Doctor Who_ The City of the Dead - Lloyd Rose [96]
Rust shrugged, neither proud nor embarrassed. 'You were right. It all comes down to energy'
'Specifically, it all comes down to my energy.'
'Yes.'
'I'm not sure how I feel about that.'
'How you feel about it doesn't matter.'
'Perhaps not to you. Actually, what a silly remark that was. I know exactly how I feel about it. I don't like it.'
'There's nothing you can do about it.'
"That's so. Apparently, you don't even need me to be conscious. So why am I conscious?'
Rust frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'I mean why am I awake to rabbit on at you in this annoying fashion when my energy would be just as accessible if you knocked me out? Not that I'm suggesting that. I'm perfectly content to have this conversation. What I wonder is why you want to have it.' The Doctor's gaze couldn't have been more limpid. 'Self-justification?'
Rust looked into the fire. The Doctor regarded him thoughtfully. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly gentle. 'Why did your father start practising magic?'
'I don't know.'
'But you have a theory' Rust was silent. 'I have a theory too. Rather a vague one. That was an old plantation. Your family had come down in the world.'
'My family ' Rust began. Then he laughed. He laughed for a long time, and when he finished he said harshly, 'My family was Creole.' The Doctor's expression was blank. Rust's face twisted. 'You naive little bastard. We were black. I'm black.'
If Rust had been able to entertain any doubts about whether the Doctor was an alien, they would have been smashed by his reaction. The Doctor's eyes – blue eyes, white man's eyes - didn't flick over him in surprise, looking for telltale 'signs' of African lineage. He didn't protest 'But you look white.' He just frowned slightly and said, 'Ah.' He sounded sad.
Rust turned back to the fire. 'Even in the eighteenth century,' he said, his voice matter-of-fact, 'many black Creoles were mixed-race and looked
"whiter" than the Africans the Americans had enslaved. And the families intermarried, choosing partners of as light a colour as possible. Somewhere a few generations back some Irish and German blood came into the Delesormes mix. You've seen my father: he looked as "white" as I do. His father was a little darker; people who didn't know sometimes thought he was Italian. But there weren't many people who didn't know. Racially, New Orleans was just a small Southern town. Everyone knew everyone's business. Everyone knew who was "tainted". Down through the decades, white businessmen understood who was "coloured" and therefore deserving of being taken advantage of, who they could apply racial laws against, who they could exploit with the full support of the courts. Yes, my family came down in the world.' His head snapped viciously toward the Doctor. 'We were pulled down.'
The Doctor said nothing. Rust looked away from his eyes. "The things my father endured And then I betrayed him.'
'You were a child,' whispered the Doctor.
'He was my father!' Rust was suddenly out of his chair, his face inches from the Doctor's.'And through my cowardice, I destroyed him!'
'He risked destroying his child for his own gain,' the Doctor responded, unflinching. 'What sort of parent would do that?'
Rust pulled back. His eyes regained their bitter irony. 'How would you understand any of this? Do you even have a father?'
'I -' the Doctor began softly.
'Don't tell me!' said Rust savagely. 'You don't know't You've conveniently forgotten! Memory is for us lower creatures. We're trapped in it, gnawing off a limb to get free.' He leaned in again. But we can't get free! Can you even begin to comprehend that, in that sterile eternal present of yours?'
The Doctor said calmly, 'Do you want to forget?'
Rust straightened, taken aback. 'I don't ' he began uncertainly. He grimaced in self-disgust. 'I don't know.'
'It wouldn't help, you know.' The Doctor sat perfectly