Before Patterson could even think about how unlikely this was, he found himself suddenly having his golf bag thrust into his confused arms and being propelled out of the bar while Agnew shouted to the barman, ‘No lunch for me. Busy. Cancel it all. Back in fifteen minutes.’
This puzzled Patterson because even he knew fifteen minutes wouldn’t give them enough time for a full round of golf, not that Patterson wanted a full round or really anything more to do with golf. It seemed a ridiculous game and – oh, dear – he was being badgered along towards the front entrance and – oh, no – here was Bryony, lovely Bryony, talking to a bizarre-looking guest and apparently getting on extremely well with him – it was the curly hair, women loved curly hair – Patterson’s hair was as flat and lifeless as his hopes – and it was ginger – and…
‘Good afternoon, Mr Agnew.’ Bryony had lifted her head. Her extremely attractive head. And because of the whole attractiveness thing it was horribly impossible not to look at her, while she then said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Patterson.’ And the whole looking at her thing meant that Patterson was completely, supernaturally, aware that she was looking at him in return. This caused a kind of searing pain to dart straight into his chest and then bang right out again through his back. It was such a real sensation that he worried about his jacket and whether it had been singed.
‘Oh, I’m…sorry…covered in mud…and grass…and…trying some, er, golf…’ And the last thing he saw of her as he was bundled down the steps and outside was a smile. It was a slightly confused, if not dismayed smile, but it had been for him.
She’d smiled at him.
That was wonderful.
AS THE GOLF-RELATED CHAOS receded, the Doctor continued talking to Bryony while also thinking a great many things at once. He was aware that the ability to do this was an indication of genius. He was a genius, after all, and what kind of genius would he be if he didn’t know that?
Currently, he was wondering why the TARDIS had deposited him here. Even at her most random, the TARDIS always worked within her own kind of personal logic, so his arrival must have some kind of reason behind it. Unless it didn’t. Why Arbroath now, as opposed to Chicago in a snowstorm several months ago when the Chicago Area Computer Hobbyists’ Exchange was going to develop its MODEM work and create an inadvertent danger to all life on Earth? Which he’d just have to deal with later. Or rather, earlier…As his friend Robert Louis Stevenson had often told him, there did usually need to be an extremely pressing reason for someone to be in Arbroath, so what was it? And simultaneously the Doctor was finding it odd and worth considering that ever since he’d materialised his mouth had tasted of Maillindian Fever Beans, when he hadn’t eaten any in years – dreadful things, just like chewing on old Earth pennies. That needed an explanation. Metallic taste, metallic taste…He searched his immense and extremely disorderly memory for dreadful, or marvellous, or significant events which having a metallic taste in his mouth could indicate were on the way. The words Telepathic Clamp flittered past for his consideration and he dismissed them. No one on Earth would have such a thing for hundreds of years. And there were very few creatures who could generate anything like one – each of them so staggeringly horrible that they would be bound to have already caused the kind of chaos that leaves definite traces: arm-waving, screaming, running about, the telling of wild stories…And meanwhile he looked at Bryony Mailer and thought what a splendid girl she was, really promising for a human being, and wondered why that very untidy fellow who’d just left hadn’t mentioned being in love with her before he was pushed outside, because the chap clearly did adore her. The Doctor reflected, not for the first time, that it was a miracle human beings ever reproduced, given the way they seemed to make the whole process so difficult. When they weren’t running about being scared and trying to kill each other, they were being shy. It was ridiculous.
At which point, what the Doctor could only understand as the most massive THOUGHT he had ever encountered battered into his consciousness and overloaded every one of his remarkably agile and adaptable neurons.
As he fell over, his mind had just enough room to reach out the single word fascinating and wave it about like a flag of surrender before everything went blank.
MOMENTS AFTER THE DOCTOR fell, Julia Fetch pottered across her cottage kitchen and set out a stack of doilies and side plates on the table, just in case they might be needed to slip under cakes later at tea. You never knew when people might drop round. Then she wondered if she actually had any cakes…
MEANWHILE – AND MUCH more helpfully – Bryony Mailer rushed round from behind the reception desk just in time to not catch the Doctor as he crumpled up into a multicoloured heap on the foyer floor. ‘Oh goodness. Doctor? Doctor?’ He looked quite serene, but was completely unconscious. ‘Doctor whoever you are?’ When she took his pulse it seemed very strong, which was good. It also had a kind of built-in echo which surely was much less good.
As Bryony knelt beside the large, horizontal, almost-guest and wondered if she should call an ambulance or just fetch a glass of water, she heard distinctive slithery footsteps approaching. Kevin Mangold, hotel manager and biscuit thief, had arrived to make an awkward situation worse. He always did.
‘Miss Mailer, I hope you haven’t knocked out one of our guests…?’ Mangold snorted wetly and then waited for Bryony to appreciate what he obviously thought had been an impressive joke. She ignored him, so he stared through his dandruff-flecked glasses at the Doctor’s highly personalised choice of clothes and then asked dubiously, ‘Is he a guest…?’
Bryony stood up, partly because she was several inches taller than Mangold and knew this annoyed him. ‘He was going to be a guest. He was telling me a story about Charles Darwin and then he just turned very pale and collapsed.’
‘Well, we can’t have that.’ Mangold tutted at Bryony as if having people collapse in the foyer and/or mention Darwin was some crazy new scheme of hers to frighten tourists. ‘Not at all. Other guests won’t like it…Perhaps if we dragged him out of the way. He could fit in the Office, or the linen cupboard…’
‘We can’t just put him in a cupboard. He might be ill. We need to call a…another doctor.’
‘Another doctor? Have you already called a doctor?’ Mangold was clearly remembering that the hotel’s official physician, Dr Porteous, was over 70 and more likely to steal towels and bread rolls than be of any help in a medical emergency.
‘No, no, the towels are safe…That is, I mean, he’s a doctor.’ Bryony pointed at the Doctor and saw his feet twitch as if he was a big dog dreaming of rabbits.
‘Well, he can’t be a very good doctor – look at him.’
Bryony found she was feeling protective towards the now faintly groaning stranger. ‘I don’t think that really follows.’
The Doctor flopped over onto his back, opened his eyes and declared, ‘I told them the Dymaxion House would never catch on. Far too shiny.’ Before passing out again.
Mangold swayed on his creaking shoes and sucked his teeth. ‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.’ Bryony could have sworn a tiny shower of fresh dandruff rose and then fell as Mangold shook his head, like very depressing snow. ‘You’re Junior Day Receptionist. It’s your responsibility to prevent outbreaks of this kind, Miss Mailer.’
Bryony was about to make a cutting remark about unfunny idiots, biscuits and hiding other people’s packets of Spangles in desk drawers when the whining sound of the Fetch Resort’s one golf cart interrupted her and Xavier ran in, holding a tartan rug and shouting, ‘Someone is ill. Isn’t it frightful? Someone is ill.’
A number of things then happened simultaneously: the rug was dropped over the Doctor’s legs, Mangold sneaked backwards in case he was associated with anything troublesome while any member of the Fetch family was around, Honor ran in and took Bryony’s hand and then the Doctor lurched up into a sitting position and sneezed, surprising everyone – apparently himself most of all. ‘Now where was I?’ He seemed remarkably unsurprised
to be on the floor, surrounded by people and partially covered in Royal Stuart tartan. But there was a clear flicker of worry at the back of his eyes. And that made Bryony worry, too. She also asked herself, ‘But how did the twins know that someone was ill?’
OUT ON THE GOLF course, David Agnew was marching his irritating companion along the path that snaked through the little stretches of woodland and scrub surrounding the fairways and greens. It was pleasant here and cool because of the shade from the trees and the small and picturesque stream that ran into the course’s central lake. Agnew whistled as he marched and was in excellent spirits, but not because of his surroundings. He was, in fact, almost giggling because soon he would reach that especially deep and tricky bunker south of the thirteenth green and soon he would tell Mr Patterson to step down into it and practice using a sand wedge and soon after that Mr Patterson would be gone, gone, gone. The buffoon probably didn’t even have a sand wedge, but Agnew didn’t care – every time he left someone he hated in what he privately called Unlucky Bunker 13, they never came back. And he really, really hated this Patterson chap – the man was untidy, he didn’t know how to behave and he was making a joke of everything Agnew believed should matter. And what Mr Agnew believed should matter was important. In fact, he’d recently become sure that what he thought was right should be the only thing that was right and should therefore govern everything worthwhile. Just lately, it had seemed clearer and clearer that if the world was run along the lines that he, and only he, could imagine for it, then it would be a much better and more orderly place.
It seemed to Mr Agnew that making two people disappear in one day would be perfectly reasonable and convenient. Then he could have his lunch in peace, or maybe a spa session first to unwind. Why not? Keeping the world as it should be was tiring and he truly couldn’t see why he shouldn’t have some time to pamper himself now and then.
ALSO OUT ON THE golf course was the Doctor, now striding along in the sunshine next to the golf cart as it trundled joltingly forwards. ‘Reminds me of a dog I know.’ He smiled down at Bryony who was riding in the cart with Xavier. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘How am I feeling?’ Bryony snapped. She’d been really worried about the Doctor and didn’t appreciate that her worry hadn’t been appreciated. ‘How am I feeling?’
The Doctor nodded encouragingly, ‘Yes, that’s what I just said. But you might not remember, you’ve had a nasty shock.’
Bryony was exasperated. She jumped out of the cart, ‘Doctor, you were the one who fainted. I’m perfectly all right.’
Xavier patted her with sympathy. ‘You looked awfully wobbly, though, old girl.’
And Honor, trotting along and holding the Doctor’s hand, chipped in, ‘Yes, seeing a fainted person must be a dreadful thing.’
Bryony heard herself growl out loud with frustration before beginning, ‘You saw him being a fainted person, too. Why isn’t everyone treating you like an invalid? And the Doctor was the fainted person. He should be riding on the cart. He should be lying down.’
The Doctor tried to calm her. ‘But I was lying down. On the floor. That’s what upset you.’ Bryony slapped his arm and he suppressed a grin, because he was indeed teasing her. ‘Oh, quite. Quite.’ Annoying Bryony – and she liked being annoyed, the Doctor could tell – was distracting him slightly from the incredible pain in his head and neck and the tiny, unaccountable gap he kept running across when he checked his recent memories. Right at the back of today’s record so far, there was a numb area. It was disturbing. There were very few things that could interfere with the Doctor’s mind, even superficially, and the technologies powerful enough to intrude on him were all both dark and extremely unpleasant. He really wouldn’t want to be around if any of them had been unleashed. Except he was around and it seemed highly likely that one of them had been unleashed. Or had unleashed itself…Telepathic and psychic energies were so unpredictable and so likely to colonise other available consciousnesses and then magnify…or even to generate rudimentary sentience in awkward places…Whatever it was, it was a whole lot worse than what now seemed the friendly and welcoming possibilities of a vast telepathic clamp, squeezing the free will out of every brain it afflicted…
Bryony turned to the Doctor and actually stamped her feet, which she hadn’t done since she was Honor’s age and which immediately made her feel foolish. ‘I’m so tired of people talking down to me, just because I’m a woman! And I’m not a Junior Day Receptionist, I’m the Only Day Receptionist! And it’s him you should be taking care of!’ She waved her arms at the Doctor and then the twins. ‘He’s scared of something and trying to hide it and I don’t think there are many things that scare him and I really…’
Bryony stopped and immediately regretted all of this so strongly that the Doctor was dimly aware of the precise trains of thought she was moving through. He understood that no one had ever wanted to hear Bryony discussing the role of women in the workplace and so even considering this now made her feel bullied and a bit stupid and as if she was weird and also she would rather be on the golf course with Mr Patterson just now because she thought he was sweet and not sexist and basically unlike almost every other Fetch Hotel golfers she’d met. Not that he really was a golfer…and…
Bryony, unaware she was thinking really quite loudly, was pondering the fact that her last sentence had made the Doctor look genuinely worried for a second or two. She hadn’t been mistaken. He really was frightened. And the Doctor being frightened didn’t seem like good news.
The Doctor looked at her, completely serious, and said very kindly and softly, ‘Oh, I’m incredibly scared most of the time, you know. No one with even a basic knowledge of the universe wouldn’t be – it’s a completely terrifying place. And enormous. But it’s also wonderful and lovely and more interesting than you could possibly imagine. Even than I could possibly imagine. It never lets me down. And I get to be alive in it all and to be scared and amazed and delighted and…I wouldn’t be without it.’ Then he adjusted his hat and grinned, playing the fool again. ‘I’ve been without me and before me and after me, but I wouldn’t be without the universe.’
Bryony wondered if she was absolutely happy she now knew someone who could casually consider being without the universe.
The Doctor turned to Honor. ‘And where are we going?’ He’d forgotten their destination again. All his thoughts seemed a bit sticky, or clumped, or hairy, like boiled sweets left in a jacket pocket – or a desk drawer.
Honor explained again. ‘To see Grandmother and be in her house and take tea and get better. Grandmother’s teas make everyone better.’
Over in her cottage, Julia Fetch was carefully putting away her side plates and doilies, mildly under the impression that a very fine tea had just been enjoyed by a number of fascinating people, while the Doctor nodded and discovered this made his brain feel as if his Lateral Interpositus Nucleus had been prodded with a sonic probe, and the only time that had actually happened, he hadn’t enjoyed it one bit. Something in there definitely wasn’t as it should be. It was almost as if a new engram had been forced into his memories – a fake recollection. And the fake was there to make him believe there hadn’t already been another alteration, it had been inserted to make him forget there was a gap. If he couldn’t get control of the process, eventually it would all just heal over and then where would he be? A genius with a bit missing who couldn’t recall there was a bit missing and maybe some added ends and odds which absolutely shouldn’t be there – that would never do…Plus, he was starting to feel a little peculiar again. He put his hands in his pockets and whistled a fragment of the Song of the Arcanian System Exploration Corps, which was quite pretty and had lots of twiddly bits. Whistling twiddly bits often cheered him, although not so much today. He felt increasingly as if he wasn’t walking on grass, but on green fur, annoyed green fur.
DAVID AGNEW WAS CHUCKLING and peering down at the tricky bunker south of the thirteenth green. At the bunker’s deepest point, the pathetic figure o
f Ian Patterson hacked an ancient-looking sand wedge into its blinding white surface for something like the hundredth time. And for something like the hundredth time, his golf ball stayed exactly where it was while a great deal of hot sand went all over the place.
‘You’re doing incredibly well,’ Agnew called, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Not long now. ‘I will have to nip off in a minute, but I think you should stay right there and enjoy yourself.’ Agnew was waiting for the unmistakable sensation he got just before It started, this tingling in the soles of his feet and a feeling of immense sort of…Doom.
When the Doom got too bad he just ran. He’d never looked back. He was a man who didn’t like to dwell on details – he preferred to just focus on results.
‘I’m not sure about that, really.’ Patterson swiped the head of his club wildly, producing another sand shower that reached as far as Agnew. ‘I seem to be getting worse. Maybe if I took up swimming, or snooker…’ He swung again and the sand wedge flew out of his hand, landing near Agnew’s ankles.
Patterson was hot and miserable and wanted to lie under a tree with some lemonade and the memory of Bryony’s smile. ‘I’ll just climb out…’ He firmly believed that if at first you didn’t succeed, you should maybe try once more, but then give up completely if you failed again.
‘No!’ Agnew handed back the club rather forcefully. ‘You’re really improving.’ He smiled like someone who loathed everything he was smiling at and wanted to do it harm. ‘Practice makes perfect if you want to be a top golfer.’ He then adjusted his expression until it seemed only furious and painful. He didn’t have a face designed for happiness.
Patterson ducked the new incoming smile by studying his sand-filled shoes. ‘But I don’t want to be a top golfer.’ Terran shoes, he had decided, must be designed to pre-punish small social and criminal infractions. His were made of several inorganic materials, kept his feet uncomfortably hot and squeezed one of his toes. But they did provide a sizeable heel which increased his height and had the unusual effect of making him feel more confident – although not right now.
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