The Taint - Michael Collier, ebook
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You are kind to indulge an old woman like this. Here am I, going on. I don't get to talk very often
- it's a treat, I must say. I'm a little out the way here in Archway, but it's a lot cheaper than
further in. Still, as you get older... as your friends move away or lose touch, it's talking you
miss most, isn't it? Can't expect Fitz - he's my boy, he's twenty-seven - to stay in the whole time,
talking to an old duffer like me; not when he's his age and I'm mine.
It's my own fault, I know. I had him at thirty-eight; the doctors warned me of all the risks when we
found out, said I was too old, and with my history... IVe not been a well person, really. Up and
down, you know, and what with a baby on the way too... But I had Otto then, and we so wanted a
child. My husband, yes, that's right. I can see you've been reading my notes, haven't you! No
secrets from you, then... Yes, Dr Greenish told me you might call.
Well... if you like. I'll tell you about the dreams, yes. Haven't been asked about them - haven'thad
them for a few years now, touch wood. Yes, the floating dreams - I know what you meant. I got that
feeling of rising above myself, you know, looking at myself there in the bed. 'Course, they said it
was the treatment, but it was before the treatment, the first one. Saw myself sleeping, and a right
old sight I looked too, with my hairnet, no slap on, in the middle of the night! What he ever saw in
me I'll never know. Patience of Job, that man... Yes, my husband. Sorry, the dream; you've got me
talking, you see! I warned you, didn't I?
So I'd always start by looking at myself on the bed, then I'd just keep drifting up, through the
ceiling, past Fitzie's room - oh, and the things I'd see him doing some nights, you'd blush, you
really would - out into the sky, into the stars. Never felt cold, or anything really, for someone
flying through the air in a nightdress. Silly, really, but I'd just keep on going, up and up, until
there were no more stars, just skies - different skies, some black, some dark blue, some hazy with
light from somewhere... And I'd just drift through them, for ages, just drift. It was always ever so
calm, that part of the dream.
Then I'd always feel something was there with me. I'd feel frightened, scared, so different to how I
felt before, but, though it always happened the same way, I'd never lose that feeling of calm while
the skies changed around me. Yes, like I could never be aware of what was to come, I suppose.
Anyway, I'm there, and this rock arrives, eventually. Starts off really small, but it's big, it's a
huge big rock. Then it turns and I can see it's got an entrance - it's like... Yes, that's right,
just like a cave, like someone's taken a cave out of a mountainside and put it in the sky. And it
comes towards me, and the sky's just one colour now and there's nowhere else to go, and I'm scared
so I go inside it. I stop floating then, I have to walk. It's all crunchy under my feet. Rocks and
crystals, sparkling in your eyes even when you shut them. The cave roof is all bright, warm and
yellow...
 Then it gets darker and it's like there's a church inside, rows and rows of people singing some sort
of hymn. Strange people: they're all tall, dressed in black robes. Their words are funny... No, not
foreign, but like they're... Oh, I don't know, it's like this is their way of crying or
something.They don't feel things the way we do, and I know I've got to be quiet, very quiet, or
they'll find me, and I don't know what they'll do then.
So I stay at the back and listen, and look around.And there's a face; well, it's sort of like a
face. It's got little horns, slitty little eyes, and it's sticking out from the stone above them
like it's laughing at them, but it's not got a mouth. Just a round sort of bump there, like a big
fat ring with no hole in it. It's getting bigger, and I think they haven't noticed that it's filling
the whole ceiling now and I wonder if I should tell them. But then I realise theydo know, that
that's what they're singing about, that's what they're crying for. The ring gets a hole in it and
everyone gets sucked up inside, except me.
I'm back in my bed, but it's inside the cave. It stinks of hellfire and it's full of bodies like
butchers' offcuts, and there are little demons, little devils there, jumping about from body to
body, drinking from them. And I scream and scream and I see my great-great-granddad from the
scrapbook. He's looking at me... Yes.Yes, I'll be all right again in a minute. Haven't really
thought about this in a long time.
Youhaven't ! Have you really? And a cave just like that one?Thatis funny, isn't it? You'd think a
dream like that...
I suppose so... You're right, it is interesting. I always got sick, though. The longer the dreams
went on, the harder it was to wake back up from them. Used to be scared to go to sleep sometimes,
after they let me back out... Otto had gone by then, poor love, and my Fitz would come home roughed
up day after day.They used to call me and him all sorts of names, you know, the kids and the mums.
Every name under the sun, and some that weren't. like they were scared.
When I got ill the third time, poor Fitzie was put in care. It was hard for him - he's a sensitive
boy. Oh, yes, he's a tonic, but it's the talking I miss, you know. Still, I can't expect him to sit
in every night and talk to an old dear like me, can I? No! No, you're right, it must have its fling.
What? Oh, I couldn't, really... Yes, I suppose it would be company... But I don't know if... Oh, you
can't send a driver for me, Dr Roley, goodness, I'll get the bus... No, that's no trouble.
Oh.goodness, well... Well, I suppose... Oh, Dr Roley, you are good, indulging an old lady like this.
 THE TAINT
 2.1
Life was a never-ending series of dramas, some big, some small. The same dramas, experienced again
and again by different people all through history. Only the trappings and circumstances changed. You
got a job.You bought a house.You met someone.You got married and moved intotheir house.You had an
affair.You got the wrong person pregnant and they married your best friend. You wishedyou could
marry your best friend.
Whatever, the point of it was that life was essentially a tried and tested series of dramas, with
only a finite number of responses. People coped, or they were swamped.They made the wrong moves,
took the right choices, made things worse and sank ever deeper or rose above their despair. Millions
of people had proved this to be the measure of life, and proved also that the measure of the man was
in how he lived it.
Why, thought Fitz Kreiner, wasn't I born one of them?
If this was a drama, it wasn't a good, solid BBC effort, with all the posh voices and the weighty
values. He felt stuck in a commercial break in his life drama. It could well be one of ITV's
salaciousArmchair Theatre programmes, and that would be wonderful, but he hadn't been paying proper
attention and he'd never know until the damned bloody thing started again. In the meantime,Come to
Roley's Gardens of Paradise was the only word from his life's sponsor. Roll up, roll up and buy a
shrub, or an earthenware pot of the highest quality. A potted plant for your home from our
nurseries. Make it a part of your landscape, stage domestics round it. Live your life and its
dramas, and Fitz here will hang around outside, helping to make it prettier for you.
What made it worse was that the opportunities for life's back-from-the-break signature tune to kick
in had never seemed greater. Since Dr Roley - underweight and overprotected son of the late Quentin
Roley, millionaire nurseries tycoon and spectral sponsor of Fitz's current existence - had taken in
Fitz's old mum for his studies, he'd had his own gaff for the first time in his life. Space.
Freedom. Even a bit of cash in his pocket. Looking after number one for a change, instead ofher the
whole time. He'd done his best for her, of course, done his stir; and now Roley was actuallypaying
for the pleasure of putting her up! Fitz had never figured there was much cash potential in having a
mum who was barking, but... Well, he wasn't going to argue. And the old dear had never been happier.
Fitz sighed, and lit up a cigarette. That was meant to be end of Act One, he thought, pushing a hand
through his unkempt, dark hair. Not the big finale.
A girl walked past, attractive, brunette, with a perfectly sculpted bob.A snub nose, wide eyes and
bright-red lips.A tight sweater and a blue skirt. She glanced at him. Fitz straightened up and
smiled a smile that intimated he knew a secret or two, that he was, perhaps, not all he appeared to
be, leaning casually against a picnic table in the grounds of a stately home in West Wycombe. That
he was so much more than...
The girl walked past without a second look and on to the hanging-basket section.
Bugger, thought Fitz. Another bloody advert for what I'm missing out on. How about giving me the
chance to go get some for myself?
He glanced at his watch.Ten to ten.The day stretched ahead before him without relief. Good of Roley
Jnr to fix him up with work here to keep an eye on the old lady, but... Why couldn't Daddy have been
an art dealer? Or run a top model agency? Or have been the owner of an internationally renowned
casino?
Yeah, that would do: Fitz Kreiner, croupier and card sharp, shaping the dramas in the tortuous lives
of the world's most exclusive clientele. He'd see it all... Bankruptcy. Lucky streaks. Lifestyles on
the line in the throw of a dice. And him, in white tuxedo and black tie, indomitable and aloof. Even
so, looking over at the slinky girls draped on the arms of these would-be winners, a man not
entirely averse to getting his hands dirty once in a while... A blonde caught his eye. That mink
stole she wore spoke of a habit her loser boyfriend couldn't afford to support after the way Fitz
had dealt 'em out tonight. She smiled back at him, a knowing look in her eye.
 'Go and put more compost on the pot plants, Fitz,' called the dispassionate voice of Mrs Simms, his
supervisor. 'And put that cigaretteout . How many times do you need telling?'
But no, thought Fitz, he set up a collection of plant nurseries.Thank you, Quentin Roley, and your
mad professor son.
Fitz sneaked a final drag on his cigarette and then smiled an apology at Mrs Simms, who merely
grimaced in response. Compost, he thought to himself, and sighed. Those dramas keep on coming.Where
was I? Oh yeah, getting my hands dirty. Right. Soap ad, then... He slouched off, away from Mrs
Simms's disapproving gaze. 'Roll on Act Two, God,' he muttered. 'Please ...'
He decided to approach the pot plants via the hanging-basket department, keeping an eye out for the
blue skirt and the sweater.
***
In a nearby glade bright with sunshine, birds clattered from the trees as a mechanical grating and
wheezing cut through the tranquillity. Finally, with a reverberating thud, a police box appeared.
The weathered blue doors were flung open and a man emerged, whistling noisily. 'Come on, Sam!' he
shouted, peering back into the box as if he'd lost something.
'Is it sunny?' a clear, female voice came back as if from some way away. Had anyone been watching
they may well have wondered how such a small box could contain such odd acoustics.
'It's a beautiful day, quite beautiful.' The man sniffed the air appreciatively. He had light-brown
hair that hung in lazy curls, a long pale face with thin lips that made him appear quite
supercilious at first glance. His eyes were a pale blue, sad-looking, but, as he smiled, his whole
face lit up like a child's at Christmas.
'What are you grinning at, then?' The young woman who had shouted earlier, Sam, had peeked out
behind him. She was wearing a pale-green dress, sleeveless with a high neckline. It came down to
just above her knees, while her black suede boots came to just below them.
The man said nothing.
'Doctor?' She tugged on his long, bottle-green velvet coat.
'It's sunny,' replied the Doctor.
'It's not Benidorm,' said Sam.
'It's England.'
Sam looked around her as the birds flew cautiously back into the trees. 'Been a long time,' she
said. It had been years since she'd first started travelling with the Doctor, three of them spent
without him on the alien equivalent of Skid Row. Ever since then (about six months ago now by her
trusty awkwardly-beeping-at-the-wrong-moment digital watch) the Doctor - or the TARDIS, or perhaps
the pair in collusion - had seemed careful to avoid her home planet.They had spent a long time
apart, and she couldn't help thinking that perhaps her friend had been a little worried that she'd
be vanishing off home the first chance she'd got. She'd not been back to Earth for years.
And now here she was. England, twentieth century, home. Sam had to admit it was something of an
anticlimax.
'I guess you can't go home again after all,' she said, sadly.
"This isn't your home,' replied the Doctor. 'If anything, it's more mine than yours.'
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