Doctor Who_ Loving The Alien Part 27

'Cut through an insoluble problem. Reduced it to a human level.

We'd better start work, Cody.'

'That's better, Doc!'

'Perhaps it is, Cody.' The Doctor smiled. 'Or perhaps I've just condemned the cosmos to oblivion.'

McBride grinned.

'Tough call, Doc.'

'Cody, remind me to have more chats with you about dimensional paradox. You have a very stimulating outlook. Now, I suggest we start with Rita. When did you last see her?'

'Miss... You can't stay in there forever, miss.'

Rita reclined back on the most comfortable bed she had ever slept in and ignored them. She could make them go away, she was sure, just by ignoring them, but she'd locked the door and pushed a wardrobe in front of it anyway.

At first things had been confusing, frightening. The speed of the traffic, the details. The money, for one. Her money had been refused everywhere. It had caused much amus.e.m.e.nt, and the likeness to Princess Elizabeth was impressive, but everyone doubted the King would be much pleased. People were friendlier than usual, which was nice. Everyone seemed to think she was a bit dim, and more than once she caught the word 'American' mouthed in voiceless sympathy.

She had spent the first night and the next as a guest of the Wongs, the elderly owners of The End of the World Chinese restaurant. They spoke barely a word of English, but had seen the state she was in and ushered her inside. They'd given her food and a bed, and some bitter black concoction that Mrs Wong insisted she drink.

134.

She felt better the next day, and staying above a restaurant had its perks. She hung about the kitchens like a stray cat, being fed t.i.tbits.

She discovered to her amus.e.m.e.nt that the Brits in the restaurant were being conned. Their food was cooked separately or, at least, unboxed and sloshed in a wok for ten seconds. It was all fake. Pre-packed.

Mrs Wong insisted Rita eat the same food as the family and any Chinese diners.

After her second night with the Wongs it was time to go. She'd imposed enough, though they seemed distraught to see her leave. Mr Wong had given her a five pound note or some shiny imitation of one. And there was the old King looking even older, but still on his throne.

'You go to emba.s.sy,' were the Wongs' parting words of pidgin-English. 'Not good here. Go home.'

So home was where she'd gone Putney or almost.

She thought about McBride's office. What if she got to her flat and it wasn't there? She couldn't bear that. She decided to check out the paper instead.

Not far, on a normal road. This was a racetrack, as much by day as by night. She didn't know which was worse, hearing things whooshing past at night or seeing them by day. And not just the traffic the pedestrians too.

It had to be the drugs the Commies had given her. She felt fine. The air was refreshing and clean a slightly post-storm tang to it, Rita thought. But everything even leaving aside the traffic felt wrong...

She saw the sign above the door of a doctor's surgery, edged along the pavement and went in.

'Excuse me, I think I was given some drugs and I'm getting hallucinations,' she said to the receptionist. 'Like the traffic going really fast. And everything looks a bit funny...'

The receptionist and a colleague exchanged a sympathetic glance.

'You're... American, aren't you?'

'Yes, I am.'

'You're not... one of us.

'Hey, I'm just a normal American and I think I'm going out of my mind! I want someone to help me!' Rita wailed.

A door opened and a man came out.

'Is everything all right?'

'She's American, doctor.'

'I see...'

The man leaned forward slightly and put a hand on Rita's shoulder.

135.

'I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for you here, he said loudly and slowly. 'You should go to your emba.s.sy. They can arrange your pa.s.sage home.'

'Thanks for nothing,' Rita snapped, and stumbled back onto the street.

Her office shouldn't be far, if it was there at all. She decided a bus would be her best bet. She spotted a stop and waited. Almost immediately a red blur became a bus in front of her. She stepped forward and felt the sudden impact of ten or more people slamming into her as if fired from a cannon. She went down, under the bus, trampled.

Someone hauled her to her feet.

'Thanks,' she said. 'G.o.dd.a.m.n rush hour.'

'Are you American?' he rescuer said.

'Yeah...' she said cautiously. She was beginning to sense a general lack of enthusiasm for her countrymen.

'D'you take Americans?' the man asked the driver.

The driver shook his head. 'More 'n my job's worth,' he said. 'Too dangerous. Look what just happened.'

'They shouldn't be over here,' someone else chipped in to murmurs of agreement.

'Get a taxi, love,' her knight errant advised. 'It's safer for you'

Rita walked. She kept close to the walls, avoiding both vehicles and speed-walkers. Annoyingly, every few yards she'd come up against a pedestrian, just standing there, back to the wall, not moving.

Insane and rude.

She stopped outside the Rose and Crown rea.s.suringly, wonderfully, there. She stumbled inside.

The beer, unlike the money with which she paid for it, was definitely real. She gulped down her pint.

'Is Ted about?' she asked.

'Ted?'

'Ted Lovell, the landlord.'

'I'm the landlord, miss,' said the man behind the bar.

'You must know Ted. He was here before the first war. Bombed out in both wars a Zeppelin raid in the first.'

'She's right about the Zeppelin,' an old voice croaked from the corner. 'I remember it. But she weren't hit in the last war.'

'Sure she was,' said Rita. 'I saw the photographs. It was a V2 raid, right at the end, '44 or '45.'

There was general chuckling around the bar.

'Where'd you learn your history, love?' chirped a girl with too much 136 make-up on.

'What d'you mean?'

'War was over by '43, weren't it?'

'That's right,' one of the men confirmed. 'Paras stormed Berlin late '42. By '43 it was just mopping up in the East.'

'The Russians liberated Berlin in 1945.'

This caused uproar.

'The Russians!'

'American,' someone whispered to someone else.

'Hey, why's everyone got it in for the USA all of a sudden? What we ever do to you?'

'Tried to give us rock 'n' roll,' someone grunted. More laughter.

'And anyway, if the Yanks went who'd protect you from the Commies?'

'What's she talking about?' someone whispered.

'The Reds! The Russians!'

'What is it with you and the Russians?'

'What's she saying?'

A little cl.u.s.ter was forming around her.

'She doesn't like the Russians, Tom.'

'G.o.dd.a.m.n it, who does? We hate them and they hate us! Where've you been for the last twelve years?'

'Obviously not watching the same news programmes as you, love.'

'Forget it,' said Rita. 'Gimme a sandwich'

'Sorry, love. Got nothing for you. Don't get many of your lot in here.'

'What about those?' Rita queried, pointing to a rack of what looked like ham and cheese salad, drying slightly under gla.s.s.

''Fraid they're not for you.'

'Why not? They're for sale.'

The landlord so called smiled awkwardly. 'You serious?'

'Yeah...' How bad could they be?

'Leave it out, love. There's our food and your food, you know that.

And we don't keep any of your food. Savvy?'

'More to be pitied, really,' some old bag opined from an alcove.

Rita left. It was all getting a bit surreal again.

She wasn't going to let it get to her. She was going to stick to her plan.

Another two racetrack crossings, and Rita turned into Furnish Alley and there it was the sign she'd prayed for. The London Inquisitor The London Inquisitor, shining above an open door.

Not the same sign they usually had, but what the hey...

She went in. Different decor. Smarter. A lot cla.s.sier.

137.

'Rita!'

A familiar voice. George Pryke, her editor.

He was wearing a pink cravat and beret.

She didn't care she hurried forward, smiling.

'At last!' he said, and kissed the air about a foot from each of her cheeks. 'We were beginning to worry about you.'

'Sorry,' said Rita. 'You won't believe the week I've had.'

'Tell me about it, love. How's the dashing Hugo?'

'What?'