Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (27 page)

I realize that’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth. Remember the creature, the strange taxi?’ the Doctor added quickly, as he saw Harris raise his eyebrows impatiently. ‘Could that have possibly originated on this world?’

The door to the interview room opened and an officer entered.

‘Well could it?’ the Doctor pleaded; but he could sense that the attempt was futile. As he was bustled out of the room by the officer, the Doctor made one final attempt to convince the chief inspector. ‘I know who is responsible for the killings. I know because I’ve met him. The creature that swallowed both Jack and I took us back to his lair. Now Jack is in danger. Please. Don’t let anyone else die.’

And then the door was closed after him and the Doctor was dragged down to the cells.

∗ ∗ ∗

152

Harris stood in the empty interview room for a long moment, before he returned to his cubby-hole of an office. He didn’t miss the sniggers from the desk sergeant and a couple of inspectors as he crossed the foyer to the lift.

He was the biggest joke Charing Cross had ever known. There were already a whole series of gags about him going around the staff canteen. The lift took an age to arrive. When he finally entered his office, he slumped behind his desk and pulled out the bottle of whisky he kept in his filing cabinet. He poured a large measure into his coffee cup and set it down on his desktop and stared at it.

He’d lost the case, possibly his job, and certainly any chance of promotion in the next century. Not to mention any respect he’d ever earned from his colleagues over the years. And all because he’d believed the Doctor and his lies. He ought to hate the little man. But he couldn’t find it in himself to feel hatred towards the Doctor. He was angry with him. He was
bloody
angry with him. But he couldn’t imagine ever hating someone who was infuriatingly unique as the Doctor.

A traveller in space and time.

No, it was impossible. The very idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it?

The cell door slammed shut behind the Doctor. The clanging of metal on metal rang in his ears for a few moments. He leant against the door staring down at his shoes while he waited for the noise to recede. His shoelaces had been removed, presumably to prevent him from trying to hang himself, and without them his feet felt as if they were rattling around inside his battered spats.

He had a companion in his cell. An elderly rake of a man who was sprawled on one of the concrete benches. The Doctor wandered over and went to doff his hat before realizing that he’d lost it somewhere along the way and so scratched his head, unnecessarily, instead.

‘Hello, I’m the Doctor.’

‘Good show,’ the man whispered. ‘Got here in the end then. What kept you?’

‘I wasn’t aware that I was expected,’ the Doctor answered, perching next to him on the bench. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

‘Bit too late for that I’m afraid, old chap.’

The Doctor surveyed his new patient. There weren’t any obvious signs of injury, although the man’s skin looked dangerously thin, almost translucent.

The Doctor hesitated before resting his hand on the man’s forehead to test his temperature, for fear that the slightest pressure might tear the old man’s fragile body.

‘Did young Cwej send you?’ the old man asked.

153

The Doctor froze. ‘Christopher Cwej?’

‘That’s the boy. Nice young man. Turned a few heads at the club, I can tell you. Saved a few lives too.’

‘That sounds like Christopher.’ The Doctor felt oddly choked. He’d barely thought about Chris since they’d parted. He’d deliberately put him out of danger and out of mind. Thinking of Chris only reminded him of Roz and he wasn’t ready to face those feelings. He couldn’t. Not yet.

‘How did he save lives?’

‘There was a fire at the club. Christopher got everyone out. Came back for me.’

As much as he had tried to protect Chris, it was clear that the young man had found his own adventures in Soho, just as the Doctor had.

You can’t wrap people up in cotton wool, Doctor, he told himself. Not without suffocating them. He had a sudden desire to see his friend. Since Roslyn’s death, their friendship had become strained, awkward. The Doctor had buried his feelings and, he realized, he’d buried himself with them. An image of Bernice appeared in his head, wagging a finger at him and accusing him of being a typical bloke. The Doctor smiled at the memory of his dear friend. He wanted to see Christopher. Wanted to tell him that he missed Roslyn Forrester too.

‘Did Christopher get the message to Mother?’ the old man murmured, drift-ing off into sleep even as he spoke.

‘Message?’

‘To get our people out of Healey.’

The Doctor’s eyes opened widely. ‘Healey? You sent Christopher to Healey?

When was this?’

The old man only muttered something unintelligible in reply.

Were his friends for ever to be in peril? The Doctor gently loosened the old man’s cravat. His patient protested a little as the Doctor probed the base of his neck. There were two pronounced lumps beneath the skin on either side of the old man’s throat. They were swollen to the size of plums, inflamed and sore.

‘Not long now,’ the old man whispered, confirming the Doctor’s thoughts.

‘Please,’ the Doctor begged. ‘Please wake up. You must tell me what you know.’

The whisky glass was still full on Chief Inspector Harris’s desk. He’d made a promise to himself that he would either drink it and then go home to tell the wife that he’d been suspended. She’d probably be pleased; Olive was always complaining that she didn’t see him from one day to the next. If he didn’t drink it, he would go down to the cells and spring the Doctor, casting any 154

hope of continuing his career in law enforcement to the wind. The Doctor had said that he knew the killer’s identity. Harris wasn’t at all sure that he could bear to live with the knowledge that he had passed up the opportunity to solve the case which had tormented him over the last few months.

And despite the lies the Doctor had told, Harris couldn’t shake the impression that the Doctor was essentially a good man. When the boy, Bartlett, had been sucked into that terrible car, the Doctor had risked his own life to save the lad. And where had the monstrous vehicle taken them? What had they seen?

Another voice in his head was telling him – yelling at him in fact – that he was utterly crazy even to consider trusting the Doctor again. The mysterious little man had lied to him, he’d stolen police property, and, according to Bridie at least, was caught up with one of the West End firms. Harris had to admit that he would feel a lot more confident about the Doctor if he didn’t keep the company of drunkards, criminals and deviants.

Harris pulled his warrant card out of his jacket pocket. He took a long look at it and then tucked it away in his desk. Ceremoniously, he poured the glass of whisky back into the bottle and screwed down the lid.

‘Sorry Olive,’ he muttered, ‘looks like I might be late for tea again,’ and then he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

‘I’ll lose my job over this, Doctor, but I don’t belong here anymore.’

The Doctor hurried over from where he had been tending his elderly cell-mate. The little man was grinning like a seven-year-old. ‘Chief Inspector Harris, I could kiss you.’

Harris took a step backward. ‘I may be under a suspension, but I’d remind you, Doctor, that I am still an officer of the law.’ Harris was relieved when the Doctor contented himself by patting him on the arm.

‘My friends are in danger. Are you prepared to come with me, Chief Inspector?’

‘Where to?’

‘To the creature’s lair, Chief Inspector. To the madhouse.’

‘Bugger off! We’re closed.’

Harris and the Doctor exchanged glances.

‘Are you sure we need this

woman’s help, Doctor?’ the policeman whispered.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ the Doctor said confidently, and adjusted his battered fedora. The Doctor had insisted on stopping off in Soho in order to change.

Now back in his tweeds, Harris thought the little man seemed more relaxed.

He rapped loudly on the door for the second time. ‘Open up, I’ve a message for one Tilda Jupp. From an old friend. A military friend.’

155

There was a short pause. Harris glanced down the wrought iron fire escape. What was he doing here? He knew about Soho’s drinking clubs, of course. They were just one of the many illegalities in the area which the police tolerated, just as long as they didn’t thrive. Their patrons were mostly theatre people. The clubs had started to meet the demand of actors looking for somewhere to drink after the curtain had fallen on the evening performance.

Compared to blackmail, prostitution and unlicensed gambling, the odd bit of late-night drinking was low on the list of policing priorities. Still, that didn’t mean that it was acceptable for an officer of the law to patronize one of the bars. Harris was about to suggest that they retire to a café for a rethink when the battered door of the club opened and a woman’s head appeared. She was squinting to avoid the smoke from a cigarette which dangled from the corner of her mouth. Her beady eyes glared intently at the Doctor.

‘Well look who it is, the mysterious Doctor,’ she barked and clapped her hands together in delight. However, when she caught sight of Harris, her face fell, as did the cigarette. ‘Busted!’ she cried. ‘At ten in the morning, now that’s just not playing fair! Little Miss Doctor’s a snoop and she’s brought the law down on me.’ Tilda tried to slam the door, but the Doctor jammed one of his battered spats in the way just in time.

‘Tilda, it’s not a raid. Honestly,’ he shouted, gritting his teeth as he pushed against the door. ‘Please let us in: it’s important. I know who’s killing your people. Moriah’s behind it all. He’s kidnapped Dennis. I need your help to save them.’

The woman must have moved away from the door, because the Doctor suddenly tumbled into the room, landing in a clownish mess in the middle of the floor. Harris poked his head into the club and then made a more cautious entrance.

The room stank of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. No one had bothered to clear up from the previous night and wineglasses littered the tables.

Brimming ashtrays had erupted their debris over the surfaces. There was little ventilation and no fire exits. Harris screwed up his face; the place was a positive death trap.

The woman called Tilda Jupp had hurried over to one of several old sofa’s in the room. She tore away a blanket which covered the sofa, revealing two young men beneath. They were dressed only in their vests, underpants and socks, and were fast asleep, their arms casually draped around each other.

Harris flushed and looked away. Bloody Hell! What next, for Heaven’s sake?

‘Attention!’ Tilda barked and the two lads opened their bleary eyes.

‘Leave it out, Mother,’ one of the boys groaned. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Better get your frocks on, daughters, unless you fancy picking oakum into the next century. It’s a raid.’ When they caught sight of Harris the two young 156

men swore, expressions of utter horror crossing their faces. Panic stricken, they scrambled to their feet, grabbed their clothes and, without pausing to dress, scurried out through a curtained doorway at the back of the club.

‘Best barmaids in London,’ Tilda remarked, watching their retreating backs.

‘At least they would be if that Andrew didn’t guzzle half my profits. Honestly, she drinks a quarter of a bottle of my gin, tops it up with water and expects no one to notice. Must think I came down with the last shower. Saeed’s an angel, well, besides trying to get poked by half the punters that come through that door. But besides that: perfect. Wouldn’t know where I’d be without those girls.’

‘I’m sure,’ the Doctor muttered, impatiently. ‘Tilda, it’s really not a raid –

the inspector is only here in an informal capacity.’

‘A what?’

The Doctor waved away her incredulity. ‘He’s here as a friend. We’re planning an expedition to Healey, to the Institute. The Major said you could help.

Will you come?’

Tilda looked genuinely shocked by the suggestion. ‘Go back there? You’ve got to be joking, Doctor. Do you know what Moriah would do to me?’

‘Yes,’ the Doctor said, and walked over to her. ‘Yes, I do.’ Harris watched as the little man traced his fingers gently around the base of her neck. ‘He’d make two incisions here –’

Tilda grabbed hold of his hands and angrily pushed them away from her throat. ‘Don’t. That’s not remotely amusing. Just. . . don’t.’ Harris thought she looked angry enough to hit the little man. Angry or scared enough.

‘That’s what he is going to do to Dennis unless we stop him,’ the Doctor said, evenly. ‘That’s what he’s going to keep on doing to your people, unless we stop him.’

‘We can’t fight him,’ Tilda hissed. ‘You don’t know what he’s like.’

‘No, I don’t,’ the Doctor said. ‘But you do. And that’s why I need your help.

That’s why Jack, Mikey, Dennis and probably Chris do too.’

‘Your friend Christopher?’ Tilda glanced at her watch. ‘He and Patsy ought to have made it back by now. I wonder what’s keeping them?’

The Doctor’s brow furrowed. ‘You could come with us and find out.’

Tilda appeared to come to a decision. ‘Very well.’

‘Good, let’s get back to the TARDIS.’

Tilda frowned. ‘TARDIS. Is that your mode of transport? I’ll bet mine is faster.’

‘Faster than a time machine?’ the Doctor smiled. ‘I doubt it.’

‘It’s parked around the back. Come on, I’ll show you.’

∗ ∗ ∗

157

Chris waited in the cab while Patsy checked to see if Mother was at the Tropics.

He looked up at the old tenement which housed the club; it felt like an age since he had cautiously climbed those stairs.

The Chinese boy who didn’t have a name was awake now, sitting in Chris’s lap and staring out of the window. Something about the boy disturbed Chris.

It wasn’t just that the boy was quiet – and so far the boy hadn’t spoken a single word – it was more than that. Chris couldn’t remember a single expression crossing the boy’s face since he’d first met him. It was as if the boy didn’t have a personality at all. The lights were on but there was nobody home. Chris ran his fingers through the boy’s fine black hair. The boy sniffed a little in response.