Prologue
Colonel Ward gazed upon the city out the window of his new office. One good thing about the fire was that it allowed the entire landscape to be reconfigured and modernised. Each building, reconstructed at the same time, aimed to satisfy one cohesive vision, quite unlike the London of the past. Still, Ward found himself missing the multicultural jumble of architectural styles which had defined this area before.
But, he reassured himself, turning back to his desk, his office had an extra six square metres.
When the Doctor had entered Westminster Abbey all those months ago, the fires had stopped growing. Whatever strange, spectral quality had animated them into something more than just an oxidative process was gone in an instant. The monsters had decided to sleep at the same time as the man who had stopped them, and all that was left was a city, rather simply, burning. Ward gave the order within ten minutes: fire services from across the country were allowed in now it was deemed safe, and the fight began.
The human race won again, predictably, though the nature of their victory was contested. Half the city was burnt down. Once the tabloid newspapers had got through their Big Things Just Happened headlines, they quietened down, choosing to tuck more personal, smaller-scale accounts of the disaster a few pages in. The Guardian spoke of an old couple whose small business and life’s work – a café along the Thames Embankment – was left a pile of rubble. The Sun gave Peter Andre’s personal account of the same story. And The Daily Mail spoke of immigrant families who had taken advantage of the fires and started squatting in hardworking British people’s homes on the fringes of the city centre, then went on to complain about what was on TV.
Dan, one of the people at the desk whose rank was about as important to Ward as his surname, knocked on the door of his office.
Ward nodded for him to enter, then immediately shook his head and sat back, groaning tiredly, in his office chair. “Tea?” he complained. “Biscuits.”
Dan rolled his eyes. “Sir, you didn’t contribute to the fund.”
“Screw the bloody fund, I give you hours, son. What do you want?”
“There’s a man who wants to see you downstairs, sir.”
Ward sat forward. “See me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you came to get me?”
“Well… yes, sir.”
“Give him Gill!” exclaimed Ward. “Get Gill to talk to him in that therapist voice she does, and give him some biscuits to calm him down.”
Dan said nothing.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” started Ward, “he didn’t contribute to the fund either? People these days…”
“Sir,” continued Dan, stifling the laughter he knew would give Ward what we wanted, “the man is looking specifically for you, and when you see who it is, I think you’ll want to see him.”
“Oh, alright…” Ward sighed as he got up, wiping his face and stretching his back before he shut his laptop screen. He was only Googling the lottery numbers anyway, as everyone in London seemed to be doing these days. “Give me a minute. And bring some biscuits, or I’ll shove the fund up your…”
But, he reassured himself, turning back to his desk, his office had an extra six square metres.
When the Doctor had entered Westminster Abbey all those months ago, the fires had stopped growing. Whatever strange, spectral quality had animated them into something more than just an oxidative process was gone in an instant. The monsters had decided to sleep at the same time as the man who had stopped them, and all that was left was a city, rather simply, burning. Ward gave the order within ten minutes: fire services from across the country were allowed in now it was deemed safe, and the fight began.
The human race won again, predictably, though the nature of their victory was contested. Half the city was burnt down. Once the tabloid newspapers had got through their Big Things Just Happened headlines, they quietened down, choosing to tuck more personal, smaller-scale accounts of the disaster a few pages in. The Guardian spoke of an old couple whose small business and life’s work – a café along the Thames Embankment – was left a pile of rubble. The Sun gave Peter Andre’s personal account of the same story. And The Daily Mail spoke of immigrant families who had taken advantage of the fires and started squatting in hardworking British people’s homes on the fringes of the city centre, then went on to complain about what was on TV.
Dan, one of the people at the desk whose rank was about as important to Ward as his surname, knocked on the door of his office.
Ward nodded for him to enter, then immediately shook his head and sat back, groaning tiredly, in his office chair. “Tea?” he complained. “Biscuits.”
Dan rolled his eyes. “Sir, you didn’t contribute to the fund.”
“Screw the bloody fund, I give you hours, son. What do you want?”
“There’s a man who wants to see you downstairs, sir.”
Ward sat forward. “See me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you came to get me?”
“Well… yes, sir.”
“Give him Gill!” exclaimed Ward. “Get Gill to talk to him in that therapist voice she does, and give him some biscuits to calm him down.”
Dan said nothing.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” started Ward, “he didn’t contribute to the fund either? People these days…”
“Sir,” continued Dan, stifling the laughter he knew would give Ward what we wanted, “the man is looking specifically for you, and when you see who it is, I think you’ll want to see him.”
“Oh, alright…” Ward sighed as he got up, wiping his face and stretching his back before he shut his laptop screen. He was only Googling the lottery numbers anyway, as everyone in London seemed to be doing these days. “Give me a minute. And bring some biscuits, or I’ll shove the fund up your…”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 3 - Episode 5
The Final Wish of Robin Moon
Written by Janine Rivers
The Doctor woke up to find himself on a field.
No… He looked closer. It was a hill, and not just any hill: Primrose Hill, and not as he had left it. There were no signs of a fire, but perhaps more alarmingly, no Shard to be seen piercing the clouds and reflecting the city back off it. London of the past.
“And I told him you might as well sack me…”
The Doctor turned towards the sound; the voice of a man in his thirties, and the sound of glasses of champagne clinking. Behind him, a man he recognised from some old photos sat on a picnic blanket, sharing a radiant sunset with Robin Moon.
“…because I’d rather go back to working for that old hag of a salon manager than be more than a second late home through my wife’s door.”
“So he did?” asked Robin. The Doctor noticed how much younger Robin sounded. Her voice was brighter and more optimistic; or for the cynical listener, it was more careless, going ahead and making sounds without thinking through what their meaning was. He tried to recall the man’s name… Harry? Either way, this was Robin in the days before he knew her.
I’ve travelled in time, but without my TARDIS. The Doctor shivered at that prospect, then quickly found a thought to calm him. But at least I’m not on Gallifrey.
“So he didn’t!” chuckled Harry. Neither of them seemed able to see the Doctor. “They wouldn’t lose me, I keep everyone else in order.”
“That’s…” Robin seemed to stumble over her words, confused, then looked strangely at Harry, her hands playing with the grass, as if they were looking for something between the blades. “I’m dreaming.”
“Another glass?” offered Harry.
The Doctor looked around, and his hearts stopped. She was right. The past was a place full of different sounds and smells, but this place was silent, animated by GCSE-level description: a few tweeting birds, a sunset, a city, and a hill. But the grass had no smell, and no sounds came from the city ahead; the colours of the sunset were too well-defined, like a first attempt at painting them.
And there were patches: blobs where the world seemed to blur, like lumps of some floating material, patches of canvas not quite filled in. The Doctor tried to track them as they moved, and realised what was moving them: Robin. Whichever direction she looked, they vacated, as if she were the one painting this world. Anything outside of her field of vision ceased to exist. Even Harry began to blur as she looked away from him.
She’s right, thought the Doctor. It’s her dream.
“I-“
Robin seemed distracted, and another sound began to take over; a more realistic sound, with subtle inflections that distinguished it from the artificial birdsong. Snapping wood, falling dust…
“What is it?” asked Robin, almost looking at the Doctor. “What’s-“
Suddenly, she was whisked away by what looked like a wisp of smoke. The sunset colours of the sky began to bleed onto the horizon, reds running down high-rise buildings like blood down a wounded leg; and like a limb, they swayed uncertainly, until the colours lost their transparency and the Doctor was trapped, spinning, inside a swirling void, fragments of London breaking into even smaller fragments all around him.
The Master’s words echoed around him, pauses filling the parts his memories had erased. It all came back to him.
“I can move freely between dreams outside of the Matrix because I’m dead. But you’re still alive… you have to die, Doctor.”
He remembered his own words, and spoke them softly again, trying to calm himself.
“We live, as we dream…”
There was another swirling sound, this one building up to a crescendo. It was like a gust of wind, but played back in reverse. It reminded him of the numerous airlocks he had been thrown out of; that sound they made as they swung open and he blasted out.
“A-“
The Doctor turned around straight away as he found himself in the underpass; a woman’s shadow passed along the wall, and the sound of her rapid footsteps almost convinced him to follow.
This place was the most real: there were no patches missing, and both the walls and floor had depth. He ran his hand along it; his senses were working on full capacity, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps he had woken up.
The woman moved past him, and hit a wall. On the wall was a door: clean and white, like a hotel-room door. She tried the doorknob, but it refused to open. She turned around, and the Doctor gasped.
“Autumn?”
Autumn Rivers looked on straight past the Doctor, her face bearing an expression of unadulterated terror like he had never seen from her before. Within a few seconds, a voice, indistinct with seemingly no discernible qualities, thundered from around them. It had no direction, but Autumn seemed to think it was coming from where the Doctor was standing.
“Have you ever heard it said,” spoke the voice, “that death is a door? Well it’s true. Everyone knows. That fact was written into your souls from the day you were born. Would you like to know the big secret?” Autumn looked on, unresponsive, but the Doctor sensed that she had most definitely heard the voice too. “You don’t have the key,” it continued, cruelly. “None of you will ever make it to the door. You were never meant for eternity. Your lives aren’t just fleeting… they’re insignificant.” The boom started to become not just an amplified voice, but a roar. It took on discernible qualities: deep, unnatural, toneless. “You mean nothing, Autumn Rivers. You are so tiny to the universe. Now it’s time it swallows you up.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Autumn. It felt like years since the Doctor had heard her voice.
“Option three.”
The words meant nothing to the Doctor, but he had clearly missed an important definition: after taking a moment to process them herself, Autumn’s breathing began to accelerate, and her eyes widened in terror. He was sure he could feel her heartbeat, like the constant beat of a song being played out from another room.
“No,” panted Autumn. “No, please don’t! No… NO!”
The Doctor swung out of the way, feeling something burning against his heel. Behind him, a fire had started. It was surrounding him, but even worse than that, it was getting closer to Autumn. She turned and used the last of her strength to bang furiously on the door.
“HELP ME!” she screamed. “SOMEONE HELP ME! OH GOD, SOMEONE-“
The fire was moving closer now, rising up in height as it went, only a few inches from Autumn.
“THERE’S A FIRE, I’M GOING TO –AARRGHH!” The fire reached her, and the Doctor felt a stabbing pain inside of him as he watched it latch on, beginning to spread and burn. The fire was surrounding him too, but he hardly felt it; his body numbed those senses in deference of a more intense pain from somewhere else. “HELP ME!” Autumn’s form began to disintegrate; her legs turning to dust in front of him.
“I should have saved you!” cried the Doctor, a tear rolling down his cheek. It was a cliché, but the dream was telling him what he already knew he was feeling. “I’m sorry… I let you down, and I should have saved you…”
“HELP ME!” cried Autumn, as the fire continued to engulf her. The Doctor stopped, and the world seemed to slow down at his command.
No… He clenched his fists, estimating the distance to the door and the damage it would do him. I can save you.
“Dead already,” he whispered to himself, an unsatisfying attempt at reassurance, and charged for the door.
“SOMEONE, PLEASE, H-“
As he reached out and touched it, it opened straight away, and a light came flooding in. Autumn rushed through, and the door closed behind her. He never got to have a last look at her face, and something deep inside told him that this was a door that would never be opening again.
***
For a short period, London was empty. Soon, the reconstruction team moved in. Essential services were re-established, and essential staff returned. Others stayed outside the city, filling up commuter towns. Some camped, others found temporary accommodation.
The system worked to an extent, but the economic weight was a major bearing on each process. No one had the money to pay for accommodation, and no hotel owners had the money to let them stay for free. The government had no money in general, though the rest of the western world lent a helping hand. The rest of the country plunged into a depression. The Scottish were particularly disheartened, and the Daily Mail continued to blame immigration.
Robin Moon and Tommy Lindsay both stayed in touch with the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, and at the earliest signs of other services returning to the city, Robin formulated an idea. The Doctor, she recalled, had been a legend within Coal Hill School, and it was the school that had erected a tribute to him on Primrose Hill. Coal Hill was already beginning reconstruction, using funds the school had kept over the years during fundraising projects (it had planned to add a sixth form college; now simply a school seemed like a luxury). Robin suggested, now the city was safe, that the students of Coal Hill be the first to return to central London, to hold an assembly and a series of lessons in the middle of what was left of Leicester Square.
After a number of phone-calls, and an assault of sarcasm and wit on Robin, Colonel Ward eventually approved the plans, deciding that ‘the country could benefit from a bit of good will, like seeing a bunch of spotty teens in hoodies congregating around the ashes of a major landmark’. Robin rolled her eyes and wrote a grateful response. The press soon saw the potential in the story. The Guardian spoke of how the renowned blogger and activist Tommy Lindsay would be speaking in the assembly, the Sun remarked on how several B-list celebrities had studied at the school, and the Daily Mail cited the fact that 56% of students came from immigrant backgrounds, before going on to praise a BBC documentary about the Queen, who was currently living in a mansion in the countryside.
The assembly became a major cultural event, and Chris agreed to make it open not just to the Coal Hill students, but to any and all young people who were willing to listen. Large swathes of under-18s from all across the country came to see the city and hear what would be said.
A shower undercut the first fifteen minutes; unsurprisingly, none of the students had brought umbrellas, but approximately half were wearing hoodies and made the sensible, albeit predictable decision to wear them up through the assembly. After the first fifteen minutes the rain stopped, and though the sun came out, the other speakers were still all photographed with wet hair. Forty-five minutes in, Tommy Lindsay stepped up onto the stage, wearing simply a t-shirt and jeans.
“When the fires started,” he began, “I had the news delivered to me very suddenly. I was right in Central London at the time. We all know how quickly they spread – and I think we all know that the country turned to panic because one of the first sites destroyed were the Houses of Parliament. They’ve already released plans to reconstruct the Houses of Parliament, and even, would you believe it, Buckingham Palace. Generally the plans involve the words ‘heritage’, ‘values’, ‘tradition’, and ‘authority’. That’s funny. I’d show you all the homeless statistics right now, but I think you can make a reasonable enough guess. I’m not saying we could fit all the homeless people into Buckingham Palace, but we could certainly fit a few.” He paused, not wanting to go on too much of a tangent. “They say the Queen’s living in a mansion in the country. They also say she’s done her bit because she did a speech about how amazing Britain is. My biggest question right now is why she’s not putting refugees from the burning city up in her Games Room, or her third living room, or, you know, in the scullery.” There was a bit of laughter, but more overwhelmingly, murmurs of approval.
“Right now,” he continued, “the gap between the bottom and the top has never been greater, and it’s never been a harder climb. But fifty, sixty years down the line… no, not even that; twenty, thirty years down the line, they won’t be the people getting a say on how the world works, you will.” Tommy pointed to his audience, though there was nowhere else he could point; they continued as far as the eye could see. “Statistically, at least, several hundred of you will be working within politics. My question is, will you let what happened here, today, change you? Will you remember the people at the bottom when you’ve reached the top? Or will you fix it by simply taking that gap out altogether? Mr McKnight, the headmaster of Coal Hill School, asked me to come in today.” Tommy gave Chris and Robin a friendly wave. “He asked me to do a talk on politics, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve heard people say before that politics is for rich old men and people born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Well look around you.” Tommy gestured to the remains of Central London. “There aren’t many silver spoons left. If you’re interested, and if you want to change the world, politics is for you.”
***
The Doctor dragged himself along the rocks. The rocky surface of this world cut deep into his skin as he moved over it, but any attempt to stand up seemed to make the entire planet judder, and he was thrown back down into the rocks. Behind him, the creatures followed; the more he tired, the faster they seemed to move. He didn’t know what they looked like. But he knew what they could do.
On the fifth nightmare, the Doctor lost track of whose dreams he was in. He figured he had first entered his companions’ because of their strong connection, but he must have simply passed into the wider, more tangled world of dreams, becoming lost in the streets of other people’s darkest fears. The world of dreams had no shape, but the Doctor suspected, symbolically, that it was not unlike the Earth: a place where, if you continued long enough, you would simply find yourself back where you started, and where the only escape involved a means of transport he did not possess.
How long am I going to have to stay here? He stopped on the rock and let the creatures consume him – it would only take him quicker to the next dream. How long before I just fade away?
***
“Abstract art.”
Sasha pulled her trailing scarf tighter as she noticed the chill. The rules stated that students in lessons must have no other layers over their shirts and blazers, but she allowed hers to keep their coats on. The art rooms were always cold, and even when she got in, it took several hours for her hands to properly warm up.
“What can you tell me about abstract art?”
She tried not to feel too cynical about her Year 9 class. She counted three students who were swinging back on chairs, and gave them a look rather than wasting her time on a spoken instruction. They stopped. Sasha hated spoiling people’s fun, but a fall back on a chair the height of those in the art room could cause fatal damage.
Another two at the back of the classroom were looking under the desk and laughing. Unless they were doing something deeply inappropriate for a pair of Year 9s, it was safe to assume that they were on their phones, so Sasha reluctantly trudged over to them and held out her hand; another visual cue students understood without the aid of the spoken word. The boy on the left sighed, yawned, and handed his phone over, all without the courtesy of looking Sasha in the eye. She returned to the front of the class, keen to carry on the lesson for the students patiently waiting to give their input.
“Yes, Juliet.”
“Is it art that’s in black and white?”
“Good guess!” said Sasha, trying to keep her optimistic voice up. “But can anyone tell me what we call art that’s in black and white?”
“Ooh! Ooh!” A hand at the back of the class shot up. The rest of the Year 9s, who had left that habit behind in primary school, sniggered meanly.
“Yes, Josh.”
“Monochrome!”
“That is the right answer!” Sasha chucked the board pen in the air. It did a full turn, then landed perfectly in her hand. “Anyone else have any guesses for what abstract art might mean?” She scanned the class, looking not for vulnerable students to pry on, but for those who she sensed secretly had input that they were just a little too nervous to share. “William!” The boy looked up. “What do you think?”
“Um…” William folded the corner of his book. “Is it… like… when you’ve got a painting that doesn’t really look like what it’s a painting of?”
Sasha processed the explanation. “Yes, sort of. Basically, abstract art is-“
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Through the glass she saw one of the office ladies – relatively new, replacing a beloved member of staff who died in the fires – and nodded for her to come in.
“Mrs Ramachandran,” she began, having already picked up the office lady voice. “There’s a call for you.” She held up a telephone, which she must have brought up from the office.
“Is it urgent?” Sasha gestured to her Year 9 class, a disaster waiting to happen if she stepped one foot out of the classroom.
“Yes. We’ve booked cover for the rest of your day. Mr Watson will take over this lesson.” She handed over the phone and Sasha stepped out of the classroom, waving her Year 9s off. Already she could hear a group of boys play-fighting at the back of the room, and – though it might have been her imagination – the display board crashing down. Mr Watson was clearly about to have a lovely afternoon.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” Sasha froze as she recognised the voice. There was only one reason her mother would call her during the day. “Sasha, it’s your mother. Can we meet?”
Sasha felt a sudden pang of despair; a feeling which made her Year 9 class cynicism seem almost uplifting. It was as if something had been taken from her, and she had found it broken on the floor.
“When did it happen?”
***
“Your aunt has called already. She said she will come over for the funeral.”
Sasha’s mother sat clutching a glass of water, as her eyes, which were underlined by dark rings, darted around Sasha’s kitchen. She had only been home a week, and was as taken in by her old home as Sasha had been. Sasha wondered if her mother had the same experience of finding it all changed. She had often suspected that things did not change in the minds of adults; that they remained the same as adults had stopped growing, but reminded herself that adults grew more cynical, and wondered whether places instead simply seemed worse than what they remembered.
“Sasha… tell me. Do you still believe?”
Sasha zoned back in. She was a mess, and her head was still caught up in a lesson about abstract art. She checked her watch – it would have finished an hour ago.
“If you mean am I still a Buddhist,” Sasha answered calmly, “then yes. I still believe that my father will be reborn, for a while at least. So in a way, no, I don’t believe he’s dead. But I’ve still lost my father, and I’ll never see him again. That’s still difficult for me. And to believe that he will be reborn, I have to let go of the idea that he was ever really a single person at all. You taught me that, mother - that the self is an illusion and relinquishing that illusion is the only true enlightenment. Rebirth is just... his way of acting in the world after the death of the body. His karmic effect. And I can prove that much.”
“Sometimes I think I do not believe any more,” mused her mother, taking a swig of her drink. “The things we are told… why do we have to believe them?”
“We don’t,” Sasha pointed out. Her mother had no response to that one. Sasha smiled; the last thing she wanted was passive aggression only hours after her father’s death. “If it’s any consolation, I think he passed on a long time ago. During the fires, I lost him for a while, because I was caught up in London. I found out where they’d taken the patients, and when I caught up it was like something had gone. Like a light had gone out. I carried on sitting by his bedside and talking to him, but I didn’t feel like he was listening, or like he even could listen.”
“Maybe he was dreaming,” suggested Sasha’s mum.
“Maybe.” Sasha rubbed her head, and stood up to pour herself a glass of water. “I’m tired, and I’ve got an awful migraine. Mind if I go upstairs for a nap?”
“That’s fine.” Sasha’s mother stood up and poured the rest of her water down the sink. “I’ve got to go and see a few people anyway.”
***
Sasha climbed out of bed, rubbing her eyes, and knocking the glass on her bedside table over just as she always did. She sighed, and when she looked back, the glass was gone and the floor was dry.
She stood up without difficulty; her form was weightless. A poet may have employed the expression ‘light as a feather’, though that somewhat misunderstood Sasha’s experience. Weight, within this world, was so foreign a concept as to be inconceivable. Her senses picked up what they needed to, and her mind stifled their curiosity. She did not need to reach out and touch; the texture was built into her, and with one passing thought she could access it.
The floorboards creaked under her feet; each one at the same volume, the same pitch, the same duration and the same exact sound, like a sound effect repeated over and over again on a low-budget horror movie.
But there was no horror: this was her home. The floorboards creaked, but not as a structural threat; it was their way of greeting her. A grown woman now, she noticed how they communicated with her like children; particularly in their ability to express themselves only through way of speaking rather than what was being spoken. She assured herself that however bad things got, at least she would never be a floorboard.
She was in the hallway now. It was as it always was, but her mind was a slow artist, and there were patches, glitches, in the reality around her; block colours floating uneasily in the corner of her eye like melted wax in a lava lamp. In front of her, perfectly-formed, was another wooden staircase leading up to the next floor.
This was when Sasha always registered that she was in a dream. In real life, there was no staircase; just another room – an empty bedroom. Yet in her mind, however hard she tried to see through it, the staircase remained rooted to its spot, the one part of the illusion which did not seem to be floating or transient. She was compelled to climb it.
The staircase took her to an attic; an amalgamation of every attic she had ever seen half-watching television or searching for a new house in the property pages of the newspaper, those pictures still so fascinating…
The pictures. All of them here. Everything she had ever loved, selected and organised into an ordered arrangement. Every toy she ever cherished as a child, lined up against the walls, colours over-saturated. Her favourite song she had ever heard, echoing around the room. She looked up. She had to duck for the ceiling; an impractical construction for an adult. This was a child’s room in a sense that no child’s room could ever quite commit to.
And at the end of the room, a door. Sasha came to the door, for the first time hesitantly. One small push and it would swing open; all of a sudden the world would become bigger than her. A new world, that was: she would fall out of the one she knew, into a distorted reflection.
Distortion carries beauty of its own. Sasha considered those words, surprisingly lucidly, as she returned to the door this final time. Each encounter blended into the next, and the passage of time was untraceable whenever she entered the dream. Distortion is just a kind of whimsy. Our ordinary selves, reflected into something wondrous.
She puzzled over that sentiment. The words did not seem to be her own.
After some deliberation, she pushed the door open, and it disappeared to the touch, the room behind her also fading out of view. She was in a new place now: a world bigger than her own. Plants stretched tall and twisting; giant beanstalks indicating something stranger up above. The grass reached higher, drops of morning dew even touching her knees. The sky was cloudless and blue, and her mind generated an almost psychedelic soundscape of incomprehensible yet satisfying sounds, forming a rhythm within themselves.
“I just want to stay here.”
As she spoke, Sasha shuddered. The words leaving her mouth took form: she had made an imprint on this world. She was audible; tangible.
Vulnerable.
Ahead of her, another form shifted, but too directed to be a glitch. The absence of meaning took shape, like a silhouette. It was a man: taller than her; and symmetrical, perhaps. Or, at least, it was the shape of a man: the impression he cast over this world was nothing like the impression any man would ever be capable of making.
It was always him.
“Who are you?” asked Sasha.
The thing looked back at her.
“What do you want?”
She tried to focus on it, but her eyes were drawn off it. As she felt herself waking up again, she continued to yawn, continued to grip the world around her in order to remain a part of it.
“I am calm. I am always calm, and I always have been, and I have had to be calm through a lot, so the least I am entitled to is to see your face!” Sasha realised she had raised her voice. That was a strange feeling. She wondered whether it sounded like that in real life: slower, more emotive, less constant.
She managed to focus on the spot it stood, but again, the silhouette seemed blurred.
“You’ve always scared me, you always terrified me, but you don’t anymore. I’m not scared. If you want to talk, if you want to show yourself…” she lowered her voice again. “I’m not scared anymore.”
It stepped forward. Sasha nearly stepped back, a part of her still reacting as the child she once was, still wanting to shut it out and pretend it was a part of another world. Instead, she forced herself to step forward, towards it, and held her hand out to its chest.
It had a heartbeat.
She watched as a series of waves emanated from her hand, running over the body as if it was made of a sort of gravity-defying substance that she had just dropped a rock into. But as the waves parted, what they left behind was something else: something with form, with colour, with texture.
They left behind a man.
“You. It was… you.” Sasha kept her hand held on his chest. It had been his heart beating. “For all those years. You were my Sleepwalker?”
“It seems I was.” The Doctor looked down at her, as calm and relieved as she was. “Hello again, Sasha.”
Sasha woke up, just as she always did, but as she stretched out her arms she did not knock over her glass of water. She sat up, confused, so used to her mistake, and noticed the glass of water was gone: the Doctor had lifted it just in time, and was stood over her.
Alive.
***
“I was trapped in the world of dreams,” explained the Doctor, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Different cereals, that was – he mixed all five Sasha had stored in her larder, giving each a quick sniff before adding it to the pile. “Not a very nice place. I didn’t have a physical form, but you, in this house, managed to bring me back. I’m not sure how. It would have taken immense power…” he put all the boxes back in the larder, including the empty ones. “Your house is on a rift between the worlds – hence you always having strange dreams – so that would have helped. Something must have strengthened the connection this time. Strong emotions probably. Had any good news, or any recent traumas…?”
Sasha was thankful the Doctor was too busy making his makeshift breakfast to look her in the eye. “No.”
The Doctor sat down.
“Something else,” started Sasha. “I saw that Sleepwalker in my dream ever since I was a kid. That figure, I mean, the one that turned out to be you. Did you spend my whole life waiting for the right moment?”
“Time is relative,” the Doctor half-explained. “It was your whole life, but on that plane, it wasn’t as long for me. Time travel’s always been possible in dreams. Not always, but where you are, sitting on a Dream Hub? Your head is a TARDIS.”
Sasha smiled, and then the inevitable scrutiny came. “Dream Hub?” She stared out of the window. It was getting dark already, the sun setting as the Doctor ate his breakfast, and the solar-powered lights in her garden were beginning to flicker on, blinking uncertainly as they struggled to tell whether the sun was coming or going. She must have been asleep for longer than she thought. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”
“I did a bit,” admitted the Doctor. They sat in silence for a minute as Sasha racked up the courage to say what she had wanted to say for the whole conversation.
“Doctor, I…” Sasha swallowed, but tried not to let the words slip down her throat too. “I think I might be Autumn Rivers.”
The Doctor rested his spoon gently in the bowl, and turned to Sasha without even seeming remotely surprised.
“What made you realise?”
“Because I care about you, Doctor.” Sasha rested her hand on his. He was still cold. “Because when you died, a part of me never quite accepted it. Because I accepted everything you told me without question, and because it was me who was able to do this. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m Autumn.”
The Doctor smiled sadly.
“No.”
“But you said,” insisted Sasha, “you said she’d been reincarnated. And I have memories that I can’t explain.”
“You have dreams, Sasha, and that’s all they are.” The Doctor shook his head. “I’ll tell you what you are, Sasha. You’re just a good person.” He squeezed her hand as his own started to get warmer. “You care about me because you care about people, because that’s just who you are. When I died, you didn’t accept it because when everyone else had given up, you were calm and you were patient, you had hope, and you dared to believe in the impossible. And you accept everything I told you without question because in your mind, in the logic of the dreams you’ve grown up around, it just makes sense. You saved me because you were strong.” He let go of Sasha’s hand and picked up his spoon again, using it briefly to gesture. “Saying you’re my reincarnated friend would just be an insult. It would take away from who you are, from the fact that what you did, you did because you are you.” With that, he returned to eating his cereal.
“Okay. Point taken…” Sasha stretched out her fingers, accidentally making them crack. She winced. “So what did happen to Autumn? Did you ever find out?”
“She died,” was the Doctor’s cold, simple response, as he carried on shovelling a selection of manufactured breakfasts down his gullet.
“She was reborn.”
“Yes, and then she died. Ectopic pregnancy, so the Master says. I wondered if she was lying, but… if Autumn was alive out there somewhere, I’d know about it, and I know what God’s like. He’s a game-player. It’s the kind of thing only he would be cruel enough to do.”
“Yes,” said Sasha, placing quiet emphasis on her words. “She was reincarnated, and she died. But why can’t she have been reborn again?”
“Hope is a dangerous thing,” said the Doctor, and Sasha wondered if he was quoting someone. “Were it not, I would very much, just as you are, be inclined to believe.” He stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair. “Sasha Ramachandran, thank you for being wonderful. It’s been a privilege. Have a great life.”
“You too.” Sasha smiled warmly and shook the Doctor’s hand. “Where are you going?”
“To see an old friend. I think you know which one.”
Primrose Hill
The Doctor stopped on his way to the house. Just outside, overlooking the hill, was what appeared to be a small shrine: a model of some sort, now unrecognisable, covered in photographs, drawings, sculptures, even short books. All…
All of me.
He felt a lump in his throat, and went to pick one up, before hesitating. He wondered who had started this; who had decided to lay the first stone, and why they had decided to lay it here. Realising he was becoming distracted, he turned away, touched, and knocked on the door to Robin’s house. As he waited a while for an answer, he realised he should have checked the time before he arrived. It was night, but he didn’t know what time it actually was, what day of the week it was, or even what month it was.
Chris answered the door, and froze still as his eyes fell upon the Doctor.
“You…”
“…are back from the dead, and have come to visit my best friend?” interjected the Doctor, rushing the introductions. “Yes, well-guessed, Scottish Moon, and it’s good to see the family going nice and strong. Where is she? Eating sweets? Lying flat and complaining a lot?”
“Shh!” growled Chris, and the Doctor suddenly felt like a pupil again. “We’ve just got him to sleep. Come in, but quietly.”
The Doctor held his hands up in mock surrender, and entered the hall quietly, shutting the door very slowly behind him. As he entered the living room, Robin McKnight looked up at him, at once more shocked, terrified and relieved than he had ever seen her, but still maintaining her vow of silence – and the Doctor understood why.
In her arms, and held to her like the most prized possession in the universe, was a baby; a child wrapped in a blanket, and swaying gently in its sleep, its little fingers curling and uncurling unconsciously, still adjusting to the big and strange world around it. A boy, the Doctor guessed, though Robin’s blanket was a gender-neutral white.
“You’re alive,” uttered Robin. “How…”
“Sasha,” acknowledged the Doctor. “You can thank her later.”
“She’s a superb teacher,” murmured Chris, adding to the character appraisal. “That’s why we give her Year 9.”
“Poor woman,” muttered the Doctor, and turned back to Robin’s baby. He approached timidly, a little terrified of that small, precious thing in her arms. “What’s his name?”
“What do you think?” asked Robin.
“Scottish Half-Moon?”
Robin rolled her eyes. “We called him Gabriel.”
The Doctor crouched down, feeling a tear in his eye. It was good to be feeling real things in the real world again. It was good to have a body. It was good to cry.
“Hello Gabriel,” he whispered, letting the baby grip onto his finger as it drifted in and out of sleep. “I’m…”
“Your godfather,” decided Robin. “Or whatever they have instead on Gallifrey.”
“Uncle Doctor.” Chris chuckled to himself.
“Don’t worry about Gallifrey,” said the Doctor, dismissing the subject as quickly as he could. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be for this little human… whatever you need, I swear.” Robin had rarely seen the Doctor so sentimental, but it was short-lived. His attention was drawn to something on the dining room table. Robin carefully rested Gabriel in his cot, and headed over to see what had diverted the Doctor so suddenly.
“What is it?” he asked.
Robin followed the direction of the Doctor’s eyes, then seeing nothing, looked back at him. “What is what?”
Interesting. The Doctor smiled the smile Robin was used to: the one where he realised that the Time Lord understood something the human didn’t. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and buzzed it at the table. “Look again.”
Robin did as instructed, and instantly saw what the Doctor was looking at. The large metal box, with the letters GENIE embossed over the top, was exactly where had been all those months ago – where it had not even moved from in all that time.
“How…?” stammered Chris.
“Perceptions filter,” explained the Doctor, “so try not to feel stupid.”
Gabriel was beginning to wake up, and starting to cry. Robin rushed over to him and carried him over, taking a seat at the dining room table.
“Seen it before?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, on the day…” Robin seemed so shocked that Chris had to make sure she was not about to drop Gabriel on the floor.
“On what day?”
“On the day before I fell pregnant,” uttered Robin. “I sat at this table and cried, and I…”
“Wished!” blurted out Chris. “You wished you were pregnant!”
“I did!” Robin’s eyes almost left their sockets. “Do you think…?”
“Try it again,” suggested the Doctor. “Make a wish. Bear in mind, it’s a Genie, so you’ll probably only get three. Make it a good one.”
“Okay then, I will.” Robin looked down at Gabriel, who was already becoming quieter in his mother’s arms. “I wish you are loved.” The Doctor quickly realised she was addressing her son. “I wish that you are loved for the rest of your life, and that you will always feel loved, and that you will never feel alone.” She held him up and kissed him on the forehead. His arms waved excitedly, and Chris and the Doctor chuckled. Robin turned back to the Doctor. “I told you back in the cell all those months ago that I was worried about looking into his eyes and seeing my Tommy. The moment he was born, Doctor, I saw what I was always going to see: a new and beautiful child. So tell me, without word of a lie, was my wish granted?”
The Doctor scanned the box with his sonic screwdriver. This time it was his turn to be surprised. “I’m detecting a surge of energy like… like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” He put the screwdriver away, and gave it some thought, pacing around the room. “One more wish, Robin, let’s give it a-“
He stopped, on the boundary between the kitchen and dining room, and took a deep breath.
“What is it? Doctor?”
The Doctor looked at Robin, not evading eye contact like he usually did when he realised something cataclysmic, but keeping up his usual habit of saying nothing.
“Doctor?”
“One wish, Robin. Anything. Yes, you can.”
“What?” Robin turned to Chris in the hope that he would share her confusion, but he staggered backwards, realising already what the Doctor was implying. The Doctor stepped forward and placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders.
“I know what you’re thinking. You can wish for anything you want, and I’m telling you that you can wish for that. You can bring him back.”
Robin covered her mouth. They were the five words she had spent the last six-or-so years of her life longing to hear.
“You have been the best friend I’ve ever had, Robin, believe me. Regardless of anything I’ve done or said. You have sacrificed everything, and you’ve lost too much, and without you I wouldn’t even be here. Someone left you that Genie and they left it for you. I don’t give a damn about the consequences.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Please, Robin. Have this one on me.”
“Okay.” Robin smiled and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks; an image the Doctor mirrored as well. “Thank you, Doctor. If you’re saying I can wish for the impossible, that I can bring back the dead, then I will take that opportunity. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
The Doctor stepped back.
“I wish…” began Robin, choking.
Should I? Robin thought to herself. Do I have the right?
“Yes,” whispered Chris. Robin realised she had said it out loud.
“Okay then.” Robin took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I wish for the Doctor to be reunited with Autumn Rivers.”
“Very-“
The Doctor stopped, realising what Robin had said, and stepped forward again. All his monologues disappeared, and he was left a stammering wreck. “Robin, I-… y-… I don’t…”
“You’re right, Doctor, I experienced loss. I experienced the worst thing anyone can ever feel, and I experienced it alone. I don’t want you to ever have to experience that.”
“Thank you,” uttered the Doctor, and stood awkwardly in the middle of Robin’s living room.
What happens now?
The Doctor looked down at the carpet. It was a square pattern. He circled it a couple of times.
There was nothing left to say to Robin; nothing that she didn’t already know. It felt good to finally repeat “Thank you” rather than “Sorry”, to finally be repressing tears of happiness rather than joy. A cynical part of the Doctor still wondered whether it would really happen – whether two miracles on Primrose Hill would just be too many.
The phone rang. The Doctor stayed politely in the centre of the room.
“It’s fine,” said Robin, sensing his unease. “You can answer it.”
No… He looked closer. It was a hill, and not just any hill: Primrose Hill, and not as he had left it. There were no signs of a fire, but perhaps more alarmingly, no Shard to be seen piercing the clouds and reflecting the city back off it. London of the past.
“And I told him you might as well sack me…”
The Doctor turned towards the sound; the voice of a man in his thirties, and the sound of glasses of champagne clinking. Behind him, a man he recognised from some old photos sat on a picnic blanket, sharing a radiant sunset with Robin Moon.
“…because I’d rather go back to working for that old hag of a salon manager than be more than a second late home through my wife’s door.”
“So he did?” asked Robin. The Doctor noticed how much younger Robin sounded. Her voice was brighter and more optimistic; or for the cynical listener, it was more careless, going ahead and making sounds without thinking through what their meaning was. He tried to recall the man’s name… Harry? Either way, this was Robin in the days before he knew her.
I’ve travelled in time, but without my TARDIS. The Doctor shivered at that prospect, then quickly found a thought to calm him. But at least I’m not on Gallifrey.
“So he didn’t!” chuckled Harry. Neither of them seemed able to see the Doctor. “They wouldn’t lose me, I keep everyone else in order.”
“That’s…” Robin seemed to stumble over her words, confused, then looked strangely at Harry, her hands playing with the grass, as if they were looking for something between the blades. “I’m dreaming.”
“Another glass?” offered Harry.
The Doctor looked around, and his hearts stopped. She was right. The past was a place full of different sounds and smells, but this place was silent, animated by GCSE-level description: a few tweeting birds, a sunset, a city, and a hill. But the grass had no smell, and no sounds came from the city ahead; the colours of the sunset were too well-defined, like a first attempt at painting them.
And there were patches: blobs where the world seemed to blur, like lumps of some floating material, patches of canvas not quite filled in. The Doctor tried to track them as they moved, and realised what was moving them: Robin. Whichever direction she looked, they vacated, as if she were the one painting this world. Anything outside of her field of vision ceased to exist. Even Harry began to blur as she looked away from him.
She’s right, thought the Doctor. It’s her dream.
“I-“
Robin seemed distracted, and another sound began to take over; a more realistic sound, with subtle inflections that distinguished it from the artificial birdsong. Snapping wood, falling dust…
“What is it?” asked Robin, almost looking at the Doctor. “What’s-“
Suddenly, she was whisked away by what looked like a wisp of smoke. The sunset colours of the sky began to bleed onto the horizon, reds running down high-rise buildings like blood down a wounded leg; and like a limb, they swayed uncertainly, until the colours lost their transparency and the Doctor was trapped, spinning, inside a swirling void, fragments of London breaking into even smaller fragments all around him.
The Master’s words echoed around him, pauses filling the parts his memories had erased. It all came back to him.
“I can move freely between dreams outside of the Matrix because I’m dead. But you’re still alive… you have to die, Doctor.”
He remembered his own words, and spoke them softly again, trying to calm himself.
“We live, as we dream…”
There was another swirling sound, this one building up to a crescendo. It was like a gust of wind, but played back in reverse. It reminded him of the numerous airlocks he had been thrown out of; that sound they made as they swung open and he blasted out.
“A-“
The Doctor turned around straight away as he found himself in the underpass; a woman’s shadow passed along the wall, and the sound of her rapid footsteps almost convinced him to follow.
This place was the most real: there were no patches missing, and both the walls and floor had depth. He ran his hand along it; his senses were working on full capacity, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps he had woken up.
The woman moved past him, and hit a wall. On the wall was a door: clean and white, like a hotel-room door. She tried the doorknob, but it refused to open. She turned around, and the Doctor gasped.
“Autumn?”
Autumn Rivers looked on straight past the Doctor, her face bearing an expression of unadulterated terror like he had never seen from her before. Within a few seconds, a voice, indistinct with seemingly no discernible qualities, thundered from around them. It had no direction, but Autumn seemed to think it was coming from where the Doctor was standing.
“Have you ever heard it said,” spoke the voice, “that death is a door? Well it’s true. Everyone knows. That fact was written into your souls from the day you were born. Would you like to know the big secret?” Autumn looked on, unresponsive, but the Doctor sensed that she had most definitely heard the voice too. “You don’t have the key,” it continued, cruelly. “None of you will ever make it to the door. You were never meant for eternity. Your lives aren’t just fleeting… they’re insignificant.” The boom started to become not just an amplified voice, but a roar. It took on discernible qualities: deep, unnatural, toneless. “You mean nothing, Autumn Rivers. You are so tiny to the universe. Now it’s time it swallows you up.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Autumn. It felt like years since the Doctor had heard her voice.
“Option three.”
The words meant nothing to the Doctor, but he had clearly missed an important definition: after taking a moment to process them herself, Autumn’s breathing began to accelerate, and her eyes widened in terror. He was sure he could feel her heartbeat, like the constant beat of a song being played out from another room.
“No,” panted Autumn. “No, please don’t! No… NO!”
The Doctor swung out of the way, feeling something burning against his heel. Behind him, a fire had started. It was surrounding him, but even worse than that, it was getting closer to Autumn. She turned and used the last of her strength to bang furiously on the door.
“HELP ME!” she screamed. “SOMEONE HELP ME! OH GOD, SOMEONE-“
The fire was moving closer now, rising up in height as it went, only a few inches from Autumn.
“THERE’S A FIRE, I’M GOING TO –AARRGHH!” The fire reached her, and the Doctor felt a stabbing pain inside of him as he watched it latch on, beginning to spread and burn. The fire was surrounding him too, but he hardly felt it; his body numbed those senses in deference of a more intense pain from somewhere else. “HELP ME!” Autumn’s form began to disintegrate; her legs turning to dust in front of him.
“I should have saved you!” cried the Doctor, a tear rolling down his cheek. It was a cliché, but the dream was telling him what he already knew he was feeling. “I’m sorry… I let you down, and I should have saved you…”
“HELP ME!” cried Autumn, as the fire continued to engulf her. The Doctor stopped, and the world seemed to slow down at his command.
No… He clenched his fists, estimating the distance to the door and the damage it would do him. I can save you.
“Dead already,” he whispered to himself, an unsatisfying attempt at reassurance, and charged for the door.
“SOMEONE, PLEASE, H-“
As he reached out and touched it, it opened straight away, and a light came flooding in. Autumn rushed through, and the door closed behind her. He never got to have a last look at her face, and something deep inside told him that this was a door that would never be opening again.
***
For a short period, London was empty. Soon, the reconstruction team moved in. Essential services were re-established, and essential staff returned. Others stayed outside the city, filling up commuter towns. Some camped, others found temporary accommodation.
The system worked to an extent, but the economic weight was a major bearing on each process. No one had the money to pay for accommodation, and no hotel owners had the money to let them stay for free. The government had no money in general, though the rest of the western world lent a helping hand. The rest of the country plunged into a depression. The Scottish were particularly disheartened, and the Daily Mail continued to blame immigration.
Robin Moon and Tommy Lindsay both stayed in touch with the Unified Intelligence Taskforce, and at the earliest signs of other services returning to the city, Robin formulated an idea. The Doctor, she recalled, had been a legend within Coal Hill School, and it was the school that had erected a tribute to him on Primrose Hill. Coal Hill was already beginning reconstruction, using funds the school had kept over the years during fundraising projects (it had planned to add a sixth form college; now simply a school seemed like a luxury). Robin suggested, now the city was safe, that the students of Coal Hill be the first to return to central London, to hold an assembly and a series of lessons in the middle of what was left of Leicester Square.
After a number of phone-calls, and an assault of sarcasm and wit on Robin, Colonel Ward eventually approved the plans, deciding that ‘the country could benefit from a bit of good will, like seeing a bunch of spotty teens in hoodies congregating around the ashes of a major landmark’. Robin rolled her eyes and wrote a grateful response. The press soon saw the potential in the story. The Guardian spoke of how the renowned blogger and activist Tommy Lindsay would be speaking in the assembly, the Sun remarked on how several B-list celebrities had studied at the school, and the Daily Mail cited the fact that 56% of students came from immigrant backgrounds, before going on to praise a BBC documentary about the Queen, who was currently living in a mansion in the countryside.
The assembly became a major cultural event, and Chris agreed to make it open not just to the Coal Hill students, but to any and all young people who were willing to listen. Large swathes of under-18s from all across the country came to see the city and hear what would be said.
A shower undercut the first fifteen minutes; unsurprisingly, none of the students had brought umbrellas, but approximately half were wearing hoodies and made the sensible, albeit predictable decision to wear them up through the assembly. After the first fifteen minutes the rain stopped, and though the sun came out, the other speakers were still all photographed with wet hair. Forty-five minutes in, Tommy Lindsay stepped up onto the stage, wearing simply a t-shirt and jeans.
“When the fires started,” he began, “I had the news delivered to me very suddenly. I was right in Central London at the time. We all know how quickly they spread – and I think we all know that the country turned to panic because one of the first sites destroyed were the Houses of Parliament. They’ve already released plans to reconstruct the Houses of Parliament, and even, would you believe it, Buckingham Palace. Generally the plans involve the words ‘heritage’, ‘values’, ‘tradition’, and ‘authority’. That’s funny. I’d show you all the homeless statistics right now, but I think you can make a reasonable enough guess. I’m not saying we could fit all the homeless people into Buckingham Palace, but we could certainly fit a few.” He paused, not wanting to go on too much of a tangent. “They say the Queen’s living in a mansion in the country. They also say she’s done her bit because she did a speech about how amazing Britain is. My biggest question right now is why she’s not putting refugees from the burning city up in her Games Room, or her third living room, or, you know, in the scullery.” There was a bit of laughter, but more overwhelmingly, murmurs of approval.
“Right now,” he continued, “the gap between the bottom and the top has never been greater, and it’s never been a harder climb. But fifty, sixty years down the line… no, not even that; twenty, thirty years down the line, they won’t be the people getting a say on how the world works, you will.” Tommy pointed to his audience, though there was nowhere else he could point; they continued as far as the eye could see. “Statistically, at least, several hundred of you will be working within politics. My question is, will you let what happened here, today, change you? Will you remember the people at the bottom when you’ve reached the top? Or will you fix it by simply taking that gap out altogether? Mr McKnight, the headmaster of Coal Hill School, asked me to come in today.” Tommy gave Chris and Robin a friendly wave. “He asked me to do a talk on politics, so that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve heard people say before that politics is for rich old men and people born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Well look around you.” Tommy gestured to the remains of Central London. “There aren’t many silver spoons left. If you’re interested, and if you want to change the world, politics is for you.”
***
The Doctor dragged himself along the rocks. The rocky surface of this world cut deep into his skin as he moved over it, but any attempt to stand up seemed to make the entire planet judder, and he was thrown back down into the rocks. Behind him, the creatures followed; the more he tired, the faster they seemed to move. He didn’t know what they looked like. But he knew what they could do.
On the fifth nightmare, the Doctor lost track of whose dreams he was in. He figured he had first entered his companions’ because of their strong connection, but he must have simply passed into the wider, more tangled world of dreams, becoming lost in the streets of other people’s darkest fears. The world of dreams had no shape, but the Doctor suspected, symbolically, that it was not unlike the Earth: a place where, if you continued long enough, you would simply find yourself back where you started, and where the only escape involved a means of transport he did not possess.
How long am I going to have to stay here? He stopped on the rock and let the creatures consume him – it would only take him quicker to the next dream. How long before I just fade away?
***
“Abstract art.”
Sasha pulled her trailing scarf tighter as she noticed the chill. The rules stated that students in lessons must have no other layers over their shirts and blazers, but she allowed hers to keep their coats on. The art rooms were always cold, and even when she got in, it took several hours for her hands to properly warm up.
“What can you tell me about abstract art?”
She tried not to feel too cynical about her Year 9 class. She counted three students who were swinging back on chairs, and gave them a look rather than wasting her time on a spoken instruction. They stopped. Sasha hated spoiling people’s fun, but a fall back on a chair the height of those in the art room could cause fatal damage.
Another two at the back of the classroom were looking under the desk and laughing. Unless they were doing something deeply inappropriate for a pair of Year 9s, it was safe to assume that they were on their phones, so Sasha reluctantly trudged over to them and held out her hand; another visual cue students understood without the aid of the spoken word. The boy on the left sighed, yawned, and handed his phone over, all without the courtesy of looking Sasha in the eye. She returned to the front of the class, keen to carry on the lesson for the students patiently waiting to give their input.
“Yes, Juliet.”
“Is it art that’s in black and white?”
“Good guess!” said Sasha, trying to keep her optimistic voice up. “But can anyone tell me what we call art that’s in black and white?”
“Ooh! Ooh!” A hand at the back of the class shot up. The rest of the Year 9s, who had left that habit behind in primary school, sniggered meanly.
“Yes, Josh.”
“Monochrome!”
“That is the right answer!” Sasha chucked the board pen in the air. It did a full turn, then landed perfectly in her hand. “Anyone else have any guesses for what abstract art might mean?” She scanned the class, looking not for vulnerable students to pry on, but for those who she sensed secretly had input that they were just a little too nervous to share. “William!” The boy looked up. “What do you think?”
“Um…” William folded the corner of his book. “Is it… like… when you’ve got a painting that doesn’t really look like what it’s a painting of?”
Sasha processed the explanation. “Yes, sort of. Basically, abstract art is-“
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Through the glass she saw one of the office ladies – relatively new, replacing a beloved member of staff who died in the fires – and nodded for her to come in.
“Mrs Ramachandran,” she began, having already picked up the office lady voice. “There’s a call for you.” She held up a telephone, which she must have brought up from the office.
“Is it urgent?” Sasha gestured to her Year 9 class, a disaster waiting to happen if she stepped one foot out of the classroom.
“Yes. We’ve booked cover for the rest of your day. Mr Watson will take over this lesson.” She handed over the phone and Sasha stepped out of the classroom, waving her Year 9s off. Already she could hear a group of boys play-fighting at the back of the room, and – though it might have been her imagination – the display board crashing down. Mr Watson was clearly about to have a lovely afternoon.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” Sasha froze as she recognised the voice. There was only one reason her mother would call her during the day. “Sasha, it’s your mother. Can we meet?”
Sasha felt a sudden pang of despair; a feeling which made her Year 9 class cynicism seem almost uplifting. It was as if something had been taken from her, and she had found it broken on the floor.
“When did it happen?”
***
“Your aunt has called already. She said she will come over for the funeral.”
Sasha’s mother sat clutching a glass of water, as her eyes, which were underlined by dark rings, darted around Sasha’s kitchen. She had only been home a week, and was as taken in by her old home as Sasha had been. Sasha wondered if her mother had the same experience of finding it all changed. She had often suspected that things did not change in the minds of adults; that they remained the same as adults had stopped growing, but reminded herself that adults grew more cynical, and wondered whether places instead simply seemed worse than what they remembered.
“Sasha… tell me. Do you still believe?”
Sasha zoned back in. She was a mess, and her head was still caught up in a lesson about abstract art. She checked her watch – it would have finished an hour ago.
“If you mean am I still a Buddhist,” Sasha answered calmly, “then yes. I still believe that my father will be reborn, for a while at least. So in a way, no, I don’t believe he’s dead. But I’ve still lost my father, and I’ll never see him again. That’s still difficult for me. And to believe that he will be reborn, I have to let go of the idea that he was ever really a single person at all. You taught me that, mother - that the self is an illusion and relinquishing that illusion is the only true enlightenment. Rebirth is just... his way of acting in the world after the death of the body. His karmic effect. And I can prove that much.”
“Sometimes I think I do not believe any more,” mused her mother, taking a swig of her drink. “The things we are told… why do we have to believe them?”
“We don’t,” Sasha pointed out. Her mother had no response to that one. Sasha smiled; the last thing she wanted was passive aggression only hours after her father’s death. “If it’s any consolation, I think he passed on a long time ago. During the fires, I lost him for a while, because I was caught up in London. I found out where they’d taken the patients, and when I caught up it was like something had gone. Like a light had gone out. I carried on sitting by his bedside and talking to him, but I didn’t feel like he was listening, or like he even could listen.”
“Maybe he was dreaming,” suggested Sasha’s mum.
“Maybe.” Sasha rubbed her head, and stood up to pour herself a glass of water. “I’m tired, and I’ve got an awful migraine. Mind if I go upstairs for a nap?”
“That’s fine.” Sasha’s mother stood up and poured the rest of her water down the sink. “I’ve got to go and see a few people anyway.”
***
Sasha climbed out of bed, rubbing her eyes, and knocking the glass on her bedside table over just as she always did. She sighed, and when she looked back, the glass was gone and the floor was dry.
She stood up without difficulty; her form was weightless. A poet may have employed the expression ‘light as a feather’, though that somewhat misunderstood Sasha’s experience. Weight, within this world, was so foreign a concept as to be inconceivable. Her senses picked up what they needed to, and her mind stifled their curiosity. She did not need to reach out and touch; the texture was built into her, and with one passing thought she could access it.
The floorboards creaked under her feet; each one at the same volume, the same pitch, the same duration and the same exact sound, like a sound effect repeated over and over again on a low-budget horror movie.
But there was no horror: this was her home. The floorboards creaked, but not as a structural threat; it was their way of greeting her. A grown woman now, she noticed how they communicated with her like children; particularly in their ability to express themselves only through way of speaking rather than what was being spoken. She assured herself that however bad things got, at least she would never be a floorboard.
She was in the hallway now. It was as it always was, but her mind was a slow artist, and there were patches, glitches, in the reality around her; block colours floating uneasily in the corner of her eye like melted wax in a lava lamp. In front of her, perfectly-formed, was another wooden staircase leading up to the next floor.
This was when Sasha always registered that she was in a dream. In real life, there was no staircase; just another room – an empty bedroom. Yet in her mind, however hard she tried to see through it, the staircase remained rooted to its spot, the one part of the illusion which did not seem to be floating or transient. She was compelled to climb it.
The staircase took her to an attic; an amalgamation of every attic she had ever seen half-watching television or searching for a new house in the property pages of the newspaper, those pictures still so fascinating…
The pictures. All of them here. Everything she had ever loved, selected and organised into an ordered arrangement. Every toy she ever cherished as a child, lined up against the walls, colours over-saturated. Her favourite song she had ever heard, echoing around the room. She looked up. She had to duck for the ceiling; an impractical construction for an adult. This was a child’s room in a sense that no child’s room could ever quite commit to.
And at the end of the room, a door. Sasha came to the door, for the first time hesitantly. One small push and it would swing open; all of a sudden the world would become bigger than her. A new world, that was: she would fall out of the one she knew, into a distorted reflection.
Distortion carries beauty of its own. Sasha considered those words, surprisingly lucidly, as she returned to the door this final time. Each encounter blended into the next, and the passage of time was untraceable whenever she entered the dream. Distortion is just a kind of whimsy. Our ordinary selves, reflected into something wondrous.
She puzzled over that sentiment. The words did not seem to be her own.
After some deliberation, she pushed the door open, and it disappeared to the touch, the room behind her also fading out of view. She was in a new place now: a world bigger than her own. Plants stretched tall and twisting; giant beanstalks indicating something stranger up above. The grass reached higher, drops of morning dew even touching her knees. The sky was cloudless and blue, and her mind generated an almost psychedelic soundscape of incomprehensible yet satisfying sounds, forming a rhythm within themselves.
“I just want to stay here.”
As she spoke, Sasha shuddered. The words leaving her mouth took form: she had made an imprint on this world. She was audible; tangible.
Vulnerable.
Ahead of her, another form shifted, but too directed to be a glitch. The absence of meaning took shape, like a silhouette. It was a man: taller than her; and symmetrical, perhaps. Or, at least, it was the shape of a man: the impression he cast over this world was nothing like the impression any man would ever be capable of making.
It was always him.
“Who are you?” asked Sasha.
The thing looked back at her.
“What do you want?”
She tried to focus on it, but her eyes were drawn off it. As she felt herself waking up again, she continued to yawn, continued to grip the world around her in order to remain a part of it.
“I am calm. I am always calm, and I always have been, and I have had to be calm through a lot, so the least I am entitled to is to see your face!” Sasha realised she had raised her voice. That was a strange feeling. She wondered whether it sounded like that in real life: slower, more emotive, less constant.
She managed to focus on the spot it stood, but again, the silhouette seemed blurred.
“You’ve always scared me, you always terrified me, but you don’t anymore. I’m not scared. If you want to talk, if you want to show yourself…” she lowered her voice again. “I’m not scared anymore.”
It stepped forward. Sasha nearly stepped back, a part of her still reacting as the child she once was, still wanting to shut it out and pretend it was a part of another world. Instead, she forced herself to step forward, towards it, and held her hand out to its chest.
It had a heartbeat.
She watched as a series of waves emanated from her hand, running over the body as if it was made of a sort of gravity-defying substance that she had just dropped a rock into. But as the waves parted, what they left behind was something else: something with form, with colour, with texture.
They left behind a man.
“You. It was… you.” Sasha kept her hand held on his chest. It had been his heart beating. “For all those years. You were my Sleepwalker?”
“It seems I was.” The Doctor looked down at her, as calm and relieved as she was. “Hello again, Sasha.”
Sasha woke up, just as she always did, but as she stretched out her arms she did not knock over her glass of water. She sat up, confused, so used to her mistake, and noticed the glass of water was gone: the Doctor had lifted it just in time, and was stood over her.
Alive.
***
“I was trapped in the world of dreams,” explained the Doctor, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. Different cereals, that was – he mixed all five Sasha had stored in her larder, giving each a quick sniff before adding it to the pile. “Not a very nice place. I didn’t have a physical form, but you, in this house, managed to bring me back. I’m not sure how. It would have taken immense power…” he put all the boxes back in the larder, including the empty ones. “Your house is on a rift between the worlds – hence you always having strange dreams – so that would have helped. Something must have strengthened the connection this time. Strong emotions probably. Had any good news, or any recent traumas…?”
Sasha was thankful the Doctor was too busy making his makeshift breakfast to look her in the eye. “No.”
The Doctor sat down.
“Something else,” started Sasha. “I saw that Sleepwalker in my dream ever since I was a kid. That figure, I mean, the one that turned out to be you. Did you spend my whole life waiting for the right moment?”
“Time is relative,” the Doctor half-explained. “It was your whole life, but on that plane, it wasn’t as long for me. Time travel’s always been possible in dreams. Not always, but where you are, sitting on a Dream Hub? Your head is a TARDIS.”
Sasha smiled, and then the inevitable scrutiny came. “Dream Hub?” She stared out of the window. It was getting dark already, the sun setting as the Doctor ate his breakfast, and the solar-powered lights in her garden were beginning to flicker on, blinking uncertainly as they struggled to tell whether the sun was coming or going. She must have been asleep for longer than she thought. “You just made that up, didn’t you?”
“I did a bit,” admitted the Doctor. They sat in silence for a minute as Sasha racked up the courage to say what she had wanted to say for the whole conversation.
“Doctor, I…” Sasha swallowed, but tried not to let the words slip down her throat too. “I think I might be Autumn Rivers.”
The Doctor rested his spoon gently in the bowl, and turned to Sasha without even seeming remotely surprised.
“What made you realise?”
“Because I care about you, Doctor.” Sasha rested her hand on his. He was still cold. “Because when you died, a part of me never quite accepted it. Because I accepted everything you told me without question, and because it was me who was able to do this. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m Autumn.”
The Doctor smiled sadly.
“No.”
“But you said,” insisted Sasha, “you said she’d been reincarnated. And I have memories that I can’t explain.”
“You have dreams, Sasha, and that’s all they are.” The Doctor shook his head. “I’ll tell you what you are, Sasha. You’re just a good person.” He squeezed her hand as his own started to get warmer. “You care about me because you care about people, because that’s just who you are. When I died, you didn’t accept it because when everyone else had given up, you were calm and you were patient, you had hope, and you dared to believe in the impossible. And you accept everything I told you without question because in your mind, in the logic of the dreams you’ve grown up around, it just makes sense. You saved me because you were strong.” He let go of Sasha’s hand and picked up his spoon again, using it briefly to gesture. “Saying you’re my reincarnated friend would just be an insult. It would take away from who you are, from the fact that what you did, you did because you are you.” With that, he returned to eating his cereal.
“Okay. Point taken…” Sasha stretched out her fingers, accidentally making them crack. She winced. “So what did happen to Autumn? Did you ever find out?”
“She died,” was the Doctor’s cold, simple response, as he carried on shovelling a selection of manufactured breakfasts down his gullet.
“She was reborn.”
“Yes, and then she died. Ectopic pregnancy, so the Master says. I wondered if she was lying, but… if Autumn was alive out there somewhere, I’d know about it, and I know what God’s like. He’s a game-player. It’s the kind of thing only he would be cruel enough to do.”
“Yes,” said Sasha, placing quiet emphasis on her words. “She was reincarnated, and she died. But why can’t she have been reborn again?”
“Hope is a dangerous thing,” said the Doctor, and Sasha wondered if he was quoting someone. “Were it not, I would very much, just as you are, be inclined to believe.” He stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair. “Sasha Ramachandran, thank you for being wonderful. It’s been a privilege. Have a great life.”
“You too.” Sasha smiled warmly and shook the Doctor’s hand. “Where are you going?”
“To see an old friend. I think you know which one.”
Primrose Hill
The Doctor stopped on his way to the house. Just outside, overlooking the hill, was what appeared to be a small shrine: a model of some sort, now unrecognisable, covered in photographs, drawings, sculptures, even short books. All…
All of me.
He felt a lump in his throat, and went to pick one up, before hesitating. He wondered who had started this; who had decided to lay the first stone, and why they had decided to lay it here. Realising he was becoming distracted, he turned away, touched, and knocked on the door to Robin’s house. As he waited a while for an answer, he realised he should have checked the time before he arrived. It was night, but he didn’t know what time it actually was, what day of the week it was, or even what month it was.
Chris answered the door, and froze still as his eyes fell upon the Doctor.
“You…”
“…are back from the dead, and have come to visit my best friend?” interjected the Doctor, rushing the introductions. “Yes, well-guessed, Scottish Moon, and it’s good to see the family going nice and strong. Where is she? Eating sweets? Lying flat and complaining a lot?”
“Shh!” growled Chris, and the Doctor suddenly felt like a pupil again. “We’ve just got him to sleep. Come in, but quietly.”
The Doctor held his hands up in mock surrender, and entered the hall quietly, shutting the door very slowly behind him. As he entered the living room, Robin McKnight looked up at him, at once more shocked, terrified and relieved than he had ever seen her, but still maintaining her vow of silence – and the Doctor understood why.
In her arms, and held to her like the most prized possession in the universe, was a baby; a child wrapped in a blanket, and swaying gently in its sleep, its little fingers curling and uncurling unconsciously, still adjusting to the big and strange world around it. A boy, the Doctor guessed, though Robin’s blanket was a gender-neutral white.
“You’re alive,” uttered Robin. “How…”
“Sasha,” acknowledged the Doctor. “You can thank her later.”
“She’s a superb teacher,” murmured Chris, adding to the character appraisal. “That’s why we give her Year 9.”
“Poor woman,” muttered the Doctor, and turned back to Robin’s baby. He approached timidly, a little terrified of that small, precious thing in her arms. “What’s his name?”
“What do you think?” asked Robin.
“Scottish Half-Moon?”
Robin rolled her eyes. “We called him Gabriel.”
The Doctor crouched down, feeling a tear in his eye. It was good to be feeling real things in the real world again. It was good to have a body. It was good to cry.
“Hello Gabriel,” he whispered, letting the baby grip onto his finger as it drifted in and out of sleep. “I’m…”
“Your godfather,” decided Robin. “Or whatever they have instead on Gallifrey.”
“Uncle Doctor.” Chris chuckled to himself.
“Don’t worry about Gallifrey,” said the Doctor, dismissing the subject as quickly as he could. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be for this little human… whatever you need, I swear.” Robin had rarely seen the Doctor so sentimental, but it was short-lived. His attention was drawn to something on the dining room table. Robin carefully rested Gabriel in his cot, and headed over to see what had diverted the Doctor so suddenly.
“What is it?” he asked.
Robin followed the direction of the Doctor’s eyes, then seeing nothing, looked back at him. “What is what?”
Interesting. The Doctor smiled the smile Robin was used to: the one where he realised that the Time Lord understood something the human didn’t. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and buzzed it at the table. “Look again.”
Robin did as instructed, and instantly saw what the Doctor was looking at. The large metal box, with the letters GENIE embossed over the top, was exactly where had been all those months ago – where it had not even moved from in all that time.
“How…?” stammered Chris.
“Perceptions filter,” explained the Doctor, “so try not to feel stupid.”
Gabriel was beginning to wake up, and starting to cry. Robin rushed over to him and carried him over, taking a seat at the dining room table.
“Seen it before?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes, on the day…” Robin seemed so shocked that Chris had to make sure she was not about to drop Gabriel on the floor.
“On what day?”
“On the day before I fell pregnant,” uttered Robin. “I sat at this table and cried, and I…”
“Wished!” blurted out Chris. “You wished you were pregnant!”
“I did!” Robin’s eyes almost left their sockets. “Do you think…?”
“Try it again,” suggested the Doctor. “Make a wish. Bear in mind, it’s a Genie, so you’ll probably only get three. Make it a good one.”
“Okay then, I will.” Robin looked down at Gabriel, who was already becoming quieter in his mother’s arms. “I wish you are loved.” The Doctor quickly realised she was addressing her son. “I wish that you are loved for the rest of your life, and that you will always feel loved, and that you will never feel alone.” She held him up and kissed him on the forehead. His arms waved excitedly, and Chris and the Doctor chuckled. Robin turned back to the Doctor. “I told you back in the cell all those months ago that I was worried about looking into his eyes and seeing my Tommy. The moment he was born, Doctor, I saw what I was always going to see: a new and beautiful child. So tell me, without word of a lie, was my wish granted?”
The Doctor scanned the box with his sonic screwdriver. This time it was his turn to be surprised. “I’m detecting a surge of energy like… like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” He put the screwdriver away, and gave it some thought, pacing around the room. “One more wish, Robin, let’s give it a-“
He stopped, on the boundary between the kitchen and dining room, and took a deep breath.
“What is it? Doctor?”
The Doctor looked at Robin, not evading eye contact like he usually did when he realised something cataclysmic, but keeping up his usual habit of saying nothing.
“Doctor?”
“One wish, Robin. Anything. Yes, you can.”
“What?” Robin turned to Chris in the hope that he would share her confusion, but he staggered backwards, realising already what the Doctor was implying. The Doctor stepped forward and placed his hands on Robin’s shoulders.
“I know what you’re thinking. You can wish for anything you want, and I’m telling you that you can wish for that. You can bring him back.”
Robin covered her mouth. They were the five words she had spent the last six-or-so years of her life longing to hear.
“You have been the best friend I’ve ever had, Robin, believe me. Regardless of anything I’ve done or said. You have sacrificed everything, and you’ve lost too much, and without you I wouldn’t even be here. Someone left you that Genie and they left it for you. I don’t give a damn about the consequences.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Please, Robin. Have this one on me.”
“Okay.” Robin smiled and nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks; an image the Doctor mirrored as well. “Thank you, Doctor. If you’re saying I can wish for the impossible, that I can bring back the dead, then I will take that opportunity. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.”
The Doctor stepped back.
“I wish…” began Robin, choking.
Should I? Robin thought to herself. Do I have the right?
“Yes,” whispered Chris. Robin realised she had said it out loud.
“Okay then.” Robin took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I wish for the Doctor to be reunited with Autumn Rivers.”
“Very-“
The Doctor stopped, realising what Robin had said, and stepped forward again. All his monologues disappeared, and he was left a stammering wreck. “Robin, I-… y-… I don’t…”
“You’re right, Doctor, I experienced loss. I experienced the worst thing anyone can ever feel, and I experienced it alone. I don’t want you to ever have to experience that.”
“Thank you,” uttered the Doctor, and stood awkwardly in the middle of Robin’s living room.
What happens now?
The Doctor looked down at the carpet. It was a square pattern. He circled it a couple of times.
There was nothing left to say to Robin; nothing that she didn’t already know. It felt good to finally repeat “Thank you” rather than “Sorry”, to finally be repressing tears of happiness rather than joy. A cynical part of the Doctor still wondered whether it would really happen – whether two miracles on Primrose Hill would just be too many.
The phone rang. The Doctor stayed politely in the centre of the room.
“It’s fine,” said Robin, sensing his unease. “You can answer it.”
On Robin’s permission, he dashed over to the phone, and waited after grabbing it off its holder. On the other side, there was some sort of interference; either a poor signal, or a very strong wind. Or both.
“Hello?” came the voice. It was young, female, and British.
“Hello?” answered the Doctor. For the first time, Robin could hear his voice shaking. Chris crossed his fingers behind his back. “Who is this?”
“Is this the Doctor?” called the woman on the other side. She was shouting over something.
“Yes, yes, it is!”
“Oh my God…” there was a pause, and it sounded like the phone was being moved, but the woman’s voice returned. “Oh my God, it’s you… it’s you…”
“Autumn?” the Doctor pressed the phone to his ear, and forgot to repress his tears. They were streaming now. Robin put her arm around her husband. She didn’t know if he had agreed with her decision, but was sure he did now.
“Jasmine,” corrected the voice. “But yes… it was… I remember you. I can’t believe it’s you again.”
“Neither can I!” cried the Doctor. “I can’t believe it’s you. Where are you?”
“It’s… sort of difficult to say. Can you c----“. The call was interrupted by more interference.
“Jasmine? Jasmine, don’t hang up!”
“---signal here, it’s only----for a short----ctor, I need you to come and find me. Will y----“
“I will!” exclaimed the Doctor, almost shouting his head off down the phone. “Jasmine, I’m coming, I swear! I’ll find you!”
The phone went dead, and the Doctor held it in his arms as if it were a dead body. Robin took it off him and placed it back in its cradle.
“Doctor,” she instructed him, in his own ‘go wait in the TARDIS’ voice. “Go.” She beamed. “Go and find her.”
***
“This had better be good,” said Ward, carrying on down the corridor. Dan caught up with his fast stride and handed him a pack of biscuits. “It’d better be someone I like,” he continued. “Someone with a knighthood for me, or that woman from the first series of Hustle. Though you said it was a bloke, so I’m gonna have to go with the-“
Ward swung the door open and saw the man waiting in reception. He was wearing the same shirt, the same jacket, the same boots as…
As he had been wearing on the day he died.
“…knighthood.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Colonel Ward,” began the Doctor. “But I think I’ve got a PhD somewhere.”
“How the bloody hell did you manage this?!”
“I know, I know.” The Doctor raised his hands apologetically. “I walked the whole way. Took me all night. Are those biscuits you’ve got there?” He snatched them off Ward, who would normally be more defensive, but whose senses were knocked out as his brain focused on coming to terms with the ghost in front of him. “Not for me, I’m dieting, but the woman I’m going to see… she likes biscuits a lot.”
“You don’t mean…”
“Yes, I do.”
Ward stared on in amazement, and wondered who else was back from the grave.
“Now,” said the Doctor, getting down to business. “Where’s my TARDIS?
“Hello?” came the voice. It was young, female, and British.
“Hello?” answered the Doctor. For the first time, Robin could hear his voice shaking. Chris crossed his fingers behind his back. “Who is this?”
“Is this the Doctor?” called the woman on the other side. She was shouting over something.
“Yes, yes, it is!”
“Oh my God…” there was a pause, and it sounded like the phone was being moved, but the woman’s voice returned. “Oh my God, it’s you… it’s you…”
“Autumn?” the Doctor pressed the phone to his ear, and forgot to repress his tears. They were streaming now. Robin put her arm around her husband. She didn’t know if he had agreed with her decision, but was sure he did now.
“Jasmine,” corrected the voice. “But yes… it was… I remember you. I can’t believe it’s you again.”
“Neither can I!” cried the Doctor. “I can’t believe it’s you. Where are you?”
“It’s… sort of difficult to say. Can you c----“. The call was interrupted by more interference.
“Jasmine? Jasmine, don’t hang up!”
“---signal here, it’s only----for a short----ctor, I need you to come and find me. Will y----“
“I will!” exclaimed the Doctor, almost shouting his head off down the phone. “Jasmine, I’m coming, I swear! I’ll find you!”
The phone went dead, and the Doctor held it in his arms as if it were a dead body. Robin took it off him and placed it back in its cradle.
“Doctor,” she instructed him, in his own ‘go wait in the TARDIS’ voice. “Go.” She beamed. “Go and find her.”
***
“This had better be good,” said Ward, carrying on down the corridor. Dan caught up with his fast stride and handed him a pack of biscuits. “It’d better be someone I like,” he continued. “Someone with a knighthood for me, or that woman from the first series of Hustle. Though you said it was a bloke, so I’m gonna have to go with the-“
Ward swung the door open and saw the man waiting in reception. He was wearing the same shirt, the same jacket, the same boots as…
As he had been wearing on the day he died.
“…knighthood.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Colonel Ward,” began the Doctor. “But I think I’ve got a PhD somewhere.”
“How the bloody hell did you manage this?!”
“I know, I know.” The Doctor raised his hands apologetically. “I walked the whole way. Took me all night. Are those biscuits you’ve got there?” He snatched them off Ward, who would normally be more defensive, but whose senses were knocked out as his brain focused on coming to terms with the ghost in front of him. “Not for me, I’m dieting, but the woman I’m going to see… she likes biscuits a lot.”
“You don’t mean…”
“Yes, I do.”
Ward stared on in amazement, and wondered who else was back from the grave.
“Now,” said the Doctor, getting down to business. “Where’s my TARDIS?
Pret a Manger – Camden High Street – One Year Later
Robin, who usually sat at the window watching Camden’s passers-by, or admiring the colourful assortment of buildings with sculptures across their fronts, was today deeply-immersed in her book. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: it was now an A Level text, and a year earlier, when the Doctor had left it in her house, she was left with the foreboding information that he had “fixed” it.
She turned to the next page, but immediately put her book down as she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. Behind her, a young woman smiled at her, with a child about a year younger than Gabriel in a pushchair.
“Chloe!” The girl had become a woman; her schoolgirl novelty haircut was gone, and for what appeared to be practical reasons she wore it up in a bun. Robin had only ever seen her in school uniform, but her dress sense was about what she had expected: a leather jacket, dark trousers, and a white top, with some jewellery for good measure. She sat herself opposite Robin, keeping her child close by.
“Caitlin,” she said, gesturing to the baby, who was playing happily with something hanging from the top of the push-chair. “Decided to go for it in the end.”
Robin nodded, reluctant to comment on whether the choice was ‘good’ or ‘bad’. She hated those words. “She’s lovely.” She waved her hand inside, tickling Caitlin’s nose. “Hello little one!” Caitlin make a strange expression; something which would later, when her cognitive skills improved, become a giggle.
Chloe took a sip of her coffee, then made a face. She never really liked coffee. Robin had gone for a coca cola, and Chloe secretly wished she had, too, but had tried instead to be ‘grown up’, as if anyone else in the café actually cared one bit.
“Mine’s called Gabriel,” added Robin. “Exhausting, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” said Chloe, agreeing fervently. They both chuckled. “But worth it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Robin. “So, um… what did you get up to? You left shortly after you spoke to me, which was why I never knew what you’d decided. What did you do?”
“I went to college.” Robin nodded, impressed. “I went to a different college, I mean,” continued Chloe. “Didn’t want people who knew me to be making comments. Most people were pretty good about it. I waited a year first, let myself have that first year off with Caitlin, but I’m cracking down now. I’m gonna go to uni, just like you said.”
“That’s good. See.” Robin nudged her. “I said you could do it.”
“What about you, miss?”
“Me? Oh, I’m still working at Coal Hill. I’ve got Chloe 2 and Chloe 3 now. Someone needs to keep you lot out of trouble.”
Chloe laughed.
“I heard about the Doctor. Coming back as well…” Chloe shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe me,” said Robin. “He did, and I was a lot more shocked than that. I haven’t seen him all year, but that’s okay. He’s been busy; he’s got a much bigger adventure ahead of him, and one day he’ll come back for me, I am sure of it. I might be grey and old, but I’ll see him again, and that’s enough to keep me happy.”
“It’s good that you’re happy.” Chloe thought about that word – happy. She wondered if some psychologist somewhere had come up with a set of criteria for it, and whether Robin really did fit it. “If you don’t mind my asking, miss…”
“Robin.”
“Sorry, Robin, if you don’t mind my asking… your boy… your first one, I mean…”
“Tommy?”
Chloe nodded. “Do you miss him? Still?”
Robin looked out of the window thoughtfully, not ignoring the question but considering. Across the street, a group of children were gathered around a stall selling ‘I Love London’ fridge magnets; barely old enough to go out on their own, and young enough to think those sorts of souvenirs were worth buying. What she had said to the Doctor back in the cell was right – as a mother, she now noticed all the children and parents she passed. The world seemed to be full of them.
“Yes,” she decided. “You always miss him. You never get over something like that.” She took a swig of her coca cola, making Chloe thirsty, but her coffee was still too hot to drink. “But I’m as over it as I’ll ever be, and like I said to you, I’m happy.”
“So am I,” agreed Chloe. She looked down at Caitlin, who was falling asleep again. “Look at how still she is when she sleeps. And then sometimes she wakes up and it’s like she’s seen somethin’… sometimes somethin’ good, sometimes somethin’ bad. I saw Miss Ramachandran in Tesco’s the other day and I asked her. She said she thought it was somethin’ from another life. I think it’s just a dream.”
“It’s something,” said Robin. “But why can’t it be both? I think maybe we all have that. The memories we have from dreams we had, and the memories from lives before, and the dreams from those lives that we never finished having.”
“Maybe,” said Chloe, and pushed her coffee away. “Not sure I fancy it now.”
“Ooh, that’s good.” Robin pushed the coffee her way. “My cunning plan worked. As soon as you sat here I realised I fancied a coffee.”
Chloe took Robin’s coca cola. “That’s handy then.” They laughed, and Chloe returned with Caitlin to her own seat. Robin returned to her book, to see exactly what it was that the Doctor had chosen to correct.
"... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. But if not conveyed, it can, at least, be shared: if words cannot express it, our dreams can hope to accomplish what the language cannot. If one listens and one loves, dreams may be shared just as the stories we endeavour to tell are heard. We live, as we dream—together."
Robin, who usually sat at the window watching Camden’s passers-by, or admiring the colourful assortment of buildings with sculptures across their fronts, was today deeply-immersed in her book. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: it was now an A Level text, and a year earlier, when the Doctor had left it in her house, she was left with the foreboding information that he had “fixed” it.
She turned to the next page, but immediately put her book down as she felt a soft tap on her shoulder. Behind her, a young woman smiled at her, with a child about a year younger than Gabriel in a pushchair.
“Chloe!” The girl had become a woman; her schoolgirl novelty haircut was gone, and for what appeared to be practical reasons she wore it up in a bun. Robin had only ever seen her in school uniform, but her dress sense was about what she had expected: a leather jacket, dark trousers, and a white top, with some jewellery for good measure. She sat herself opposite Robin, keeping her child close by.
“Caitlin,” she said, gesturing to the baby, who was playing happily with something hanging from the top of the push-chair. “Decided to go for it in the end.”
Robin nodded, reluctant to comment on whether the choice was ‘good’ or ‘bad’. She hated those words. “She’s lovely.” She waved her hand inside, tickling Caitlin’s nose. “Hello little one!” Caitlin make a strange expression; something which would later, when her cognitive skills improved, become a giggle.
Chloe took a sip of her coffee, then made a face. She never really liked coffee. Robin had gone for a coca cola, and Chloe secretly wished she had, too, but had tried instead to be ‘grown up’, as if anyone else in the café actually cared one bit.
“Mine’s called Gabriel,” added Robin. “Exhausting, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” said Chloe, agreeing fervently. They both chuckled. “But worth it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Robin. “So, um… what did you get up to? You left shortly after you spoke to me, which was why I never knew what you’d decided. What did you do?”
“I went to college.” Robin nodded, impressed. “I went to a different college, I mean,” continued Chloe. “Didn’t want people who knew me to be making comments. Most people were pretty good about it. I waited a year first, let myself have that first year off with Caitlin, but I’m cracking down now. I’m gonna go to uni, just like you said.”
“That’s good. See.” Robin nudged her. “I said you could do it.”
“What about you, miss?”
“Me? Oh, I’m still working at Coal Hill. I’ve got Chloe 2 and Chloe 3 now. Someone needs to keep you lot out of trouble.”
Chloe laughed.
“I heard about the Doctor. Coming back as well…” Chloe shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to believe.”
“Believe me,” said Robin. “He did, and I was a lot more shocked than that. I haven’t seen him all year, but that’s okay. He’s been busy; he’s got a much bigger adventure ahead of him, and one day he’ll come back for me, I am sure of it. I might be grey and old, but I’ll see him again, and that’s enough to keep me happy.”
“It’s good that you’re happy.” Chloe thought about that word – happy. She wondered if some psychologist somewhere had come up with a set of criteria for it, and whether Robin really did fit it. “If you don’t mind my asking, miss…”
“Robin.”
“Sorry, Robin, if you don’t mind my asking… your boy… your first one, I mean…”
“Tommy?”
Chloe nodded. “Do you miss him? Still?”
Robin looked out of the window thoughtfully, not ignoring the question but considering. Across the street, a group of children were gathered around a stall selling ‘I Love London’ fridge magnets; barely old enough to go out on their own, and young enough to think those sorts of souvenirs were worth buying. What she had said to the Doctor back in the cell was right – as a mother, she now noticed all the children and parents she passed. The world seemed to be full of them.
“Yes,” she decided. “You always miss him. You never get over something like that.” She took a swig of her coca cola, making Chloe thirsty, but her coffee was still too hot to drink. “But I’m as over it as I’ll ever be, and like I said to you, I’m happy.”
“So am I,” agreed Chloe. She looked down at Caitlin, who was falling asleep again. “Look at how still she is when she sleeps. And then sometimes she wakes up and it’s like she’s seen somethin’… sometimes somethin’ good, sometimes somethin’ bad. I saw Miss Ramachandran in Tesco’s the other day and I asked her. She said she thought it was somethin’ from another life. I think it’s just a dream.”
“It’s something,” said Robin. “But why can’t it be both? I think maybe we all have that. The memories we have from dreams we had, and the memories from lives before, and the dreams from those lives that we never finished having.”
“Maybe,” said Chloe, and pushed her coffee away. “Not sure I fancy it now.”
“Ooh, that’s good.” Robin pushed the coffee her way. “My cunning plan worked. As soon as you sat here I realised I fancied a coffee.”
Chloe took Robin’s coca cola. “That’s handy then.” They laughed, and Chloe returned with Caitlin to her own seat. Robin returned to her book, to see exactly what it was that the Doctor had chosen to correct.
"... No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. But if not conveyed, it can, at least, be shared: if words cannot express it, our dreams can hope to accomplish what the language cannot. If one listens and one loves, dreams may be shared just as the stories we endeavour to tell are heard. We live, as we dream—together."