Doctor Who_ Relative Dementias Part 6

That was when she'd heard it: music, coming from nearby.

Normally she wouldn't have thought anything of it: there was usually a radio or three playing in the house somewhere whether Radio 1 in the kitchen during mealtimes, Radio 2 in the residents' lounge when there was nothing worth watching on the telly, or, occasionally, Radio 3 when Doctor Menzies thought that no one would notice.Which, of course, they usually did pretty quickly. But up here, away from the cosy domesticity of the rest of Graystairs, it seemed creepy, haunting.

This was definitely Radio 3 music, Claudette thought posh opera as she called it. A woman wailed in some foreign language like her world was falling apart. She suddenly felt like an intruder up here, interfering in someone else's grief. Maybe Doctor Menzies was running a session in the therapy room at the other end of the corridor. Thinking no more about it, other than how very, very sad the music sounded, Claudette tapped lightly on Megan's door: Megan's Room Private Megan's Room Private was written, in threatening, blocky letters with a marker pen on one of the peeling panels. was written, in threatening, blocky letters with a marker pen on one of the peeling panels.

There was no answer, so she knocked again. Maybe she was asleep. Claudette knew she had a real temper on her, and probably wouldn't take too kindly to being woken for something like clean towels, so she turned away from the door, intending to have another, more determined hunt around the house for them on her own. As she did so, Claudette heard the long, shuddering, indrawn breath of someone sobbing.

She was torn: although it wasn't forbidden to come up here, it had been strongly suggested that it was not somewhere the staff should be. The treatment room was the reason given, although there was a quiet understanding that Mr Sooal, Graystairs' reclusive owner, had his room here and valued his privacy. But the sobbing was so pitiful, so lost lost, that Claudette couldn't just ignore it. As quietly as she could and simultaneously aware that if she was caught creeping creeping around, she'd be in even more trouble she took a few steps along the threadbare Axminster. The music and the crying grew louder until she found herself at a door a dirty brown door, much like any of the others on the landing. around, she'd be in even more trouble she took a few steps along the threadbare Axminster. The music and the crying grew louder until she found herself at a door a dirty brown door, much like any of the others on the landing.

She flinched sharply as a crash and the sound of breaking china shattered the fragile calm.

'h.e.l.lo?' she called tentatively, hoping, desperately hoping, that no one answered. Quite why she repeated her call, a little louder, she wasn't sure. At that moment, she wanted to be anywhere but there. Her hand was on the door handle, turning it, her body and her heart racing ahead of her mind and any consideration of the consequences. And as she pushed it open, the music swelled in volume and abruptly ceased.

Hunched over on himself in a tatty, leatherette armchair basking in the sharp, angular morning light that streamed in through the skylight, was a man, his hands wrapped around the back of his neck. More than a man trying to block the world out, Claudette got the cold impression of a man trying to hold himself in. His skin was pale and paper thin, his head skeletal and bald.

'h.e.l.lo?' she found herself saying again this time in a voice just seconds away from cracking completely.

He turned sharply, explosively, his eyes as pink as a white rat's, his lips thin and bloodless.

'What are you doing here?' he spat. 'Get out!'

As Claudette fled, the man turned away, and her last impression of him was of the tears streaming down his cheeks.

'Weird,' breathed Ace as Claudette came to the end of her tale and looked up at her. Her brown eyes were full of expectation.

'So that was this mysterious Mr Sooal?'

Claudette nodded. 'I think so I've never seen him before, but I've heard the others talk about him.'

'He never comes out of his room?'

'Not often. One or two people have seen him moving about the house in the middle of the night, but Megan's warned us that we aren't to bother him. She says he's a very private person.'

'And it's an odd name, isn't it?' mused Ace. 'Sooal. Is he foreign?'

Claudette shrugged. 'It does sound a bit, I dunno, Indian or something, doesn't it?' Claudette caught sight of the bedside clock. 'I've got to go,' she said hastily, picking up the pile of towels.

'Just one more thing,' Ace said. 'Doctor Brunner er, my mum. Have you seen her anywhere?'

'I saw her the other weekend when she brought your gran up but I've not been here since Thursday.' She frowned. 'Why?

Didn't she come in with you?' Claudette saw Ace's expression.

'What is it? What's happened?'

'That's just it,' said Ace heavily. 'I don't know. She's disappeared completely.'

The Doctor let himself into his room and stood for a moment, deep in thought.

Joyce's room was number five. Reading the guest book upsidedown had been a piece of cake although he felt sure that Mary had seen that he was staring at it. He laid his hat and umbrella on the bed, and slipped quietly out of the room, pulling the door dosed behind him. Room five was just along the corridor.

He peered over the banister and saw Mary's elbow, pistolling backwards and forwards as she polished the life out of the desk.

He smiled he could do with someone like Mary in the TARDIS.

Joyce's door was, unsurprisingly, locked. A few seconds later he had it open, and he slipped inside.

At first, the Doctor wondered whether he'd got the right room. It looked unused. But then he remembered how tidy and formal Joyce could be. He noticed the neat collection of bottles on the gla.s.s shelf above the sink. He crossed to the dressing table, and suppressing a momentary twinge of guilt, he began opening drawers, looking for anything that might give him more clues. He really hoped that Ace's investigations would turn up something, since he doubted he would find anything here. She'd been missing since yesterday morning, and, knowing Joyce, it seemed unlikely that she would have stayed out all night without letting someone know where she was.

A vague sense of impropriety nudged at him as he poked tentatively through the contents of the drawers. Clothes, some still with their price tags attached, a brown bottle of tablets, a couple of letters. The only thing about them that spoke to him was the precision with which they'd been laid out. Disappointed

and vaguely unnerved by how much of his friend's character was revealed in those few items and their layout he slid the last drawer shut, noticing a photograph in a simple, silver frame on the bedside table. It showed Joyce and two men, presumably her husband and son, in UNIT dress uniform. On a whim, he produced a sc.r.a.p of paper and a pencil from his pocket, scribbled a note, and propped it up against the frame.

The teashop, the Doctor was delighted to discover a half hour later, doubled as the post office. Which meant that not only could he get himself a decent cup of tea, but he could also find out if Joyce had bought the stamp there for her postcard to him.

It was also as he'd hoped the centre of the village's gossip network. As he sipped his tea, he skipped through a paperback copy of some science fiction nonsense called T he Ca.s.sandra he Ca.s.sandra Experience Experience that he'd found in his pocket. He didn't believe a word of it but then, that was the Ca.s.sandra Experience all over. As he scanned the book, looking for historical inaccuracies and scribbling notes in the margin, he listened to the conversations going on around him. that he'd found in his pocket. He didn't believe a word of it but then, that was the Ca.s.sandra Experience all over. As he scanned the book, looking for historical inaccuracies and scribbling notes in the margin, he listened to the conversations going on around him.

A young man and a woman discussed what they were going to do with their premium bond win (which caused something of a hush amongst the other customers until it was revealed that they'd won the princely sum of twenty-five pounds); a brawny, weatherbeaten young man from some nearby farm made desperate attempts to get the waitress to go out with him on Friday night; and a rather distant-looking elderly man picked at his sandwich as if he suspected it had been poisoned, glancing nervously around as he prodded at it.

Of the three, the Doctor found the last the most interesting: he seemed detached from everything around him, troubled in some way that the Doctor found instinctively intriguing. When the waitress came over to ask him if his sandwich was OK, the Man jumped and nodded eagerly, embarra.s.sed. Over the top of his book, the Doctor watched him stir his tea listlessly, trying hard not to clink the spoon against the side of the cup.

The man looked to be in his seventies, casually dressed in a thick grey cardigan. He had slicked-back white hair and black-framed gla.s.ses hiding deep-set, worried eyes. He looked a little lost and confused and somewhat out of place in Muirbridge's one and only teashop. The Doctor watched as the man stared at his hands first the palms, then the backs; he flexed his fingers, observing the joints; then he examined his fingernails, frowning curiously.

The Doctor slid the book into his pocket, picked up his tea and the remains of his scone, and crossed to the man's table. He smiled his most disarming smile. 'I'm the Doctor, and I couldn't help but notice that you seem rather preoccupied with your hands,' he remarked, slipping into the empty seat opposite him.

The man glanced down at his long, thin fingers and then back at the Doctor. 'There's a phrase, isn't there?' he said distantly. '"Knowing something like the back of your hand"

Surely it's impossible to ever forget what the backs of your hands look like?'

'There's no such word as impossible. Apart from in the dictionary, of course. And one of the marvellous things about humans is that they're capable of any number of impossible things either before or after breakfast.'

The man's eyes narrowed more out of curiosity, thought the Doctor, than suspicion. 'You talk as if you're not human.'

'Well,' the Doctor replied airily, evasively, 'it's such an imprecise term, isn't it? Physiology, physiognomy...' He leaned forwards and studied the man's face. 'Nature. Some of the most human people I've come across haven't been within a billion miles of a piece of DNA. And some of the most inhuman wouldn't have stood out in an ident.i.ty parade with Nelson Mandela and Gandhi. So which category do you think you fall into?'

The man pulled back sharply in his seat at the suddenness of the Doctor's question. 'I have to go,' he said, pushing himself away from the table and standing up.

The Doctor raised a hand, realising that he'd been a tad too forthright: the man was scared, and he should have seen it earlier. 'Maybe I can help you.'

'I have to go,' repeated the man, reaching for the door handle. The Doctor noticed the waitress staring at the man.

Running out without paying your bill around here was, no doubt, a social gaffe of the highest order. As the Doctor turned to rea.s.sure her he felt a cold gust of wind from the open door, and heard the tinkling of the bell. By the time he'd got to his feet, rooted around in his pocket for a handful of coins and slapped them on the table, the man had gone. The Doctor stood outside in the bright spring sunlight, annoyed at himself. He tapped his upper teeth with the tips of his fingers, and tried to remember what little he knew about iridology.

The gentle warmth of the sun had been replaced with a cool, spring chill. Harry and George watched Megan rounding up the other residents of Graystairs who were foolish or rebellious - enough to still be out in the garden. There was something about Megan, Harry thought wryly, that encouraged rebellion: he could imagine that some of the more feisty residents at Graystairs might have formed a resistance movement, and were, even now, digging a tunnel beneath their feet in a bid for freedom.

'How long have we been here, then?' asked Harry, out of nowhere.

'About half an hour, I think.'

'No, here here. At Graystairs.'

'Seems like forever.'

'As long as that?'

'At least.' George frowned. 'The days run into each other here, don't they? I can hardly remember what we had for lunch yesterday.' He chuckled. 'A blessed relief, if today's was anything to go by.'

Harry laughed with him, watching Enid remonstrating with Megan. Megan had grabbed the handles on the back of Enid's wheelchair, and was trying to steer her back towards the house; but Enid good old Enid was having none of it, and was stubbornly gripping the wheels of the chair, determined to enjoy the sunset for just a little longer.

Suddenly, Harry gave a gasp and his hands flew to his forehead. He moaned in pain, doubling up.

'Harry what is it? What's up?' George forgot all about Uberfuhrer Uberfuhrer Megan as Harry continued to groan. He shook his head, trying to clear the grey threads which were shooting across his field of vision, obscuring the vivid orange sky. Megan as Harry continued to groan. He shook his head, trying to clear the grey threads which were shooting across his field of vision, obscuring the vivid orange sky.

'I... I... I'm not sure...'

George tottered unsteadily to his feet, glancing between Megan and Harry, wondering whether to call her. He looked down at Harry, whose hands had dropped to his lap and who was now staring away into the distance, his face illuminated by the fiery colours of the setting sun. A strange puzzlement was growing in his eyes, and George felt a chill ripple down his spine.

'Harry? Are you OK?'

Harry looked up at him, as if seeing him clearly for the first time. 'I remember,' he whispered, reaching up and clutching George's arm. 'It's suddenly there, all of it.'

'Remember what? For G.o.d's sake, Harry, what's wrong?'

A stormcloud spread across Harry's face, and George felt his guts turn to ice.

'I remember the war, George. I remember all of it the tanks, rolling across the countryside, screaming children raising their hands, their mothers wailing and clasping them to themselves, the stink of blood and burning.' Trembling, he looked up at George, his eyes fever bright. 'I remember it George every last, glorious moment!'

Chapter Four.

Claire glanced at the old station dock above the optics: it seemed like only a couple of hours since she'd started her shift behind the bar, and the dock confirmed it. The urn Foxes wasn't so bad in the evening drink loosened tongues, and the conversation and atmosphere were much more amicable. The afternoons, though... Sad no-hopers whiling away their days, waiting for their wives to come home from work, waiting for their giros, waiting for... most of them had forgotten what it was they were waiting for.

But at least they were quiet. She glanced round, wondering if she could steal a few minutes to read another chapter of her sociology book, tucked away under the bar. But a couple of the farm lads swaggered in noisily, laughing at some private dirty joke, and Claire had to abandon sociology theory for practical.

As she pulled their pints, she winced uncomfortably at their frightening racism and unashamed glee at the 'Argie-bashing'

down in the Falklands.

'Sc.u.mbags,' came a mutter from further down the bar, just a little louder than Claire would have considered wise, as the lads strutted over to a corner table with their pints slopping in their hands. A young girl with long, brown hair tied back, was perched on a stool at the other end of the bar. She had a round, pleasant face, but her eyes looked harder than they had any right to be in someone her age. Claire remembered serving her earlier, but she'd look worried, absorbed, and Claire hadn't been in the mood to play agony aunt. She nodded back at the girl.

'Racist sc.u.mbags at that,' Claire sighed in agreement. 'You get used to it. I try to think about it as coursework.'

The girl raised her eyebrows. 'What are you studying?

Insects?'

Claire laughed and pulled out her book, slamming it down on the bar. The girl twisted her head to read the t.i.tle of the book.

'It's an OU course,' Claire explained. 'Anything to get me away from here.'

'That bad, eh?' The girl downed the dregs of her lager.

'That bad. You here for Graystairs?'

'Does it show?' The girl nodded as Claire pointed at her empty gla.s.s. She pulled her another.

'Not really just that strangers are few and far between round here. The odd camper or backpacker. We get a few fishing trips and landscape painters who don't know blue from green.

Who is it, then? Your grandad? Grandma?'

The girl paused. 'Grandad.' She took an appreciative sip of her lager, clearly weighing up how much to impart to this nosey, over-brained barmaid. No problem, thought Claire. People were generally a bit awkward about Graystairs. 'So what do people say about the place?' the girl asked.

Claire pulled a face as a middle-aged couple came in, all tweeds and stout shoes, accompanied by their little black dog.

They looked around the pub slowly, as if surveying it, before stepping up to the bar.

'Two juices of orange,' the woman said precisely.

'Two orange juices?' queried Claire with a frown.

'That's correct,' the woman said with a nod.

Claire served them and returned to Ace as the couple ensconced themselves silently in a corner near the fire, the dog taking up position between them.

'Foreign tourists?' asked Ace.

Claire shook her head. 'No, locals I think. They sound German or something, don't they? Don't often see them in here but they've been in a few times over the last couple of days.

Probably bored witless with scenery and fresh air. Anyway, I was telling you about Graystairs, wasn't I?'

As Ace drank her lager and Claire her own orange, she gave Ace a potted history of the place: Graystairs had been a convalescent home from when she was a little girl (her mother had worked there as a cleaner for a while until the 'odd behaviour' of the residents had proved too much for her); and about three years ago, the home had been taken over by a Doctor Sooal (who liked to keep himself to himself and was never seen in the village) who, rumour had it, was working on some new treatment for Alzheimer's disease.