Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [67]
‘That’s right,’ said the Doctor, picking up the syringe and checking it. ‘Just plain adrenaline. I’ll inject it into his heart, unless you want to do the honours.’
‘No thanks. Why didn’t you do that years ago, if a shot of adrenaline is all it takes?’
‘Oh, it requires a lot more than that to bring him back,’
said the Doctor. ‘We might conceivably have revived his body but that would have been pointless with no mind to inhabit it.’
Benny stared down into the cylinder, the blank haunted face staring back up at her, eyes squeezed shut, lank beard and hair slimed with the thick liquid. ‘And you think his mind is back now?’
‘I think it’s coming,’ said the Doctor tersely. Suddenly Benny wondered if he was less certain than he let on.
Perhaps he was as dubious about Jack’s recovery as she was. Maybe he was taking a big chance on this. If so, it was churlish of her to challenge him about it, to step on his optimism.
Benny changed the subject. ‘What else have you got there? It looks like a bottle of brandy and a ham sandwich.’
‘Correct. Armagnac and smoked Bavarian ham, to be exact.’
‘Why?’
‘In case he’s hungry when he wakes up.’
‘And he’s definitely going to need a drink, right?’
‘Right.’ The Doctor smiled.
‘What about the gun?’ said Benny. She grunted with effort as she fed another length of hose into the cylinder. The process of draining seemed to be accelerating. The liquid was halfway down Jack’s chest now, droplets of it clinging to the thick mat of copper hair between his nipples.
‘Ah yes, the gun,’ said the Doctor, his smile fading. He went over and picked it up. ‘It’s just an air-pistol.’
‘I can see that,’ said Benny. ‘What’s it loaded with?’
The Doctor broke the gun open and showed her the scarlet tail-feathers of a dart, chambered and ready to be fired.
‘Anaesthetic,’ he said. ‘Very fast acting.’
‘How come?’
‘Just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘Psychotic behaviour. It’s not uncommon when someone has spent a prolonged period in a life-support tank.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Benny. ‘You don’t want to give me a hand with this hose, do you?’
Chapter 23
‘Grown-ups will always tell you that you should trust them.
But take it from me, as a general rule you shouldn’t trust any of the bastards further than a midget can throw a piano. Me included. Mind if I smoke?’
‘No,’ said Ricky, a little startled by the question. ‘Go ahead.’
Mr Pangbourne smiled gratefully and began to rummage in the drawers of his desk. He dug out a crushed-looking pack of cigarettes, shook one out, put it between his lips and lit it. With the first inhalation of smoke he visibly relaxed.
‘Ricky,’ he said, ‘you might think that the more important a man gets, the more privileges he acquires.’ As he spoke, smoke spilled from his mouth in interesting shapes that drifted and changed as they dispersed in the small office. ‘But in fact sometimes it’s the other way around. I mean, look at me. Principal of Scopes High School. I’m the head-honcho here. I run the place.’ He paused and wiped some fine particles of ash off the sleeve of his jacket. ‘And therefore, you might think, I’m a man of importance. Yet, I can’t even have a cigarette.’ The heavy lines around his eyes wrinkled as he smiled at Ricky. ‘Along with power comes responsibility. I’m supposed to set an example. Almost nobody smokes these damned things anymore.’ He tucked the cigarette packet back into his desk drawer. ‘I’ve got some cigars in here, too,’ he said. ‘But I only smoke those out in the open air. I do have some compassion.’
Ricky didn’t reply.
‘High-school principals aren’t meant to have bad habits,’
continued Pangbourne. ‘I can just about get away with having a quiet cigarette when I’m alone. But I could get in a whole lot of trouble smoking while you’re in here with me.’ He peered at Ricky through the haze of smoke. His eyes were shrewd, gleaming with intelligence. ‘You might say that you’re the one who wields the true power here. After all, if you wanted to report me, you could get me into some deep shit with the school-board. Forgive my blunt language but I