Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [19]
‘And you’ve been eating well for how long?’ he asked.
‘Four weeks. Anyway, if you tried to treat every man, woman or child with a mild eating disorder and a touch of depression, you’d have a couple of million people in here.’
‘Most of those millions wouldn’t be able to afford our services, I’m afraid to say. Your father. . . ’
‘ Don’t,’ warned Laska, her eyes hardening.
Thomson tried again, reforming his words. ‘Your. . . situation. . . allows us to help you. You’re my only concern. Not other people.’ Thomson paused, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘I’m no more a fan of capitalism than you are, Laska. But we sell a product. You agreed to try us out. And my recommendation to you is that you stay.’
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just walk out of the door.’
Thomson settled on shock tactics of his own. He leaned forward earnestly.
‘If you walk out of here today, I guarantee within six months you’ll be living 32
in some squat, stuffing yourself stupid with crack, and paying for it by giving dirty old men hand jobs in public lavatories.’
Laska turned away, leaving Thomson to think he’d at last scored a point.
‘Don’t forget,’ he continued, ‘when you came in here, you were in such a state you didn’t know who the hell you were, or what was going on. If I’d have said the sky was day-glo green with orange spots, you’d probably have agreed with me.’
‘But I’m nothing like that now.’
‘I know, and you owe it to yourself not to leave the job half done. A few more weeks – that’s all it will take.’
Laska leaned back in her chair, suddenly more relaxed. There was a long pause, Thomson wondering what mental cogs and gears were moving in her mind, wondering if anything he ever said had any impact on the machinery that governed Laska’s world and her perception of it.
When she spoke again, her voice was so hushed that Thomson had to strain to catch the words. ‘My dad used to say. . . Only the foolish builder starts a job, not knowing if he has the tools, time and equipment to finish it.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I’m ready to finish the job, Dr Thomson.’
She said nothing else, and was still staring up at the ceiling when Thomson left the room.
Thomson found Liz Bartholomew in the staff room, deep in conversation with James Abel, a male nurse who had been working at the Retreat for some weeks. Thomson noticed that James was trying to smooth out the crumples and creases in his uniform; in fact, he looked like so many people in their early twenties, biologically incompatible with tidy clothing and rigid posture.
Thomson smiled – he was sounding more and more like his father. The next step would be to buy the Daily Mail and fret about the apparent youth of policemen. Thomson was 37, but he knew an unhealthy interest in gardening and Radio Four couldn’t be far off.
‘I was out near the orchards,’ James was saying as he nervously fiddled with the cuff of his uniform. ‘Just taking a walk.’
‘You were having a sly fag you mean,’ said Thomson, affecting to wander past and casually join in their conversation.
‘Dr Thomson,’ said Liz with mock irritation as James began to redden like the setting sun, ‘you know what they say about people in glass houses.’
Thomson sat down, reaching for the back pages of one of the newspapers on the coffee table. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said, trying to act the innocent. ‘I never have so much as a single puff of the dreaded weed.’
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‘Single puff, no, but you’d smoke a packet in one go if I let you.’ Liz turned back to James, still a delightfully inhuman shade of crimson. ‘Ignore him. Do carry on.’
‘I found a couple of boys from the village scrumping for apples,’ continued James. ‘Of course, you can’t lay a finger on ’em, can you? Anyway, I just yelled at them and they scarpered.’
‘It happens,’ said Liz, sighing. Thomson knew this sort of nonsense wasn’t exactly Liz’s top priority.
‘I have already advised Brown to check perimeter security,’ came a voice from the doorway. Thomson didn’t need to turn to see