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asked.
I m trying to find her, said the Doctor. I m trying. But it s taking so long. I
need just one more week. One more day. Just one more day.
The woman took something from the sleeve of her kimono. Kadiatu saw it
was an hour-glass. The woman stretched out a delicate hand, put the glass in
front of the flowers and the scroll. It was very small.
You re Death, aren t you? said Kadiatu.
There is a family resemblance, said the woman. I am Time, and this is my
champion.
He s mine.
There was another woman. Kadiatu found herself shrinking back, instinc-
tively. It s starting to get crowded in here.
The newcomer (or had she been there all along?) knelt on the floor on a
low wooden stool, idly flicking the air with a feather-duster. She was white,
absolutely white, a silhouette, a piece of the rice-paper that the artist forgot
to paint.
The Doctor turned his head, and Kadiatu saw the spectacular bruise on his
left cheek. You see? said the White Lady. Her voice was like swallowing
glass. He wears my favour.
There were other figures too, crowding into the tea room. Or perhaps they
were only wall-hangings, or holograms in single neon colours: Blue Aztec,
silver Sumerian. A glaring Egyptian with the head of some animal Kadiatu
didn t recognize, a camel with square ears, or a long-snouted greyhound. Dif-
ferent cultures and times crammed into the one place, all the gods who had
lived inside the Doctor s head.
Kadiatu imagined his dreams leaking through the cracks she had made in
time, forwards, backwards, sideways. Who heard him, who dreamed his
dreams? Did he only exist because so many people dreamed about him? Did
they exist because they dreamed of him?
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None of these gods had been invited to the tea-party but then, neither
had she. She d left the door open for them when she d come trespassing in his
garden.
So she shut up, tried to stay inconspicuous. At least, as inconspicuous as a
six and a half foot tall black woman can be in a small chashitsu. She didn t
want the White Lady to notice her.
The Lady ran a smooth white finger along the Doctor s scar. He tried hard
not to react. I came here to get away from it all, he said.
You can t get away from me, said the White Lady. Like a moth to the flame
you re always returning.
Kadiatu tilted her head, trying to make out the sound outside the hut.
Do you remember the first time we met? the Lady was saying. High on a
rocky hillside, and you running out of the house, into the cold air.
I remember. I remember watching the outsiders in the valley, with their
bows and arrows . . .
Time put her hand on his shoulder, her butterfly flittering and landing in his
hair. He smiled at the feathery touch. I remember the flutterwing. I thought
it was some sort of meteorological phenomenon; it took up half the sky. It was
gorgeous . . .
And then?
I did not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or
whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man, breathed the Doctor. Or
was it a frog?
Don t avoid the question, said the White Lady.
Don t mind me, I m playing for Time.
Playing to win?
She heals all wounds.
Wounds all heels?
Can t you hear it? said Kadiatu. Someone s screaming.
The white Lady lifted her head to listen. That s my song. I hear the scream,
even when you make no sound.
Kadiatu looked at the hour-glass, but the sand weighed heavily on the bot-
tom. There was no Time left. The hut was empty but for the three of them.
Scream, said the White Lady.
She pressed a perfect hand against the Doctor s left collarbone. He met
her eyeless eyes and grabbed at her wrist, trying to wrench her palm away.
She was irresistibly pushing him back onto the matting, her fingers digging
through the cloth of his jacket. The butterfly was crushed against the matting.
Why won t you scream?
He moaned through clenched teeth as something green erupted from above
his collarbone. Young leaves shot up between the Lady s white fingers. A
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single, blood-red flower unfurled itself in her grip, its petals pulsing in time
with his hearts.
WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU SCREAM?
Kadiatu did not want to throw up on the nice straw mats, so she bolted out
of the tea-room, fingers dragging at her midriff.
She ran through a hideous green, organic chamber. A group of uniformed
men and women were kicking something on the floor, something curled into
a protective shape, arms thrown over its head.
She fled into a room full of surgeons, masked and gowned, one stabbing
a massive scalpel into the shoulder of a draped figure on a table. The other
figures carried garden implements. A nurse filled a syringe with fertiliser.
Kadiatu ran, throwing her arms over her head. She didn t remember any of
this.
She found herself stumbling over a worn hillside covered in scree, gasping
as she looked up into the orange sky and saw the giant insect pitch and yaw,
a long arrow shaft embedded in its body, rainbow wings twisting as it glided
to earth. Someone cried out, a young voice in this ancient place, but it wasn t
pain.
She found herself in a vast chamber, the walls and floor grown in pieces in
a vat, cryogenic tubes embedded like neon in the walls.
What was the point? snarled Meijer. What was the crukking point? He
tightened his grip. We processed a four-year-old this morning. Subject fifty-
one. We ll make her number fifty-two.
With a movement that was almost graceful, Meijer twisted the arm he was
holding one more notch. There was a crack.
The Doctor screamed.
But it wasn t pain. It was anger.
Kadiatu sat bolt upright in her bed.
What was that?
The book teetered, just held by his fingertips. He muttered something in his sleep
about tea.
He woke up with a start.
There was an Ant not a foot away from him.
He dropped Les Misrables.
Its antennae reached for him almost faster than he could react, jolting back-
wards with such force that he knocked the chaise longue over. He landed hard
on the floor, rolling away from the machine.
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There was a terrible buzzing in his skull, like a kitchen timer gone insane.
The Ant was climbing over the chaise longue to get to him. Soft buzzing. Its
attachments whirred like blender blades.
Someone was pouring warm honey into his head.
He scrabbled limply backwards across the floor, but his arms and legs were
melting, melting into the sweet heat. The droning dragged at his feet and
hands. Keep going, get away! He tried to fight, but there was nothing to fight,
only the slow unknotting of his muscles, the sleepiness gnawing at his eyes.
There was a paraffin lamp burning low on the writing desk. He grabbed
with hands as heavy as treacle.
Somehow he swung the lamp as the Ant lunged at him. Glass smashed
across the hungry metal face. There was a flash of flame and a puff of kerosene
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