Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [47]
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Laska.
‘Perhaps it’s just me, then,’ said Smith. ‘An admonition given substance by fear itself!’
‘Then why do you come?’
‘It’s intriguing, I don’t understand it. . . And I never give in to my fears.’
‘There’s a place for you, writing those mottos you find in crackers,’ observed Laska sharply.
‘I won’t intrude on your quiet reflection any longer,’ said Smith, suddenly getting to his feet. Laska didn’t know if he’d finally felt the venomous intent behind Laska’s words, or if he simply remembered a meeting he had elsewhere. ‘I was wondering though. . . ’
Laska waited for a while, but nothing else came. ‘Yes?’ she snapped.
‘Dr Thomson tells me you tend not to attend any of the group therapy sessions he organises.’
‘“Tend not to”? That’s one way of putting it. I never go.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘What, sit in a cold, draughty room listening to a bunch of nutcases droning on and on about how Daddy abused them when they were six? I’ve got better things to do than see patterns in ink blots or tell anyone about my childhood.’
‘I would be fascinated to hear about your childhood,’ said Smith. ‘Perhaps in a different context.’ As always, the man seemed irritatingly sanguine in the face of Laska’s hatred of the Retreat and all that it stood for.
‘What’s the point? It’s about one step away from crystals and all that New Age bollocks.’
‘It will help you get better. And the sooner you get better, the sooner you can go home.’
‘Dr Thomson said I could go home any time I wanted.’
80
‘He may be right,’ said Smith. ‘But I’m inclined to think you will find that harder than you imagine.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Gracious, no,’ said Smith. ‘I have no bearing on your release, one way or the other. I was simply thinking. . . If you don’t know where home is, if you have no place in which you can truly be yourself. . . Just where are you trying to escape to?’
‘My father’s house. I inherited it when he died.’
‘Are you happy there?’
‘I have been.’
Laska paused, about to say more.
But no, that would be playing into Smith’s hands. She wouldn’t reveal the truth about herself that easily.
‘Look, the important thing is that I get out of here,’ said Laska. ‘I’ll listen to good advice when it comes my way – like when Dr Thomson said I should stay here a bit longer. Fine, I’ll go along with that for the moment.’ Unblinking and defiant, she stared at Smith’s unfathomable face. ‘But nothing is more important to me than leaving the Retreat.’ She paused, a sudden image of the dog she had seen – or thought she had seen – flashing across her vision.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ she said again.
Laska had arranged to meet James in the ornamental gardens when his shift ended. He’d complained that Fitz had taken to following him around – ‘spy-ing’ was the word he’d used – and so a neutral venue seemed to be a sensible suggestion. Laska had grown weary of the brooding atmosphere of the chapel: even after Smith’s departure something of the man’s nature still lingered, almost palpable in the air. She had gone there, hoping that the place might bring her closer to her father, but had left, unsure if she really desired such an encounter with sensations and feelings so inextricably linked to her past.
As she turned to walk away she saw that one of the thick black curtains that normally screened off the true extent of the basement’s cavernous area stood open slightly; beyond it, lit only by the scattered light of the candles in the chapel, were angular blocks of deeper darkness. She could not tell if they were sarcophagi, or natural slabs of stone, or some part of the foundations of the building.
She didn’t want to know, either.
She hurried