Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [117]
Justine hadn’t eaten in a long time and she wolfed her food down with greedy enthusiasm while Creed watched. ‘You look like you’re eating for two, all right,’ he said approvingly. He was lingering on his third glass of champagne.
‘Why don’t you finish the bottle? Just because I can’t drink, you don’t have to slow down.’
‘Not really my drug,’ said Creed. ‘Are you okay?’
Justine had half risen from her chair. She was leaning over the table, her hand braced against it as though she was afraid of toppling over. Her face was white. Creed stared around, looking for their waitress but the redhead had disappeared. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Justine. ‘I just feel very strange.’ She held a hand to her belly, pale and bare below the black band of her Hamnett top. ‘All of a sudden.’
‘Can I get you something?’
‘A glass of water, please.’ Justine’s voice was even fainter now. Creed had to lean close to hear her voice over the slow, lazy jazz.
‘No problem.’ Creed hurried, weaving between tables full of expensively dressed diners. A tall, heavily built man was coming the other way but he backed away to make room when he saw Creed coming. The bar was at the far end of the restaurant. He cut across the small dance floor, slipping between swaying couples and eased up to the bar beside two stunning Eurasian girls.
‘Can they get away with that?’ said one of the girls. ‘They can’t just rent the orbit. Not if they shot down the satellite that was there before.’
‘No one can prove they shot it down,’ said the other girl. She and her friend turned to look at Creed as he ordered a glass of water from the bartender. ‘What do you think?’ said the first girl.
‘I never watch television,’ said Creed. The band was playing ‘I Can’t Get Started’ as he went back across the dance floor. He could see their table as soon as he pushed through the mass of slowly circling couples.
He could see Justine was gone.
When he got to the table his first thought was that she must have fled to the ladies’ room. Their red‐haired waitress hurried over with a worried expression on her face.
‘Have you seen the girl I was with? She –’
‘She asked me to give you a message, sir.’
‘She what?’
‘She said to tell you that she’s gone. She said –’ the waitress avoided Creed’s gaze ‘– she said, how could you ever imagine she’d forget about her husband.’
* * *
Justine paid the taxi driver with some notes from Creed’s stash. When they were shopping she’d lied to him about the price of the jacket and pocketed the difference.
On their spree she had chosen each item of clothing with great care. The jacket had a lot of pockets, was warm and would protect her skin if, say, she had to get out of a car while it was moving in slow traffic and break her fall with a roll. The culottes were loose and practical, good for running in. The shoes were useless for moving quickly, but she’d slipped her sneakers back on under the table while they were eating dessert.
The halter top she’d just bought because she liked it.
As the taxi pulled away she took a moment to get her bearings in the dark street. The driver had dropped her off at almost exactly the spot where they’d first parked. She could see the statue in the long grass on its patch of wasteground and, across the road beyond it, the small Roman Catholic convent.
Justine knew what she was doing. Soon she would get down to Kent and find the Doctor and Ace. And together they would rescue Vincent. Just like they had once before, a long time ago.
But first she had one thing to do.
She hurried through the long grass towards the statue. Moonlight shone through the tortured metal form of it. She was stepping around the wide concrete plinth when she heard the voice.
‘Hello, beautiful.’
The skinny kid was standing there with the rucksack slung over his shoulder. But this time he wasn’t alone. On either side of him stood Japanese teenagers, a boy and a girl, wearing cycle shorts