Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (33 page)

Eddy had always spoken of her in a devoted, almost reverent way and Jack had always felt more than just a little jealous of the special relationship they shared. At least now he understood why they had been so close. Jack was still finding it hard to accept the truth about Eddy.

Tilda strode purposefully into the room and glared at him. ‘What are you doing on your arse, Jack Bartlett? There’s work to be done. This party is not going to organize itself.’

Jack was about to get to his feet, when he decided to risk getting an earful.

‘Give us a break, I’m knackered.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘The worm turns. I approve. Do you want a drink?’

Jack fancied a pint. ‘Have you got any pale ale?’

‘Pale ale?’ Tilda said, rolling the words around her mouth experimentally before shaking her head. ‘Means nothing to me. There’s red wine or red wine.

I’m saving what spirits I have left for the party.’

Jack had never tasted red wine. He had an Aunt in Darlington who used to get merry on Stone’s Ginger Wine. He’d stolen a swig from the bottle one Christmas and almost thrown up. ‘I won’t, thanks all the same.’

191

‘You ought to broaden your horizons,
deah
. It’s a wonder we chose you at all.’

Jack felt a bitter wash of resentment come over him, and before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, ‘So why did you? I didn’t ask you to. I wouldn’t have said yes if you had.’

Jack felt sure Tilda was going to shout at him. Much to his surprise and relief she only pulled a bottle of red wine from one of the boxes, retrieved two glasses from behind the bar and came and sat down next to him on the sofa.

‘I didn’t choose you, the Major did. After a night at the Upstairs Room when you helped clean up after hours.’

Jack remembered the evening. It was the first night he’d ever danced with a man. A sailor called Barry who’d wanted to go back to Jack’s place with him, but Jack had been too nervous. Too nervous and too scared of Mrs Carroway finding them and throwing him out; or worse still, calling the police.

Jack shrugged. ‘The Major was on his own, his barman had let him down.

I just tidied up a bit, that’s all.’

Tilda opened the wine and poured two glasses. Jack felt unable to refuse.

He took hold of the glass and peered down at the mysterious dark liquid. He started to feel queasy at the idea of drinking it.

Tilda took a large gulp from her glass. ‘I wasn’t at all sure whether you were the right material to join with one of us, but something the Major said changed my mind.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ Jack said, resentful, but intrigued. ‘I didn’t realize you were so choosy. I thought that you just conned any old mug into it.’

Tilda looked alarmed. ‘It’s the most important decision in the world. I wouldn’t want to condemn one of our people to someone with no imagination or to someone who was cruel or cowardly.’

Jack looked back down into his drink. He almost smiled. Almost.

‘The Major said that he’d seen within you a great capacity to shine. And shine you did. You made Eddy, after all.’ She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘You made someone very special, someone unique. We all loved Eddy Stone.’

‘I. . . I did too,’ Jack said, and it was the first time he had ever dared to say those words out loud. Large swollen tears rolled down his cheeks. He let Tilda wrap him up in her arms and he buried his face in her neck. ‘I miss him so much.’

‘I know,’ Mother whispered, kissing his hair. ‘I miss him too.’

Jack broke the hug and lifted his glass to his lips. The wine tasted smoky and exotic; it warmed him inside.

And it didn’t make him feel sick at all.

∗ ∗ ∗

192

Chris picked up his grubby suit from the bathroom floor, pulled it on, and then descended to find Patsy in the sitting room. She was standing by the window, looking out over the river, a cigarette burning down between her fingers, forgotten. The dying flowers had all been cleared away. He watched her for a whole minute – she was so still that she could have been a photograph, but for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

‘Hello,’ he said, only to make his presence known.

Patsy came back to life. She turned to face him, resting one hand on her hip and taking both her first and last drag on the cigarette before extinguishing it in a plant pot. But she didn’t say anything.

‘Well you could at least tell me it isn’t true.’

‘And would that satisfy you? If I told you that he died five years ago, or ten years ago, would everything be all right then?’

‘I. . . I don’t know.’

‘How long is all right, Christopher?’

Chris closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Goddess, Patsy! Doesn’t it bother you at all that your husband’s only been dead a week?’

Patsy looked him straight in the eyes and then shook her head. ‘No. No, it doesn’t. Not even slightly. Does it really bother you?’

‘You’re damn right it bothers me!’ He exploded. ‘I mean what is going on here? Just who the hell are you?’

‘Don’t ask me that question. It’s the only one I don’t have an answer for.’

‘Oh stop being so pretentious.’

‘I’m telling you the truth.’

‘The truth? The truth!’ he sneered at her. ‘Patsy, you wouldn’t know the truth if it ran up and bit you.’

‘Chris –’

‘Oh, just leave me alone. I don’t even want to be near you. Just. . . oh just go away.’

Patsy looked as if she was going to say something, but then turned on her heel and walked out of the sitting room. A moment later he heard the front door slam and he was alone in the house.

Robert Burgess stared down at him from the wedding photograph above the fireplace, smiling smugly.

The taxi dropped Chris off on the corner of Dean Street and Old Compton Street, and he stalked up the stairs to the Tropics, carrying the nameless Chinese boy in his arms. He’d grown tired of waiting for Patsy to return to the house and decided that he could at least complete his mission by bringing the boy to Tilda as he’d promised. And if he’d stayed cooped up in Patsy’s house for another hour he was going to go mad.

193

The door to the club was open and the first thing he noticed was that Patsy was not in sight. Tilda was sitting on a sofa chatting to a teenage lad who looked as if he’d been crying. When Tilda saw Chris she welcomed him by kissing him, ostentatiously, on both cheeks, and then took the Chinese boy from him.

‘You’ve just missed Patsy, Christopher,
deah
,’ she said, something about her tone informed Chris that Tilda knew all about their fight.

He refused the offer of a drink. ‘I just need to find her, Tilda. I need to speak to her.’

‘She’s helping out with the party preparations.’

‘Party? What party?’

‘Fancy dress. Tonight. Too big for the Tropics so a chum of mine is letting us use his new club,’ Tilda said, scribbling the address down for Chris on the back of one of her cigarette packets. ‘Go easy on the gal, Christopher,’ she said, handing over the empty soft pack. ‘She’s got good reason not to tell you the truth about her husband.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Chris couldn’t meet Tilda’s gaze. Instead he stared over at the boy on the sofa. ‘Like what?’

It was Tilda’s turn to look away, her mouth forming into a tight line. ‘It’s not for me to say. It really would be best for you to hear the truth from her.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ he spat and turned on his heel.

Jack watched as the tall broad-shouldered man in the old-fashioned clothes left. ‘Who was that?’

‘Christopher?’ Tilda said, glancing back at the door, whilst she bounced the little Chinese boy on her hip. ‘Oh he’s a friend of the Doctor’s. From the future.’

The future? ‘Blimey! Do you think all the men in the future look like that?’

Tilda only arched an eyebrow in reply.

A large sign above the club bore the legend Ronnie Scott’s. Chris pushed open the door and walked into the foyer of the club. There didn’t appear to be anyone about. Framed posters on the wall advertised a month of Sundays of rock-and-roll. The names of the singers were all unfamiliar to Chris. Bright young faces with toothpaste smiles and quiffed hair.

A set of tall double doors at the back of the foyer led into a large dancehall.

Chris paused in the doorway. The room was decorated with streamers and balloons and a small stage at the far end of the room had been set up for a band. Chris caught sight of someone moving at the back of the hall, carrying a bundle of streamers.

194

‘Christopher,’ the Doctor beamed, catching sight of his friend. ‘So tell me, how are you finding the rock-and-roll years?’

The Doctor handed Chris a bunch of brightly coloured balloons, that he’d inflated and tied together with ribbon. ‘In the far corner, I think. All right?’

‘Whatever,’ Chris replied without thinking and set about hanging the balloons. ‘I was looking for someone.’

‘Oh, the young woman. Patsy, isn’t it?’ the Doctor said. ‘She said she was going to see if the drink had arrived.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh?’ the Doctor said, puzzled by his tone. ‘Are you all right? I understand that you’ve been helping Tilda free the Toys.’

‘Yes. You too. That’s quite a coincidence.’

The Doctor didn’t reply.

‘It is a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Chris asked.

‘What?’ the Doctor said, wrestling with party streamers. ‘Oh, yes, I should think so. Although, these days I can never be absolutely sure. Are you all right, Chris? You seem distracted if you don’t mind me saying so.’

Chris ignored the question, countering it with one of his own. ‘Doctor, why are you organizing a party?’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘No. It’s just not the sort of thing I’d expect to find you doing, under the circumstances. That’s all.’

The Doctor dragged a stepladder over to the wall; with both hands occupied, he held on to one end of the long party streamers with his teeth. ‘Could you hold the ladder steady while I sort these out,’ he spluttered, his mouth full of brightly coloured paper.

Chris nodded and gripped the base of the ladder as the Doctor climbed to the top.

‘It’s a long story. There’s a short version and a long version.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Well, the short version is I’m helping organize a singles night for some escaped inmates of a mental hospital.’

‘That’s the short version?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

‘You do? Oh good, you won’t need the long one then.’

‘Actually, I think I probably do.’

Chris listened as the Doctor explained about his discovery of the injured boy in Soho, about his meeting with Jack Bartlett and their abduction by the 195

monstrous vehicle. Chris interrupted the Doctor when he began to describe his trip to Healey and the Institute.

‘But
I’ve
been there, Doctor. I helped bring back two of your escaped inmates. We were attacked on the way back, but we finally got back to London yesterday.’

‘Well if you’ve been to Healey, then you must know all about the Toys.’

Chris nodded. ‘A little. I only heard a bit about their background from. . .

from Patsy.’

The Doctor looked down from the top of the ladder. ‘What do you make of them? I should very much like to know?’

Chris thought about Patsy. ‘I’m not really sure. They’re. . . difficult. Strange.

Their empathic abilities unnerve me. It’s a little frightening to be around people who always know what sort of mood you’re in.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s. . . true,’ the Doctor commented. Chris was left with the impression that the Doctor had been expecting a different response from him.

‘Anyway,’ the Doctor continued. ‘We managed to organize a break out and brought all the Toys that were being held at the Institute back here. I’ve agreed to hold a party for them; Tilda’s going to invite all her bohemian friends, see if we can’t get all the Toys bonded at one big party. I thought a masked ball would be most appropriate.’

‘Bonded?’

‘You know – joined. Hitched,’ the Doctor said, enjoying using the collo-quialism. ‘They really are quite remarkable. I’ve never seen such a complex artificial lifeform. Their ability to provide what is therapeutically needed is quite extraordinary. The human psychiatrist involved in the project, being American, is a humanist but I think even Sigmund would have approved of the Toys. After all, it was Freud who was the first to argue that the therapist ought to be a blank screen in order to receive the patient’s projections. Just imagine: all your needs, all your desires, your emotional needs – all met by one person. Moriah doesn’t know what he’s constructed. The Toys can be much more than therapy, I’m sure of it.’

Chris was finding it hard to follow what the Doctor was saying. ‘Constructed? What do you mean, constructed?’

‘Well, grown is probably more accurate. I’ve yet to see the actual process,’

the Doctor remarked, animatedly. ‘Although it sounds fascinating.’

‘Grown,’ Chris repeated, dully.

‘In tanks apparently,’ the Doctor added, brightly.

Chris turned away from the Doctor; he didn’t want his friend to see the expression on his face.

‘Christopher, is everything all right?’

196

‘Yes,’ Chris lied. A memory of Patsy entered his head. After he had been freed from the cells at the police station, she had appeared while he’d been sitting desolate and hung-over on the steps of Charing Cross Police Station.

Standing with one hand on her hip, squinting with a look of amused disapproval on her face.

That
look.

A blank screen on to which he had projected his desire.

The woman he was falling in love with was not an alien hiding from some terrible extraterrestrial persecution, but instead a projection of his innermost desires; a shop window dummy on to which he had transferred his most private needs and fantasies.

Roz.

‘Chris, what’s the matter?’

‘Everything’s fine. Just fine,’ he whimpered and then doubled over. ‘Oh, cruk, I think I’m going to be sick,’ he muttered, covering his mouth with his hand and then sprinting from the room.