you?’
‘No,’ Jack said, deciding to come clean. ‘I was ready to run away this 53
evening, before you came back.’
‘I’d rather formed that impression.’ The Doctor grinned, and then winced because it hurt. ‘London isn’t your home town, I take it?’
‘Darlington. My mum and dad still live there. We get on and everything.
They love me, they just wouldn’t understand. . . ’ He paused, uncertain of how much he could confide in the Doctor. ‘I always knew that I was going to leave. Even when I was a little kid I knew I wasn’t going to stay there. Wasn’t going to get a pound-down house and the Hoovermatic on the never-never, a mortgage and the payments on the car.’
Jack hugged his knees, the gas fire was making them uncomfortably hot.
‘I always knew that I was different. That I didn’t belong.’ He looked at the Doctor. ‘You know?’
‘Oh yes,’ the Doctor said, his eyes full of dark fire. ‘I know.’
Jack found himself telling the Doctor a little about his life in Darlington.
Much more than he usually told anyone. The Doctor listened attentively, particularly, Jack thought, when he began to talk about Eddy.
The Doctor only interrupted his story once, and Jack thought that it was a strange comment to make. When Jack mentioned that Eddy came from Leicester, the Doctor shook his head and muttered, ‘No, I think he came from rather further away than that.’
When Jack finally finished his story, the Doctor asked him what colour Eddy’s hair was. Jack was a little bewildered by the question.
‘Brown,’ he answered. ‘Almost black.’ And then he remembered his angry confrontation with Madge in the Magpie earlier that evening. Remembered that she’d sacked Eddy for dying his hair.
‘At least it was. I think he bleached it before. . . well, you know.’
‘Ah, I see,’ the Doctor interrupted softly. ‘He must have cared for you very deeply.’
‘This man needs a doctor. Hello. I know you can hear me.’
Chris peered through the grill in the door, but all he could see were the white tiles on the wall of the corridor opposite. He banged his fist angrily against the metal door, which rattled on its hinges. Several other occupants of the cells further down the corridor started shouting in response to the noise.
Most telling him in no uncertain terms to keep quiet, and a couple of others just wordlessly and piteously wailing.
Chris let himself slump against the heavy door and looked across at the other occupant of the cell. The Major sat on the edge of the long concrete bed staring straight out in front of him and rocking gently back and forth. Initially, Chris had put the Major’s condition down to shock, but it was clear that this 54
was something more than that. The old man was running a temperature and a constant stream of what sounded like nonsense escaped from his mouth.
That the Major hadn’t been sent directly to a hospital was another indication of the barbarism of the age. Chris had been astonished and angered to find the Major sitting in the cell when he’d been brought down. He’d tried to reason with the sergeant who’d escorted him, but the young Irish man took no notice of his protests, adopting a strategy of wilful deafness that Chris knew only too well.
All Chris’s possessions, as well as his jacket, belt and shoelaces, had been removed before he was incarcerated. His handkerchief had been confiscated, along with the rest, so Chris ripped the cuff from his shirt and used it to mop the old man’s brow.
‘Nothing. . . I’m nothing. . . ’ The old man’s voice was an anxious whisper. ‘I can’t feel them. . . the club. . . anything. . . I can’t feel anything. . . what am I to be?’
‘It’s all right. Try to rest, it’s all right.’
Chris jumped when the Major suddenly broke out of his melancholy trance and sat up, gripping Chris’s arm tightly. ‘It’s not all right, young man,’ he exclaimed, his fingernails digging
‘No,’ Jack said, deciding to come clean. ‘I was ready to run away this 53
evening, before you came back.’
‘I’d rather formed that impression.’ The Doctor grinned, and then winced because it hurt. ‘London isn’t your home town, I take it?’
‘Darlington. My mum and dad still live there. We get on and everything.
They love me, they just wouldn’t understand. . . ’ He paused, uncertain of how much he could confide in the Doctor. ‘I always knew that I was going to leave. Even when I was a little kid I knew I wasn’t going to stay there. Wasn’t going to get a pound-down house and the Hoovermatic on the never-never, a mortgage and the payments on the car.’
Jack hugged his knees, the gas fire was making them uncomfortably hot.
‘I always knew that I was different. That I didn’t belong.’ He looked at the Doctor. ‘You know?’
‘Oh yes,’ the Doctor said, his eyes full of dark fire. ‘I know.’
Jack found himself telling the Doctor a little about his life in Darlington.
Much more than he usually told anyone. The Doctor listened attentively, particularly, Jack thought, when he began to talk about Eddy.
The Doctor only interrupted his story once, and Jack thought that it was a strange comment to make. When Jack mentioned that Eddy came from Leicester, the Doctor shook his head and muttered, ‘No, I think he came from rather further away than that.’
When Jack finally finished his story, the Doctor asked him what colour Eddy’s hair was. Jack was a little bewildered by the question.
‘Brown,’ he answered. ‘Almost black.’ And then he remembered his angry confrontation with Madge in the Magpie earlier that evening. Remembered that she’d sacked Eddy for dying his hair.
‘At least it was. I think he bleached it before. . . well, you know.’
‘Ah, I see,’ the Doctor interrupted softly. ‘He must have cared for you very deeply.’
‘This man needs a doctor. Hello. I know you can hear me.’
Chris peered through the grill in the door, but all he could see were the white tiles on the wall of the corridor opposite. He banged his fist angrily against the metal door, which rattled on its hinges. Several other occupants of the cells further down the corridor started shouting in response to the noise.
Most telling him in no uncertain terms to keep quiet, and a couple of others just wordlessly and piteously wailing.
Chris let himself slump against the heavy door and looked across at the other occupant of the cell. The Major sat on the edge of the long concrete bed staring straight out in front of him and rocking gently back and forth. Initially, Chris had put the Major’s condition down to shock, but it was clear that this 54
was something more than that. The old man was running a temperature and a constant stream of what sounded like nonsense escaped from his mouth.
That the Major hadn’t been sent directly to a hospital was another indication of the barbarism of the age. Chris had been astonished and angered to find the Major sitting in the cell when he’d been brought down. He’d tried to reason with the sergeant who’d escorted him, but the young Irish man took no notice of his protests, adopting a strategy of wilful deafness that Chris knew only too well.
All Chris’s possessions, as well as his jacket, belt and shoelaces, had been removed before he was incarcerated. His handkerchief had been confiscated, along with the rest, so Chris ripped the cuff from his shirt and used it to mop the old man’s brow.
‘Nothing. . . I’m nothing. . . ’ The old man’s voice was an anxious whisper. ‘I can’t feel them. . . the club. . . anything. . . I can’t feel anything. . . what am I to be?’
‘It’s all right. Try to rest, it’s all right.’
Chris jumped when the Major suddenly broke out of his melancholy trance and sat up, gripping Chris’s arm tightly. ‘It’s not all right, young man,’ he exclaimed, his fingernails digging
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