Free Doctor Who: Bad Therapy by Matthew Jones Page B

sat. He turned his attention to the crowd, who were watching the performance with an intensity that Chris found unsettling.
    Some of the customers were singing along quietly, others just silently mouthed the words. A young man slipped his arms around his girlfriend, wrapping her up in a protective embrace.
    Can’t you see?
    I’m
    Nothing,
    Without you.
    The words of the song slipped past his defences and mercilessly prodded his grief. He remembered the afternoon in the English village of Little Caldwell when he’d held Roz in his arms, her sinewy body feeling strangely fragile in his embrace. She’d whispered words then that he’d never forgotten.
    I need you. Don’t ever doubt that.
    Tears welled up in his eyes just as anger and resentment twisted his guts.
    Well I need you Roz. Why did you have to go and leave me? How am I supposed to go on without you?
    He glanced awkwardly around him, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. Besides Tilda, who was entirely absorbed in the performance, he was the only ‘single’
    person in the strange club. Chris leant back in his chair, trying to put some distance between himself and the atmosphere in the room. It felt as if he were no longer in a bar at all, but at church. This was more of a religious service than a cabaret. He turned to look at Patsy again, just as she was hesitantly 42
     
    bringing the song to a close. For a moment their eyes met, and then the song ended and she turned to applaud her pianist politely.
    Tilda had left her seat across from him and had returned to her stool by the door. She was talking to a scruffy-looking girl of no more than thirteen.
    Despite the girl’s age, Chris could tell from their body language that the conversation was adult and serious. Tilda slipped a few coins into the girl’s hand, before returning to her seat next to Chris.
    ‘We’ve got trouble.’
    Chris leant forward, interested in anything that might distract him from the pain in his stomach. ‘What sort of trouble? Police?’
    Tilda shook her head, dismissing the idea. ‘Oh, no. I don’t get any trouble from Lilly Law. And I bloody well shouldn’t either. Not with the charitable donation that I make to the retirement fund of a certain sergeant every week.
    No, I’ve just had word from a very reliable friend that some of the less attractive residents in the area are out to cause mischief this evening.’
    Chris found Tilda’s speech patterns exasperating. ‘Do you mean criminals?’
    ‘Hah! Criminals would be flattering them. They are thugs, Christopher, plain and simple. They take advantage of. . . well, of the informal organization of clubs like mine.’
    He frowned. ‘You mean they operate a protection racket?’
    ‘Quite. All the clubs that refuse to pay for their own particular brand of protection have been warned to expect trouble from the Scraton gang.’
    ‘Gang? How organized are they?’
    ‘When dear old Albert Scraton was alive, very little happened around these parts without his say-so. But that old psycho shuffled off this mortal coil last summer to wherever it is that villains go when they die.’
    ‘Assassinated?’
    ‘Good heavens, Christopher!’ Tilda exclaimed, her cigarette falling from her lips. ‘This is Soho, not Chicago. He died of a heart attack. His younger brother Gordy runs the show now. Or tries to, at least. Not much upstairs unfortunately. Or rather, fortunately for us.’
    ‘And they’re on the rampage this evening?’
    ‘So rumour has it. To be honest I’m not that worried for the Tropics. We’re too well in with the law. I doubt that little Gordy would dare come flexing his tiny muscles around here. I’m more concerned about the smaller clubs.
    My dear friend, the Major, runs a little one-roomer around the corner. You wouldn’t be an absolute angel and pop around with a message, would you?’
    Chris drained his glass and smiled, pleased to find a natural way of bringing the evening to a close. ‘I can do it on my way