Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [66]
It smelled like petrol combined with another odour, almost herbaceous, that reminded Benny of something. After a while she decided that it was like fennel. Then she remembered what the Doctor had said about the liquid killing the roses and she decided it might be better not to inhale the fumes from the stuff, so she averted her face, staring at a mildewed set of Lewis Carroll on the nearest bookshelf.
Holding the hose was a boring task, at least until the dropping level of fluid began to reveal the man inside. At first just a few tangled strands of red hair, then the whole crown of his head, then the fish-white skin of his forehead. The cylinder’s inhabitant began to emerge.
Benny had never known it — him — as anything other than an unconscious body floating in green fluid. She had to make an effort to remember that he was called Jack and that he had once had a life.
The liquid in the tank was down below the level of Jack’s eyes now. Benny avoided looking at them. If they suddenly flew open she didn’t want to meet their gaze. She had no desire to be staring directly into whatever strange emotions might have been bred by years of dreaming in the green liquid.
There were footsteps outside the library. Benny annoyed herself by jerking with alarm. It was just the Doctor, of course.
The sound of the pump echoing from the kitchen had covered his approach.
He came into the library smiling. He was carrying a big roll of fabric folded over one of his shoulders. In his other hand he was balancing a silver tray, like a waiter. On the tray there were four objects. They appeared to be a syringe, a bottle of brandy, a ham sandwich and an air-pistol.
The Doctor inspected the descending level of fluid in the cylinder with satisfaction. ‘That pump is working rather well, don’t you think?’ he said brightly.
Somewhat peeved at being left on her own for so long, Benny frowned at the Doctor and wagged the hose in the thick green liquid. ‘If this stuff is so toxic don’t you think it’s irresponsible putting it down the drain?’
‘It’s going directly into the septic tank. It will break down harmlessly there.’
‘I didn’t even know we had a septic tank.’
‘Oh yes, a huge one.’ The Doctor went to the billiard-table and began to clear the accumulated books off it.
‘Remind me not to hammer any more croquet-hoops into the lawn, I’d hate to strike a gusher.’
‘Oh, it’s far too deep for that,’ said the Doctor. He was clearing the table with remarkable speed, stacking the books neatly on the floor. ‘It consists of several interconnected cells or vaults which can be drained independently.’
‘I’m not sure I need to know all the gory details.’
‘Well, anyway, it’s a superb construction,’ said the Doctor. He set the roll of fabric and the silver tray down on the newly cleared billiard-table. ‘It could have been made even larger but then it would have broken through to the wine cellar.’
Benny sighed. She didn’t know that they had a wine cellar either. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I give up. Tell me what that stuff is for.’
‘What?’ said the Doctor, following Benny’s gaze to the billiard-table. ‘The tarpaulin?’
‘No, the stuff on the tray. The syringe I can guess.
Something to help bring our friend back to life.’ The hose suddenly slurped loudly, sucking air, and Benny realized that she’d let the level of fluid drop faster than the hose. She paid a few more centimetres of slack into the cylinder and the draining resumed smoothly. The liquid was down to Jack’s shoulders now. His thin bearded face stared blindly up at her, gaunt with suffering, a Renaissance Christ in green goop.