Doctor Who_ Time and Relative - Kim Newman [10]
The soldier glared at Malcolm.
'I think you should go back to where you come from,' I said.
'And where's that?'
'Primordial ooze, from the look of you.'
'Don't cheek me,' he said.
'What's all this?' asked a sergeant. 'Malingering again, Mooney? If we didn't have so many on the sicklist, you'd be up on a charge p.d.q.'
'He called my friend a "golliwog", sir,' I said.
It wasn't like snitching in School. It was something that ought to be known.
The sergeant looked at Malcolm and smiled.
'You have to admit there's a resemblance. Now clear off out of it and let us get on with our business, there's a good little bint.'
My cheeks burned. Tears pricked.
'Come on, Malcolm,' I said, taking his hand. 'Let's leave these primitive lifeforms to evolve.'
That made him laugh a little, though he didn't understand.
Why do people here think small variations in skin-tone are important? Or the way people think? Or where they're from?
When the soldiers were rude to Malcolm, I wanted to open my mouth and breath freezing death, crystallising them into breakable statues. I
can't actually do that, but I am different.
If I put my mind to it, there are things I can do.
I think I can, anyway.
But I don't. I can tell Malcolm as much as I know, but only because he thinks I'm telling him stories.
Malcolm is the best they have here.
I must try to think of that. There's F.M. and Ghastly Grange and Double Geog, but there's also Malcolm.
When I tell him about other planets, his eyes expand with wonder. Those are his favourite stories.
Malcolm was quiet all afternoon. When I dropped him off at his flat, his Mum saw at once how he was but didn't ask why. I'm sure she can make a pretty good guess. If I were from here, I'd be ashamed. But I'm not, so I'm only angry.
Later —
Saturday night, as in 'and Sunday morning'. Grandfather lets me come and go as I please. John, who receives 'house orders' from his father every morning at breakfast and has to account for every minute of every day, is envious of the freedom — but it isn't always a blessing. I sometimes worry that while I'm out of sight, Grandfather will forget who I am. He could easily take the Box away and strand me here. Then I'd probably have to grow up, get a job, get married and have children. Not exactly an exciting prospect. Maybe I'd be better off as a beat girl, making up poetry in an Old Compton Street coffee bar, zipping in and out of traffic on a Lambretta and wearing only black clothes. Thanks to Vidal Sassoon, I've got the hairstyle for it.
Tonight, I met up with Gillian. We were going to the pictures.
It's awkward. Gillian can't come to Foreman's Yard (for obvious reasons) and she doesn't want me going round her flat (for reasons I can guess but won't go into). We have to find somewhere with a Ladies, so we can change.
At the foot of Coal Hill, there's a Youth Club attached to the church,
where only the weediest Year Three kids would consider going. Mrs Haigh, the Vicar's wife, doesn't approve of music with a beat, which allegedly encourages licentious dancing, and so plays only light religious records. 'Michael, Row the Boat Ashore, Hallelujah', et cetera. The vicar serves the captive youth ginger beer, which he makes himself from Earthling organisms that fester in jars, which often detonate spectacularly. Normally, Gillian and I wouldn't be caught dead there, but the club has a good-sized loo with proper mirrors.
There's not much I can do to appear older except wrap a scarf around my head, totter on heels, and put on a long coat. Gillian pads her bra with handkerchiefs and lets out her ponytail into this brilliant mane. She also has a pleated green skirt that shows her knees and a neckscarf that matches.
We worked a long time, doing each other's faces with war paint. I wound up with scarlet lipstick and heavy blue eyeshadow and looked like a tribal princess prepared for sacrifice to the volcano gods. Gillian has a