Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [99]
things. It’s either evidence that might have some bearing on the murder case, or evidence that I’m losing my mind.’
‘The police sent us to get you,’ said Trix suddenly. ‘They want to speak to you next.’
‘That’s right,’ said Liz, going along with Trix’s spontaneous subterfuge and only dimly aware that she was nodding rather too vigorously. ‘I’ll show you where they are.’
As Thomson passed by, Fitz looked like a bewildered cartoon animal. To his credit, though, at least he kept his mouth shut.
Liz had just the place for Thomson. It was a windowless room in the heart of the Retreat that was there for restraining the most violent patients – though, since she’d arrived, Liz could not remember ever having authorised its use. It wasn’t quite a padded cell, but the walls were smooth and there was precious little in it that could be used to hurt yourself or other people.
She led Thomson down the deserted corridors, hoping that – whether he was implicated in all that had happened or not – he would be safe there.
There was only one door, no obvious access to under-floor cavities or voids in the ceiling. As long as she kept an eye on the keys, he’d be as safe as Oldfield.
She wondered if Oldfield had uncovered their ruse yet, and what his reaction might be. He certainly wouldn’t panic. He’d probably just take it as final and convincing proof of Liz’s unsuitability and professional irresponsibility and wait calmly for rescue – and a promotion in due course.
Liz pushed open the door to the small room. Thankfully it wasn’t already locked – that really would have given the game away. ‘Here you go,’ she said.
Thomson glanced inside. ‘But it’s dark. . . ’
Fitz wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He bowled into Thomson, sending him skidding into the room. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said.
Liz slammed the door shut on Thomson, locking it quickly.
Immediately Thomson began hammering on the door. ‘What’s going on?’
he cried. ‘There’s no need for this!’
‘Sorry,’ said Liz through the doorway. ‘It’s for your own good.’
They left Thomson hammering on the door in furious exasperation.
The dog lunged at Dr Smith, its wide-open jaws swallowing the distance between them.
Smith sidestepped expertly, even managing a flourish like a matador.
He didn’t need to say anything to Laska – she was already lurching towards the doorway.
The dog landed gently on its feet, turning back towards Smith in a single movement.
182
‘I think it likes me,’ said Smith. ‘Must be all the pain and anguish I’ve experienced, over the years!’ Despite this, Smith was sounding remarkably cheerful, as if relishing the tussle.
Laska – now the light of the rip was effectively blocked by Smith’s body –
groped forward in the semidarkness. She stumbled into a great stone casket, grazing her knee.
Her colourful expletives only made Smith chuckle loudly. Laska wondered, through the pain, if that was the power of positive thinking in action.
She was about to shout at Smith – tell him to get the hell out of there –
when she saw the dog tensing for another jump.
This time the creature came lower, arcing just above the ground and aiming straight at Smith’s knees. He moved, fractionally in time, but his weight was on the front foot.
He leaned away, arms flapping comically.
Then he pitched backwards, twisting as he fell.
Twisting, and falling, right towards the burning tear that had dropped lower still.
Laska cried out, but the noise was lost to the awful malignant silence as Smith’s arm touched the searing light. Immediately the rip became a great wound, blooming outwards like the mouth of some sea creature. It seemed to attach itself to Smith, sucking hungrily.
Laska caught the faintest impression of a struggle, a slight cry of pain – and then Dr Smith was gone.
The rip shrank back to a star and ascended slightly towards the ceiling, as if triumphant.
There was no trace of Smith left behind – no body, no clothing, no scraps of burnt material. Just dark and shade where moments before he had stood in brave triumphalism.
The dog shook its great head, catching