Doctor Who: Virgin New Adventures [055] - Damaged Goods by Russell T. Davies

Author:Russell T. Davies
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Science-Fiction - Doctor Who
ISBN: 9780426204831
Publisher: Doctor Who Books
Published: 1996-11-14T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Winnie answered the knock at the door.

‘Mrs Tyler. Good afternoon,’ said the Doctor, and he gave a smile which Winnie did not trust. She asked him what he wanted, and then her new neighbour started to chat about anything and everything – the weather, the firebombing, all sorts of pleasantries to which Winnie paid little attention. She wanted to get back to her cleaning, but he kept talking, sometimes a little frantic, as if improvising, playing for time. She did not ask him in although it was obvious that the Doctor was waiting for an invitation, craning his head round to look into the flat. Winnie barred his way. She kept her home inviolate. Once, neighbours and friends had been very welcome in her house, but that was a long time ago.

Then this ‘doctor’ – the more he talked, the more, she doubted it was a genuine qualification – steered the conversation around to her children.

‘Gabriel seems a nice lad,’ said the Doctor, and now his smile was very thin and a certain ice glittered in his eyes.

‘Yes, yes he is,’ said Winnie, and already she was beginning to think of excuses to close the door.

‘Popular,’ said the Doctor, and he made the word sound like a dagger.

‘Yes,’ said Winnie. She’d say she was busy cooking, yes, that was it, she’d say she had to get tea ready and the kids would be home soon –

Then the Doctor spoke quickly, as if sensing the approaching lie. ‘Tell me, Mrs Tyler just as a matter of curiosity, what date is Gabriel’s birthday?’

She looked away, too late – he had seen the stab of fear in her eyes and surely he could hear her heart hammering as she muttered, her voice failing, ‘Better get on, things to do –’

She was beginning to close the door, but he would not stop. ‘Just his birthday, Mrs Tyler, that’s a small thing to ask.’ Now she gripped the doorframe and completed the movement with a slam, cutting off his last words: ‘Was it December –?’

Perhaps he carried on talking outside, but Winnie heard nothing; her panic was too great. Stupefied, she walked into the kitchen, poured herself a large glass of red wine, then went into the living room, sat in the brown tartan armchair and gulped down the wine.

Eileen. Eileen Hearn. Eileen bloody Hearn and her prattling mouth. She’d been talking last night; Winnie had seen her draw close to the Doctor, her face all sly and confidential and her mouth, talking, talking, talking –

Winnie stayed in the chair. She had a list of tasks: there was tea to cook, and the living room to clean, and the washing to air, and new punishments to devise for Carl, but Winnie did none of these things. Instead, she looked at the scars on her arms and she forced herself to calm down. In a strange way, the afternoon’s unexpected turn sharpened her wits. Over the years, the secret had grown dull and tired and

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