Doctor Who_ Wonderland - Mark Chadbourn [31]
There isn't a person who's dropped acid or taken mushrooms who doesn't know about the telepathy, the way at times you know exactly what someone's thinking and they know what you're thinking. But try telling that to people who haven't taken hallucinogens; it's something that can't be communicated unless it's been experienced. Like religion, I suppose. In the same way, it's impossible to communicate those connections that exist behind the patina of our lives to someone who doesn't already know they're there.
Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Lone gunman. Twice is a coincidence. Yet still people deny the pattern.
And as long as the majority denies it, we're left with a consensus reality where people like me – people who only wanted the best from life – are seen as outsiders. This isn't my reality at all. No wonder I've been on the run for the better part of forty years.
I often wonder if we could have done more, if things would have turned out differently. The human race is very good at assimilating bad situations and making do. The only time it hurts is when people see how it could have been. And no one does see, because the picture is controlled.
But just how long can you keep assimilating? How much despair can you soak up? I think you can exist in an atmosphere of pointlessness for only so long before you have to face facts, and I think I've reached my limit. I made a good fist of it. Years and years of running and misery and fear. No one could say I didn't try. Not that.
I've got a gun. The big-time gangsters would probably laugh at it, but it's enough to do the job. Don't get me wrong, I don't relish it. I'm scared I'll make a mistake, take half my face off but still be alive, to suffer even more. But there really isn't any point carrying on. When he gets here, my life will be over anyway.
The question now is when to do it. When I see the lights splaying over the dark countryside, when I feel the tread on the front porch, the creak of the door handle, the step on the stairs? When is the right time to kill yourself?
We were pursued through the trees, I'm sure of that, but when we finally emerged into the open, the terrible feeling of dread that we had felt seemed to lift, and we realised that we had escaped. When we reached the Doctor's police box, we lay against the side of it for several minutes, breathing heavily and shaking. Ben was sprayed with blood from the wound on his forehead.
Then the Doctor suddenly emerged, beaming from ear to ear. 'I have it!' he said. 'Simple, when you get to the heart of it! Symbolic communication – that's what it's all been about. All the things presented to me were representative.'
'What?' I said sharply, scarcely believing my ears.
'Communication is the transmission of ideas or information in a language that the recipient can understand,' he lectured. 'If there isn't a shared verbal language, then the best thing is the universal language of symbols. The Cyberman, the Menoptra, WOTAN – it all makes perfect sense!'
'Don't you care about anyone apart from yourself?' Bottled-up emotion
came rushing out in tears of frustration and anger. I motioned to Ben who was clutching a handkerchief to his head wound. 'Look at him – your friend. And Polly – terrified. We've been through this terrible thing and all you're concerned about is your stupid puzzle!'
The Doctor looked taken aback. 'Summer, it's okay,' Polly said.
'No, it's not okay.' I caught myself and turned away. Ben placed a hand on my shoulder; it was a simple