Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [98]
‘We’ve still got to find Dr Thomson,’ said Liz, hoping to imply that it was all over and that her mind was now on more immediate concerns. Whether they believed her or not, Fitz and Trix were quite happy to play along.
‘Right,’ said Fitz firmly. ‘Where next?’
‘What shall we do?’ asked Laska. ‘Other than think happy thoughts and hope it just goes away?’
‘You know, that’s not such a bad idea,’ said Smith, his eyes fixed on the creature.
The dog moved further into the mausoleum, its ears flat against its wolflike face, its huge paws moving cautiously over the stone floor.
‘You can’t really be serious?’
‘Oh, I’m quite serious when something like that is staring at me.’
The dog came closer still, the eerie green glow of its eyes like torch beams in the darkness. Spittle and blood fell from its jaws. Breath and sweat poured from it like early morning mist. Laska could see the great fractured depression where the dog had tried to batter its way into the car. No normal creature would have survived such a trauma.
‘Go on, then,’ said Laska.
‘What?’ asked Smith.
‘Tell me something nice, something positive and uplifting.’
‘Well. . . I don’t know if anything comes to mind, to be absolutely truthful.’
‘Go on,’ breathed Laska as the hound came nearer still. ‘Fair’s fair. I told you about Dad. You’ve been all over. You must have some happy memories.’
180
‘I remember sitting at a café on the banks of the Loire,’ said Smith after some thought. ‘One of those quiet days when everything seems to make sense.’
Smith’s nose wrinkled slightly. ‘The wine was corked, though.’
The hound was coming closer – Laska could smell it now, an unholy mixture of rotten flesh, loamy soil and something not unlike hospital antiseptics – and frankly, just at the moment, she’d agree with anything that Smith said. But still the man seemed not to have a plan. He seemed to be more concerned with their conversation than with the slowly advancing dog, though his determined gaze implied he was only too aware of the potential threat of the creature.
Smith cleared his throat, took a step forward as if to address the creature.
The starlike rip in reality had shifted slightly now, and was slightly behind and to Smith’s right. It seemed to be becoming brighter all the time, as if gloating and wanting only to illuminate every facet of the creature’s imminent attack.
Suddenly Smith angled his head away from the creature and towards Laska, whispering quietly.
‘When I say run. . . ’
They found Mike Thomson in one of the consulting rooms. By day its huge bay window afforded a fine view of the edge of the ornamental gardens and the sloping rise towards the folly. By night it seemed only to show complex overlapping patterns of shadow.
Thomson was sitting on a small stool, a notepad perched on his lap. A cigarette burned in one hand, and he tapped a biro against his leg with the other.
‘Something’s out there,’ he said, as if expecting Liz and the others to find him. ‘It keeps flicking on the security light along the wall.’
‘What have you seen?’ asked Liz.
‘Something like a fox or a dog. Something like a ghost. Something like a centaur, or a spider. I spent most of the afternoon walking around the grounds.
I thought I was losing my mind.’
Liz wordlessly exchanged a glance with the others.
‘For a while, a lot of activity seemed to centre on the old folly,’ continued Thomson. ‘Then on the basement. I can hear noises down there. We haven’t got the builders in, have we, Liz?’
He turned suddenly, and he looked – though tired and distressed – very much the old Thomson, his boyish charm papering the cracks of his maturity.
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ answered Liz. She worked hard at modulating her voice, sounding utterly relaxed – not given to deceit, or fear, or any of the myriad emotions that flickered brightly in her mind.
‘Are the police here yet?’ asked Thomson, getting to his feet. He indicated his notebook. ‘I don’t know whether it will help, but I’ve been keeping