Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [143]
‘We prefer the term “clinical sacrifice”.’
‘In any case, it seems to have died just as the dog got out. In fact, it seems to have triggered his killing of this woman.’
‘Her name was Pamela Hunnicutt. Poor Pammy.’
‘I’m more worried about that dog,’ said the Doctor. ‘I hope we can find him.’
Dieter followed the Doctor out of the laboratory and past the ornamental pond.
Creed stood in the doorway of the barn, waiting for them.
‘I’ve managed to keep the animal enthusiasts away,’ he said. ‘I pretty much convinced them that there’s nothing in here that they’d want to take home.’
Just inside the door two bodies lay, looking sad and discarded. One of them was a burly muscular man with long blond hair. ‘That’s the guard,’ said Creed. The Doctor nodded sadly.
‘His name was Sean. Clever boy. Very good with people. This is such a shame.’
‘You can write a poem about it later,’ said Creed. He indicated the tattooed girl lying on the floor. ‘Her name was Shell, apparently.’
The Doctor kneeled to have a closer look. Shell still had her hands wrapped around the man’s neck. Her eyes were flat and dead and now the Doctor closed them. The bright tattoos on the girl’s face stood out against her pasty pale skin.
‘She was part of the experiment,’ said Creed.
‘I deny that there was any experiment,’ said Dieter.
‘Denial is bad for the soul,’ said Mrs Woodcott, coming in through the glass doors. ‘Take Creed here for instance. He’s denying what’s going on between himself and Justine.’
‘Justine’s a married woman,’ said Creed quietly.
‘Yes, but who’s she married to? I understand there was a kind of honeymoon which took place at one of London’s more famous landmarks. While I was hard at work looking for this place.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Creed. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He took a small flat object out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs Woodcott. It was a beer‐mat with a crude map sketched on the back. Mrs Woodcott took it. ‘It’s the best I could do. I drew it during a dream.’
‘Well, it got us here.’
‘Not soon enough, though.’ Mrs Woodcott stared down at the tattooed girl on the floor. ‘Poor thing. She was in love, you know.’
Mrs Woodcott looked up at them. ‘Come through and I’ll show you the bloke she was in love with.’
Beyond a set of glass doors they came to a room full of shelving units. ‘It all started one day in Canterbury in the snow,’ said Mrs Woodcott. Stacked on the shelves were boxes bearing the logos of the world’s great pharmaceutical concerns. She led them through aisle after aisle of the boxes, turned left and came into an open space with a metal ceiling high above them.
On the concrete floor were three old‐fashioned leather dentist’s chairs. The first chair was empty. In the second a big, bearded, red‐haired man appeared to be sleeping. ‘That’s him,’ said Mrs Woodcott. ‘His name is Jack. He was her boyfriend.’
On closer inspection Jack clearly was not sleeping. His breathing was thin and shallow and there was an odd slackness to his face.
‘He doesn’t look too well,’ said Creed.
‘Neither would you if your body was lying in that chair while your mind was running around in some dog miles away.’
‘What a ridiculous suggestion,’ said Dieter.
‘What’s your story then?’ said Mrs Woodcott.
‘We discovered your three friends unconscious on our grounds. We took them in and gave them shelter.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘We made them comfortable but they were evidently in some sort of coma.’
‘Until one of them got up and strangled your guard.’
‘A tragedy, but only one of several that we share.’ Dieter looked at them. ‘The drug must have had an unforeseen effect on the tattooed girl. But it also seems to have left these two deeply catatonic. Jack and your friend. What was her name?’ Dieter turned to the third chair.
‘Ace,’ said the Doctor.
‘Your poor friend Ace,’ said Dieter. ‘She may never wake up again.’ He went over to look at Ace in the third chair. He peered down into the girl’s slack, expressionless face.
Ace’s eyes flashed open. ‘You