesy, he shouted, 'I'm having nothing more to do with you, you hussy: you'll go out with anyone who hits his thumb with a hammer!' – a sentence that made absolutely no sense to him - and then he was awake, bright sunlight warming his face.
The left side of his face, to be exact. He was lying on his stomach with his head turned.
The sun felt good. He lay enjoying it for a while until it occurred to him to wonder why he was on his stomach. He never slept that way. He shifted, and the memory of pain flashed up his spine. Oh. That was why.
He opened his eyes. He was stretched on a small bed in a room with a high ceiling. Through the tall window next to him he could see a tree backlit by the late afternoon or early morning sun. There was something familiar about it.
The Doctor took a deep, slow breath. 'Ah,' he murmured. 'Of course.' As he spoke, he realised he wasn't alone. Carefully, he raised himself up on his elbows, wincing just slightly, and turned so that he could see the rest of the room. It was a child's room: scattered toys, a low case of messily shelved picture books, a poster of dinosaurs coming untaped from the wall. Across from the window, a set of glass doors stood open to a veranda. Leaning in these, hands in his pockets, was the magician.
"Well,' said the Doctor, 'I'm surprised.'
'You and me both,' said Rust.
Chapter Eighteen
In Search of Lost Time
"This is the point where I strike my brow and cry, "I should have known!"'
said the Doctor. 'But, frankly, this whole business has been dreadfully confusing. It still is.' In spite of his light tone, his face was appalled.
Rust's eyes were wary and uneasy, almost unhappy. But his mouth was set in the hard line of someone who, though he doesn't like what he has to do, still intends to do it. 'What are you?' he asked quietly.
The Doctor rested his head on his arms. 'Me? I'm chance. The roll of the dice that comes up seven. The straight flush. The fifth bingo number. Also, I'm from another planet. Don't ask me which planet. I've forgotten.' He blinked at Rust. 'It's a pity. I rather liked you.'
'And now?'
'Now I'm ambivalent. And puzzled. I had it all nicely figured out. The villain was the Delesormes son. But, obviously, you're the father.Why don't you limp?'
Rust fixed his narrow eyes on him. 'I'm not the father.'
'No,' the Doctor murmured after a beat. 'Of course you're not. How old are you? Are you even thirty?'
'Not quite.'
"The energy problem,' the Doctor said. 'Instead of cutting away your bone, you cut away your life.' He gave a long sigh that sounded like a groan and buried his face in the crook of his arm. He stayed like that. Rust stood motionless. His face was unreadable, and the sun turned his eyes yellow.
After a time, the Doctor mumbled something into his arm. Rust said,
'What?'
The Doctor didn't move, but his voice was clearer. 'I wish it wasn't you.'
Rust folded his arms and bowed his head. The Doctor said, 'When are we?'
'Nineteen seventy-eight or thereabouts. I'm not precisely sure.' The Doctor turned his face towards him. 'You're difficult to control,' Rust added dryly.
'It has been said.'
They looked at each other, the Doctor relaxed, his eyes clear and disconcertingly deep, as if you could fall into them and never reach the bottom, and Rust remaining still. The Doctor was the first to move, shifting on to his side and propping his head on one hand.
'Tell you what,' he offered conversationally. 'I'll tell you your story,