Part 8 (2/2)
' I'll I'll be all right. Your dad's too drunk to argue and I'm too tired.' be all right. Your dad's too drunk to argue and I'm too tired.'
'Well, if you want anything I'll be here,' Charlotte had told her.
Mum's eyes had filled with tears. 'I know you will, love. I don't know what I'd do without you. Goodnight.'
That had been two hours ago and it had not been a good night. It had not been a good night at all.
As far as she was aware, Chris had still not returned to the boarding house. She got out of bed and went to the window, sticking her face between the gap in the curtains. She couldn't see much. Aside from the nimbus of orange light emanating from each street lamp and pooling on the ground beneath it, the tarmacked road and stone-flagged pavements, and even the beach, looked not only black but composed of the same substance. Only the sea looked different, the shards of white moonlight on the waves giving it the appearance of rippling black plastic.
She s.h.i.+vered, despite the warm night air, and left the window. She crossed to her suitcase, which was sitting open on the floor beside the wardrobe, only partially unpacked.
Delving beneath her clothes she found a cardboard box, similar in size and shape to that which might contain a toothpaste tube.
She sat down on the bed, cross-legged, her back supported by a pillow jammed against the headboard, and stared at the words in blue on the box's white surface: PREGNANCY TESTING KIT. Her hands were shaking. She wondered whether she ought to put the kit back and wait for a better time. But the house was quiet and everyone was asleep.
What better time could there be? If she didn't do it now then she probably never would.
Opening the box, she tipped its contents on to the bedclothes. The equipment for this potentially life-changing event was singularly unimpressive. A strip of plastic with a window of white paper in the centre. Even though she knew how to use it, she studied the instructions again, buying herself a little time. Finally, with a sigh of annoyance, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the plastic strip. Her stomach performing slow, queasy somersaults, she tiptoed along the creaking corridor to the bathroom at the far end.
Two minutes later she was back in her room, waiting for the results. If a blue line appeared, bisecting the square of paper, the test was positive; if it remained white, it was negative.
The few minutes she had to wait were excruciating. Unable to bear holding the strip of plastic in her hand, she placed it on top of the chest of drawers and sat on her bed, watching the clock.
Finally it was time. Despite the warmth of the summer night she felt cold inside. She picked up the strip of plastic, looked at it.
She exhaled, making a low sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, there was a bright blue line bisecting the square of white paper.
Within minutes of lying down on the beach, Chris began to s.h.i.+ver with cold. It was a balmy night, but the chill seemed to seep up from the sand, into his bones. He sat up, hugging himself, his head whirling so much that he felt he was still sitting on the Spinning Spider at the fun-fair. He felt sick from drinking the six cans of Special Brew he had asked an older kid to buy for him from an offy on the seafront, and every time he tried to walk it seemed as if the ground was pitching and tossing like the deck of a boat on a stormy sea.
He had run straight to the fun-fair after his fight with Dad, and had stayed there until the place closed down for the night at 10 p.m. He had gone on tons of rides - all the big stuff of course, none of the little kids' rubbish - and had eaten so many hot dogs that by the end of the evening the smell of them made him want to puke.
Yet although he had had a good time, his family and their stupid problems had always been there, lurking at the back of his mind. He hated the way his mum and dad argued all the time; it made him feel as though his head was being squeezed in a vice. Charlotte was OK, but she got on his nerves by not standing up to them, not saying or doing anything to stop their rows. She just tried to be nicey-nicey, to pretend nothing was happening, but it didn't work. It was just pathetic.
Chris was sick of it all. He wished he never had to see any of them ever again. He had even asked a couple of blokes who were working on the rides if there were any jobs going on the fair, but they had just looked at him and laughed as if he was some stupid little kid.
Fed up, he had finally wandered down to the promenade and drunk himself into near-oblivion. All he wanted to do now was sleep, but he needed somewhere warmer than the beach. He had a warm bed at the guesthouse, but he would rather freeze to death than go back there tonight.
All the same he had to find somewhere. He rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying for a moment, taking deep breaths in the hope that fresh air would rid the urge to throw up. He looked around, moving his head slowly. There were bus shelters on the promenade, but he would feel too vulnerable there.
His gaze drifted further, finally alighting on a block of craggy darkness at the far end of the beach. Chris vaguely remembered seeing the caves that afternoon and wondered whether they would be warm enough. They ought to be. It wasn't as if it was a cold night, after all. It was only the breeze coming off the sea that was making him chilly and the caves would provide shelter.
He weaved along the beach. As he blinked at the gaping caves they seemed curiously insubstantial. Their blackness seemed to divide and sub-divide, to spin like a vortex, increasing his nausea. Abruptly he stopped, leaned forward and vomited hot dogs and beer all over the sand. His stomach spasmed and he threw up again, so violently that tears were squeezed from his eyes. After that he felt a little better. He stumbled the last two hundred yards almost blindly, desperate to sleep.
The largest of the cave mouths seemed to suck him in. As he stepped into the cave, lulling darkness wrapped around him.
The solid walls muted the gnas.h.i.+ng of the sea and provided a barrier against the snapping sea-breeze. Chris sighed, halfway to sleep, though not too far gone to notice a curious smell in here. It was strong and fishy, like spoiled crab-meat, but also... musky, hot, animal-like. Horse-sweat and cowsheds and the lion enclosure at the zoo.
He moved deeper into the cave... and started at a stealthy sc.r.a.ping from the murk in front of him. It sounded like someone dragging a sharp, metal implement across granite.
He imagined a ragged figure with wild hair and wild eyes lurking in the darkness, clutching a meat cleaver. He tried to lick his lips, but they were gummed together with curd-thick saliva. He instinctively took a step backwards.
And something flew at him from the darkness, its reverberating screech transfixing him with utter terror, echoing at crazy angles from the cave walls.
Chris caught a brief, terrifying impression of black, spider-like eyes, and jointed, chitinous, razor-edged legs. Then unbelievable pain ripped through him and turned his world a brilliant, scorching red.
'Good lord,' said the Brigadier wearily.
The Doctor grinned. 'Lethbridge-Stewart, my dear fellow.
How are you?'
'Same as ever, Doctor. Unlike yourself.'
'Didn't Mike explain?' the Doctor asked, glancing at the Brigadier's number two, who was standing between his commanding officer and the burly frame of Sergeant Benton, still wearing his civvies.
'Well, er, I tried,' Mike said with a grimace of apology 'I'm sure you did a sterling job,' said the Doctor breezily, turning to address him before swinging to face the Brigadier again. Suddenly sombre, he said, 'Now, where's this body you called me in to see?'
'Through here,' the Brigadier said, indicating with his swagger stick. He led them through a small, scrupulously clean anteroom containing a set of lockers, two large sinks and various items of medical equipment, to a set of double doors at the far end, which he pushed open.
The mortuary was a large well-lit room whose main wall was composed of rows of big square metal drawers, each of them numbered. A small, balding, white-coated man with a scrubby moustache and thick spectacles scurried forward to meet them. 'Brigadier Stewart?' he enquired.
'Lethbridge-Stewart,' corrected the Brigadier severely.
The little man quailed and glanced at the clipboard he clutched in his hand. 'Ah yes, of course. You've come to view number thirty-two, I understand?'
'If that's the stab victim who was brought in last night, then yes we have,' said the Brigadier.
'Of course,' said the man again. 'This way.' He led them over to the wall of metal drawers and tugged at the handle of drawer 32. It rolled open with a metallic rumble.
Mike Yates gasped involuntarily. Sergeant Benton murmured, 'Blimey.'
The Brigadier regarded the body grimly for a moment, then glanced up. 'What do you make of it, Doctor?'
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