Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [67]
Thomson stood in the doorway for some five minutes, then abruptly turned back to the main building. From another concealed position, James watched him pass by, then considered approaching the folly. Unbidden, memories from a childhood chasing ghosts came to mind. James wasn’t sure if it was that, or the strange look on Thomson’s face, that made a shiver roll down his spine.
Whatever it was, James had seen more than enough. Once Thomson was gone he walked back towards the Retreat, glancing over his shoulder from time to time at the thick, intimidating building on the hillside.
It was some time later that – almost involuntarily – Laska found herself standing outside Oldfield’s office. Despite his earlier words the door was not, literally, open.
She stood for a moment, wondering how to play the whole thing – should she pretend that she was just passing by, or should she try her best to come across as strong and confident, a person ready to do a deal – but not at any price?
She knocked on the door, twice, confidently. She told herself that she was in charge of this situation – that, as James had said, she didn’t have to say anything she didn’t want to. But other, weaker, voices jostled for attention in her mind, querying just who had the power here – and who most wanted something from the other.
‘Come.’ The voice was as cold and brittle as winter leaves.
Laska pushed open the door. Oldfield looked up, and his face cracked – like an ashen egg – into a sickly approximation of a smile. ‘Miss Darnell. Come 115
in.’
Laska shivered. She preferred it when he was being creepy and horrible.
Oldfield indicated the chair facing him across the expansive walnut desk; Laska sat in it, fidgeting nervously with her eyebrow ring, unsure what to say.
Oldfield broke the silence. ‘I’m glad you came to see me,’ he said. ‘I know that word travels fast, and not always accurately, in a place like this. It’s always good to give someone an opportunity to put their point across – should they so wish.’
‘You think I know something.’
‘There is. . . a grapevine, if you will, in the Retreat. It encompasses the doctors, the nurses, the patients, and more besides. One does not enjoy listening to gossip, of course, but when one hears so much. . . ’
She hated herself for doing this; every word felt poisonous and full of self-loathing. But, despite all her better thoughts and judgements, the words spilled from her lips. ‘Let’s say I know something about Dr Bartholomew,’
she said. ‘What if it’s not the sort of thing you want to hear. . . ?’
Oldfield paused for a moment, evidently weighing up his options, then cleared his throat. ‘Very well. Let me be quite straight with you. Every scrap of information I have about my colleagues helps me to decide where we, as an institution, might go from here. As I mentioned to you, and to young Mr Abel, I am very concerned about the day-to-day running of this place. The regrettable incident this morning merely underlines my concerns. Of course, what you tell me might be mere tittle-tattle, but even so. . . I believe the minutiae of our private lives say a lot about our leadership, our authority, our common sense. I’m not the sort of person, for example, who thinks there was no correlation between Clinton’s peccadilloes and the nature of his presidency.’
‘And in return?’
‘In return? I shall not forget your honesty. If what you say has some bearing on the administration of the Retreat, and. . . let us say someone else is considered worthy of the position of chief medical officer. . . ’ He paused, clearing a few papers away from the desk as if forging a path between himself and Laska. ‘Let me put it this way, I know what you most desire. I know what fills your every waking thought. If I am ever in such a position as to give you what you want. . . ’
Laska suddenly remembered her father, holding her in his arms and overseeing her childlike prayers. ‘Be careful what you ask for,’ he used to say. ‘You might even get it.’
Laska leaned forward conspiratorially. Her vision seemed to contract, and she