Doctor Who_ The Paradise of Death - Barry Letts [97]
Freeth arrived shortly after they reached the area, deep under the centre of the stadium, which Sarah could see had been designed as a place to bring troublemakers. There was a row of lockups in the corridor; the circular main room had doors all round, obviously leading to different sectors of the stadium. There were manacles fastened to the wall, and trestles and frames the purpose of which she felt no impulse to ask, especially in view of the rack containing different types of whip and scourge next to them. And why should there be a drain in the corner?
Freeth’s peevishness at being summoned from the Games vanished in a moment when he saw the reason for it. ‘Two sitting ducks, Chairman,’ said Tragan.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, wonderingly. ‘I must admit you have surprised me.’
‘I’m afraid that the others are still missing,’ said Tragan,
‘including the woman who pretended to be the dead Katyan Glessey.’
The computer check at the Data Store!
‘No matter,’ said Freeth. ‘This is the one I want. Well, Doctor, what am I going to do with you?’
‘If you’re wise, you’ll listen to what I have to say to you.’
‘Oh, but I’m not. Wise? The very idea! Cunning and devious will do me.’ His playful tone faded. ‘What is more to the point is that I am powerful – and vindictive. I have been made to look a fool.’
‘Appearances are not always deceptive,’ said the Doctor.
Freeth’s thick lips drew back over his little teeth in a cross between a sneer and a smirk. ‘A cheap gibe, Doctor,’
his face lit up, ‘and one that is going to kill you. You have given me a simply top-hole idea!’
‘I can’t wait.’ said the Doctor.
So the Chairman explained. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it has been an immemorial custom, for at least five years, that before the championship final, the audience is given an hors d’oeuvre, an antipasto, a little snackette, so to speak.
Two fierce gentlemen come on dressed as clowns and perform a send-up – is that right, Miss Smith?’ He twinkled briefly in Sarah’s direction. ‘Yes, a send-up of the final combat.’
He turned back to the Doctor. ‘And since you’re in the market for making people look like fools, it struck me that it would be a splendid wheeze if you were to be the understudy, so to speak. Dressed as a clown.
‘Oh, not to pretend to fight another clown, of course, but a real fight to the – if you’ll forgive the expression – death.’
His face was illuminated by another bright idea. ‘And to make sure that you lose, we’ll put you up against Mr Jenhegger. You know – the favourite to win the championship? Now, isn’t that the most spiffing notion?’
‘And if I refuse?’ said the Doctor coldly.
‘Ah, but you won’t! You see, we shall take you to the changing rooms, and Miss Smith will stay here with her dear old friend, Mr Tragan.’
In spite of herself, Sarah shrank back – and saw that the Doctor had noticed.
‘Every time you jib,’ Freeth went on, obviously enjoying himself, ‘we shall bring you a piece of your lady friend.
Only teensy-weensy pieces, of course – we’re not barbarians – and you can decide how much of her you want. There! What could be fairer than that? You can even choose which bits, if you like.’
‘You’ll leave Sarah alone!’ said the Doctor.
Freeth smiled charmingly. ‘Entirely up to you, dear boy.’
Tragan had been listening apparently impassively, but his face was boiling like a thick purple soup. ‘You haven’t said anything about the Toad,’ he said in an empty voice.
‘Nor I have!’ said Freeth in delight. ‘The cherry on the icing, the Toad is. You see, the fighting circle is in the middle of a – well, I suppose you would call it a catwalk –
over a pit. And in the pit – and this is where the fun comes in – in the pit is the Toad. The Great Butcher Toad, they call him, though he’s not so big as all that; about the size of a bull, I suppose. Yes, a small bull. And you see, he simply adores tearing people into bite-sized munchies, and eating them. Especially when he hasn’t had his usual, ah, meat and two veg? Is that the right colloquialism? Please do correct