Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [21]
James Abel leant against the crumbling rear wall of the Retreat, facing the orchards where he’d caught the local lads scrambling in the branches. He 35
didn’t blame them, really – the area was a bit of a mess, and thus ripe for exploration. A retired army officer from the village kept the front gardens in a reasonable state but he rarely had time to come around the back. Most of the year the trees hung heavy with unpicked fruit and the grass was clogged with rotten brown apples.
James waved the smoke away from his face. Thomson had really landed him in it earlier – even if he had just been larking around, and Dr Bartholomew had taken it all right. He liked Thomson tremendously. If you stripped away the age difference, and all the educational and social privileges Thomson had been blessed with, they weren’t that different – just two blokes muddling their way through life, looking for love, live football and cheap beer. But Thomson was the sort of bloke who’d strip naked and paint his willy blue if he thought it would get a laugh – his larking about would be the death of him. Thomson’s attitude – which implied that he couldn’t care less – had already prevented a number of promotions and pay rises. But James suspected that, underneath it all, Thomson was nothing if not conscientious and concerned, and worried by the fact that his career seemed to have hit a dead end since his arrival at the Retreat. It was a frequent topic of conversation during their post-badminton pints in the lounge of the Red Lion, when there was no money left for the trivia machine and drink was starting to make Thomson unusually honest.
Thomson was a clown whose tomfoolery disguised an inner turmoil.
‘Mind if I join you?’
James turned – it was Smith’s young female student. Well, he said young, but he had no real idea how old she was. There was something about her eyes that spoke of having seen things. Terrible things. But the rest of her. . . She looked as fresh as a daisy, and much, much sexier.
‘Be my guest,’ said James, patting the ground next to him. ‘Busy day in the library?’
‘Something like that,’ said Trix, settling herself down and accepting James’s proffered cigarette. ‘Thanks,’ she said, drawing deeply, before adding, ‘Got my figure to think about’, by way of explanation.
‘You’ve got nothing to fear,’ said James, trying not to look too closely. He wasn’t actively searching for a change of scenery on the girlfriend front, but then again, a little flirting never hurt anyone, did it?
‘I suppose I should join you and Dr Thomson at the sports club one night. . . ’
‘You’d be more than welcome.’
‘But I’m egotistical enough to not want you to see me looking all hot and sweaty,’ continued Trix, feigning a look of innocence.
A million smutty responses crossed James’s mind but he ignored them all.
‘I was hoping to ask you about the history of the Retreat,’ said Trix, her manner changing in an instant – suddenly cold and businesslike.
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‘Oh, I don’t know anything,’ said James automatically. ‘You’ve got a library full of books in there. . . ’ He gestured through the wall behind him as if to point out the dusty library in the heart of the building, with its crumbling documents and numerous rows of cracked leather books.
‘But they only tell you so much,’ said Trix. ‘I’m interested in a bit of background flavour. You’re a local, aren’t you? I’m wondering if you’d heard anything when you were growing up.’
‘It was just the nut-house,’ said James. ‘I always remember it being a bit of a wreck. Uninhabited. Mum used to say it was unsafe and should’ve been knocked down.’
‘Did you ever come here when you were younger?’
James looked around, remembering his earlier conversation with Liz and the lads he’d caught playing in the orchard.
‘It’s all right,’ said Trix. ‘I’m hardly going to report back to Dr Bartholomew!’
James nodded, his eyes downcast. ‘I used to come from time to time – a dare, that