Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [25]
He blinked against the darkness, against the steady stream of expelled air.
He stared until his eyes adjusted sufficiently to see what was within.
The light he could see more clearly now, like a rip in the fabric of the darkness, or falling crystal tears. It seemed to shift slightly, but Bernard was unsure if the light moved, or simply became brighter.
Suddenly Bernard was gripped by irrational, primal terror. He shivered, and pulled his face away, then half stumbled, half ran for the relative protection of the hedgerow, the kissing gate, the field and his parked car.
Around his legs, Marion the retriever yapped and jumped nervously, but Bernard didn’t say a word until they got back to the safety of his cottage.
Within the folly, something still lived.
James tapped on the door with the back of his hand.
No response.
He knocked a little harder, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure he was alone.
Still nothing. He placed his ear against the door – sometimes she had her music turned up too high – but the room seemed quiet.
He turned the handle and went in, carefully closing the door behind him before turning around. With its poster-covered walls and leaning towers of CDs, it was the only room he could think of in the whole of the Retreat that didn’t look like an offshoot of an antiseptic hospital ward. Laska had even 43
gone as far as changing the light fitting and hanging a drape of red sari material over the window. They’d stopped her painting the walls but had conceded on the other points – or, at least, that’s what she said. Perhaps she’d just gone ahead and made the changes anyway – James didn’t suppose anyone else was in the habit of coming in here.
Laska was standing in the centre of the room, her back to him. She’d discarded what she called her ‘business suit’ – the plainest, smartest, dullest clothes that she had with her – and was changing into her more usual black jeans and T-shirt. She hadn’t quite finished; though the ‘suit’ was in a crumpled mound at her feet, the T-shirt was still in her hands in a ball. James noticed that she was wearing Walkman headphones. She was half dancing, half shaking in frustration, as if something she was listening to had sufficiently gripped her to stop her in her tracks.
James approached and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Laska swivelled on the spot, almost snarling at him. With one hand she tore off the headphones, with the other she tried to unravel the T-shirt and cover her arms. James glimpsed old white scars, remembered that when they made love Laska usually turned out the lights. There were some places even he wasn’t permitted to go.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ she spat.
‘I knocked on the door,’ said James, taking a step backwards. ‘You didn’t hear me.’
‘Well, duh. I’ve got my Walkman on.’
‘Look, if this isn’t a good time. . . ’
Laska shook her head. ‘No. Sorry. I was just. . . ’ She paused for a moment, as if unsure what she had been doing. ‘Just thinking about something. . . ’ She started pulling the long-sleeved T-shirt over her head.
‘Nice bra,’ said James with an appreciative grin.
‘I’m not in the mood, right?’ snapped Laska when her head emerged.
‘Did you see Dr Thomson this morning?’
‘Why is it, the moment I say I’m not interested in shagging or schoolboy in-nuendo, you automatically assume something has happened about my treatment?’ She paused for a moment, combing her slender fingers through her hair.
James held her gaze. ‘I’m not wrong though, am I? You’ve been talking about your session with Mike Thomson all week.’ He paused, wondering what to say next. ‘I care for you, Laska.’
It was a ridiculous statement, too trite and soapy, for all the reality he intended by it. But then, if James had been better with words, he wouldn’t have ended up working at a dump like the Retreat.
44
Laska slumped on the bed. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She reached out for James’s hand, gripped it for a moment before letting it fall. ‘Yes, I saw Dr Thomson today. He recommended