Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [41]
‘The Retreat has a strict no-smoking policy,’ said Laska, still trying to come to terms with the room.
‘Indeed it does. And quite right too,’ said Fitz, puffing away on his cigarette.
‘I never smoke, of course. Not tobacco, anyway.’ She stared at Fitz, expecting some of reaction.
Nothing. Not a sausage.
‘I gather most of the smokers meet out at the back of the house,’ observed Fitz, trying to make some room to sit down. ‘I suppose I should join them some time – get all the gossip, you know.’
‘And what sort of gossip would you be interested in?’
Fitz chuckled. ‘Anything involving good-looking nurses who haven’t got boyfriends.’
‘You go for that sexy uniform thing, do you?’
Fitz grinned. ‘You show me a man who doesn’t and I’ll show you a big, fat liar.’
‘But those tights they wear – so not sexy! Now, stockings on the other hand. . . ’
69
She couldn’t believe it – from nowhere, she was flirting with him. And Laska wasn’t the sort of girl to go flirting with just any old Tom, Dick or Harriet. Was this what Fitz wanted? Was this what she had perceived in him, was already reflecting back to him?
‘Well, you know what they say – anything in a uniform, or out of it, preferably.’
Fitz smiled again but concentrated very hard on extinguishing his cigarette on what appeared to be a jam-jar lid. It was as if his own nature meant that he couldn’t help but be interested in Laska, but he was actually under strict orders to not do anything. . . stupid.
Or maybe, Laska thought, I’m just deluding myself and he’d go for anyone with blue hair.
‘When’s Dr Smith due back?’ she asked.
‘Any minute now,’ replied Fitz. ‘You know how some people get itchy feet, can’t bear being in the same place for more than five minutes? That’s him all over.’
‘You’ve been here, what, five months or so now?’
‘Something like that,’ said Fitz vaguely. ‘Time flies, you know. When you’re with the Doctor. . . Dr Smith. . . You pack a lot in. Sometimes days feel like weeks, other times months pass by in the blink of an eye.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Laska. ‘I don’t wear a watch any more. Sometimes I’d rather go with my instincts than do something just because a piece of silicon tells me to.’
That wasn’t strictly true. She had a clock in her room, which she used to strictly regulate her medication, though after this morning’s events – the awful dream about the dog, losing the necklace, now this meeting with one of the doctors – she was starting to think she needed some sort of back-up system.
But why did it bother her so? She guessed that, for all her hatred of medical intervention, of interminable questioning and pumping your bloodstream with God knows what, she knew that the drugs she was taking were helping to keep her focused and steady. Alternatively, perhaps she was already becoming dependent on them – and the mere thought of having to cope on her own, without the medication, was disturbing her more than she had thought possible.
Fitz had finally cleared enough space for them both to sit. ‘I take it you got the Doctor’s message?’
‘No disrespect, but I wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
‘Of course, no.’ He looked at her closely for the first time in a while. Perhaps he saw something of her fear. ‘Don’t worry, he just wants a chat,’ he said reassuringly.
‘I’m Dr Thomson’s patient.’
70
‘Oh, I know,’ said Fitz. (Laska couldn’t work out how or why he would know that – he was supposed to be a student of medical