Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [17]
The Doctor frowned thoughtfully as he listened. She tried to read the expression in his eyes.
‘What is it, Doctor?’
‘What?’ He turned to look at her, luminous crescents in his eyes from the moonlight. Then, as if aware of how disconcerting those eyes could be, he made some subtle change in his posture and the angle of his head altered. Now his eyes were safely hidden in the shadow of his hatbrim. He smiled at her.
‘You looked like you were listening to something,’ said Benny. Or maybe listening for something, she thought.
‘Oh, it was nothing. At least, nothing to worry about.’
Benny still couldn’t see his eyes. ‘You haven’t asked me what’s for supper,’ he said.
‘What’s for supper?’
‘Things you like. Peasant cooking.’
‘Garlic?’
‘In abundance.’
‘And red wine?’
‘Most certainly.’ The Doctor smiled.
‘Don’t let Chris drink all of it this time.’ They had reached the bottom of the lawn now and stood on the edge of the dark orchard. She could smell apple blossom and the green, nose-tickling aroma of weeds which had been baking all day under a hot sun.
‘I’m afraid Chris won’t be joining us,’ said the Doctor.
They turned around and walked slowly back up the lawn towards the house. Benny’s arm was still linked with the Doctor’s. ‘I had to send him on an errand,’ he said.
Benny felt her heart begin to accelerate in her chest.
She’d known for days that something was up. But the Doctor sending Chris Cwej off confirmed it.
‘What is this errand?’ said Benny.
‘He may be gone for some time,’ said the Doctor.
Will he enjoy himself?’
‘Well, I certainly hope so,’ said the Doctor. ‘Because he didn’t enjoy shaving his head very much.’
The Doctor left Benny sitting in the garden drinking a brandy and soda while he went to cook supper. She sat sipping her drink in the late summer moonlight. Delicious cooking smells drifted out to her from the small kitchen window. Benny kicked her shoes off and wriggled her toes in the dark dew-damp grass. She concentrated on the oily aromatic taste of the brandy, the small chunky music of ice in her glass. The warm country night surrounding her.
She looked at the dark weaving shadows of ivy leaves on the old house that rose above her. She listened to the stillness and silence of the night.
Then she heard it.
A distant, lonely sound.
It came from far off, beyond the trees at the foot of the orchard, rising in the night like the whistle of a late train thundering past in the night.
It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
The sound rose and fell, seeming to change position, as if coming from different parts of the country. Rising and falling, dying away in one area and then starting up in another. High, raggedly mournful and chillingly lonesome, the sound rose up around her from every compass point of the dark Kentish night.
Benny found herself standing up, the lawn chair lying behind her in the grass where it had fallen. The glass in her hand was empty and she was vaguely aware of the ice cubes at her feet, as the brandy and soda drained away in the grass.
It couldn’t be, she thought. The sound couldn’t be coming from every direction like that. As though it was synchronized.
As though it was everywhere. All the disparate parts of the sprawling countryside had come alive in the darkness and they seemed to share a common purpose. It made Benny feel like she was surrounded.
She turned away and hurried into the house.
There was a big enamelled pot on the stove, steam hissing from its lid, fragrant with the smell of garlic, herbs and wine. The cooking utensils were still lying scattered on the counter but the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. Benny’s first reaction on finding that she was alone was a surprisingly strong sense of panic.
Benny repressed the urge to call out to him, to shout at the top of her lungs. The Doctor had evidently left the kitchen some time ago. The casserole was beginning to steam violently, rocking on the surface of the stove.