Part 21 (1/2)

Tim nodded and shrugged. 'Basically, they're both money cards. In some tarot packs they're Coins not Pentacles. Both their presence, their position and their right-way-upness would suggest you could be in for some riches - not necessarily monetary though. Possibly spiritual. In fact given your constant travelling with the Doctor I should guess that money is the least of your problems. Flitting through time and s.p.a.ce means you're hardly going to have a reliable bank account. No, I think it means soulful rather than material wealth. The Ace tends to suggest a change of circ.u.mstances leading to this alteration though.' He sat back and waved at the cards. 'Want to do something else?'

Polly shook her head. 'I'm a bit tired. And that's given me a lot to think on. I wonder which card you are.'

'Me? Oh, I'm all the bad ones.'

Polly laughed. 'Never. You're too nice to be bad.'

Tim smiled and began clearing the cards away. Then he stopped and reached forward, putting a finger under her chin. 'Polly,' he began. 'Polly, listen to me. Think about the events in c.u.mbria.'

'Yes?'

'Concentrate on them.' Tim began humming quietly.

'Tim, stop that, what about. . . about . . . ab . . .' Polly sighed deeply and flopped back in her chair. 'Oh, it's such a nice day outside. I wish we were going to the seaside - or back to Cornwall. Oh, Tim, do let's. Cornwall is so nice in the summer. I could take you to Lizard Point, or the stone circle above the cliffs. There's one not far away with a huge upright circular stone with a perfect hole through it. A prehistoric Polo mint . . . Do you still have Polo mints in 1994?'

'Polly.' Tim hummed again and Polly yawned. 'Polly, your friend the Doctor. He's nice, isn't he?'

'Oh, yes, he's lovely. You'd really like him. He's a bit kooky at times and all that but he has some fab clothes in the TARDIS and let's us play around with them whenever we want.'

163.

Tim nodded. 'Of course he does. He's certainly ”fab”, but will he trust me? Will he understand what I'm doing? And why?'

'I expect so, Tim. What are you doing? What are you doing to me?'

Tim's humming stopped. 'To you? Why do you think I'm doing anything to you?'

Polly yawned again and stretched, speaking through her yawns. 'I don't know. Of course you're not.' She flopped her arms on to the table, letting her fingers gently stroke Tim's thumbs. 'You're dead nice, you know that? Dead nice.'

'Yes, Polly, I am. And it's very important that you remember that whatever I do is for the good of Earth. For everyone on it.'

'Oh well,' giggled Polly, 'you'll get on fine with the Doctor. That's all he ever wants.'

Tim nodded quickly. 'I know, I know. But I think our methods might clash - he might not see things entirely the same way I do. And it's very important that he does. Or, failing that, it's just as important that he doesn't know exactly what I'm doing.'

'What are you doing?'

'Oh, that isn't important. You wouldn't, couldn't understand. What matters is that you trust me. Implicitly.

Do you trust me?'

'Implicitly.'

'Good. How tired are you?'

'Not very, a bit exhausted that's all.' Polly tried to sit up.

Tim hummed. 'I think you're very tired.'

Polly yawned yet again. 'You know, I think you're right.

Dead clever, like I said. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were using your reso-whatnots on me.'

Tim smiled. 'As if.'

Polly settled back and fell asleep.

Within a few seconds she felt herself rise up. Her eyes popped open and she could see her body below her, curled up on the train seat, a soft smile on her face. Polly knew that she ought to be happy, the smile told her that. Yet 164 something was wrong. The sleeping Polly was happy, so why wasn't she?

She looked around her sleeping self. Tim was gone. In fact the carriage was empty of life apart from her. She wanted a better look and saw the outside of the train as it sped below her. Fighting an instinctive twist of vertigo, she heard herself mutter, 'More. I want to see some more.' To her astonishment, the roof of the train melted away to reveal nothing - not one living person except her sleeping self.

And the shadows. Each seat that she thought ought to have been occupied but seemed empty actually had a shadow on it. It reminded Polly of the leaflets the anti-nuclear protesters at Leeds had shown her. Human beings caught in an atomic blast reduced to silhouettes burned on to brickwork. A dark blob was moving down the centre of the train. The ticket collector, of course.

Where was Tim?

'Gone, my dear. Never really there. He's not what he seems.'

'Who . . who are you?' Polly whimpered. The voice, soft, feminine but slightly mocking, had reverberated all around her but seemed to lack any point of origin.

'I am a friend, Polly my dear. A good friend. You can trust me. You must, if you want to save Earth.'

'Everyone wants to save Earth. Everyone wants me to trust them. You, the Doctor, Tim . . . why?' The train had vanished completely. Polly was in s.p.a.ce, blackness, just tiny pinp.r.i.c.ks of light in the distance wavering and flickering. She could feel movement and realized it was herself - she was not exactly falling but nevertheless definitely unstable. 'Well?'

'You are right, my sweet one. Better to trust none of us.

That way, you cannot be let down. Of course, you can have no firm beliefs, no opinions and no sense of righteousness from which to argue, fight or protest, but perhaps in the coming war that is good. Yes, I think it is good.'

'War? What war? Please,' Polly felt frightened, 'please tell me who you are.'

165.

There was a flash and Polly closed her eyes.

'Open them, my child. You are quite safe - your astral form is neither subject to harm, nor visible to any other than ourselves.'

Polly opened her eyes. To nothingness - vast, white nothingness. She turned a complete circle or a.s.sumed she did. The lack of any colour, any shade, any landmark made it impossible to judge if she had turned slightly, a lot, ten times or not at all. 'What . . . what is this horrendous place?'

'It is my domain,' said the voice. 'Observe.'

Images flickered into existence, but unclear. To Polly it reminded her of the girls' toilets at school, where the windows were long strips of frosted gla.s.s that you could run your pen down and feel the b.u.mps. Impossible to see out of, just brief s.n.a.t.c.hes of shade rather than colour, and distorted shapes. The shapes she could see now were moving slowly and the more she stared, the more she could see that it was a person pus.h.i.+ng something.

'Away,' said the female voice and the shapes began to fade.

'No, wait,' called Polly and for a brief moment the figures formed actual shapes - a dark-skinned woman in rags, pus.h.i.+ng a similar-looking man in a cart. He had his foot pulled up to his mouth and was sucking his toe. The woman looked at Polly. The bone structure, the proud forehead, flattened nose and almost feverish eyes that bore into her, screaming with ignored intelligence instantly told her these were Australian Aborigines.

'Yes, I can see you. Ignore everyone. Trust no one - especially me. And him.'

The man giggled and plucked out his saliva-covered toe.

'No, ignore no one - just me!' He began to laugh and the woman slapped his head. Immediately he stopped laughing.