Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [94]
In each room some sort of altercation seemed to have broken out. In the kitchens the chef and his assistant were arguing over the use of mace in béchamel sauce; in one of the common rooms two patients had to be physically restrained from hurting each other. Apparently a disagreement over Liverpool’s latest penalty – whether it had been a dive or not – was at its root.
It sounded laughable, and, after some work in both cases, Liz was able to bring some common sense to bear. The two patients stared back at Liz, blinking slowly, clearly bewildered by what had happened; she told them all to go to the dining room, to pull themselves together and stop arguing. They’d obediently trooped off, though it was obvious that any accord was little more than temporary.
After a while Liz, Trix and Fitz had bored of acting as peacemakers (indeed, Fitz was now sporting a black eye for his troubles); they left such matters to James and the other nurses. They still hadn’t found Oldfield or Thomson; that had to be their main concern.
First things first. They tried Oldfield’s office, and, to their great surprise, found the man calmly sitting behind his desk tapping away at his PC. He looked up, irritated by the interruption but clearly not surprised to see Liz storming in, mob-handed.
‘Everything all right, Dr Oldfield?’ asked Liz sweetly.
‘Yes,’ said Oldfield, cautiously, as if this were a trick question. But then, given the acrimony of their last conversation, it wasn’t surprising if he sounded suspicious.
‘Good,’ said Liz. ‘Just checking.’ She turned to usher the others out of the room. ‘The police will be here any minute,’ she added. It was childish, but it felt good to be lying to Oldfield, even over something trivial like that.
Then Liz wondered whether the alien influence – or whatever it was – was beginning to affect her. After all, given what Oldfield had done – what he 173
had threatened with regard to her job – lying was the least she could do. She considered Oldfield’s slimy manner, his abrupt voice, every piece of crap he’d thrown at her over the years. . . How easy it would be to just go up to him and punch him, nice and hard, in the face. Or to take a letter-opening knife –
she knew there was one on his desk – and plunge it into his chest.
How easy. . .
She shook her head and stepped into the corridor.
‘Excellent,’ Oldfield was saying, though he was clearly still preoccupied by what he was working on. Probably an official letter of complaint or something.
Liz pulled the door shut, then patted her pockets looking for her keys. ‘The master key,’ she whispered to Fitz and Trix as she pulled the bunch from her pocket. As quietly as she could, she turned the key in the lock.
There was a muffled click.
All three leaned towards the door, expecting an enraged reaction from within.
Tap tap tap. Oldfield was typing again, apparently unaware of his imprisonment.
‘Cool,’ breathed Fitz. ‘And the windows?’
‘They’re usually left locked,’ said Liz. ‘Let’s just hope he hasn’t got a key.’
It was too much to hope that Mike Thomson would be sitting in his office, a picture of placid indifference. His office – once they’d used the master key to open the door – was empty, of Thomson at least. It was full to overflowing with junk and documents; he’d always had a tendency towards untidiness, thought Liz, but this was ridiculous. She exchanged a worried glance with Fitz and Trix, unsure whether the confused state of the office incriminated Mike or not.
Liz’s office was next. From within they could hear muffled sounds, a sub-dued thumping, something like a harsh whisper.
Fitz indicated that he should go first.
He pushed the door open and jumped inside, all tense and heroic.