Doctor Who: Combat Rock Read Online Free PDF Page B

Hell would he be thinking about that? There were no garishly coloured artist examples on the walls. No sound of laser needles. Only drab hotel-room walls and the animals yodelling at the breaking of day.
    He felt warm, naked skin next to his own, and turned around. There was a whore sleeping next to him, snoring slightly Then what had happened to Santi? He trawled through his drunken memories and the result tipped his mouth into a grin.
    Oh yeah.
    He fumbled at the side of the bed for his cigarettes, lit one and piled the pillow up behind his head while he smoked it.
    Only just dawn, and it was already stifling in the small room, which stank of sweat and sex. The puny fan turned desultorily on the ceiling. The whore – what was her name? (did it matter?) – stretched out a sleepy foot to rub his leg. He moved his leg away, irritated. Wasn’t it time she took off? He always hated the morning after. He tried to remember the lines of an old song he’d always loved. ‘Stay with me, stay with me, tonight you better stay with me. Just don’t be here in the mornin’ when I wake up. Or something like that.
    His head ached. He was hot. He was bothered. The whore smelt slightly, and she wasn’t as sexy as Santi. Still, she’d amused him last night. When he’d got her in bed and demanded how much she wanted, she’d blinked up at him with those big eyes of hers and told him, ‘You Mafiaaa... I like your face. I do for free.’
    Yeah, that had been amusing. Last night, anyway.
    She was stretching. Blinking sleepily at him, rolling over to face him. He could smell drink on her breath and cigarette smoke. Santi didn’t drink or smoke. But that didn’t make her much of a better prospect.
    Why was he always plagued with whores?
    She stretched out a hand to touch his. He shook it off, as it was the one holding the cigarette. He inhaled deeply. Just don’t speak, bitch.
    ‘You Mafiaaa...’ she croaked, smiling in what she obviously thought was a seductive manner.
    Pan turned to her. Looked her in the eyes for a moment.
    ‘You said that once too often,’ he said, and reaching down to his jacket slung on the floor beside the bed, pulled a Pulse Luger from its pocket holster and blew a neat hole through her forehead.
    He stepped into the shower, which spat intermittent gobs of cold water at him. The tattoos on his arms ran with grime from the jet. He cursed and left the stall dirtier than he’d been before he entered it. He climbed into his combats, laced up his boots and stuffed his Luger back into his jacket. Sweat was already shifting in his hair as he climbed down the stone steps to the hotel reception.
    Santi was waiting for him there. She fixed him with a baleful stare.
    ‘So,’ she said as he dropped his keys off at the counter.
    ‘You go with other girl?’
    He frowned at her, as if trying to work out what she was saying, or why she was bothering him with such stupid talk at this time of the morning. Did he need this shit? The sun was already up and blasting the exotic, palm-bedecked courtyard of the hotel. He pulled his sunglasses from a pocket, fitted them gratefully over his eyes.
    He patted her cheek and snorted derisively. ‘I like your face,’ he said in a cruel imitation of Kety’s pidgin English, ‘I do for free.’ Santi cracked a hand across his cheek with instant fury. His sunglasses flew across the pavestones.
    Pan’s face reddened. His hand snuck inside his jacket.
    Santi stood her ground, obviously realizing she’d gone too far but refusing to back down. He forced himself to regain his composure. After all, the Hotel Manager was watching timidly from behind the counter. He turned round to scan the courtyard, checking whether anyone had seen the incident, then bent to retrieve his shades. He smirked, winked at his former girlfriend and strode out of the foyer into the street.
    ‘I think we really should go and look for him, Doctor. He’s been gone for hours.’
    The Doctor sipped some imported tea