Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [57]
‘I am death!’ he bellowed.
And he dropped the stone.
98
Mad World
(The Start of the Breakdown)
Laska put down the diaries and rubbed at her eyes. The Retreat was gripped by a profound and silent darkness that seemed to amplify every movement or noise that she made. A sudden storm of wind and lashed rain had formed the perfect backdrop for her journey back in time; now everything was quiet, and the lack of sound merely irritated, her bored subconscious creating phantom noises every time she stopped reading or moved her head.
Laska clambered out of bed and got dressed. Her father, also prone to insomnia, had always said that if you can’t sleep, you might as well get up and do something useful. And, Laska reckoned, one of the few good things about the Retreat was that there was always someone about. Just because her brain was buzzing with ideas and images, it didn’t mean she had to suffer on her own.
As Laska stepped into the corridor and turned to shut the door, her mind momentarily presented her with the image she anticipated: an unpainted door of oak, set into a long corridor punctured with wood and window. Only after a moment did reality overlay itself upon expectation: there was a crack in the door, and bright splinters of timber were lying on the carpet.
She bent down, the fragments smelling faintly of sap and varnish. They had come away from the lower edge of the door, just where the dog creature had attacked in her dream. A coincidence, of course – perhaps the copper strip that held down the edge of the carpet had risen slightly, and was catching on the door every time it opened or closed. Perhaps. . .
Laska wasn’t sure if the ambiguous splinters that she now held in her hand helped her, or weighed her down still further. If the creature was just something she had dreamed into life – if the splinters were just a fluke, some sick joke – then perhaps she was responding less well to her medication, which meant that she was still weeks or months off release from the cloying atmosphere of the Retreat. However, if the hound was real, if it really had chewed and clawed at her door, then it meant that she was sane – but, in turn, something strange and terrifying had come to the Retreat. In which case, Laska 99
had an obligation – a duty – to tell someone. But if she did, and it was all just a fantasy of her unconscious. . .
Suddenly Laska was desperate for company – a feeling she rarely experienced and still less ever gave in to. She no longer wanted dialogue with her own mind, or with dead men who lived on through words on faded parchment; she wanted to share in the perceptions of another person, even if only for a moment. She wanted simple, ordinary sanity, something rooted in the here-and-now; if she couldn’t find that herself, then at least she could place herself in an uncomplicated environment and vicariously understand what normality might be, through the lives of other people.
Subjectivity was beginning to terrify her. Unexpectedly, even Smith’s riddles, or Oldfield’s bitterness, now had a certain appeal. Anything was better than the relentless questioning of her own subconscious, the terrifying tale of the men from the past.
Laska found Liz Bartholomew sitting on her own in the dining room. Liz had positioned herself in front of one of the big windows, and was staring out over the dark grounds, where trees were formed from swollen shadows and grass and ground were as dark as the night sky. She tapped occasionally at the laptop at her side, but most of the time Liz stared out through the window, watching as the trees became still and the storm rolled away into the distance.
Laska’s heart sank. She would rather have encountered someone else –
anyone else. Not because she disliked the woman – far from it, Laska found Dr Bartholomew nothing if not approachable and reasonable – but because of what Laska now suspected about Joe. To decide to keep quiet was merely a pragmatic decision when taken in the confines of her room; to continue with her studied