Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [40]
Liz thought about opening up to him as well, but remembered Smith’s puzzling, insightful reaction. She forced on her broadest, more relaxed smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
Being told that Dr Smith wanted a word with you was one thing; actually finding him was quite another. Laska knocked on the door of Smith’s office and, when she was sure it was empty, risked a look inside. The room was 67
awash with paper, boxes and books; there wouldn’t have been anywhere to sit, even if Smith had been there. Next she tried the sports hall (a rather grand phrase for a room in the old stable block that contained a snooker table with too few balls and a ping-pong table with none at all) and the other communal areas, and then finally the staff room and the kitchens. No one she spoke to had seen him for hours.
She was beginning to wonder how on earth James had managed to contrive an encounter with Dr Smith. A dark thought crossed her mind – it was no mere coincidence, perhaps, that he had picked on James for this ‘errand’. If Smith had specifically sought James then somehow he must know of James’s relationship with Laska, and if he knew. . . Then at best James faced the sack, and Laska. . .
But hiring and firing wasn’t Smith’s job, which meant that either he didn’t know – or he simply hadn’t told Dr Bartholomew yet.
Nothing for it but to hunt the man down, find out what he wanted, discover whether he did know and was maybe open to some form of blackmail – or, just possibly, that he simply wanted a chat about nothing in particular, and that Laska’s paranoia had got the better of her again. She pushed her way through the dark panelled doors of reception and out on to the gravel driveway. Past the ornamental garden, and then over to the left, almost halfway between the main building and the huge gateway on the edge of the grounds, she came upon the cottage, a beautiful Victorian confection, part gamekeeper’s lodge, part fairy-tale chalet and built, doubtless, with the callused, underpaid, underage hands of long-dead workers.
She paused for a moment. Why could she take nothing at face value? Why couldn’t she just enjoy the building for what it was instead of always seeking out the worst in it? It was a most unappealing character trait.
She knew the answer instantly: she hated ‘face value’, surfaces, coverings, veneer. She hated hypocrisy. What was under the surface might not be pretty, but at least it was honest.
Honest.
The word rang through her mind. Just how honest are you, Laska? Did you tell James about your dream, about the great dog thing that you imagined had attacked you? Do you ever answer a straight question without first weighing up a range of possible answers, without first asking what is the best reply, in the circumstances?
She was honest, but only up to a point. More than all these things, Laska was scared.
She banged on the cottage door firmly, trying to concentrate on what she was going to say, trying to bring her spinning thoughts under control. . . Trying to remember if she’d taken her medication that morning.
68
The young man called Fitz answered the door. He was tall and gangling, all uncombed hair and five o’clock shadow. He had a certain disreputable charm, a fag hanging out of one corner of his mouth.
He wafted the smoke away, his features breaking into a smile ‘Thank goodness for that!’ he exclaimed, waving Laska into the room. ‘Thought it was the Doctor!’
‘The Doctor?’ queried Laska.
‘Smith,’ added Fitz quickly. ‘Of course. Yes, Dr Smith. I just call him “The Doctor”, it saves me from. . . Well, anyway, he doesn’t approve of me smoking in the house.’
The living room into which they walked was like Smith’s office, writ large.
Extravagant trappings – a miniature chandelier, gothic wrought-iron curtain poles, gilt-framed portraits of stern Edwardian gentlemen – were dwarfed and masked by an amorphous mass of clutter. Expensive-looking books supported computer monitors, seemingly tuned to dead television