Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (24 page)

The driver’s door opened first, a

scrawny looking young man with fiery red hair and a scar running down his cheek, leapt out of the car and raced towards them.

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Mikey heard Jack gasp in terror. He must have recognized the man. The scar-faced man was staring directly at Mikey, his angular, mean face twisted with hatred, and beyond that fear.

‘You’re dead!’ the man spat. ‘Do you hear me? Dead.’

Mikey must have frozen, because the next thing he remembered was Dennis tugging at his arm. ‘We gotta go, Mikey. Go now.’

The scar-faced man pulled something from his jacket. It was a knife. Only then did Mikey find the ability to turn and run.

And by then it was far too late.

‘Bloody amateur!’ Billy Spot yelled after Carl, trying to attract his attention and failing. Spot jumped out of the car and gave chase. What was Carl Scraton going to do? Kill the boy in the middle of the street?

Carl leapt at the older black’s retreating back. He got a grip on the collar of his cheap suit and pulled him down roughly on to the ground, where he sprawled across the pavement.

The boy he had come to kill was too far away for Carl to reach and would have probably got away if he’d kept running, but for some reason the little boy turned and ran back. Carl couldn’t believe his luck. The little boy was actually trying to stage a rescue attempt! The futility of the gesture made Carl laugh out loud. His mirth only enraged the boy, who screamed as he kicked at Carl and tried to push him off his brother.

The queer who’d broken into the club the other night had hesitated at first, as if he didn’t know what to do, but now he was heading back, following the little boy’s example. How stupid could you get? Carl thought to himself. What did the dirty little bleeder think he was gonna do?

The older black had hit the pavement hard and wasn’t going anywhere. Carl landed a satisfying punch to his stomach just to be certain, and then reached out and grabbed hold of the boy he’d come for, lifting him clean off his feet.

Yes!

The boy wriggled in his grasp, kicking out desperately. Carl barely felt the blows against his shins. He spun the boy around and trapped his small, fragile neck under his arm. He could probably break the boy’s neck just by squeezing hard, just by pulling his own arm tightly into his body.

Carl had to admit he was tempted. But that wasn’t the right way to do the job. This job had to be done a special way, just like Gordy had taught him, and Carl wasn’t about to disappoint his brother by messing it up. He wasn’t going to disappoint his brother again.

The kid must have caught sight of the razor, because he started to whimper and struggle harder. Carl carefully brought the blade down to the base of the 133

boy’s throat.

Oh yes.

‘What the frigging hell do you think you’re doing?’ A man’s voice shouted near him. ‘You stick him here and you’ll have every black in the street down on us. Not to mention the law.’

Carl flinched at the angry tones. He turned to see Billy Spot bearing down on him. ‘Get him in the car before you bring the whole street down on us.’

‘Keep back,’ Carl screamed. He wasn’t going to let Spot take his glory now.

‘Keep back or I’ll do it right here, right now, I swear.’

The boy started to cry loudly in his arms. Carl glanced about him, feeling like a trapped animal. The queer boy was close by, helping the fallen black to his feet. A few Teds on the other side of the street were beginning to take an interest, having heard the noise of the crash. Perhaps it would be best just to kill the little boy now and then make a run for it?

Billy Spot raised his hands and moved closer. ‘Come on, Carl,’ he said, softly. ‘We don’t want no trouble in the street. Gordy wouldn’t be pleased if you brought the law down on him, now would he?’

‘You leave my brother out of this,’ Carl yelled and clutched the boy tighter.

He was suddenly less sure of himself. It was hard to be sure of anything while the armed robber’s eyes were on him.

Billy Spot made a show of looking around them. ‘We’re attracting attention.

You don’t want the police to get a description, do you? Tell you what, you keep hold of the lad, good and proper, and I’ll drive us back.’ He nodded towards the queer and the black, who were looking on, their eyes fixed on the blade in his hand as if willing him not to use it. ‘They’re not going to give us any trouble now, are they? Not while you’ve got the boy. We can take them back with us. An extra prize for Gordy.’

There was a soothing quality to Billy Spot’s voice and Carl found himself nodding along with the cockney’s words.

‘That’s right. I’ve got the boy,’ Carl murmured, transfixed by Billy Spot’s deep blue eyes. ‘I’ll get the prize.’

Jack sat in the back of the car next to the scar-faced man who held the razor to little Dennis’s throat. Dennis appeared to have retreated into himself, his brown eyes stared sightlessly in front of him, and his teeth were chattering. A trail of snot hung from his nose. Jack started to reach for his handkerchief to wipe it for him, like he often did at home, and then he took one look at Carl Scraton and changed his mind.

Little Dennis was making tiny noises. Whispered words repeated over and over like a ritual prayer.

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Carl Scraton looked almost as hysterical as Dennis, his knuckles white where his hand gripped the handle of the razor. Hysterical and dangerous.

How could anyone even think of killing a child?

‘What are you looking at?’ Carl spat. Jack flinched and turned away, scared that he might inadvertently do something that might provoke the thug into using his knife. Jack caught the second man’s eye in the driver’s mirror for a moment. There was something familiar about the driver, although Jack was sure that he hadn’t actually seen his face before.

The driver winked at Jack.

The thunder of footsteps sounded in the office upstairs. Gordy glanced towards the stairs which led up out of the cellar. If that was Carl and Billy returning then they must have done the job. Here was a chance to really impress his devil.

Daylight streaked into the underground room from the top of the stairs, dissolving the eerie gloom and causing Gordy to blink repeatedly.

Carl descended the stairs holding the boy in an arm-lock. The boy’s body was limp, his short, thin legs swinging loosely, reminding Gordy of a ven-triloquist’s dummy. Billy Spot pushed two figures down the stairs in front of him, their hands tied behind their backs. One was a black – probably Dennis’s brother. He wasn’t important. The other was –

A smile spread across his face. ‘Hello, Jack Bartlett,’ Gordy beamed, suddenly feeling powerful and in charge. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again. Tell me, where’s your friend?’

The stupid little queer tried to play dumb. Christ, it was so obvious that Gordy could have laughed out loud. He sauntered over to Jack and then smacked him around the face. Jack gasped, unable to keep his balance with his wrists bound, and fell to the ground.

Gordy stood over the lad, rubbing his stinging knuckles. The pain felt good –

sharp and clear. He’d been looking forward to this. ‘That’s for thinking that you could get away from me without paying your dues.’

He kicked Jack in the small of his back just as the lad was trying to clamber to his feet. ‘And
that
is for burning the contents of my safe.’

With his hands tied behind his back, Jack was unable to protect his face.

He tried to curl up into a ball, a feeble gesture of self-protection. ‘Please,’ he muttered, ‘don’t hit me.’

Gordy smiled. It was as if Jack was inviting him to do it again. He moved forward preparing himself to land another kick when Billy Spot stepped between them.

‘Gordy, my old mate,’ he said brightly. ‘We got the boy, just like you asked.’

Gordy stepped back, putting some space between himself and Billy Spot.

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‘Yeah? So?’ He frowned. Why was Spot interrupting him? Hadn’t he seen that Gordy had been about to really hurt the lad? Was he trying to stop him?

Billy Spot was looking expectantly at him. And then it dawned on Gordy that Billy Spot was waiting for Gordy to tell him that he’d done his job well, waiting to be praised.

A memory of his older brother Albert popped into Gordy’s head. Keep the troops sweet, Albert always used to say. Make them feel important and essential. Make them feel part of something. Make them feel like family.

Gordy planted a hand on Billy Spot’s shoulder and told him that he was pleased with what he’d done. The words didn’t come easily. Gordy found it hard to act like a leader when they were both roughly the same age. But he must have done all right because the East Ender started to smile a little.

Gordy felt that he was beginning to understand what it meant to be the boss of a firm. What it meant to be in charge. Albert would’ve been proud of him.

‘Yeah, you done good getting the boy here, and. . . everything,’ Gordy concluded. ‘Now we just need to finish him off.’

Gordy was surprised when, after everything he’d just said, Billy Spot asked him why the boy had to be killed.

‘What do you mean?’ Gordy said, starting to feel annoyed. He wanted to have some more fun hurting Jack Bartlett and having this conversation was getting in the way. Praising the new employee was one thing, justifying his actions to him was quite another. ‘Because I’m telling you that he has to, that’s why.’

Billy Spot didn’t look like he was going to let the matter drop, but he was interrupted by a new voice.

‘And because
I
told Mr Scraton to.’ Deep emerald light filled the room as the large glass sphere which sat on the small altar at the back of the room came to life, an intense spark burning at its core.

‘I want the child destroyed immediately.’ The devil’s voice was an intense whisper. ‘Bring it over here. Let me hear its death cries.’

Gordy felt annoyed that the devil had implied that all he did was follow its orders. He nodded to Carl who was looking expectantly at him, and his brother carried Dennis over to the sphere ready to do the job.

Gordy turned back to Billy Spot. ‘You see, you’re not dealing with just anyone here, Mr Spot,’ he said, addressing the thug in the same manner as the devil had addressed him. ‘Me and my brother have got the luck of the devil himself on our side.’

‘Enough of this, Scraton,’ the devil said, its voice harsh. ‘Just destroy it.’

Carl moved his knife to the boy’s throat.

‘Wait!’ Gordy said, angry and upset to be publicly admonished by the devil.

‘I want Billy Spot to do it.’

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‘No!’ Carl cried. ‘He’s mine. I was promised.’

‘Shut up, Carl,’ Gordy snapped. He could deal with his brother later. ‘It’s time for Billy to prove his loyalty to the firm. Are you ready to work for me and my devil?’

Billy Spot appeared to consider this for a moment and then nodded. Gordy watched him lift the unconscious boy out of Carl’s reluctant arms. Gordy had to physically intervene to persuade Carl to give up his razor.

‘Once you’ve done this, then you can be one of us,’ Gordy encouraged, willing Billy Spot on. ‘Then you’ll be in the gang.’

For a long moment, Billy Spot stood next to Carl, with the limp body of the boy tucked under one arm and the cut-throat razor in the other.

But Billy Spot didn’t use the knife. Instead, without once taking his eyes off Gordy, he closed the razor neatly and quickly stretched out with one hand and pressed his index finger to Carl’s forehead. There was a faint buzzing sound and Carl toppled backwards on to the ground and was still.

‘Enough of this,’ Billy Spot said, without a trace of a London accent.

Gordy’s mouth fell open, but he couldn’t find any words at all.

And then Billy Spot removed his face. He grabbed hold of the skin under his chin and pulled his hand up across his face, tearing a huge pancake of flesh from the front of his head.

In an instant Billy Spot was gone and, revealed beneath was a face Gordy had little trouble recognizing. Its features were pink and raw, and covered in tiny blisters, but the face was unmistakable.

It was the little Scotsman, the one who called himself the Doctor.

‘Surprise,’ he said.

Gordy didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He just stood and stared at the man in front of him as his conscious mind tried to ask a thousand questions at once and failed.

‘It’s not possible. Not possible,’ he managed, and began to back away slowly from the red and grinning face.

How could Billy Spot be the Doctor? How could you hide yourself away in another person’s body? Gordy had talked to Billy Spot that morning when the man had come to work for him, just as the devil said he would. Had the devil sent the Doctor? No, that was impossible, the devil was on Gordy’s side. The devil was his friend. So how had the Doctor managed to get in here? What kind of magic did the little man have?

Jesus. He’d thought that Billy – the Doctor – had wanted his approval and his praise, but that had been just a ruse to stop Gordy hitting the Doctor’s little queer friend. Gordy felt sick. How stupid did the Doctor think he was?

Something hard and cold pressed against the back of his thighs. Gordy reached down with his hands. It was the top of the open safe. The safe where 137

he’d kept all the letters and photographs before the Doctor had come and spoilt his blackmailing operation. Just like he was spoiling everything Gordy tried to do.

The safe had belonged to his older brother. Gordy had been forbidden to go near it when Albert had been alive, because it was where Albert kept the gang’s payroll and their father’s service revolver. It was still there on the bottom shelf. Gordy had been surprised when he’d discovered that the Doctor hadn’t taken it when he’d burnt all the documents.

Gordy quickly knelt down and retrieved the gun from the back of the safe.

It felt cold and incredibly heavy in his hands. It had always scared the life out of Gordy. He pointed it directly at the man who had been Billy Spot. Well now it was going to scare the life out of the Doctor. Permanently.