Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [147]
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I was talking to her this morning. We had a long talk. Maybe you should brace yourself for a shock,’ said Benny. She looked back at the big house.
‘Maybe you should just shut up.’
‘Creed –’
‘Benny, this is none of your business.’
‘Look –’
‘This is my life. Just stay out of it. It’s Justine’s decision, and mine.’
‘Creed. Look behind you.’
‘What?’
‘On the wall.’ Benny’s face was pale.
Creed turned and looked at the old stone wall that ran uphill towards the tree‐line. Hanging down over the green mossy stones was a rope‐ladder.
Benny looked around the grounds towards the big house. ‘Someone’s broken in.’
* * *
‘Poor Jack.’
The light of the life‐support tank shone on Ace’s face. The pale green glow gave her an unearthly beauty.
‘And that poor girl,’ said the Doctor. ‘What was her name?’ He turned to Mrs Woodcott who stood beside them in the darkness of the garage. Ace liked the garage. It smelled of burlap sacks and sweet grass trimmings and bicycle oil.
‘Shell,’ said Mrs Woodcott. ‘Poor little thing with those pretty tattoos. It takes a lot of guts to wander around like that. To be different.’ She nodded at the man floating in the life‐support tank. ‘She loved him.’
‘Yes,’ said Ace. ‘At least we’ve managed to keep him alive.’
‘His body, you mean.’
‘Yes. Isn’t there any way we can get him back into it?’
‘Not unless we can find the dog.’ The Doctor turned and looked at Mrs Woodcott. ‘Although perhaps warlock could help him in another way.’
Mrs Woodcott shrugged. ‘I don’t claim to be an expert,’ she said.
‘The national police computer seems to think you are.’ The Doctor brushed some dried leaves off an old horn‐loaded loudspeaker and held the garage door open for Mrs Woodcott. They emerged blinking in the morning light. They crossed the patio by the herb garden and stepped through the back door of the house into the brightly lit warmth of the kitchen.
Vincent was sitting at the counter surrounded by plates of toast, jam jars and the wreckage of a plate of bacon, eggs, sausages, pancakes and maple syrup. He looked up at them with some degree of embarrassment.
‘What a magnificent breakfast,’ said the Doctor.
‘Yeah. Justine seems intent on serving me everything in the refrigerator.’
Justine smiled from the cooker where she was pouring coffee. ‘I want you to get your strength back. Can I do you some more pancakes?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
Vincent turned and snapped at her, ‘For Christ’s sake!’ There was a pause. He laughed, trying to pass it off as a joke, but an awkward silence lingered in the kitchen.
‘Well, Doctor.’ Mrs Woodcott cleared her throat. ‘In answer to your earlier question, I may well be an expert on warlock, in comparison to most people. But I wouldn’t claim to be able to understand its motivations and objectives.’
Vincent smiled tensely at the Doctor. ‘She keeps talking about warlock as if it’s a living thing.’
‘Well, I sort of agree with her,’ said Justine. She sat down at the counter and put a fresh cup of coffee in front of her husband. ‘Creed says –’
‘Creed.’ He spoke the name quietly, but it was almost as if he was spitting it out. ‘All right. Let’s hear what Creed thinks.’ He turned and stared at his wife.
‘I’ll tell you what I think,’ said the Doctor. ‘Drugs are often referred to as “agents”. But I think warlock is an agent in a different sense. I think it has some claim to being a living thing.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Vincent.
‘Well, I agree with the Doctor,’ said Mrs Woodcott. ‘But then, I would. My world view is informed with certain cultural definitions. The notion of a drug as a sentient entity is right up my street. Look at mescalito or –’
Vincent cut in. ‘Is that what you’re saying, Doctor? That warlock is sentient? A living thing?’
‘Well, a collection of information can be said to be a living thing.’ The Doctor wandered over to a shelf on the kitchen wall. He reached up and pulled down a volume from among the jumbled piles of cookbooks. The book was called Mind Wars: MK/Ultra and