Doctor Who_ The King of Terror - Keith Topping [59]
‘You’ve got the bullshit working overtime, haven’t you?’ said Kyla when he eventually stopped, spitting out a tooth that had freed itself.
Chung let out a long frustrated cry and slumped into his chair. ‘Tell me where the disk is,’ he said without emotion.
‘No,’ replied Kyla.
‘That was the reply I expected,’ said Chung. ‘I shall not bother with the “we can do this the easy way or the hard way” nonsense because we both know that you aren’t going to talk until you’ve been tortured. Then you’ll tell me.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Kyla, laughing again.
Chung Sen tried his best war-criminal voice, even though he knew that he was merely mouthing clichés. ‘Slow and extremely painfully torture,’ he said.
‘Or, we can go for the quick and painless option if you’d prefer.’
‘I’ll take slow and painful if it’s all the same to you,’ said Kyla defiantly.
‘Very well,’ replied Chung. He looked at one of the guards. ‘Break all her fingers, one at a time. If that doesn’t work attach electrodes to her nipples, or whatever else it is you do for fun with electricity.’
The guard holding Kyla in a headlock increased his pressure as the first of her fingers was snapped by his colleague.
Chung turned his back. He bit, deeply, into his lip as the second fingerbone was wrenched from its socket. He spun round whilst Kyla was still screaming to the rafters in agony and, impressively, in defiance.
Chung knelt beside her, stroking her hair. ‘It can stop now,’ he said.
Kyla cursed, viciously. And, as she did so, she spat in Chung’s Face. ‘See you in hell,’ she said, and slumped back in the chair as the guards grabbed her hair and pulled her backwards.
Chung wiped the spittle from his cheek with his own misshapen fingers.
‘Take her away,’ he told the guards, removing his glasses to clean them. ‘Do what you have to.’
‘I hope you’re finding this cathartic, slant-eyes,’ said Kyla, her broken teeth grimacing into a leer of contempt as she was dragged from the room, leaving Chung alone with his bourbon.
A hand was stroking Turlough’s chin. He smiled, though his eyes were still closed. The skin doing the stroking was soft and gentle and smelt of French 114
perfume.
‘Hmmm.’ He rolled towards the velvet touch of the hand and felt warmth on his thighs and stomach. Bodies touching, skin on skin. His eyes opened, in slow motion.
He was in Eva’s apartment.
In Eva’s bed.
With Eva.
Does not compute.
Turlough needed a moment to focus, but he didn’t get it. ‘Wake up sleepy-head,’ said Eva drowsily, a grin on her face, her eyes, like Turlough’s, half-closed against the harsh early morning sun pouring through the open windows of her apartment.
Does not compute.
Turlough couldn’t find the connection he was looking for.
‘That was some rough night we had. You were like a crazed dog.’
Does not compute. Definitely.
‘Where . . . ?’ Eva rolled away from him and Turlough found himself instinctively reaching out his hands to hold her. ‘Don’t go,’ he said as she sat up, naked, and climbed out of bed.
‘Coffee?’ she asked, wrapping herself in a crumpled sheet.
Turlough felt dizzy and disorientated. He still fumbled for something in his mind that would tell him what was going on. Other than the obvious.
‘No,’ he said flatly. And he wasn’t just talking about the coffee. ‘Did we . . . ?’
‘To the end, baby.’
‘Right.’
Eva slipped back between the sheets and put her arms around Turlough.
‘What’s the matter?’ She kissed him on the forehead and moved her hand down his arm, tickling the goose flesh.
‘I . . . I’m a bit . . . ’ Turlough paused. ‘Confused,’ he confessed at length.
‘Whatever,’ said Eva dismissively. Another kiss full on the lips, teeth clashing, tongue on tongue.
‘You taste all salty,’ she said.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Turlough, the fog still clouding him. He couldn’t remember the last thing he could remember. The bar was clear enough. And the football game.
‘Don’t apologise, silly.’ Eva ran a finger down Turlough’s chest. ‘You kept on talking about your friend last night. The Doctor. So is he for real then, or was that just a load