Doctor Who: The Blood Cell (7 page)

‘You’re cross with me. I get that. But I don’t get entirely why. If I have to guess it will be tedious, and believe me, I’m only too aware that my manner in these situations can occasionally come across as a bit unfortuna—’

428 spun quite a long way along the floor this time before coming to a stop.

Then he sprang up, smiling.

203 charged at him

428 didn’t move. Well, hardly moved. Just a single digit, waggling somewhere near 203’s shoulder as she swept down onto him.

Prisoner 203 suddenly slid to the floor with a groan.

‘You’re lucky,’ 428 stood over her. ‘I don’t use Venusian Aikido much these days. And rarely on ladies. Not as a rule. But then again –’ a wink – ‘You’re no lady.’

203’s eyes sprang open, glaring at him. She struggled to get up.

428 considered her. ‘You’re cross with me. I get that. Is it because of the library, because of poor Lafcardio, or because you didn’t get any tables or chairs in here? Or … actually, is it all three? Because, put together like
that, I’ll admit, it does look rather bad.’

203 sprang to her feet, snarling.

And then, strangely, slid to the floor again.

This time she did not get up.

‘That was more of a tap, really,’ 428 muttered sheepishly. Then he crouched by 203 and whispered something in her ear.

By this time, Guardian Donaldson had arrived to break up the fight. She surveyed the wreckage with typically dryness. She found 428 as unamusing as I did. But 428 seemed pleased to see her. 428 helped 203 up. ‘Her name is Abesse,’ he informed Donaldson, ‘and I’m afraid she’s a little shaken up.’ Abesse was leaning woozily against a wall. ‘Do be careful with her. Her inner ear is temporarily a little off so you’ll find her sense of balance won’t answer questions for a day or so.’

In hindsight, placing Prisoner 203 next to Lafcardio in the medical centre was a mistake.

The next time I saw 203, a few days later, she and the … Prisoner 428 were heading off to the crafting workshop, a place where prisoners devoted themselves to hobby-craft. The two of them looked, if you will excuse the expression, as thick as thieves.

Quite how the seal to the library was breached, I don’t know. We only found out about it later. When I asked
428 where he’d got the wood from.

‘Don’t you like the tables?’ he’d asked, hurt.

We were standing in the canteen. Which was now full of tables. And benches.

‘We repainted,’ 428 explained. ‘Yellow was a bit provoking. Pink has a calming effect. They discovered this on Alcatraz.’ He leaned over me, indicating a bench.

‘Do take a seat,’ he’d insisted. ‘Well, not on that pew. It wobbles. Just a bit.’

‘Where …’ My mouth was dry. ‘Where did you get the wood?’

‘Oh, well.’ 428 looked decidedly casual. ‘There were all those shelves in the library. Empty shelves. No books now, you see. And Abesse and I thought that … well … she is a wonder with a handsaw.’ He beamed, pleased.

I just stood there. Stood there as prisoners started filing in for the morning meal, collecting their porridge and sitting down at the tables. They were all smiling. Not talking, just beaming. Abesse stood at the back of them all. Arms folded. Watching me. Waiting for a challenge.

‘Sometimes,’ smiled 428, ‘it’s not the final destination that counts, but how you get there. And sometimes both the journey and the destination are most rewarding.’

He reached over to something on the table and
handed it to me. It was a pot, with a plant in it.

‘It’s a rosebush,’ he said. ‘I know you like flowers. I grew it in the hydroponics centre.’

‘But Prisoners aren’t allowed in the—’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘And isn’t that a shame? Stick it on your desk. Water it. Enjoy.’

I stared at it. Little red buds were already showing. Helen had always loved roses. I wanted to say something. But I couldn’t thank the Doctor. I just couldn’t. That would have made his victory complete. Instead I held the plant to me. Already I could smell it.

The Doctor turned and started to stride away.

‘Not staying—’ I stopped. My tone had been abrupt, showing how much he’d got to me. So I stopped. I did not say ‘to enjoy your victory’. Instead I managed: ‘To enjoy your porridge?’

428 turned, and shuddered theatrically. ‘No. I can’t stand the food here. But don’t worry. That’s on my list.’

He smiled at me and was gone.

Bentley and I looked at each other. She was almost staring right into my eyes.

‘He’s winning, isn’t he?’ I said.

Bentley didn’t answer. She looked away.

There was a power fluctuation that night. Six minutes and twelve seconds. I’d almost forgotten them. Bentley and I argued about it, quite firmly.

‘Level 7,’ she was saying. ‘You have to isolate Level 7 now and claw back resources.’

‘I can’t do that,’ I protested.

‘The Protocols say it’s the only way.’

I knew, more or less, that she was right. Level 7 was self-contained. They’d be fine. For a bit. But I just didn’t like the idea.

Which was when the red lights faded and the alarm stopped.

We’d escaped again.

After the alarm stopped, two people were found where they shouldn’t be.

One was 428. He was standing over the body of Guardian Donaldson.

‘I know what this looks like,’ said 428 as Bentley hit him. ‘I was trying to find the source of the alarm … and so was she.’

But Bentley carried on hitting him. She was crying.

Curiously, 428 put his arms around her and held her. ‘I rather liked Donaldson too,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

I visited 428 in the solitary cell. It was more of a cupboard, but he seemed unconcerned by his surroundings.

‘How is Bentley?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘That doesn’t matter. 428, why did
you kill Donaldson?’

‘I didn’t.’ He seemed annoyed I’d even asked. ‘We were both looking for the source of the alarm. I’m afraid she was more successful than me. She found it and it killed her.’

‘What did?’

428 shrugged. He leaned forward to tap me on the nose, but the force wall crackled menacingly around his hand. ‘There’s something in this prison that even you don’t know about, Governor.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

428 spread his arms out again. ‘Did I have a weapon on me? Come to that, and given the state of Donaldson, did I have all the weapons on me?’

I glared at him. There were times when there was no place for flippancy.

I left him in solitary. He could rot there as far as I was concerned.

Donaldson had been religious. Or, at least, her family was. And so their beliefs had made it onto her personnel forms. According to custom, her body would be placed in its bier and rest in the chapel overnight before being disposed of the following dawn (Relative HomeWorld time).

Someone would watch over Donaldson during the night. I decided it would be me. I was glad the casket was closed. It meant I could sit and feel sorry for
myself.

I hadn’t really known Donaldson very well. I’d liked her. I currently felt terribly responsible for her. But that was all. That and a terrible sense of guilt stretching eight hours ahead of me.

There was a gentle cough and 428 slid into the chair next to me.

For a moment I ignored him. I really couldn’t think of anything else to do.

428 didn’t seem in a hurry to speak either.

We just sat there, staring at her casket in silence. I could tell, from the anguish on his face, that he felt as guilty about this as I did. Not guilty as in he’d murdered her, but guilty as in terribly responsible for her death. I wondered if the guilt, his guilt, my guilt, would ever feel better. I glanced across at 428, trying to work out if he still felt crushed under the guilt of his victims. If he could come here and sit by me … Well, he must do, surely.

We sat there for a little while more. I stopped checking my watch every five minutes and gradually a stillness settled over us. Donaldson’s casket, Prisoner 428 and me. Lit only by the candles, the air perfumed gently by the artificial flowers I’d ordered up from synthesis, and much more so by the flowers 428 had brought. He’d found real lilies (I have no idea how), but soon the air reeked of them.

Suddenly, I realised it was almost dawn. The night
had drifted by in its gentle melancholy. 428 stood up and bowed to the coffin.

‘Doctor …’ I said and then paused. I couldn’t bring myself to thank him.

‘Tell Bentley I am sorry,’ 428 said to me, his voice soft. ‘And, just so you know, solitary is just as easy to get out of.’ He smiled sadly, patted me on the shoulder, and then left.

The Oracle blipped me from Level 7. His face was pulled into a fat comedy of dolour.

‘I hear you have had a tragedy,’ he intoned, his fingers waggling upside down. ‘Most regrettable. Most sad. Most … purple.’

‘Is there a point to this?’ Normally I did a better job of hiding how irritated I was by the Oracle.

‘Oh, am I interrupting?’ the Oracle slapped one hand with another, ‘Silly me, I should have foreseen that … I wouldn’t dream of interrupting you on such a serious occasion, only. what with your sad events … the aura reaches even down here. Such sad thoughts impinge on the clarity of my visions.’ I couldn’t believe it – the fool was blaming us for messing around with his phoney clairvoyance. It wasn’t even as though he was a real mystic – simply a well-informed gossip. But he wasn’t harmless either. I thought putting him charge of Level 7 was a decision made in rather bad taste.

As though answering some apologetic comment from me, the Oracle held up his hands. ‘There’s really no need to say sorry for the interference in my visions! It’s most regrettable, but these things happen. However, rest assured, my dear Governor, that you are not to blame.’ The way he said it, he clearly did blame me. ‘It is simply that …’ He pressed his fingers into his forehead, sinking them into the flesh around his temples, ‘Ah, yes, such a pity. I should be able to see clearly ahead, but as it is, with so much interference there is a cloud … through a veil of burgundy thoughts …’ He kneaded away at his eyebrows, and then assumed a face of benevolent piety. ‘I can tell you this. Soon you will have to consider the fate of Level 7. Miserable wretches that we are.’ He wagged a finger at me and terminated the blip.

Clara was back on the landing pad. And she was holding up a new placard.

‘This time I painted it myself,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I think if I’d got the kids to do it I’d have ended up on a list. And not a good list.’

‘I see,’ I said, looking at the placard. ‘And in what way do you expect me not to interpret this as a terrorist threat?’

‘Oh,’ she glanced up at the placard. ‘Did you get the documents from last time?’

I scratched my head. To be honest, So many pieces
of paper came my way. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so.’

‘Well, honestly,’ she sighed. ‘It’s a conspiracy.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, trying to be helpful. ‘Maybe I’m just really behind on my paperwork.’

‘You seriously expect me to believe that?’

‘We have had a lot on,’ I said. I could hear how tired my voice sounded.

She rolled her eyes. ‘The Doctor is very important.’

‘That may be. But he is Prisoner 428. We have 427 other prisoners, all of whom are just as important to us. He is being looked after and he is being cared for in accordance with the Protocols. Please believe me. If you have questions about the judicial process that sent him here, I urge you to pursue them with HomeWorld.’

‘I can’t,’ said Clara and glanced over her shoulder. ‘I really can only get lifts here. My, er, transport doesn’t like me much.’

‘Pardon? Your shuttle?’

Clara pulled a face. ‘It’s temperamental. It used to hate me. Now it just kind of tolerates me. Home or here. That’s it. And not necessarily in the right order.’

‘Got you.’ I didn’t get her. She seemed to be talking gibberish.

‘Honestly,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘One day it’ll break down and I’ll end up stranded in one place. Can you imagine that – oh!’ she covered her mouth in embarrassment. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Not at all,’ I said stiffly. ‘Carry on telling me all about your travels.’

‘No, no,’ Clara assured me. ‘I’m done now I’ve put my foot in it. We can do politics if you’d prefer. The new President of HomeWorld is proving thoroughly unpopular. I can talk about that if you’d like.’

‘I’d rather not,’ I said tightly.

‘Then there’s always the weather …’ Clara looked up at the star-filled sky, as though expecting rain.

‘If you’ve nothing meaningful to say –’ I was pleased at how acidic I sounded – ‘Perhaps I’d better leave you to talk with your … craft about making other arrangements to get you home. If you will excuse me, I have a prison to run.’

‘I see.’

‘Clara. Do you like me?’ I didn’t know why I said it.

‘Like you?’ She looked startled. Like a jam jar had asked her how to vote.

‘Never mind. I must go.’ I stood up quickly, embarrassed.

‘Before you do …’ Clara coughed and waved her sign importantly. ‘My sign. I’ll read it out to you, shall I?’

‘Please don’t. I can read.’

‘Free. The. Doctor. Or. The. Killing. Will. Start.’ She paused. ‘There!’

For some absurd reason she looked pleased with herself.

I just groaned. ‘You’re too late. The killing has already started,’ I said and left her there.

Her face fell.

I didn’t think I’d come out and see her again.

If I’m going to be truthful, in the lift back to my office, I did feel a little troubled at how I’d left things with Clara. A tiny nagging voice told me it would be so much easier to just be nice to her. But it was too late for that, and now my office awaited along with Bentley’s judging stare. I went back in and slumped down at my desk. A Custodian brought me tea. I didn’t drink it. A Custodian, possibly the same one, brought me more tea. I barely touched that. I just sat watching Clara on the camera, standing in the landing bay, patiently holding up her sign. Eventually, her arms got tired and she rubbed one and then the other. Then she marched up and down a bit. Finally, she put the sign down on the ground, huffed, and walked sadly away.