Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [27]
James had mentioned that one of Dr Smith’s friends – either the dopey bloke or the bitchy blonde, he didn’t say which – had asked him about the history of the Retreat. Perhaps the time had come. Perhaps now it was right to re-open the past and, as if it was an objective scientific experiment, see how that made her feel. If she could look at this stuff without flinching, without it dragging her down into the grey mists of listlessness and depression, then she would be able to look Dr Thomson square in the eyes next time and say, yes, she was better.
46
She reached under the bed for the battered suitcase. It smelled of old leather and spilled sun cream; it was one of the few things she’d insisted they get from home before she’d even consider staying at the Retreat.
She pressed the two catches. One clicked easily, the other was red with rust but gave way in the end. The lid swung open.
Laska closed her eyes, inhaled deeply. In among the musty smell of mildew and damp she caught the faintest whiff of something else. Her father’s after-shave. Just for a moment that most evocative of senses led her down a path; at its head was her father and the security of childhood. Afternoons in the park, playing eternally on the swings, always the sun – even in winter when little hands were wrapped in bright woollen gloves and burning ears were warmed by shapeless hats – and always a safe pair of hands to catch her, to push swings and roundabouts of delight, to smooth over grazed knees.
She forced open her eyes.
At the top of the pile of books and documents was a tiny plastic jewellery case that had no doubt originally contained something cheap and cheerful from Ratners. For the last year or so it had protected something much more precious.
She flipped open the lid. In the box, nestling on velvety padding, was a silver pendant. She removed it from the case, suddenly impatient. It was just as she remembered it, and the chain was unbroken, each rounded link perfect. It terminated with a kind of silver claw, which in turn was clamped tightly around a tooth. The tooth was sharp – a canine? – and would not have seemed out of place in the skull of some dog or great cat were it not for the fact that it was the same lustrous silver colour as the necklace. And yet, as Laska reached out to touch the pendant for the first time in months, it did not feel like metal. It was as smooth, and as light, as ivory, and it felt warm to the touch.
Her father had said that the necklace – though macabre – was an excellent example of English craftsmanship; indeed, Laska could barely remember a time when he didn’t wear it, though he felt self-conscious on the beach. ‘Peo-ple will think it’s a shark’s tooth,’ he said, ‘and that I’m a complete poseur.’
The pendant was one of the things that she most associated with her father –
that, and poring over his books and papers as evening turned to night.
She put on the necklace, fiddling for a few moments with the delicate but surprisingly robust clasp. Then she began to rummage through the papers and books further down in the suitcase.
They weren’t in any order – one day, after her father’s death, she had cleared the old desk by simply sweeping what she could into the case. Under the desk there was another bag or two of documents, and she’d put the suitcase there, never intending to examine them further.
47
When she was about to be admitted to the Retreat she suddenly remembered the suitcase, and wanted it as a reminder of her old life. Now, with the tooth on the end of the necklace warming her chest, she had the desire to read, to explore, to find out what Dad had been up to all that time.
The first few pages she examined were diagrams representing family trees, annotated in her father’s barely legible scrawl. That was so typical of him –
despite appearances, he was very interested in matters of history, tradition and heritage. Apparently he’d done a course on genealogy at the local college, when Laska was tiny and Mum was