Doctor Who: Bad Therapy (8 page)

It wasn’t going to be him. If he started running now, then maybe he could outrun the lot of them. Maybe he could leave the whole mess far behind.

The police, the blackmailers, the missing money. All of it. He could travel to France and start again. He could get a job in Paris, learn French – if he kept his head down they’d never find him. He could just hide for ever. With Eddy gone, there wasn’t anything left to stay for. Nothing left to protect.

Jack swallowed. How had this happened to him? How had his life become so screwed up?

It’s too late for thoughts like that, Jack Bartlett, he told himself. Far too late.

But there was something nagging at him. Something that the Doctor had said before he’d left. A something that was preventing him from climbing out of the window, down the fire escape and getting away. It was after the Doctor had told him that Eddy was dead. The Doctor had sat beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘We can stop them, you know,’ the little man had said. ‘The people who killed your friend. The people who killed Eddy. You and I, together, are quite a match for all their bullying and wickedness. But I can’t do it alone or perhaps I’m not willing to. You’ll have to help me.’ And then the Doctor had gone. ‘A quick reconnaissance,’ he’d said. ‘Won’t be long.’

The idea was ridiculous. How could the two of them stop the blackmailers?

How could he and the Doctor catch Eddy’s murderer alone? It was a stupid, impossible idea. But something about the quiet in the Doctor’s voice had appealed deeply to him. He’d felt his racing heartbeat slow as he’d listened to the Doctor’s gentle Scots burr, almost hypnotized by its comforting softness.

And he had felt hope, for the first time since that terrible day when the blackmailer’s first letter had fallen on his mat. He’d felt that maybe he could do something after all.

No. It was too dangerous.
His
plan was better. Safer. He’d walk into town 39

tonight and then hitchhike to the coast. He felt better after having made the decision. It stirred him into action. He pulled on his donkey jacket, swung his bag on to his shoulder and, after whispering goodbye to the room which had been his home for the last year, pulled back the curtain and reached for the window catch.

Jack froze when he saw the face grinning, goofishly, back at him through the glass, feeling as if he’d been caught in some terrible act. The Doctor was standing on the fire escape, gesturing excitedly at Jack through the glass. Jack turned slightly to hide the incriminating duffel bag on his shoulder from view as he pulled up the window.

‘I’ve tracked our elderly friend to his lair,’ the Doctor said, his words tumbling out chaotically in his enthusiasm to share his news. ‘A nightclub in Soho.

Does the name “Ritzys” mean anything to you?’

Jack shook his head. ‘That’s great,’ he said, trying to sound as if he meant it.

The Doctor must have heard the uncertainty in his voice. He paused for a moment, and then caught sight of the bulging bag on Jack’s shoulder.

‘If you’re still interested, that is?’

The roof of Ritzys nightclub was long and flat, its surface broken only by small skylights which protruded turret-like from its surface. The sound of a band playing skittle tunes on the dancefloor down below reverberated through the roof. Jack could feel the beat through the soles of his shoes.

He pulled his jacket tightly around himself: the roof offered no protection from the rain which had begun to fall in earnest. What was he doing here?

He must be out of his mind.

If the Doctor felt the rain he didn’t show it. Jack watched from the edge of the roof as the little man scampered between the skylights, peering into each for a moment only to move on to the next. When he’d evidently found what he was looking for, he called Jack over.

The skylight looked down on to an office at the back of the club. Through the glass Jack caught sight of the old man who had visited him earlier in the evening. He was standing in front of a desk, behind which sat a young man with a crew cut, wearing a sharp, black suit. Their voices were raised in anger, but the beat of music below and the rhythm of the rain on the glass obscured their words.

Suddenly, the rooftop was plunged into darkness. For a second Jack was disorientated and scared. Had they been discovered? But it was only that the two men had left the room below, turning the light off after them.

‘Are you up for a bit of breaking and entering?’ the Doctor asked.

Jack stared at him. ‘You’re not serious?’

40

The Doctor took a small Swiss Army knife out of one of his jacket pockets and slipped it between the skylight and the frame.

Oh blimey, Jack thought. He is serious.

‘Ah,’ the Doctor breathed with satisfaction. He pushed the skylight, and it swung quietly open. ‘We’re in.’

Against his better judgment Chris had allowed himself to be dragged back into the Tropics. Tilda had insisted that he needed to rest after all the excitement, and had demanded that he allow her to offer him a bottle of her finest Italian wine. ‘It’s the absolute least I can do after you saved my dearest and favourite friend,’ she had exclaimed. ‘Patsy is like a daughter to me.’

Chris would have preferred an orange juice, but when he had requested one Tilda had thrown back her head and burst out laughing, asking him if the accident hadn’t done some permanent damage to his brain. And so, Chris had found himself sitting in a corner of the Tropics surrounded by Patsy, Tilda and a few of her extremely drunk customers, drinking more wine than he would have usually cared to.

In other circumstances he would have probably entered into the spirit of the evening. But his grief had left him with little of the energy necessary to socialize and make new friends. Chris quietly began to regret not having returned to the TARDIS with the Doctor. His companion was probably fast asleep by now, or whatever Time Lords did when the rest of the Universe tucked itself up in bed.

The Tropics was heaving with people, voices raised in laughter and conversation. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, irritating Chris’s throat and reminding him inevitably of Roz, whose smoking had been the cause of much friction between them. Before he was plunged into that particular train of thought, he was distracted by Tilda trying to enlist his aid in convincing Patsy to take a turn at the piano.

‘She’s an absolute star, Christopher. Tell her that you want to hear her sing.’

Chris found himself being stared at expectantly by Patsy. He’d been trying to minimize his contact with the young woman. She’d been flirting rather ostentatiously with him ever since he’d saved her outside the club. Despite her good looks, he didn’t find her remotely attractive. There was something flat about her. That was it, Chris realized: she lacked any depth whatsoever, as if she were made of only two dimensions instead of three.

She leant over and whispered, ‘I’d love to sing a song for you.’

‘I’d. . . be delighted,’ Chris managed.

‘Good,’ Tilda barked, ‘that’s settled then.’ She gestured over to Andrew, who had replaced Saeed behind the bar. He stepped out from behind the makeshift 41

table and walked directly over to the piano, casually abandoning several customers who were still waiting to be served. As he played the first few bars of a song, a hush fell over the Tropics. The queue at the bar dissolved as the customers hurried back to their friends. The crowd turned to the makeshift stage, and waited expectantly. Tilda dimmed the already low lighting, adjusting a single desk lamp so it became an impromptu spotlight over the piano.

Patsy took a moment to reapply her lipstick, and then took up her place at the pianist’s side. She looked almost bleached out in the harsh light of the lamp. Quietly, stumbling over some of the words, and always slightly out of time with the piano, she began to sing.

Not a day

I wouldn’t last a single day

Without your tender love

My dear

Chris felt himself flush as she directed the sentiment of the song over to the corner of the room where he sat. He turned his attention to the crowd, who were watching the performance with an intensity that Chris found unsettling.

Some of the customers were singing along quietly, others just silently mouthed the words. A young man slipped his arms around his girlfriend, wrapping her up in a protective embrace.

Can’t you see?

I’m

Nothing,

Without you.

The words of the song slipped past his defences and mercilessly prodded his grief. He remembered the afternoon in the English village of Little Caldwell when he’d held Roz in his arms, her sinewy body feeling strangely fragile in his embrace. She’d whispered words then that he’d never forgotten.

I need you. Don’t ever doubt that.

Tears welled up in his eyes just as anger and resentment twisted his guts.

Well I need you Roz. Why did you have to go and leave me? How am I supposed to go on without you?

He glanced awkwardly around him, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Besides Tilda, who was entirely absorbed in the performance, he was the only ‘single’

person in the strange club. Chris leant back in his chair, trying to put some distance between himself and the atmosphere in the room. It felt as if he were no longer in a bar at all, but at church. This was more of a religious service than a cabaret. He turned to look at Patsy again, just as she was hesitantly 42

bringing the song to a close. For a moment their eyes met, and then the song ended and she turned to applaud her pianist politely.

Tilda had left her seat across from him and had returned to her stool by the door. She was talking to a scruffy-looking girl of no more than thirteen.

Despite the girl’s age, Chris could tell from their body language that the conversation was adult and serious. Tilda slipped a few coins into the girl’s hand, before returning to her seat next to Chris.

‘We’ve got trouble.’

Chris leant forward, interested in anything that might distract him from the pain in his stomach. ‘What sort of trouble? Police?’

Tilda shook her head, dismissing the idea. ‘Oh, no. I don’t get any trouble from Lilly Law. And I bloody well shouldn’t either. Not with the charitable donation that I make to the retirement fund of a certain sergeant every week.

No, I’ve just had word from a very reliable friend that some of the less attractive residents in the area are out to cause mischief this evening.’

Chris found Tilda’s speech patterns exasperating. ‘Do you mean criminals?’

‘Hah! Criminals would be flattering them. They are thugs, Christopher, plain and simple. They take advantage of. . . well, of the informal organization of clubs like mine.’

He frowned. ‘You mean they operate a protection racket?’

‘Quite. All the clubs that refuse to pay for their own particular brand of protection have been warned to expect trouble from the Scraton gang.’

‘Gang? How organized are they?’

‘When dear old Albert Scraton was alive, very little happened around these parts without his say-so. But that old psycho shuffled off this mortal coil last summer to wherever it is that villains go when they die.’

‘Assassinated?’

‘Good heavens, Christopher!’ Tilda exclaimed, her cigarette falling from her lips. ‘This is Soho, not Chicago. He died of a heart attack. His younger brother Gordy runs the show now. Or tries to, at least. Not much upstairs unfortunately. Or rather, fortunately for us.’

‘And they’re on the rampage this evening?’

‘So rumour has it. To be honest I’m not that worried for the Tropics. We’re too well in with the law. I doubt that little Gordy would dare come flexing his tiny muscles around here. I’m more concerned about the smaller clubs.

My dear friend, the Major, runs a little one-roomer around the corner. You wouldn’t be an absolute angel and pop around with a message, would you?’

Chris drained his glass and smiled, pleased to find a natural way of bringing the evening to a close. ‘I can do it on my way home.’

‘You’re an absolute love,’ Tilda exclaimed, and kissed him firmly on the lips.

‘Patsy’ll show you the way.’

43

He opened his mouth to object, but Tilda was already waving the singer over.

‘Would you like to do the honours?’ The Doctor asked, handing Jack a box of matches. Jack struck one as the Doctor pulled a clean white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and dangled it above the flame until it began to smoulder.

Jack took the hanky from the Doctor as flames spread across it, and quickly let it drop into the wastepaper bin before it could burn his fingers.

Jack felt a surge of relief as the letters and photographs in the wastepaper bin curled and blackened with the heat. For the first time since the blackmailing began he felt safe. No, more than just safe. He felt human again. Powerful and whole. He knew that these feelings were tied up with the Doctor. Jack wouldn’t have dreamt of following the old man if the Doctor hadn’t suggested it. He certainly would never have broken into the blackmailer’s hideout. Not in a million years. Somehow the impossible became possible when the Doctor was around. Or at least the unthinkable became a viable alternative.

Not for the first time Jack thought of asking the Doctor who he was, where he came from. But he dismissed the questions just as quickly as they formed.

The Doctor’s presence in his life felt fragile, as if he might disappear as quickly and as completely as he had arrived. Jack didn’t want to do anything that might push the Doctor away.

The flames started to rise out of the top of the bin. Jack’s eyes watered as the smoke began to fill the small cellar. The Doctor had found the secret room after searching the office above. He’d toured the perimeter of the room tapping the walls lightly until a hollow sound had revealed the existence of a concealed door. Jack had felt a thrill of excitement as he’d entered the passage. The Doctor behaved as if it were the sort of thing he did every day.

The Doctor had made light work of the small commercial safe they’d found in the corner. Letters, envelopes and photographs were neatly stacked and labelled on each of the shelves inside. Jack had been sorely tempted to take a voyeuristic glimpse at a few of the photographs, but the Doctor had quickly emptied the contents of the safe into the wastepaper bin. There was a revolver next to the papers at the back of the safe. Jack had never seen a real gun before. He’d reached out to touch it and had felt the cold metal under his fingers for a second before the Doctor had slapped his hand away.