Part 11 (1/2)

They were both dressed in togas, lying on a lounger in the courtyard of a villa. The only sound was the gentle trickle of a fountain.

'There,' the woman said. 'That wasn't so bad, was it?' Smith was about to reply, but then he was staggering back from a door, dropping his briefcase and clutching his nose, shouting all manner of colourful swear-words.

'It's one of these new automatic jobs,' a voice said. 'Still some teething troubles, what?'

But hadn't his brother told him about that? Funny how close to you some stories got, as if they were memories.

He was waltzing with a woman in a flowery dress, pleased at how her movements matched his. Around him men in uniform were all dancing with their partners.

'Perhaps we could go on somewhere?' he asked.

Under an orange sky, a group of dark figures stood around a singing structure, a million fine chords sighing in the wind. Information was flowing down the chords, being woven together in the mesh they were forming between them. Spirals of microscopic data had been flowing into the loom for days. Now something was due to emerge.

The woman walked forward and touched the chords. Something shaped itself into her arms. A male child.

'Again?' said the child.

'Again?' said Serif.

There was a crash, a thump and the orange sky became plaster-white again.

A woman was looking down at Smith, the remains of a heavy vase in her hands.

Serif was lying on the carpet, his hand an inch from Smith's head, a surprised look on his unconscious face.

'Have you seen an owl?' Smith asked the woman.

'Yes,' said Joan. 'How did you know?'

Smith was barely aware of Joan leaving again to run up the driveway to the school.

She left Serif, who showed no sign of waking up, roughly bound by a sheet. She woke Mr Moffat the bursar up, and demanded to use the school telephone, shouting at the night operator that this was an emergency, a burglar had been caught and the police must be summoned.

A Black Maria stopped outside the cottage and Sergeant Abelard, an old man with a white Kitchener moustache, helped his two constables to lift the still unconscious Serif into the back of the van.

'An anarchist, by the look of him,' said the sergeant. 'One of these Russian fellows like as did Sidney Street. Perhaps it was him set off the poison gas in the hospital.'

'Poison gas?' exclaimed Joan.

'Sorry, madam, I didn't mean to alarm you. It's all dealt with now, the papers will be full of it tomorrow.'

'What happened?' asked Smith. He was wrapped in a rug, a cup of tea in his right hand, his left little finger bandaged up by Joan. She'd winced as he did as she'd bathed the end of it in alcohol.

'Somebody set off what we think must have been a gas bomb in St Catherine's. We wired Whitehall and they said to have the fire brigade hose the place down.

They've been at it all day. Some of those lads got a look inside the place, and what they describe... well, sir, I wouldn't like to repeat it in the company of a lady.

There's a convoy on the way from Clapperton. We'll hand the matter over to the army boys when they arrive. Bit of a feather in my cap to have apprehended somebody, though. What did he want here, do you think?'

Smith stared at him. 'He must have been a burglar. He cut off my finger. Perhaps he was looking... for a ring? No, I don't wear a ring. He knocked me out. And there was something about an owl...'

The policeman flipped his notebook closed. 'I don't think he'll be much help to us tonight, madam. It's understandable. Could I ask you both to call at the police station tomorrow morning?'

Smith and Joan agreed, and thanked the police. The van drove away and Joan pulled up a chair to sit beside Smith, who was still staring vacantly into s.p.a.ce.

'It is odd that you should mention an owl,' she said. 'I was about to go to bed, when I was disturbed by a great clattering at the window. I looked out, but only saw an owl flying away. I glanced down and there were your white gloves. You had left them behind on the sideboard. I had an odd fancy to return them to you. Nothing bold, I was merely going to post them through your letter box, with a note about seeing you tomorrow. When I got here, the door was open and you know the rest.'

'Do I?' Smith smiled gently. 'I'm very confused. I seem to have been dreaming, but I don't quite know where the dream ended and waking up began.' They talked for an hour or so more, and gradually Smith began to feel stronger, the fear of his attack draining from him and reality rea.s.serting itself.

'Do you want me to stay?' Joan asked. 'I am capable of sleeping on a chair.'

Smith bit his lip and a slow grin chased the chill from his face. 'No,' he decided finally. 'You get home to bed.'

'All right,' said Joan. She got up and quickly kissed him. 'Bolt the door behind me.'

'Will I see you tomorrow?'

'That was the plan, but since you are now injured - '

'I can't think of a better cure than looking at you. What'll we do?'

'I shall make a picnic. We'll go along to the police station and then find some quiet spot to eat it, hopefully out of the range of poison gas.' She stopped on the way to the door. 'Oh my goodness, how will we know if our spot is safe?'

'Anywhere that birds still sing,' said Smith, 'one can have a picnic safely.'

Chapter Six.

A Deal with G.o.d

Alexander knocked on the door of the bathroom. 'Bernice, have you drowned?'

There came a satisfyingly loud splash from inside and then a tired mutter: 'Fell asleep. What time is it?'

'Nearly midnight. I've made up the back bedroom for you. Would you care for a cup of cocoa or perhaps some Scotch?'

'A double, thanks. I'll be out in a minute.' When she came out, white, soggy and wrapped in a rather good silk kimono that Alexander had given her, he was waiting in the parlour with two gla.s.ses and a bottle.

She poured and they clinked gla.s.ses. 'So, may I ask as to the nature of your current troubles?' Alexander began, rolling the whisky around his mouth. 'You're proving to be a most exciting tenant. You are not, I take it, actually down from college?'

'No,' Bernice admitted. 'I'm not. Do you want the vague, generalized, believable version, or the absolutely ridiculous specific one?'

'Oh, the latter, definitely. I've been following the affairs of Constance and her like long enough to know that, once embarked upon, rebellion is a positive opiate. I mean that in two ways. Firstly, it's addictive. Secondly, it opens up whole worlds full of new dreams. Do tell me yours.'

'Right.' And, without sparing a detail, Bernice told the whole story of her life and adventures with the Doctor, right up to the present. Alexander's eyes grew wider, and his whisky consumption grew faster, every moment. 'And so, here I am,' she concluded, with a big smile. 'Do you know, I've always wanted to tell somebody all that. I'm sure I'm breaking some sort of rule. What do you think?'

'This knight of yours - '