Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (12 page)

here. She’s. . . well, this isn’t the first time we’ve had her come around here telling her stories.’

‘I see,’ the Doctor said, solemnly.

Margaret’s face fell, the constable’s comments having robbed her of an audience for her story.

‘Let me get this straight, Constable,’ the Doctor said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Are you ignoring what this woman is saying because she is old, homeless, or because you think her mad?’

The constable reacted to the authority in the Doctor’s voice by attempting to impose his own. Ignoring the Doctor’s question, he said, ‘Sir, if you’ll just step out of the way. I must escort this person from the premises.’

Harris quickly interceded. ‘It’s all right son, the Doctor’s with me. He’s a pathologist from the Middlesex.’

The constable blushed a little beneath his acne. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know.’

The Doctor accepted the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s all right, Constable,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘For all you knew I could have been an ordinary person taking an interest in the world.’

The constable blinked slowly, having to think hard about this remark. By the time he had worked out what the little man had meant, the Doctor was busy discussing other topics.

‘If I’m to track down this vehicle, Inspector Harris, I’ll need a staff car, one of your sergeants and –’ the Doctor patted his pockets some money.’

‘I see, Doctor,’ Harris began, having absolutely no idea what was going on.

‘Exactly how much money?’

‘Oh, just enough for three full English breakfasts.’

Harris dug his hands into his pockets and considered this request. ‘Very well, I’ll have Bridie drive the car round for you. He won’t have much to do while I’m with the chief super.’ Speaking of which, he was going to be late for morning prayers if he didn’t get a move on.

As the Doctor and the old woman made to leave Harris excused himself and threaded his way through the building towards the chief superintendent’s suite on the third floor. As he waited for the lift, two constables brought a tall, broad-shouldered blond man past him. The young man looked tired, his face and hair were smeared with soot. The rank taste of bitter smoke stung the back of the chief inspector’s throat. The blond-haired man must have been involved in the fire at the queer club last night.

The lift arrived, and Harris entered and pushed the button for the third floor. Through the gap in the closing doors he watched the three men make their way down the corridor – the two uniformed officers were completely dwarfed by the blond prisoner. Funny, he didn’t look like one of them, but then you could never tell.

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The doors closed, blocking Harris’s view. Within a couple of moments, Harris had forgotten all about the blond-haired man.

Chris Cwej sat on the front steps of Charing Cross Police Station threading his shoelaces back into his shoes. He wasn’t wholly sure how he was going to find his way back to the TARDIS. The autumn morning was bright and clear; he squinted as his aching fingers struggled with his shoes. The cold morning wind bit through his thin shirt. He needed a bath. The smoke from the fire had left a greasy film on his skin. He wanted to change out of this costume and put some of his own clothes on. What he really felt like doing was climbing into his armour and charging his blaster.

An image of the Doctor’s disapproving face appeared in his mind. Chris found himself wondering where the Doctor was and what he was up to. Suddenly, Chris wanted to be in the company of his friend. Didn’t want to have to cope with another day in a strange place on his own.

A shadow fell across him. ‘Morning, baby,’ a female voice said. ‘Does little Christopher Robin need some help with his laces?’

It was Patsy. She was squinting at him in the sunlight, one hand resting wearily on her hip, an eyebrow raised. She had replaced her short cocktail dress with a man’s flannel suit, two sizes too big. Her blonde hair was tied back into a tight ponytail. Last night, she’d looked like a substance user; this morning she looked like a pop star.

And then Chris remembered that she was.

He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Patsy’s hair smelt of lacquer, strong and exotic. After the sterility of the police station it was intoxicating.

‘So, you’re a free man, Christopher Cwej.’

‘I’ve been “cautioned” – whatever that means.’

‘So tell me, are you going to be a good boy and act with caution from now on?’

He grinned, warming to her mischievous mood. ‘Is there an alternative?’

‘Baby, there’s always an alternative. You could always throw your “caution”

to the wind and risk breakfast with me.’

Chris sipped his tea and chewed slowly on some buttered toast and jam. The bread was bleached white and didn’t taste of anything. The butter was salty, too salty. Patsy had brought him to a café tucked away in the back of a musty old book shop off the Charing Cross Road. She’d explained that she’d once worked as a waitress in the café before she had been ‘discovered’ by her manager. It was owned by a cheerful middle-aged man called David, who doted on Patsy, referring to her as ‘our own little starlet.’

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Patsy had slipped out to telephone Tilda, who joined them shortly afterwards. She arrived in a flustered state, wrapped up in a headscarf and dark glasses, and dragging hard on a strong Turkish cigarette.

‘Can’t be too careful,
deahs
,’ she barked. ‘I fear that the Tropics is under surveillance. Lilly Law is crawling over Soho like lice over a rugby scrum.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I hear that the Major’s been arrested.’ She wagged a finger at Patsy. ‘I thought I told you to keep an eye on the old thing.’

‘Mother!’ Angrily, Patsy ground her cigarette out in the remains of her breakfast. ‘Christopher and I saved his life.’

Chris nodded; he hadn’t forgotten Patsy’s strange unspoken communication in the Upstairs Room. ‘We shared a cell. He’s very ill, but the police didn’t take it very seriously. I asked for a doctor, but they weren’t interested.’

Tilda’s face became grim. ‘The silly old trout isn’t built to do bird,’ she snapped irritably, but the concern in her voice was evident. ‘A spell in prison is going to kill him just as surely as any bullet would.’

‘He was sure that he wasn’t going to be released this morning. He asked me to bring a message to you.’

‘Oh?’ Tilda looked directly at Chris, her expression carefully neutral. ‘What did he say?’

Chris thought back to the Major’s moment of lucidity in the cells. ‘He asked me to tell you that he was expecting some important guests to come and stay with him. He wanted you to go and collect them and take care of them in his absence.’

Patsy and Tilda exchanged glances. ‘I see,’ began Tilda, cautiously. ‘Was that all?’

‘Yep. That’s all. He made it sound important. Is it?’

Tilda ignored his question. She turned to Patsy and asked her if she would see to it. Patsy immediately agreed, all trace of her earlier annoyance gone.

The two women started to make travel plans, discussing the logistics of Patsy leaving London by lunchtime. It was clear from the way that they referred to them that these ‘guests’ were no casual visitors.

The two women were careful not to reveal the identities of their friends, and their selfconsciousness was making Chris feel more than a little left out.

‘If you tell me who these people are,’ he started, ‘and what this is all about, perhaps I can help.’

Patsy looked at Tilda and arched an eyebrow. ‘He did save the Major.’

Tilda shrugged dramatically in reply. ‘I suppose we could use his help. Very well, daughter, he won’t believe us anyway. But if this should all go wrong I shall be the first in line to lay the blame entirely at your doorstep.’

‘So what’s new?’ Patsy commented, and stole one of Tilda’s cigarettes.

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Tilda turned to Chris, and took a long drag on her cigarette as if drawing strength from it. ‘Look,
deah
.’ She spat out a plume of perfumed smoke. ‘The fact of the matter is we are not of your miserable race and we are not from this prissy little planet. The sad truth is that we are refugees from the stars and are in dire need of some of your human charity.’ She stared imperiously at him, as if daring him to disbelieve her.

Chris met her gaze, raised an eyebrow and adopted a bored tone. ‘I’m way ahead of you. Now tell me something I don’t know.’

Gordy Scraton stood on Old Compton Street staring at the burnt out shell of the building opposite. He was quite oblivious to the other pedestrians going about their lunchtime business. His attention was entirely focused on the building opposite him. He looked upon the still-smoking ruin as an artist might look upon a newly completed canvas.

What had been the home to filth was now just blackened rubble and char-coal timbers. He hoped some of them had died in the fire. They didn’t deserve to live. Not around here. Not in his part of town.

This was only the beginning. Just the start. The blackened gap left in the row of townhouses reminded him of a mouth after a rotten tooth had been pulled. A proud smile crept across his face. Well there were gonna be more rotten teeth pulled in Soho before he was done. It was going to take a long time to get Soho back to how it should be. Back like it was when he was a kid playing footie and trailing after Albert and his mates. Back when it was a place where there weren’t any blacks on the streets. When there weren’t any filthy queers.

Last night had only been the start. It wasn’t going to be easy. Or cheap.

He’d had to pay those lads a packet to put the Molotov cocktail through the window. Hard cash on top of enough drinks for them to pluck up the courage.

But it was worth it. Once the other clubs heard about it they’d swiftly agree to his terms. Despite the Doctor having put an end to his blackmailing operation, the threat of another petrol-bombing would bring in a wave of new cash.

When the devil had spoken to him that morning he’d offered him more riches if Gordy continued to do his bidding. Gordy had promised that the little paperboy, Dennis, would be seen to shortly. And he’d keep his promise to do the devil’s work. It wouldn’t do to disappoint him. But only after he’d dealt with the Doctor. Only after he’d really hurt him. The Doctor and the boy.

Gordy stood and watched the smouldering building for a few more minutes, before turning and walking away.

∗ ∗ ∗

67

The TARDIS welcomed Chris with a gentle humming which permeated its every room. His relief to be back within the indestructible walls of the Doctor’s time-ship after a night in the cold police cells was immeasurable. Nothing, bar the odd transtemporal being – which were, thankfully, rather thin on the ground – could gain entry to the TARDIS uninvited. Feeling safe and secure, Chris showered and quickly towel-dried himself, pleased to wash the grey stain of soot from his body. Fresh faced and blow-dried, he fingered his Adjudicator armour lovingly for a moment before, regretfully, leaving it in his room and heading for the wardrobe.

He popped his head around the doors of the in-house library, swimming pool and theatre hoping to catch sight of the Doctor. There was no sign of him in any of these places, which wasn’t really a surprise. Chris could usually tell if the Doctor was aboard the ship. It wasn’t anything tangible, just a general feeling of alertness and expectation in the air when the Doctor was around.

At the moment, the cool, dimly lit corridors of the ship suggested that it was slumbering, patiently awaiting its master’s return.

The wardrobe door was locked. A sign pinned to it read CLOSED FOR RE-FURBISHMENT in neat, hand-printed letters. Typical. The wardrobe was an expression of the ship’s eccentricities: it was rarely to be found in the same location twice and changed its layout and style on an almost daily basis. The last time Chris had visited, it had been a huge warehouse of a room, with wicker baskets piled precariously up to the ceiling, each of which was chaotically stuffed full of brightly coloured clothes. On an earlier visit, it had appeared as a small gentleman’s tailor’s, complete with an elderly bespectacled shop assistant. When Chris had asked the Doctor if he knew that there was a tailor aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor had replied, absently, that he’d been wondering who’d been sneaking into his bedroom and darning his socks.

A low-backed Edwardian nursing chair had been abandoned next to the wardrobe door. Draped over the chair was a navy pin-striped suit. A brown packing label attached to the jacket with a pin read: TIME: MID -TWENTIETH CENTURY.

SPACE: ENGLAND.

STYLE: INCOGNITO.

SIZE: ADJUDICATOR: LARGE.

Chris grinned and dressed. The TARDIS, like its owner, was usually a few steps ahead of him. He admired himself in a nearby floor-length mirror. Despite being labelled as INCOGNITO, the suit was decidedly flashy: the jacket boasted padded shoulders and a fitted waist; the trousers were baggy, but narrowed at the ankles. A knee-length navy coat and felt hat completed the 68

ensemble. It was a perfect fit. Chris tipped his hat at the wardrobe door and left the ship.

The Eastbound train sat waiting patiently on platform three. Chris paused for a moment to admire the huge engine. He gently ran the fingers of one hand along the carriages as he made his way along the platform towards first class.

The carriages of the train were two-tone: dark scarlet and bright yellow. The colours of blood and custard. Chris thought that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He found Patsy sitting in the first-class dining carriage of the train, oblivious to her surroundings and struggling with a champagne bottle.

‘Bloody steward’s disappeared and I can’t wait,’ she explained, intent on trying to loosen the cork. The table was neatly prepared for lunch. ‘Did you find your friend?’ she added, without looking up.

‘What? Oh, no. He wasn’t there.’ Damn, he’d forgotten to leave a message for the Doctor in the TARDIS. Over the last month they had fallen into the habit of leaving messages taped to the control console. Sometimes it was easier than talking.