Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [8]
Laska stepped down on to the gravelled driveway. Facing her was a woman wearing a tailored suit and an honest, tired smile. She was in her late thirties.
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Laska reckoned her hairstyle implied hours in the salon deliberating over a series of You know, I’m not really into this sort of pampering at all alternatives.
Twenty-five quid for the privilege of keeping up the pretence that you’re a professional woman unconcerned by such surface distractions.
Laska breathed deeply, trying to get a grip on her giddy thoughts. The woman held out a hand, which Laska shook limply, momentarily grateful for the support, the physicality of a touch.
‘Welcome to the Retreat,’ said the woman. ‘I’m Dr Elizabeth Bartholomew, the senior medical officer here. I hope that your stay with us will be beneficial.’
She did not wear a white coat or carry a stethoscope around her neck, but a badge at her lapel confirmed her status.
The driver started up the ambulance again; Laska and Bartholomew moved inside the building and away from the stink of the diesel. Laska felt as if she had suddenly been parachuted into enemy territory – and now she had no means of escape. The brightly painted façades of the corridors could not disguise the dark and heavy stone and brick that now surrounded her.
It came out of the darkness towards her as if she were flying. . .
‘Please,’ said Laska suddenly, the frightened, girlish sound of her voice almost taking her by surprise. ‘Has this place always been a hospital? It’s never been. . . It’s never been open to the public?’
‘It has always been a hospital – of sorts,’ said someone behind her.
Laska turned. Watching her intently was a distinguished-looking man in smart trousers and elegant waistcoat, a thick cravat and lightly curled, neck-length hair not entirely obscuring the youthful vigour of his face or manner. Laska reckoned he was two parts Lord Byron to one Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, but his eyes were something else again. As he strode towards her, they glittered, seeming to change colour from moment to moment – first an honest brown of earth and nature, then a peaceful green of inner strength and eternal hope, then finally a piercing electric blue.
The man didn’t blink in all the time they spoke.
He came closer, walking nonchalantly, as if he just happened to be passing by – but, as he held out his hand, Laska wondered if the whole meeting hadn’t been engineered, if he hadn’t been watching the ambulance as it came down the driveway through some upper window.
Or perhaps that was just her innate paranoia talking.
‘I’m Dr. . . Dr Smith,’ announced the man. There was a pause, as if he was unsure of his identity. ‘You’re Caroline Darnell.’ He sounded more certain now – confident of the people around him, if not himself.
‘ Laska,’ she insisted. ‘Everyone calls me Laska. Everyone I like, anyway.’
She forced a smile, though she didn’t want to think about how artificial it probably looked.
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‘Laska,’ said Smith, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Unusual name.’
‘Short for “Alaska”.’ She couldn’t think why she was telling him this – or why he was interested. Most people weren’t.
‘A noble, if cold, domain,’ announced Smith. ‘I did try to tell them of Se-ward’s expansionist foreign policy, but would they listen?’
‘Lou Reed,’ said Laska, interrupting Smith’s peculiar reminiscence. ‘It’s a line from a song by Lou Reed. A friend used to sing it to me. It kind of stuck.’
Smith paused for a moment, deep in thought.
Then – just as Dr
Bartholomew was about to interject – he exclaimed loudly, ‘“Caroline Says”!
My, that is clever.’
‘You’ve heard of it?’ said Laska, surprised and delighted at the same time.
‘I think I knew someone who was. . . ’ Smith paused again, some great drama clearly playing out behind his eyes. ‘Who was into that sort of thing.’
Smith’s manner was so unlike that of any doctor that Laska had ever encountered that she found herself glancing at Dr Bartholomew, as if seeking guidance.