Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [45]
Her introspection was disturbed by a sudden flicker of movement, from somewhere in the ornamental garden that her room looked over. Welcoming any distraction from her relentless analysis, Laska shifted her attention –
there, over by the hedge that framed the fountain that had seen better days.
The hedge, once a topiarist’s delight, was now a ragged mass of olive and green fragments, kept in check from time to time but often allowed to sprawl and grow as it saw fit. It ran at right angles to the side of the building, coming to an untidy halt at a point almost directly below Laska’s window.
Further up, under the leaves and knotted wood, something appeared to be moving. Branches shook, then became still. Doubtless a stray cat or a fox or something, hugging the cover afforded by the base of the hedge.
Whatever it was, it was coming towards the building, stealthily advancing in the insipid, overcast gloom. A gradual wave of greenery and movement was drawing near. Laska looked further down the hedge, saw a ragged hole through which the creature would have to advance, and fixed her eyes on that spot.
In a rush, as if it knew that it was being observed, the animal passed through the exposed area, revealing only a flash of black or silver hair, and the faintest impression of a great, fur-covered skull.
Laska’s eyes widened – had she really seen it? That thing, the dog from her dream, forging a path towards the Retreat, pushing its way through the undergrowth as surely as it made its way from the dream world to reality?
No, she had to be mistaken: it must have been a fox, as she had initially thought, made grey and large by the dim fluctuations of a cloud-weakened sun. It had to be. . .
She moved her eyes further down the hedge, to where the creature would surely have to emerge into plain view – but the entire length of hedge was motionless now.
Laska continued to stand at the window, watching the ornamental garden, as the sky darkened further into evening.
‘You have been busy today.’
James turned. As always with Dr Oldfield, his words carried a hint of sarcastic menace, blurring the boundaries between polite enquiry and condemnation. James reminded himself that, whatever Oldfield’s position in the place, he was answerable first and foremost to Dr Bartholomew, even if Oldfield tried to imply something different.
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The patients have been keeping me on my toes. A couple of them reckon they’ve seen intruders in the grounds.’
Oldfield nodded, a hand rubbing his colourless chin. ‘Indeed. And one of my patients has claimed to have seen a black panther in the orchard – just like the Beast of Bodmin, she said.’ Oldfield perched casually on one of the sofas, as stiff and out of place as a bowler-hatted businessman at a Limp Bizkit gig.
‘Nonsense, of course,’ said James. Security, or the perceived lack of it, was always one of Oldfield’s bugbears; James couldn’t bear the thought that Oldfield might conclude that there was some truth in these wild claims.
‘Of course,’ agreed Oldfield. ‘Though I am interested to note that Dr Smith seems keen to investigate these allegations, and others. You’d almost think him a detective, the way he’s going round questioning the patients. And those two students of his! It can’t be right to even begin to imply that these delusions are verifiable.’
‘I suppose,’ said James. He came over to his seat with a mug of coffee. He pointedly didn’t ask Dr Oldfield if he’d like one.
‘I’m told he’s kept you busy today as well,’ said Oldfield as he precisely unfolded his newspaper. ‘Our mysterious Dr Smith. . . ’
James shrugged. ‘He just wanted to fit in a couple of extra patients.’
‘Miss Darnell is one of Dr Thomson’s patients. Most irregular.’
James worked hard at not expressing his surprise at Oldfield’s mention of Laska. ‘I’m sure Dr Thomson doesn’t mind.’
Oldfield snorted. ‘One of many things that could be sorted out with a little more thought – demarcation of patient care.’ James knew that what