Doctor Who_ The Taint - Michael Collier [19]
Still, Fitz's playing did make you want to get up and move. He was good, really good: the man playing acoustic guitar on the small makeshift stage was worlds apart from the laconic loafer she'd travelled here with. Molly was still smiling at her watching him. Sam felt a flutter of pride, and chastised herself.
It had all gone a bit weird from the moment they'd entered. Fitz had put on a limp as they'd come into view of the doorman, who had smiled and let them through, offering Sam a large leather volume to sign. Molly herself had greeted him with delight: 'Sweetie! Come to me, darling. Oh, you're a cup of tea!' And she'd kissed him with chaste enthusiasm. Fitz had worked here as a host, it seemed, amusing the guests and getting them to part with their cash for drinks as often as possible. He'd given it up now, but was still a regular. She'd watched him in action, deftly manipulating old acquaintances and making new ones. She realised he was using the limp for sympathy: the struggling artist with his gammy leg still rising to the occasion to play like this and entertain them all. After tips, no doubt, at the end of this impromptu performance. He was someone else up there, playing and crooning with his eyes closed. He mattered, to this thirty-strong crowd, if only for the moment.
He played guitar in a club, she saved worlds with a friend. Oddly, she imagined that the buzz had to be about the same.
Thinking of the Doctor reminded her of the time - it was later than she'd thought. It felt somehow wrong to be calling him up from a club.
Sam went to the bar and Molly steered her to an alcove with a black Bakelite phone.
***
Roley examined his napkin, studiously. Now Maria had gone to bed, he was feeling a little out on a limb. Dinner had been pleasant enough, but in truth Roley was a little afraid of this Doctor. After all, the man had seen Austen - seen the state he'd lapsed into - and thought no doubt that Roley was to blame, an amateur dabbling in things best left alone. Well, so many had said that. If the Doctor wanted to stir up trouble he'd have surely just gone to the police, yet his sudden arrival and interest made Roley uneasy.
What if the man were some kind of rival, researching a book of his own?
Roley had checked on Austen himself, earlier. It couldn't be the experiments, surely: Austen hadn't had the treatment for a couple of days, and his last fit had been weeks ago. It was some other influence, he was sure of it, something rising from the race memory. All he had to do was prove its existence, in Austen and in the others.
He glanced worriedly at the Doctor, as if the man could read his thoughts, but still he sat, quite serenely over the remains of hiscroque-monsieur and a glass of brandy. He'd been affable all night, making conversation about that Russian girl they'd put into space (a personal friend, it seemed) and the American woman who'd written that Silent Spring nonsense. But he'd not been just looking at him and Maria: he'd been watching them. The Doctor's eyes were like stones; in the low light of the room they seemed pure, cold, all colour painstakingly bled from them. The soft words belied the strength of purpose in those eyes.
He turned as the door opened, and Cynthia, the maid, came through. She was a pleasant enough girl, but Roley felt she failed to show him proper respect. His father had appointed her, and he knew the old boy was a hard act to follow, but even so... Even now she was looking at the Doctor, barely acknowledging Roley's presence.
'What is it, Cynthia?' he said.
Cynthia spared him a glance. "The Doctor's friend, Sam.'
'Sam?'The Doctor jumped up as if he'd accidentally been sitting on her. He stared around the dining room. 'Where?'
'She called for you, sir,' said Cynthia, stifling a smile. 'She asked me to tell you she was having a "far-out" time and will be heading back soon.'
'Back here?'The Doctor put