Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias Part 21

'Ace...' the Doctor warned, almost inaudibly, as he saw her tensing.

He stepped forwards until he was only a foot away from Michael and stared up at him. 'Why?'

Michael laughed, coldly. 'Can't you guess? Are you really so detached from it all that you don't know?'

'Michael '

He turned away from the Doctor and spread his arms wide.

'This, ladies and gentlemen, is a man responsible for hundreds of deaths. Or would thousands be nearer the mark?'

The Doctor remained silent, a tiny figure at the centre of a growing maelstrom of hatred and bafflement, bemus.e.m.e.nt and, Ace sensed fear. She stepped forward.

'OK Michael. Leave it there. I don't know what this is about, but haven't you done enough? Look at him. Hardly a fair fight, is it?'

Michael looked back at the Doctor and saw what Ace couldn't help but see: a small, puzzled man in a hat, blood all over his face and total bewilderment in his eyes.

Ace was tired. And cold. Very, very cold. The wind had picked up, scudding the fat, slate clouds across the dark Orcadian sky.

Within minutes she felt the first fat raindrops on her face. She'd wedged herself into a deep, gra.s.sy crack in the convoluted ground and discovered an overhang which she hoped would hide her. But the wind and the rain still whipped against her. For the first time since she'd surfaced from the s.p.a.ceship, she felt really down planless, friendless and hopeless. Megan couldn't be so stupid that she wouldn't realise that John and Alexander were her only hope for rescue: all she had to do was wait until Ace came out of hiding to attract their attention, and she'd be shot down. Unless, of course, Megan had teamed up with the tweedies, and at this very moment they were closing in on her.

Ace shivered and stared up at the moon.

'I stuck up for you d'you know that?' Michael's face was a tight knot of anger and bitterness. 'When I joined UNIT and they found out that I was the son of Doctor Joyce Brunner and General Terrance Ashworth, friend of the infamous Doctor, I got so much stick you wouldn't believe it.' He took a heavy drag on his cigarette and blew out a thick, bluish cloud. 'And because I didn't know any better, because I believed all the c.r.a.p Mum had told me about you how the Doctor was a good man, a clever man, a friend to the universe and its dog, I argued your case.'

'And what's wrong with that?' asked Ace, bristling.

The Doctor sat in shadowed, thoughtful silence, occasionally touching his nose and wincing. To Ace, it seemed like Michael's attack had thrown the Doctor back to that confused little man that they had rescued from Graystairs a few hours earlier.

'It got me marked out,' Michael answered. 'From then on, I was... oh, you don't want to know the actual phrases they used. I was the Doctor's chum, his pal. His apologist. And then I heard the stories. From the Yeti to the Cybermen; Daleks, Autons, Talichre, the Waro, the Brotherhood of Beltane. All the things the Doctor had gotten involved in, and how, whenever he stuck his nose in, people died. Ordinary people, troops, soldiers whose names the magnificent, legendary Doctor never knew. He had his fun, swanning around with the top bra.s.s, saving the world over and over again. But people died.' He stared into the past, eyes glued. 'And they kept on dying. And one particular person...

died.' Michael's voice dribbled away.

'Who?' asked Ace.

Michael paused. When he spoke, his voice was thin and distant. 'His name was Andy. My only real friend in UNIT. We signed up at the same time, similar backgrounds, that sort of stuff. We got a lot of ribbing about it from the others, but we stuck together. And then some aliens called the Talichre tried to invade the Earth. Big, blobby b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.' He gave a sigh, shook his head. 'Anyway, Andy and me were two of the soldiers brought in; one of the humans that were kindly helping the Talichre get a foothold on the Earth decided to make an example of Andy when the Doctor refused to hand over some device or other that he'd stolen. Whilst the Doctor strutted and preened, showing the Talichre how very, very clever he was, Andy was killed.'

'That's hardly the Doctor's fault, Ace jumped in defensively 'If he hadn't helped, millions could have died. Earth would have been enslaved or wiped out.'

'Maybe. But it didn't stop them hating him; it didn't stop them hating me me. And it didn't bring Andy back. The UNIT soldiers are lads, lads like any others. Everyone thinks that they're oh-so special. Above all that hazing s.h.i.t, initiation ceremonies for new recruits. But they're not. Believe me, I know.

And if you're not "one of the lads" ' His voice tailed away.

'And what's that got to do with what the Doctor said earlier with you coming up here?'

'I've had enough,' he said simply, spreading his palms. 'I've had enough of the whole lot. Enough of living in Mum and Dad's shadow, enough of being an apologist for him ' he jabbed a finger in the Doctor's direction, '-when he doesn't give a toss about any of us; enough of being "old a.r.s.eworth" to the lads; enough of watching people die.'

Ace shook her head, still reeling from all of it. 'And you didn't tell me any of this 'cos you thought I might snitch on you to UNIT? To the police?'

He looked away from her, nodded. 'There's probably a warrant out for me right now And a court-martial waiting for me when I go back.'

The woods around Graystairs echoed to the sound of footsteps sharp, regimented footsteps. In the baleful glare of the moon, hair gleamed silver-white and eyes shone hard and cold, and shards of moonlight glinted off the barrels of guns.

Michael watched Claire tending to the Doctor. Since he'd punched him, the Doctor had done little but sit in the corner, staring into s.p.a.ce. Claire had brought him another brandy to replace the one that had been spilt in the fight, but it sat, untouched, in front of him. Claire was telling him, calmly and a.s.suredly, that he'd be fine in a while, but that he should just take it easy. Michael couldn't remember the last time anyone had spoken to him like that, and he felt a twinge of jealousy, made all the worse because he liked Claire liked her sa.s.siness, her common-sense, charm and scepticism and wondered whether, if it were him sat in the corner instead of the Doctor, she'd be ministering to him in the same way. He thought of Mum, back at Graystairs with Gran, holding Gran's hand as he had left angrily, unable to believe that, with everything going on up there, Mum still wanted Gran to stay for her treatment. What was that, then?

Love? Guilt? Daughterly devotion? He shook his head and downed the last of his pint. Across the pub he saw Eddie, sitting on a bar stool and enjoying another pint of Guinness; the old man gazed around the pub with a sense of quiet bemus.e.m.e.nt.

Every now and then he'd rub his eyes and look up, as if the pub was new to him each time.

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the last guttering flames in the fireplace and the quiet murmur of other people's conversations around him pulled Michael out of the moment, just for a second, and he suddenly felt sad and isolated, an observer of other people's lives, rather than a partic.i.p.ant in his own. Three years he'd been in UNIT, and the closest he'd got to the kind of consideration Claire was showing the Doctor was when Brigadier Bennington had sent him to the medic with a minor head wound. UNIT was laying siege to a dingy, crumbling warehouse in Birmingham where a small group of ape-like aliens called Ogrons had holed up after landing on Earth for emergency repairs. It was his first encounter with aliens, and like all 'the lads' he hadn't believed it until he'd seen them himself and even then, there was still a lingering doubt, whispered rumours that these seven-foot thugs were nothing more than blacked-up Special Operations guys testing them or taking the p.i.s.s. That was one rumour that hadn't lasted the day.

He remembered dearly how UNIT had surrounded the warehouse, shot out the windows and had to kill one of the Ogrons before the others had been captured. He remembered crouching in the Brummie drizzle, watching the other lads as they pa.s.sed around a ciggie studiously avoiding giving it to 'old a.r.s.eworth' and made comments about the birds they'd picked up in town the night before. He remembered having to force himself not to simply stand up, put down his gun, walk back to the truck and ask to be relieved of duty. He remembered being at the front of the team with Andy as they'd gone rushing in, smashing down the doors and racing across the vast expanse of concrete, the sound of booted feet on broken gla.s.s, orders barked in whispers. Only briefly, as he'd squatted down behind some sheets of corrugated iron, had he wondered if he were about to be picked off by some alien weapon; and if his brief, wasted life were to end there. But the Ogrons had been surprised, and only managed to let off three or four harmless shots before they were overpowered and dragged, grunting, off to the truck.

A ricochet from one of the other UNIT lads' guns had left him with a small but b.l.o.o.d.y bullet graze to the top of his head, and Bennington had insisted that he'd got it seen to.

One small moment of kindness in three years.

He glanced at Ace, who seemed to be avoiding him, making small talk with Scar-face at the bar. He caught her eye, but she looked away quickly, almost disdainfully. Even as he thought about it, he felt angry: Ace was a nice kid, but what right had a kid to be telling him how he should be running his life? She didn't know what his life had been like; she hadn't had her head forced down army toilets as part of an 'initiation'; she hadn't had the mickey taken out of her when all the others pretended they'd been replaced by alien bodys.n.a.t.c.hers, advancing on her in the darkness of the dorm, arms outstretched.

He remembered Sergeant Callow telling him that it was 'just youthful high spirits' and that they didn't mean anything by it.

What had really hurt was that Callow had told him that his dad had probably gone through the same thing when he joined UNIT. Somehow Michael found that difficult to believe: the Great General Ashworth with a mouthful of p.i.s.s. It would have been funny if it hadn't made him want to cry. And some of them did cry.

And he remembered Andy, fresh in from the regular army just a couple of days after him. Michael had heard him screaming in the middle of the night, and had discovered him huddled in the corner of the room: in his bed was a shrivelled alien hand with three stubby fingers.

Michael put down his empty gla.s.s, watching a thin trickle of foam dribble back down the inside, and decided that there was nothing he could do here. He felt stifled and excluded and unwanted, and had the rest of his brandy and something half-decent to smoke back at his tent.

Suddenly, one of the windows of The Two Foxes The Two Foxes shattered with a shattered with a whumpf whumpf of compressed air and a spray of powdered gla.s.s; tiny, sparkling motes drifted languidly down like snowflakes. of compressed air and a spray of powdered gla.s.s; tiny, sparkling motes drifted languidly down like snowflakes.

Douglas dropped the pint he was halfway through pouring for Ace, startling Michael for a second time.

'Get behind the bar!' yelled Ace, pushing a table up against the heavy oak front door. 'Everyone!'

She seemed like she was everywhere at once authoritative, knowledgeable, in control. For a moment, he hated her. Really hated her.

But he didn't need telling twice, and almost collided with Douglas as he ducked behind the bar. Birmingham all over again.

Ace raced around to join them, pushing Scar-face ahead of her, as another window blew in. Eddie stared round, frightened and confused, as Ace called to him to get behind the bar with the rest of them. He complied silently.

Michael watched her as she looked back at the Doctor, propped like a broken toy in the corner. His unfocussed eyes wandered across the windows, confused. Claire sat worriedly by his side, still holding his hand. They were sheltered by the fireplace, and it seemed the best place for them to stay. She was taking all this remarkably wel , Michael thought ruefully, and wondered if there was anything he could do that might make him less of an onlooker to all of this. Anything that might make her think a bit better of him: if he'd ever had any chance with Claire, he imagined that hitting the Doctor had probably put paid to it. Thoughts of returning to his tent were suddenly gone now that something was happening, now that there might be something he could actually do do.

'What the h.e.l.l was that?' asked Claire, squeezing the Doctor's hand so hard that Michael was sure he saw the Doctor flinch.

'Directed energy weapon,' said Ace knowledgeably, rummaging in her rucksack.

'What?' said Scar-face.

'Just keep your head down,' she said, finding what she was looking for.

'If you come out now,' a thin, elderly voice called from outside, 'we'll let you live. We just want Eddie. The rest of you will be unharmed.'

'As if,' Ace muttered, twisting the cap on the silvery canisters she held, no bigger than a can of shaving foam. She held her breath and sprinted across to the side of the window. Michael could see her counting silently to herself, Then she spun round and lobbed the canisters through one of the broken windows.

'Down!' she called to them all, throwing herself under a table.

Moments later, every remaining window in the pub exploded inwards in a shower of gla.s.s shards and splinters. Michael, Douglas and Scar-face felt the fragments pattering on their heads as the sound of the explosion rang in their ears. Douglas cautiously peered over the bar to see Ace kneeling on the window seat looking out onto the street.

'Yes!' she said exultantly, punching the air. 'Come on out the back! They're only stunned.'

As Michael dusted himself down, feeling the cuts from the tiny slivers of gla.s.s, he realised that Ace and Claire were bringing the Doctor through, Eddie shuffling along in front, confused and scared. The Doctor's gaze seemed sharper, more in focus now He paused and stared straight into Michael's eyes.

'I'm...'

'Come on, Professor,' cut in Ace, as she gently guided the Doctor past him, through the door to the back of the pub.

Michael watched them go, heard the gla.s.s crunch under their feet: the theme tune to the last three years of his life.

Chapter Fifteen.

The night air was cold, and there was already a thin, sugary crust of frost on the ground, catching the moonlight. Michael's breath swirled around him as he followed the others out into the darkness of the car park amidst the crates and the bins and the empty stale bottles. As soon as they were clear, Douglas and Scar-face made off into the darkness without a backward glance.

Michael watched them go, reminding himself that they were just civvies, scared and out of their depth. He reached into a crate of empties at his side and armed himself with two beer bottles, hefting them in his hands. Not much as weapons went.

Whatever Ace had thrown through the window had shaken their attackers, and they were clearly playing it cautious. He caught up with Ace, the Doctor, Claire and Eddie as they headed across the small patch of gra.s.s between the car park and the church. If Ace was leading them to the church, he hoped she had a plan. He kept glancing behind him, but it looked like their attackers had given up for now. No doubt they'd be regrouping. And attacking again. Only this time they'd be more careful.

As he watched Ace and the others slip in through the vestry door, he paused, realising what had just happened. It was like being back in UNIT all over again. He'd gone AWOL only to find himself up against it. Again. What scared and disturbed him the most was the automatic ease with which he slipped back into it, as if the uniform were indelibly tattooed on his skin in shades of green and khaki. In his hands were the two bottles. He lifted them, as if to throw them at the side of the church.

Instead, he tossed them onto the gra.s.s and walked away into the night.

The little stone room smelt of damp and cold, the single bulb casting a harsh light over the huddled group. Claire pulled a chair up to the table and settled the Doctor in it as Ace stood in the doorway for a moment, staring out into the sharp night. Where was Michael? He'd been behind them, right up to the moment they'd ducked into the church. She searched the darkness, but there was no sign of movement. She glanced at Eddie, hovering uncertainly beside the door. She knew what was going on in his head but he looked as confused as she felt about why they wanted him. Reluctantly, she closed and bolted the door. Then, just for good measure, shoved a chair under the handle. She had a brief flash of the TARDIS's control room, the Doctor looking edgy and evasive, the door wedged shut with a chair.

'I should just go,' Eddie said, but his uncertainty showed in his eyes, in the way he held himself.

Ace shook her head firmly. 'We're not letting those nutters get hold of you.'

'But if they have me, they'll leave the rest of you alone.'

'I don't care. You think they just want you so they can give you a special birthday tea or something? Those people aren't normal, Eddie. They haven't come down here with guns just 'cos they're bored with watching Sale of the Century Sale of the Century.'

'So what do they want?' Eddie looked close to tears. He sank into a vacant chair at the table and ground the b.a.l.l.s of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard. He looked back up at Ace and ran his hands through his silvery hair, eyes burning with tears. 'I'm scared,' he said, so quietly that only Ace heard him. She took his hand and felt it clench in hers.

'We all are. Don't worry. We'll be fine.'

Eddie looked back down at the table and began to cry. Ace saw that Claire had heard their exchange and was shaking her head slowly.

'I'm not particularly dim, but have I missed something?' she asked quietly.

Ace frowned, puzzled.

'Like the bit where someone explained what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is going on!' She looked round the little gathering. 'Am I the only one who feels like they've stepped into the next Star Wars Star Wars film?' film?'

Ace gave a sigh and perched herself on the edge of the battered pine table. She looked at the Doctor, his eyes closed, his head drooping onto his chest. He'd stopped muttering and trembling. She hoped it was a good sign.

'Sooal up at the house is an alien who's been doing some sort of experiments on the residents,' she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. 'They have a s.p.a.ceship at the bottom of the sea where they have a dozen residents wired up to some sort of computer.'

'And...?'

Ace spread her hands wide. 'And...?'

'And what's all this for and note I'm pretending, just for the sake of argument and sanity, that all this is real and true, and that it's not you who was due to be booked into Graystairs instead of the Doctor?'

Ace smiled grimly. 'Yeah, I know. Twilight Zone Twilight Zone stuff, eh? stuff, eh?

Well, trust me. It's all real. But that's all I know.' Ace held Claire's eyes, knowing full well that she was lying: she'd seen the future and she couldn't breathe a word of it.

'OK,' Claire said suddenly. 'Until I can think of a more reasonable explanation for all this, I'll go with it. So what do we do now?'

'I wish I knew,' Ace said. 'I really wish I knew.'

'There's only one thing you can do,' Eddie said suddenly.

'Let me go to them.'

Ace sighed. 'I've told you. No.'

Eddie shook his head. 'I don't know how I know,' he began, stumbling over his words, 'but I know they don't want to hurt me.' He looked from Ace to Claire and back to Ace again. 'They just... ' His face scrunched pitifully. 'They're just... putting things in here.' His clenched fists went to his temples.

'Then that's a good enough reason not to let them have you, isn't it?'

'But if I don't go, they'll kill you. I know it.'

'Ace!' It was Claire. Ace followed her eyes the Doctor was sitting perfectly still, hands clasped in front of him, his lips moving. She leaned in closer, and could hear him counting.

Backwards.

'Three... two...'

On 'one' his eyes snapped open and he took in a deep, deep breath and held it, before letting out slowly.