Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [70]
We discovered him – just when we were considering our own flight to the village, or Charnage – within the chapel. He had locked himself inside, and we could hear his voice through the thick wooden door.
But this was not Dr Christie that we heard – not in any sense that I recognised the man within my spirit. This was a shell of a person, driven to the brink of insanity – possessed, perhaps, by nameless terrors and demons. I did not know how to address the man, for perhaps now his name was Legion.
Torby banged on the door, silencing for a moment the demented babble that emanated from what had once been this most learned and upright of men. ‘Sir, sir,’ he called. ‘What’s going on? Why won’t you let us in?’ And though he hauled on the handle repeatedly the door would not budge.
‘Get away from here!’ shouted Christie. ‘Save yourselves! I have seen the great evil in this place. It must be destroyed!’
‘Dr Christie,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster. ‘It is the Reverend William Macksey. You sent Mr Torby to find me, and we returned as soon as we could. The situation in which we find ourselves is clearly dire, but there is no need to abandon all hope or sense. Let us talk. Please.’
I could hear Christie muttering to himself beyond the door; in my mind’s eye I saw him walking up and down, wringing his hands, his eyes now wide and staring. ‘Macksey? Macksey?’ he queried, as though unfamiliar with my name. ‘Torby I remember. Yes. Torby – a great fellow, great potential!’
I persevered. ‘How do you hope to destroy this evil?’
There was a low, frightened moan from within the room, then Christie seemed to gather his thoughts. ‘It must be purged. It must be burned. It is made mighty by madness.’
‘What do you mean? What have you done?’
‘Get Torby away from here!’ exclaimed Christie suddenly. ‘He should not have to die with me.’
I noticed that Craig was still a little way off, his face blank and crestfallen.
I imagined that he could cope with the awful terrors he had seen as long as he was convinced that Dr Christie was in control and able to turn the situation from ill to good; now he knew that the great Dr Christie, humanitarian, researcher, man of letters, was as vulnerable to this vast, expanding evil as anyone else, it seemed that he had lost all hope.
But I was not about to give up so easily. I encouraged Charles to continue his dialogue with Christie, nodding at points, suggesting what to say at others. At 122
length something of the old Dr Christie seemed to return; we heard shuffling footsteps from within, and then, inch by inch, the door grated open.
Torby and I, followed by Craig, pushed our way into the chapel before Christie could change his mind.
At least, it had once been a chapel. Two bodies rested on gurneys in the central aisle; around them, pews and sundry wooden items had been overturned and smashed. Christie had heaped great mounds of rags around the room; these he had doused with oil. He had poured further oil over his head –
he glistened in the torchlight like some newborn phantasm of evil – and was clearly about to turn his attention to the gaslights that flickered at the far end of the room.
He intended to set fire to himself, to the chapel, to Mausolus House.
123
Thirteen
My Life in a Bell Jar
(Where is My Mind?)
As darkness fell a loose collection of staff members came together in one of the offices. Working on the principle of keeping friends close and enemies closer still, Laska had spent much of the afternoon with Trix and Fitz, and so she shadowed Dr Smith’s companions into the room. Liz Bartholomew seemed not to object to her presence. Either Smith had told Liz that he suspected Laska of some delicate involvement in what was going on, or she was simply too preoccupied to care.
‘Pending the arrival of the police,’ announced Dr Smith, as if in charge, ‘Dr Bartholomew has ordered that the crime scene remain untouched.’
‘But where are they?’ said Liz, clearly frustrated by the delay. ‘I know there’s not a station in Norton any more, but