Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [68]
Back in the living‐room he saw that the Bowmans had handcuffed Creed. Creed was still sitting on the couch, more relaxed than ever, the Bowmans watching him, more tense than ever. The dog was barking outside, a monotonous endless sound. It was clearly getting on their nerves.
Artie felt a strange kind of paranoia growing in the room. It was partly to do with the nerve‐jangling noise of the dog, but it was also partly to do with the stoned cop sprawled on the couch, head bobbing to the music. The liquorice smell was stronger in the room, as if someone had been burning a scented candle. Artie began to wonder what kind of drug Creed had taken.
Artie decided he didn’t like the strained silence in here. He went back to nosing around and soon found himself fascinated by the huge collection of antique records the guy owned. Thousands of them, leaning in untidy piles around the walls.
‘Hey,’ he said, flipping through the LPs, ‘you’ve got some great music here.’ He pulled out an album with a picture of a naked girl striding across a blue sky. Artie recognised it from a CD his older brother used to own. He read the band’s name on the cover. ‘You like Free, do you?’
Even as he said it, Artie felt uncomfortable. Creed was sitting on the couch, locked up in handcuffs and here he was talking to him about ‘free’. Creed almost flinched when he said it. The word seemed to echo in the room. It sounded like he was deliberately trying for a double meaning, mocking the cop.
Maybe he was just imagining things. But he wasn’t the only one. He saw both of the Bowmans react. It was like his words had this hidden message and everybody in the room was aware of it, though nobody was admitting to it.
Artie felt an overwhelming need to apologize. ‘Hey,’ he said.
But before he could finish his sentence Creed interrupted. ‘Sure, I like Free,’ he said. He stirred on the couch, his handcuffs clinking on his wrists. ‘But I also like Bad Company.’ He smiled at Artie.
The Bowmans exchanged a worried glance and Artie understood why. It was like he and Creed were talking in code. On one level Free and Bad Company were just the names of hands. But on another it was like Artie and Creed were having a whole private conversation.
Artie was apologizing for the handcuffs and Creed was saying not to worry. He knew they were only temporary. He knew this was all bullshit. He knew he was going to be part of the IDEA team. And he was looking forward to it. That’s what he meant about liking bad company. Bad company was them, the team. Artie and Webster and even the uptight Bowmans. And Creed would be joining them. He grinned at the cop and the cop grinned back.
Christine Bowman lifted her gun. ‘Get up,’ she snapped. It was as if she had to break the mood, the growing sense of camaraderie between Creed and Artie.
Creed obeyed her, climbing off the couch, moving slowly. The warlock he’d taken had made him a little lightheaded and he felt clumsy in the handcuffs, as though he couldn’t protect himself properly if he stumbled and fell.
‘Come on,’ said Christine. Creed glanced at her. In his drugged state every sound in the room seemed to have taken on an odd significance. Especially the human sounds. The noises of the others breathing was like a supple wave of background sound, easing in and out of his awareness. And every breath carried its own message. Take Artie, for instance. Creed knew almost from the moment he’d entered the apartment that Artie was in conflict with the other two, and that he didn’t mean Creed any harm. You could see it in obvious things like the halfhearted way he conducted the search or the fact that his gun was still in its holster. But it was also in his posture, and his tone of voice. Things that the warlock made very clear to Creed. Countless small perceptual clues.
And the breathing. Especially the