Part 3 (1/2)

He forgot how it had begun the usual round of disparaging remarks about choice of partners, he supposed. And now, he was pinned up against the trivia machine with Phil Tarrant's rancid breath in his face and Phil Tarrant's sinewy hands round his collar as a result of having made a little joke. A little comment about Tilusha having a bit of fun when Phil wasn't around.

'Have you ever had your nose broken?' Phil's square, thuggish face was distorted, like squashed plasticine. 'I kind of believe in giving people new experiences, like.'

Only, of course, Barry realized as his alcohol-addled brain worked overtime and his bowels slowly loosened, it hadn't just been that little joke; he'd gone a bit too far and suggested that Tilusha might have achieved her condition from another source. And that had been rather too much for Phil Tarrant.

Barry cursed his stupidity. His adversary was a renowned one. Nervy, squat and muscular Phil, with his firm white teeth, cropped hair and black eyebrows that met in the middle, had vented his spleen on others before, in ways that had required extra cleaning staff to be called in the next day.

'Hey. None of that here.' The landlord's hand was strong and firm on Phil's shoulder.

He dropped Barry, who slid gratefully against the wall. Phil squared up to the burly landlord, before relaxing his gritted-teeth expression.

'Why don't you go home, Phil?' the landlord suggested.

'Yeah,' Phil muttered, casting a spiteful glance in Barry's direction once more. 'Reckon I just might. Don't really care for the company round here any more.'

He turned on his heel and slammed out of the pub. The door swung to and fro several times after his departure, and several audible breaths were released.

Barry got to his feet, rubbing his neck. He didn't like to think what the poor bint had coming to her now. Still, he thought with considerable relief, at least it wasn't him.

The Doctor strode into the main console room of the TARDIS, put his hat down on the time rotor and plugged the temporal disruption monitor into its socket on the console.

Bernice watched, intrigued. 'Any more thoughts?' she asked tentatively.

'Plenty.' The Doctor nodded, and pointed to the monitor screen, where the view outside was clearly displayed. 'That white car there, it's a Polo. I 26 want you to get the number.' He put his hat back on, nodded to himself and headed for the door again. He stopped, just before the door, and gave Benny a rea.s.suring smile. 'If you wouldn't mind, that is.'

She spread her hands. 'It'll pa.s.s the time, I suppose. Are you turning into some kind of intergalactic traffic warden now?'

'No, I leave that to the Time Lords. Meet you in the park in ten minutes.'

And he was gone.

'The park,' she said. 'Right.'

Benny hoped that the Doctor wasn't in one of those moods where he left all the explaining until after the event. She liked to know whom she was fighting and why, especially these days.

She took her notebook and a pencil from her waistcoat pocket. 'Car numbers,' she said despairingly, addressing her remarks to the TARDIS roundels.

'He'll be asking me to go train-spotting with him next.'

It was difficult for Nita Bedi to persuade her mother, who was after all her chaperone and guardian, to let her have five minutes to talk to Tilusha Meswani. As far as Mrs Bedi was concerned, the girl had disgraced the entire family and should never be seen again. Nita, though, was a kindlier soul and more inclined to believe in redemption.

She had to look twice around the marble lobby, not realizing at first that the smart young woman sitting by the potted plants was her cousin. They exchanged smiles, squeezed hands, but then an unspoken sadness pa.s.sed between them and Nita let her grip weaken, awkwardly.

'You won't be able to come to the dance. They won't welcome you, Tilusha.'

The older girl was visibly angry. 'You think I don't know that?' Her voice echoed around the vast lobby, and she lowered it slightly. 'Nita, I know everyone's against me. But the only way I can get myself free of him is if someone will help me.'

'No,' Nita said quietly. 'First you need to help yourself. First you need to want want to be free of him. Not to keep going back like you have done before.' to be free of him. Not to keep going back like you have done before.'

Tilusha raised her eyes. 'Are you going to help me?'

Nita looked away awkwardly. She paced up and down, a brilliant splash of blue and yellow silk against the whiteness. When she looked back at her older cousin it was with a coolness that belied her youth. 'Your parents did the right thing. He's not a good man for you. You should know that '

'You're just prejudiced. You just don't like him because he's from a different background.'

'No!' Nita's voice surprised them both. 'I don't know how you can dare to say that. I yes, all right, I can't stand Phil, and you know why? Because he enjoys hurting you, Tilusha. He treats you like a little plaything. And I can't 27 bear to see that happening!' There was silence in the lobby for a moment.

'I've got to go,' Nita said quietly, and turned back towards the staircase.

'Hope you find someone there.' Tilusha's voice was resigned, hoa.r.s.e, the voice of bitter experience.

The irony the mockery, even was not lost on Nita. She hurried up the stairs without looking back.

The sounds of Indian music and laughter rippled down the stairs towards Tilusha. She did not need to go in. She knew what she would see: shy young men, eager and colourfully dressed young women, all from a life she had left behind. And for what?

She turned around, headed back towards the exit.

There was a little man in a crumpled cream-coloured suit reading the notice-board. He raised his hat to her as she went past.

Tilusha Meswani frowned, wondering if she should know the man, and where she had met him before.

She stopped in her tracks.

She felt a tingling in her spine.

She let go of her handbag and it hit the floor, scattering the contents: coins, lipstick, a bus timetable.

She dropped to her knees, with her mouth wrenched open and her hands across her stomach.

Mouth open. Hands across stomach.

Dimly aware of the little man turning, as if in slow motion, and running to her side. And she screamed. And screamed and screamed.

Bernice looked at her watch.

She sighed, s.h.i.+fted position on the wooden park bench. At least it had stopped raining, but that didn't make the city any more attractive. The park was a hopeful sign, but it still looked as if its visitors were not familiar with the concept of the litter bin, and seemed somehow to be an afterthought. A lake, little more than a large pond, was home to a few optimistic ducks. The trees' leaves were green, but they sat in the shadow of two huge blocks of flats.

Bernice allowed her eye to wander over the buildings. She saw balconies br.i.m.m.i.n.g with was.h.i.+ng, the occasional satellite dish thrusting up into the sky, looking for bright fantasies to colour the dreary world, to break out from the neighbours above and the neighbours below and the neighbours to every side.

Looking for the stars, where there were no dogs and no acrimonious disputes and no corners smelling of urine. Bernice knew her twentieth-century social 28 history, and there were many colonial buildings of her own time which were not too dissimilar.

'Sorry to keep you waiting.'

He seemed to have appeared on the bench with no sound or warning. The Doctor, still looking vaguely absent, unsettled. Benny knew that look.

'I got the number,' she said. 'Is everything all right?'

'No,' said the Doctor. 'Things are very bad.'