Doctor Who: BBC Eighth Doctor Adventures [066] - Emotional Chemistry by Simon A. Forward

Author:Simon A. Forward
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction - Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780563486084
Publisher: BBC Books
Published: 2003-10-05T22:00:00+00:00

Diary of a Madman

Padorin tossed down another vodka. It went down hard, like he was quaffing diamonds. He coughed to loosen up his throat, blinked and poured himself another. Holding up the glass, he turned it, trying to catch what little light there was in the liquid. Even the glass refused to sparkle especially attractively. He grunted.

‘Raise a glass, lift a curse. Why do we spend so much time trying to escape our consciousness? God gave us this gift, set us above the animals. But what sort of gift is it? Is it worth the cost? The heights of love and the greatest of torments. Is it worth enduring the latter to experience just one jewel of the former? Is it?’

The room was long and shadowed by a low ceiling, with a row of windows at the far end. The bar was a simple affair of worn oak, while the numerous tables and chairs rested on bare boards, bottles and glasses covering every surface. Small crowds of officers and a few civilian gentlemen huddled around the tables, sitting and standing. Bickering and joking were practised in roughly equal measure, and at highly competitive volumes.

A place with atmosphere, thought Fitz.

Padorin stared through a personal haze at the officer seated opposite.

The man – what was his name? Yaroshev? – leaned back in his chair, boots up on the table, smoking like he hadn’t a care and frowning selectively at Padorin’s speeches. Damn his eyes! If he knew how much work was required to form each blasted word, he’d pay more attention.

‘The answer you are looking for in all that smoke of yours is “No”. And that, my friend, is precisely why we drink. We talk of drowning our sorrows. Well, in truth it is to drown our whole sorry existence or, rather, our consciousness of it. Because even the joys of life become impossible to endure when we know they are married – yes, married – to torment.’ Padorin laughed bitterly, slapping a hand on the table. ‘They are one and the same!’

‘Really, Padorin, if you are to obliterate your consciousness or drown your existence or whatever it is you have in mind, I wish you would get on with it instead of spouting such nonsense.’ Yaroshev blew a cloud of smoke out through a narrow smile. ‘The river is a short walk from here.’

Padorin leaped to his feet, but with too much momentum, and fell against the table. The scrape on the boards sounded like thunder in his head and he knew he’d had enough. Putting away the half-formed fist he’d intended to use on Yaroshev, he sat down and poured himself another glass.

Vaguely, he recalled coming in here this evening, ascending the shadowed stairwell and being assailed on every flank by fellow officers expecting him to join in their drunken pranks. He had bluffed along for a while, but as the joking and revelry grew steadily louder, he had finally upset everyone by declaring there to be a good deal too much cheering going on from the men of a defeated army.

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