Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [46]
James stopped what he was doing. When he’d spoken to Laska the day before she’d implied that Thomson was only expecting her to stay at the Retreat for a few more weeks at most.
‘There’s no point Dr Smith wasting his time and energy on her, at this stage, when perhaps in a month or two she might be more receptive, if you follow me.’
James sipped his coffee but said nothing. Frankly, he wanted to finish off his drink as quickly as he could, and then contrive some reason to leave. Dr Oldfield was not normally the sort of man to enjoy a relaxing coffee break; every moment of every waking day, it seemed, had to be work-orientated.
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He hadn’t wandered into the staff room by accident; James suspected some ulterior motive, and probably a grim one at that.
As the silence grew – the silence of two men with nothing in common and nothing of consequence to say – it seemed that the same thoughts were running through Oldfield’s mind. He cleared his throat a few times, turned towards James conspiratorially, then returned to his newspaper. Finally he looked over and coughed again.
‘Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you. Concerning Dr Thomson and Dr Bartholomew. . . It’s good to see them getting on so well.’
‘It doesn’t hurt to get on with people you work with,’ said James cautiously.
‘You’re right – a pleasant working environment is to the benefit of each one of us, especially in this particular branch of medicine. Sometimes, those two –
well, “thick as thieves” hardly covers it! I almost imagine that their paths had crossed before they worked here – perhaps they trained at the same college or some such.’
James shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Mike has never mentioned it, if that’s the case.’
‘I was forgetting, you play badminton with Dr Thomson every week, don’t you?’
James narrowed his eyes. Oldfield hadn’t forgotten at all – he was fishing for something. ‘We don’t really talk about work,’ said James.
‘Oh?’ Oldfield’s feigned interest was as artificial as the colour of his hair.
‘If you must know, we talk about sport mainly. And Top Gear. And the real ale they serve at the local.’
‘And Dr Thomson never talks about Dr Bartholomew? About her work before she came to the Retreat?’
James shook his head and got to his feet. ‘Mike’s a very sore loser. Most weeks I thrash him. Afterwards, he doesn’t want to talk about anything else.’
Laska checked the coast was clear – though she wasn’t quite sure what the hell she was expecting to see in the corridor outside her room. She was certain of one thing, though: she’d been cooped up there all afternoon and it wasn’t doing her any good.
She made her way down a couple of flights of stairs, along a corridor that smelled faintly of fresh paint, and towards the chapel. The chapel sat in the basement of the Retreat, surrounded by storerooms and old filing cabinets.
As a consequence, it relied entirely on artificial light and a small team of volunteers to keep it tidy and bring what little warmth they could to the place.
The harsh walls and unrelenting strip light were softened by silk drapes and intermittent candles. Rows of functional pews faced a simple wooden lectern 79
and a huge cross of oak; at the base of the cross someone had placed a Post-it note of scribbled, desperate prayers.
Laska sat down, rubbing her hands against the cold.
‘Do you come here often?’
Laska turned – it seemed she couldn’t get away from Smith today. He was standing at the back of the room, arms folded behind his hack, apparently ignorant of the neutered chat-up line he had just uttered.
‘Yes. When I want to get away from people.’
As usual, Smith