Doctor Who_ Human Nature Part 18

Rocastle had, after all, slapped him across the face.

His father had never done that to him. He'd put him across his knee and thrashed him with his belt often enough, but he'd never delivered something so direct, so tawdry.

And of course you could never tell a boy you were sorry, that you'd only been frightened of gunning him down. He'd wanted to express somehow that the boy's wildness and difference were almost an invitation to others to do that, that the way to get by was to square your back and join the line. Strong youngster like Dean should have been with the others, behind the gun, not in the line of b.l.o.o.d.y fire. A better teacher, a better leader, could have told him that, could have impressed it upon him. You make a move out of line, boy, and they gun you down.

And then he'd collapsed. He'd done that when he was at the opera once, with dear Cordelia. They'd been laughing as they walked down the steps outside, and the next thing he'd been rolling, down into the gutter under the full moon. A dozen bright young lads had run to him and got him to sit up, and he'd shied them away, scared to the point of tears by the sudden pain in his abdomen.

That had gone after a few days. He'd got the first symptom on Cordelia's behalf, he'd joked, because she told him she was pregnant that next week. Maybe she had thought she should tell him then, in case he didn't make it. How ironic. He hadn't even seen her body, despite bellowing at the intern that he'd seen men dead three deep on the Spion Kop, that a woman and a baby were the only two dead he'd ever wanted to see.

He should retire. He should - His teeth set hard together.

What would be left to do then that was hard enough? If he was still a military soul, he'd be like some b.l.o.o.d.y German, finding insult in his fellow officers all the time, and demanding duels, just so-There came a knock at the door.

He opened his mouth, and found that all that was going to come out was an almighty sob.

He slapped himself hard across the cheek.

The pain made him sit up. He opened his eyes and they were clear. He stood as the knock came again and adjusted his tie in the mirror by his desk. 'Enter!'

The bursar, Mr Moffat, a young Scotsman with curly hair and permanently perplexed eyes, entered. 'Excuse me, Headmaster - '

'Ah, Mr Moffat, I've been meaning to have a word with you about Smith. You're both from north of the border. What do you think of him?'

Moffat thought for a moment, surprised by the question. 'I wasn't aware that he was Scottish. He knows as much about Aberdeen as the average c.o.c.kney, and seems to have trouble with his accent. Altogether, it's a pretty poor performance.'

'Hmm. And these stories that I've been hearing from town, that a young teacher's romancing a barmaid?'

'Obviously it isn't me, I lodge in the east-wing apartments. You'd know if I was coming and going.'

'Very good. Was that all?'

Moffat stared at him. 'Headmaster, I only came in because there are two visitors to see you. I couldn't find Miss Robertson. Have you given her the weekend off?'

'Eh? Well, no, I don't know what's become of my secretary since she took the day off to visit her parents yesterday. Another tiny drama. Who are these visitors?'

'A man called Shuttleworth who runs the local museum, and a woman by the name of Summerfield.'

'Shuttleworth... oh my G.o.d. All right, give me a moment and then show them in.'

He sat behind his desk and found some papers to play with.

A moment later, Alexander and Benny entered.

Benny wasn't feeling very confident. She'd rolled up her trouser bottoms and thrown on a skirt and blouse that Alexander's sister had owned. She thought she looked like a scarecrow. But Rocastle barely gave her a second glance. He rose as Alexander entered and shook his hand warmly. 'Mr Shuttleworth, what can I do for you?'

'Well, it's quite a delicate matter, actually.' Alexander and Benny sat down in the comfortable chairs of the study, and Benny was surprised to find that hers was still warm. She studied Rocastle as he moved, this man who the Doctor - who Smith - feared so much. His face was ruddy, like he'd just gone through some emotional crisis, and, despite trying to look interested in what Alex was saying, he eyes kept straying. Benny followed the direction of his glance to a tiny cameo of a woman on the wall.

'So,' Alexander was saying, 'I found that, after this party of schoolboys had toured the museum, a certain item was missing. A red pottery sphere, used for cooking by the Iceni tribe. I'd left a display case open for cleaning that afternoon, and there were no other customers, so I reluctantly have to conclude...'

'This sphere - valuable, was it?'

'Only to an archaeologist.'

'Right.' Rocastle thumped his big palm down on the table and got to his feet. Benny and Alexander did like wise. 'I cannot have this happening. I shall call an a.s.sembly instantly, and, if you would be so good as to come with me, we shall discover the culprit.'

'Well, there's no need to - ' Benny began.

'There's every need,' Rocastle replied, rather curtly. 'Can't have my boys' reputation suffering. Come along.' He locked the door of the study behind them as they left, and took a moment to grab a pa.s.sing first-year, who, after a few quick words, ran off in the direction of the big golden bell that stood on a table in an alcove. He began to ring it with all his strength.

After a minute, bells began to sound from all over the echoing old building.

Rocastle stood at a slight distance from his visitors, listening to every one of them like he was following the libretto of a favourite opera.

'I think we've done the worst possible thing for him,' Benny whispered to Alexander. 'We've given him just what he needs.'

Smith was wearing his ap.r.o.n, making salad sandwiches for tea, rattling round the inside of a jar of mayonnaise with a knife to extract the last drop. Joan was inspecting his bookcases in the front room. She'd re-bandaged his finger, which seemed to be healing nicely with no sign of infection, and they'd had two cups of cocoa each.

Smith found himself wishing that he could ask her to stay the night. That was an outrageous thought, of course. Just expressing it as an idle fancy would probably make her drop him altogether and run from the room. If she wasn't already scared off by his oddness. Mental note: stop being so odd. At least in front of her. But he was starting to rely on her. And that business about being a soldier or not... he didn't feel particularly positive about the military, but it was something that happened, and if it did, why get in the way of a fact of life? It was because Joan had lost someone, he decided. She didn't like to think of any of the boys going the same way. But they were boys, and they dreamed of adventure and glory. Good for them.

And what would he have done if she did stay? A sort of vaguely defined soft thing that she knew more about than he did, and that wasn't right, was it? He'd had trouble with kissing Verity. But if girls didn't do this until they were married, and boys did it before, who did the boys do it with? Mental note: ask the boys.

There came a knock on the door. Smith opened it. There stood a schoolboy. 'Tell me -' began Smith, and then stopped. 'No. What?'

'Please, sir, Mr Rocastle sent me to get you, sir. He's called a general a.s.sembly in half an hour.'

'Has he? All right. Off you go. We'll... I'll be there.' The boy ran off again. Smith glanced up. The sky was dark with squalls and approaching stormclouds.

Joan wandered into the kitchen and plucked her cardigan from the back of a chair.

'I heard. The man's insane. Shall I go first and you follow in a minute?'

'No.' Smith removed the ap.r.o.n, opened a cupboard and absent-mindedly dropped an umbrella into the crook of his arm. 'We'll go together.'

Joan smiled. 'All right. I'll be brave if you are.' She saw the umbrella and gasped.

'John! Is that what you were looking for?'

'Hmm?' Smith glanced down at the object he was carrying and bounced it off his elbow with his hand. 'My goodness!' The umbrella had a garish red handle in the shape of a question mark, currently reversed in Smith's grip. Smith spun it round the right way and replaced it on his arm. He gazed at Joan. 'Isn't it strange what you find when you're looking for something else?'

Chapter Nine.

The Fine Purple, the Purest Gold, the Red of the Sacred Heart, the Grey of a Ghost Grey of a Ghost

A cl.u.s.ter of teachers, most of them trying not to appear annoyed, had formed in the little corridor outside the Great Hall. Bernice and Alexander stood at the back, watching over the teachers' shoulders as the hall filled with boys. There was an atmosphere of fear and antic.i.p.ation in the air.

'Do you really think this is going to work?' asked Alexander.

'What, do I think one of them is going to hold up the sphere and say: "Oh, you mean this?" Not really. I thought the headmaster was going to conduct a search or something.' Benny glanced around the woodpanelled corridor and shivered. 'I can see why people have nightmares about going back to school. I went to a place very like this. Mixed, at least, though. This place is all floor polish and testosterone. Oh my G.o.d.'

Smith and Joan had arrived at the end of the corridor, Smith carrying a very familiar umbrella, but now dressed in a teacher's cape and mortarboard. He saw Bernice and wandered over. 'h.e.l.lo. What are you doing here?'

'We're the reason for the a.s.sembly.' Bernice considered mentioning why, but decided against it. 'And this is...?'

'Oh, yes... this is my friend Joan Redfern.'

Benny curtsied to the woman. 'I'm Bernice Summerfield and this is my friend Alex.' She hoped that she hadn't put too much emphasis on the my my. The woman who stood beside Smith was surprisingly mature. Attractive, in a horsey sort of way. Nothing special, really. If the Doctor had to go and get involved with somebody, then it ought to have been a cla.s.sic beauty or a great artist or an academic. 'And what do you do, Miss Redfern?'

'Mrs,' Joan told her, icily. 'I'm a teacher here. Did you a.s.sume that I was the dinner lady?'

'Not at all. I've heard a lot about you. I meant what subject do you teach?'

'Science. I've heard a lot about you, also. Aren't you the young lady with the trousers?'

'Often. Don't you find these skirts a problem sometimes?'

'Not at all. But then, I've never had call to do anything where they might get in the way.'

There was an awkward silence. Smith suddenly ruffled Benny's hair, grinned and shrugged when Joan looked at him. 'Are you still trying to find your Holy Grail?'

he asked. 'The one that'll turn me into a s.p.a.ceman?'

Benny sighed. 'I'll explain all that to you one day.'

'Well, perhaps you could start now,' said Joan. 'John was quite disturbed by the whole business.'

'What, erm, happened to your finger?' Alexander asked Smith.

'A burglar chopped it off.' Smith waved the bandaged stub about happily.

From the hall, the general sounds of movement suddenly cut off. Rocastle had taken the stage. The teachers began to shuffle on. Smith and Joan nodded to Benny and Alexander and followed them.

'You know what I was saying about fingers, Alex?' Benny murmured. 'Well, I'm willing to bet I know whose pie that one ended up in...'

'What did you think of her?'

'She's fine.'

'Nice?'

'Fine.'

Timothy was walking through the orchard where he'd found the Pod, tossing the thing from hand to hand. He was seeing all sorts of strange things today, like those two people carrying slabs of metal like tortoises. He was starting to think about sleep and warmth. His night on the tree had certainly changed him, but he still wanted somewhere warm to spend the night. Could he go back to the school dormitory? He had nothing to fear but words, after all, and he'd found out how he could deal with that now. This Pod had done it, changed him to the point where he was like Sherlock Holmes and Jack Harkaway rolled into one. But what was he supposed to do now? Fight crime? Explore the world? Were there others like him?

He noticed an owl sitting on a branch, looking balefully down at him. 'What would you do, Mr Owl?'

The owl leapt from the branch in a flutter of wings. Timothy spun on his heel and saw a figure crouched behind a tree trunk. Something made a noise like a catapult.

He grabbed the Pod out of the air where he'd thrown it. A metal spar bounced off the tree behind him and spun back in the direction it had come. Timothy ran, zig-zagging through the trees. Silent blue lightning struck giddily around his heels, sending clods of earth flying.

A roaring figure burst from the bushes and sprinted after Timothy, tearing through the branches as the boy kept just ahead.

Timothy glanced over his shoulder, and dived into a thicket.

Greeneye had only lost sight of the boy for a moment when he ran into the clearing. He looked around, astonished. No sign of him.

The others were quick behind him. August stared at the scanner in his hand. 'I don't believe this! The emissions have ceased! The Pod knows we're after it, that's the only explanation!'

'He's here,' Greeneye rumbled, looking slowly around the clearing. 'He's hiding.'

Tim stared at his pursuers from behind a pair of apple trees. It was fortunate for him that the estate let the orchard get so overgrown. These were his enemies, then.

Something inside him suggested a dizzy idea, to get captured deliberately, but then he saw the curved knife that one of them, a short, bearded man, was slapping against a leather wrist-band, and repressed the urge.

Aphasia released her balloon. 'Hunt,' she told it. 'Kill. Don't eat.'

The balloon rose into the centre of the clearing and hovered, spinning on its axis.

'We are so close,' whispered Serif. 'We cannot lose him now.'

Tim turned and started to walk slowly away, watching over his shoulder as the balloon started to move across the clearing in his direction. The balloon sped up.

Tim sped up. It shot through the trees towards him faster than a real balloon could push through the air.

He sprinted.

The family crashed through the trees after him.

Tim ran, heaving breaths into his lungs. That seemed easier than it had been in the past, as if his body was on his side, breathing just as he wanted it to. He kicked his heels and leapt randomly from side to side as he ran, avoiding the silent blue beams that smashed foliage aside past him.

He ran to a fence and hurdled it, feeling the heat as it dissolved under him, disbelieving his luck. He was on the road now, the curving road which led up past the school gates. Without thinking, he turned automatically towards the school.

The ground was open here, though; they were going to be able to shoot him.

A horseless carriage puttered around the bend, the occupant squeezing its horn to tell Tim to get out of the way. It was Mr Condon who owned the Lyons tea house, who would often let boys going into town have an extra iced bun if they were well behaved.

Tim leapt up on to the running board of the car, much to Condon's amazement.

'Hey, you nut! What are you up to?' called the moustachioed man.

'Sir, it's a matter of life and death! You must get me away, quickly!'