Lethbridge-Stewart - The Laughing Gnome: Scary Monsters. A Doctor Who spin-off novel. by Simon Forward

Author:Simon Forward [Forward, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: UNKNOWN
Published: 2019-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

The gag pulled at the corners of Anne’s mouth as Rufus shoved her out of the lift and strong-armed her across the foyer and out through the revolving door. Bonnie and Seth followed.

Her muffled shouts achieved nothing. Whatever show these conjurers were giving the guests and staff, Anne was part of their silent movie. Nobody batted an eyelid at the sight of her checking out against her will.

Early sunshine played on the glassy buildings. Her head was thumping. She was starved and dehydrated. (They had let her visit the toilet, but that was small consolation and a distant memory.) The morning traffic was more noise and motion than she could handle. And the few occasions she was stupid enough to look up, the tops of the high-rises wheeled against a canvas of blue.

Rufus propelled her across the avenue and marched her down a narrow backstreet. Ahead there was a large Winnebago parked snugly behind a dumpster. Anne figured she was headed for one or the other.

The Winnebago, as it turned out.

The side door opened and a figure ducked back out of the way before Rufus bundled her inside. That was all she got to see of the other passenger because Rufus shoved her towards the bunk at the rear.

‘Get us under way, would you, Earl?’ said Seth.

‘Sure thing, Shepherd,’ said Earl.

Rufus headed to the front. Bonnie sat next to Anne. The artist cradled her bag.

‘We need to swing by Blick’s,’ she said.

‘What?’ Seth showed his distaste for surprises.

‘I need a new pad. And pencils. Mostly the pad.’

‘What, pray, is wrong with the one you have?’

‘I can’t look at that face. He’s pressed into every damn page. That’s the face of the man that’s gonna kill me.’

Seth forced his facial muscles into an imitation of patience. ‘Bonnie, my child, what did you see? Exactly?’

The engine grumbled. The vehicle creaked and clunked, pulling out around the dumpster with three or four reluctant manoeuvres.

Bonnie had to speak up: ‘I ain’t your child, Shepherd.’

‘Still, I am your Shepherd. Tell me.’

‘The plane hijack. Bugayev. He comes rushing up at me. Pistol aimed right here.’ She touched the centre of her forehead. ‘I can feel the bullet.’

The Winnebago lumbered down the backstreet and swung out into the main stream of traffic.

‘Bonnie, that is not your future. That is the past. A false past at that. Residual patterns. Traces imprinted in the materials, not unlike impressions on your precious pages.’ Seth patted the back of her hand.

Bonnie snatched it clear and pulled her pad from her bag. She tore out the last sketch and crushed it into a ball. ‘That’s as may be,’ she said. ‘But I ain’t having him in my drawings.’

‘Very well. Blick’s it is. On our way out of town.’

Seth sighed and settled opposite Anne. He glanced out the window. Smiled. Then he was on his feet and reaching over her. He tugged the curtains back as far as they would go, then sat back down.

‘Here. We wouldn’t want you to miss this.’

Against her better judgement, Anne turned to look at the receding view of downtown Chicago.

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