Prologue
Laurence watched as his vinyl disc carried on spinning, blipping momentarily as the next track came on. After some brief atmospherics, a keyboard instrument of some variety came blasting in, and the voice of Kate Bush joined it as passionately as ever.
“Hello Earth! Hello Earth…”
He relaxed back into his chair, leaving his papers scattered across the coffee table, marks left by mugs which had been sitting on them too long, and what looked like very unhealthy things growing inside those mugs. Up on the wall above him, a map was stuck over the patterned wallpaper, little dots indicating what each step of his journey would be.
There was a knock at the door and he groaned, forcing himself off the sofa, and pushed his slippers onto his feet. The knocker was clearly impatient or had a poor grasp of social convention; they rapped against the door again, this time harder, and Laurence rushed across the landing, huffing, to let them in. The rain was pouring heavily outside, wetting the end of his slippers, which made it somewhat easier to sympathise with the knocker – though he instantly understood, taking one look at her, why it was that she was so keen to see him.
“Alison.”
The girl stood meekly at the door, soggy black hair against pale skin, her back arched, and clasping in her hands, at an awkward angle, her baby. She had attempted to swaddle it, but it was soaked, and without letting Alison in, Laurence took the baby off her immediately, his paternal instincts kicking in over his domestic complaints.
“I had to bring her to you,” said Alison, shivering. “I didn’t know where else to take her.”
“Why me?” complained Laurence. “I’m just a stranger to her.”
“You’re her father. You can’t change that.”
“Alison, please.” Laurence tried to hand the little girl back over to her mother: he seemed worse at holding it than her. “It was just one stupid night. I don’t… I can’t do this. You know I can’t, it’s impossible.”
“I’m dying, Laurence.” By the killer tone of her voice, Laurence assumed Alison would have shouted it – if she had the energy. “I’m dying, and I need to know that she’ll be looked after.” She coughed into a tissue. Laurence thought he could see the traces of blood. “I don’t want her going into care. Promise me you’ll look after her.”
“I…” Laurence shook his head, unsure of what to say.
“It’s okay,” said Alison, rushing, “I know you will.” She turned away and headed back into the rain, the blanket still trailing behind her, now being dragged through puddles.
“Alison, please!” cried Laurence. “Alison, come back! I can’t do this! Alison!”
***
“She’s a beauty, this one…”
Sheila leant over the cot and gave the baby girl a smile. She made a peekaboo face. The girl giggled, her legs kicking excitedly. Her mother had dressed her in bright pink – not to Sheila’s taste, but clean at least.
“I can’t do it, Sheila,” said Laurence. “The expedition starts next month. I won’t be living in the UK, for… well, maybe for the rest of my life. I don’t want a kid.” He looked down at the baby girl, at the rubbery face and the eyes, all out of proportion. What did Sheila see in those things? “I wouldn’t know what to do as it is. So we’re going to have to put her into care.” He looked away. “We’re going to have to.”
“No we’re not,” complained Sheila with a glare. “You can swan off across the globe all you like, I’m not letting this little princess go into care.”
“Well, unless you can think of anyone who could look after her…”
“I will.”
Sheila was offended by Laurence’s silent, baffled reaction, as if to say: how?
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Just you?”
“Well, that would seem to be the case. Look… I never had any kids of my own! It’ll be exciting for me.”
Laurence could not deny that much. Scattered across the room were photo albums of all the families Sheila had almost been a part of: her sister’s, her nephew’s, her ex-husband’s…
It made sense. Laurence still felt as if Sheila did not fully realise what she was committing to, but it made sense.
“You,” clarified Laurence, “plan to bring her up, in this flat, single-handedly?”
Sheila nodded, as if to say that the question was too ridiculous even to ask. “Well yes, dear. Of course. But it might help if I knew her name first.”
Laurence tried to remember. Even at his emotional distance, he had an urge to kick himself for not even being able to remember his own daughter’s name. Suddenly, it came to him; a name the mother had chosen, and not one he had ever thought remarkable.
“Jasmine.”
“Hello Earth! Hello Earth…”
He relaxed back into his chair, leaving his papers scattered across the coffee table, marks left by mugs which had been sitting on them too long, and what looked like very unhealthy things growing inside those mugs. Up on the wall above him, a map was stuck over the patterned wallpaper, little dots indicating what each step of his journey would be.
There was a knock at the door and he groaned, forcing himself off the sofa, and pushed his slippers onto his feet. The knocker was clearly impatient or had a poor grasp of social convention; they rapped against the door again, this time harder, and Laurence rushed across the landing, huffing, to let them in. The rain was pouring heavily outside, wetting the end of his slippers, which made it somewhat easier to sympathise with the knocker – though he instantly understood, taking one look at her, why it was that she was so keen to see him.
“Alison.”
The girl stood meekly at the door, soggy black hair against pale skin, her back arched, and clasping in her hands, at an awkward angle, her baby. She had attempted to swaddle it, but it was soaked, and without letting Alison in, Laurence took the baby off her immediately, his paternal instincts kicking in over his domestic complaints.
“I had to bring her to you,” said Alison, shivering. “I didn’t know where else to take her.”
“Why me?” complained Laurence. “I’m just a stranger to her.”
“You’re her father. You can’t change that.”
“Alison, please.” Laurence tried to hand the little girl back over to her mother: he seemed worse at holding it than her. “It was just one stupid night. I don’t… I can’t do this. You know I can’t, it’s impossible.”
“I’m dying, Laurence.” By the killer tone of her voice, Laurence assumed Alison would have shouted it – if she had the energy. “I’m dying, and I need to know that she’ll be looked after.” She coughed into a tissue. Laurence thought he could see the traces of blood. “I don’t want her going into care. Promise me you’ll look after her.”
“I…” Laurence shook his head, unsure of what to say.
“It’s okay,” said Alison, rushing, “I know you will.” She turned away and headed back into the rain, the blanket still trailing behind her, now being dragged through puddles.
“Alison, please!” cried Laurence. “Alison, come back! I can’t do this! Alison!”
***
“She’s a beauty, this one…”
Sheila leant over the cot and gave the baby girl a smile. She made a peekaboo face. The girl giggled, her legs kicking excitedly. Her mother had dressed her in bright pink – not to Sheila’s taste, but clean at least.
“I can’t do it, Sheila,” said Laurence. “The expedition starts next month. I won’t be living in the UK, for… well, maybe for the rest of my life. I don’t want a kid.” He looked down at the baby girl, at the rubbery face and the eyes, all out of proportion. What did Sheila see in those things? “I wouldn’t know what to do as it is. So we’re going to have to put her into care.” He looked away. “We’re going to have to.”
“No we’re not,” complained Sheila with a glare. “You can swan off across the globe all you like, I’m not letting this little princess go into care.”
“Well, unless you can think of anyone who could look after her…”
“I will.”
Sheila was offended by Laurence’s silent, baffled reaction, as if to say: how?
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Just you?”
“Well, that would seem to be the case. Look… I never had any kids of my own! It’ll be exciting for me.”
Laurence could not deny that much. Scattered across the room were photo albums of all the families Sheila had almost been a part of: her sister’s, her nephew’s, her ex-husband’s…
It made sense. Laurence still felt as if Sheila did not fully realise what she was committing to, but it made sense.
“You,” clarified Laurence, “plan to bring her up, in this flat, single-handedly?”
Sheila nodded, as if to say that the question was too ridiculous even to ask. “Well yes, dear. Of course. But it might help if I knew her name first.”
Laurence tried to remember. Even at his emotional distance, he had an urge to kick himself for not even being able to remember his own daughter’s name. Suddenly, it came to him; a name the mother had chosen, and not one he had ever thought remarkable.
“Jasmine.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 4 - Episode 8
Hello Earth
Written by Janine Rivers
In the early days, before she had gained freedom of movement and learnt the more complex skills of communication, Jasmine Sparks relied solely upon the sounds. Each sound she heard from outside the window of Sheila’s apartment she gave what she would later come to call a picture or a story. The roaring, growling sound that seemed to move from one end of the acoustic panorama to the other she began to see as a wheeled, black contraption, carrying people – older, fully-grown people, like Sheila, and like Sheila’s friends. The tweeting, whistling sound painted in her mind a selection of small, colourful, dancing creatures, with an ability to transcend the boundaries which kept her and her own race fixed to the ground at any one time. She saw the truth: repressed memories were gradually stimulated by the right sensory cues, and she understood the world around her, so slowly and subtly that no one was aware that she was being educated by an older, more inward source: a past life.
Not even Jasmine was aware.
As a toddler she began, under Sheila’s supervision, to explore the places which had previously been forbidden to her. Her favourite was the balcony: raised eleven floors above the streets of Croydon, she watched with curiosity the trams gliding along the streets below, the market-stalls being set up in the morning, and the families on the balconies below her, hanging their washing over the railings just as Sheila always did. She became used to the perfect formation of the buildings, to the smell of fresh fruit carried up to their balcony by the wind, and enjoyed especially the days Sheila chose to keep the window open so that the smell filled the apartment too.
She became used to the sounds. She knew the days she woke up hearing what sounded like tiny stones crashing against the window that the world outside would be wet. She knew when the noises of fellow creatures on the streets below were louder, the world outside would be warm.
Jasmine also began to watch the small television set Sheila kept just by the doors to the balcony. She saw the pictures and sounds, but wondered where the smells had gone, and almost understood after a while that she was watching a mere simulation. This only entranced her further: she sometimes tried to draw faster than was possible when she was feeling artistic, in the hope that she, too, would be able to create her own moving picture.
***
Woodcote Primary School – Year 3 Parents’ Evening
“She likes stories,” said Mrs Marsh, and by the tone of her voice, Sheila wondered if she liked stories too. “She likes reading, though what she really seems to like is creative writing. She’s got a good vocabulary; she’s got a good sense of structure, right since the start of the year she’s been able to write with a definite beginning, middle, end.”
“She’s a lovely little storyteller,” agreed Sheila. “She comes home sometimes and tells me about her day at school, but she always makes it seem so interesting.”
“Oh, she does!” Mrs Marsh clasped her hands together. “You took her on holiday to New York, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Just once, but yes, we saved up for it.”
“She came into school after and told all the other children about the World Trade Centre attacks.”
“Oh…” Sheila was unsure of how to react to that.
“No, no, it’s brilliant!” exclaimed Mrs Marsh, and gave Sheila’s arm a confident grip. “They’re old enough to know about that kind of thing now, but it was amazing how well she understood it. She wasn’t remotely traumatised, and neither were any of the other children. She did it all so… factually. She explained the way the attacks worked, the way the buildings fell, what’s been left, why it changed things for America. This is a Year 3 student, Mrs Sparks.”
“Mrs Evans,” corrected Sheila. “But that’s very good to hear.”
“Yes, sorry, Mrs Evans. If… if you don’t mind my asking, are either of her parents on the scene, or are you her only legal guardian?”
“It tends to be just me,” said Sheila, openly. “Her mum died when she just a baby, and her dad’s a scientist, so he spends pretty much his whole life up in his research base in Hawaii.” Mrs Marsh nodded, impressed. “I’m retired, so I look after her full-time. I’m technically her aunt’s godmother – seems like a distant relation, I know – but she doesn’t have a huge amount of family, I was sort of involved in the family before, and I’ve never had any kids of own, so… you get the idea.”
“We certainly wouldn’t judge based on the family tree,” assured Mrs Marsh, “just as long as whoever is looking after her is doing a good job, which you definitely seem to be. A girl that bright with that good an understanding of the world… you must talk to her all the time?”
“A lot of the time, yes.”
“I think there’s an element of natural skill there too. And you can definitely see the scientist in her, even if English is her forte. She often brings them together, and she argues logically – it’s lucky she’s well-behaved because we’d have a lot on our hands if she weren’t!” Sheila laughed. Mrs Marsh continued, “She’s an excellent all-rounder. We don’t have any concerns socially either. She has friends. She doesn’t seem to have a best friend, or at least doesn’t seem to be as close to her peers as they are to each other, but she’s far from being an outsider. I think,” she said, whispering, “sometimes she’s a bit too bright for her age, and everyone needs to grow up around her and catch her up. But that’ll happen. Jasmine’s a smart girl, and she applies herself. I’ve got no complaints, really, and I’m positive she’ll grow up to become something very, very impressive.”
***
Not even Jasmine was aware.
As a toddler she began, under Sheila’s supervision, to explore the places which had previously been forbidden to her. Her favourite was the balcony: raised eleven floors above the streets of Croydon, she watched with curiosity the trams gliding along the streets below, the market-stalls being set up in the morning, and the families on the balconies below her, hanging their washing over the railings just as Sheila always did. She became used to the perfect formation of the buildings, to the smell of fresh fruit carried up to their balcony by the wind, and enjoyed especially the days Sheila chose to keep the window open so that the smell filled the apartment too.
She became used to the sounds. She knew the days she woke up hearing what sounded like tiny stones crashing against the window that the world outside would be wet. She knew when the noises of fellow creatures on the streets below were louder, the world outside would be warm.
Jasmine also began to watch the small television set Sheila kept just by the doors to the balcony. She saw the pictures and sounds, but wondered where the smells had gone, and almost understood after a while that she was watching a mere simulation. This only entranced her further: she sometimes tried to draw faster than was possible when she was feeling artistic, in the hope that she, too, would be able to create her own moving picture.
***
Woodcote Primary School – Year 3 Parents’ Evening
“She likes stories,” said Mrs Marsh, and by the tone of her voice, Sheila wondered if she liked stories too. “She likes reading, though what she really seems to like is creative writing. She’s got a good vocabulary; she’s got a good sense of structure, right since the start of the year she’s been able to write with a definite beginning, middle, end.”
“She’s a lovely little storyteller,” agreed Sheila. “She comes home sometimes and tells me about her day at school, but she always makes it seem so interesting.”
“Oh, she does!” Mrs Marsh clasped her hands together. “You took her on holiday to New York, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Just once, but yes, we saved up for it.”
“She came into school after and told all the other children about the World Trade Centre attacks.”
“Oh…” Sheila was unsure of how to react to that.
“No, no, it’s brilliant!” exclaimed Mrs Marsh, and gave Sheila’s arm a confident grip. “They’re old enough to know about that kind of thing now, but it was amazing how well she understood it. She wasn’t remotely traumatised, and neither were any of the other children. She did it all so… factually. She explained the way the attacks worked, the way the buildings fell, what’s been left, why it changed things for America. This is a Year 3 student, Mrs Sparks.”
“Mrs Evans,” corrected Sheila. “But that’s very good to hear.”
“Yes, sorry, Mrs Evans. If… if you don’t mind my asking, are either of her parents on the scene, or are you her only legal guardian?”
“It tends to be just me,” said Sheila, openly. “Her mum died when she just a baby, and her dad’s a scientist, so he spends pretty much his whole life up in his research base in Hawaii.” Mrs Marsh nodded, impressed. “I’m retired, so I look after her full-time. I’m technically her aunt’s godmother – seems like a distant relation, I know – but she doesn’t have a huge amount of family, I was sort of involved in the family before, and I’ve never had any kids of own, so… you get the idea.”
“We certainly wouldn’t judge based on the family tree,” assured Mrs Marsh, “just as long as whoever is looking after her is doing a good job, which you definitely seem to be. A girl that bright with that good an understanding of the world… you must talk to her all the time?”
“A lot of the time, yes.”
“I think there’s an element of natural skill there too. And you can definitely see the scientist in her, even if English is her forte. She often brings them together, and she argues logically – it’s lucky she’s well-behaved because we’d have a lot on our hands if she weren’t!” Sheila laughed. Mrs Marsh continued, “She’s an excellent all-rounder. We don’t have any concerns socially either. She has friends. She doesn’t seem to have a best friend, or at least doesn’t seem to be as close to her peers as they are to each other, but she’s far from being an outsider. I think,” she said, whispering, “sometimes she’s a bit too bright for her age, and everyone needs to grow up around her and catch her up. But that’ll happen. Jasmine’s a smart girl, and she applies herself. I’ve got no complaints, really, and I’m positive she’ll grow up to become something very, very impressive.”
***
Eight Years Later
Jasmine carefully placed the disc onto her father’s vinyl player, which crackled as it began to turn. Amazon were selling those things for about three months’ pocket money now, but she always kept her dad’s. Retro was only retro if it actually came from the past – otherwise it was just meaningless mimicry.
“Happiness… hit her. Like a train on a track…”
She watched the city out of her window. Eight o’clock at night and it was still bustling: but stranger still for England, eight o’clock at night and it was still warm. It had been a hot, beautiful summer, and whilst Jasmine tended to prefer the winter months, she was increasingly aware that she was nearing the end of her childhood. Next year she would have her National Insurance number. Next year there would no longer be a summer ‘holiday’, and she would be watching the people from the city, probably, from behind the counter at her Saturday job.
As the song continued, Jasmine froze, and the city outside seemed to freeze with her. Her curtains swung left and right on the command of a gentle breeze which had kept in through the window, and Jasmine found herself humming the tune, while thinking, deep inside, something impossible.
I’ve heard this song before.
***
Jasmine carefully placed the disc onto her father’s vinyl player, which crackled as it began to turn. Amazon were selling those things for about three months’ pocket money now, but she always kept her dad’s. Retro was only retro if it actually came from the past – otherwise it was just meaningless mimicry.
“Happiness… hit her. Like a train on a track…”
She watched the city out of her window. Eight o’clock at night and it was still bustling: but stranger still for England, eight o’clock at night and it was still warm. It had been a hot, beautiful summer, and whilst Jasmine tended to prefer the winter months, she was increasingly aware that she was nearing the end of her childhood. Next year she would have her National Insurance number. Next year there would no longer be a summer ‘holiday’, and she would be watching the people from the city, probably, from behind the counter at her Saturday job.
As the song continued, Jasmine froze, and the city outside seemed to freeze with her. Her curtains swung left and right on the command of a gentle breeze which had kept in through the window, and Jasmine found herself humming the tune, while thinking, deep inside, something impossible.
I’ve heard this song before.
***
“I’ve heard it before, I’m sure of it. When it started playing it sounded familiar, but then I recognised it all… the lyrics, the chord sequence, the instrumentation… how is that possible?”
“Easy. You heard it in a shop, Jasmine, it’s charting!”
Jasmine shook her head, then realised she was speaking on the phone. “I know Florence’s voice, believe me. I was looking forward to this album, I deliberately avoided all her songs until I bought the EP, and I’ve been revising for my GCSEs. I haven’t been in a shop. I haven’t even been out!”
“Well, you must have heard it somewhere!” insisted Patsy, the one friend she thought would listen to her without deeming her clinically insane.
“It’s not just that I recognise it, it’s like I haven’t heard it in years.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jasmine continued, “When I was a kid I had this feeling too but I never expressed it, because I didn’t know how, and I didn’t even know it was important. And when I was a baby…”
“…no one remembers being a baby, Jas!”
“Well I do! And maybe that adds to this. I always get feelings like this. I predict things, or I have memories that aren’t there, or déjà vu…”
“Everyone gets déjà vu.”
“Not like this they don’t. For instance, last autumn…”
Jasmine dropped her phone on the floor, and heard the screen crack as it landed. She was unfazed. Something else caught her attention now, and as she gazed out of the window, it felt like the whole city was looking at her, waiting on her…
“Autumn… oh my God.” She staggered back. “I remember.”
***
“Easy. You heard it in a shop, Jasmine, it’s charting!”
Jasmine shook her head, then realised she was speaking on the phone. “I know Florence’s voice, believe me. I was looking forward to this album, I deliberately avoided all her songs until I bought the EP, and I’ve been revising for my GCSEs. I haven’t been in a shop. I haven’t even been out!”
“Well, you must have heard it somewhere!” insisted Patsy, the one friend she thought would listen to her without deeming her clinically insane.
“It’s not just that I recognise it, it’s like I haven’t heard it in years.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. Jasmine continued, “When I was a kid I had this feeling too but I never expressed it, because I didn’t know how, and I didn’t even know it was important. And when I was a baby…”
“…no one remembers being a baby, Jas!”
“Well I do! And maybe that adds to this. I always get feelings like this. I predict things, or I have memories that aren’t there, or déjà vu…”
“Everyone gets déjà vu.”
“Not like this they don’t. For instance, last autumn…”
Jasmine dropped her phone on the floor, and heard the screen crack as it landed. She was unfazed. Something else caught her attention now, and as she gazed out of the window, it felt like the whole city was looking at her, waiting on her…
“Autumn… oh my God.” She staggered back. “I remember.”
***
As she heard the door to her room slide open across the laminate floor, Jasmine turned around, inadvertently knocking over the piles of books she had left haphazardly by the door. Sheila poked her head around the door to scan the room, then when she saw Jasmine at her desk, entered. Jasmine had left only her desk light on, but Sheila must have seen it from the hall.
“It’s ten past midnight, you,” commented Sheila. She was wearing her aqua-coloured dressing gown, a modern colour that proved a sharp contrast to the glasses around her neck. Jasmine had begged her not to get glasses with a chain. ‘It’ll age you’, she had said. ‘You’ll start buying crossword books and looking to adopt a cat.’
“Is it after midnight?” Jasmine lied, pretending to have only just seen the time. “I was busy.” She realised she had made another mistake: Sheila would realise that something must have sparked her interest if it had distracted her from her usual awareness of passing time, and so would also end up interested in the process.
“What are you making?” asked Sheila, predictably. Jasmine had cleared her laptop off her desk so that she could fit a sheet of A2 onto it, and was constructing what looked like a timeline in an assortment of colours.
“It’s a timeline of major events,” answered Jasmine, not technically lying.
“Is it History?” Sheila looked excited and leant over, squinting to examine the details. “I’m good at History. No… that doesn’t look like History. Who’s ‘the Doctor’?”
“He’s… a character. It’s a timeline for a book I was… thinking of writing.” Jasmine hoped, in Sheila’s old age, that this particular fact would end up slipping her mind, and Jasmine would not have to commit to anything.
But it didn’t.
“A book!” exclaimed Sheila, beaming, and ruffled Jasmine’s hair. “Oh, I knew you had it in you! You’ve always been such a wonderful writer! So full of ideas.” Her eyes were rushing frantically over the timeline now, taking in as many spoilers as she could before Jasmine sent her away.
They were spoilers, in a way. Contained in those fragmented memories were snippets of what might be Sheila’s own future: important people, alien invasions, and a vision of a far future that no one in this century would ever be optimistic enough to imagine.
“I expect to hear it as it goes along,” started Sheila, and Jasmine realised one of her monologues was starting. She began to manoeuvre her out of the room. “You could read it to me, do all the voices with it! What sort of story is it?” She forgot she had asked the question as she reached the door. “I’m reading a good book at the moment. It’s about a woman who loses her memory every time she wakes up. It’s a great mystery. Are you writing a mystery? I think you could write a good mystery. I’m reading it on my Kindle, you know. Did I show you my Kindle?”
“Night, Nan,” chuckled Jasmine, and kissed Sheila on the forehead. Every time Jasmine called her Nan, Sheila beamed, as if she was hearing it for the first time, as if she were being given her purpose in life anew. She shut the door and resumed work on the timeline.
“Don’t stay up too late!” called Sheila from the hall, but Jasmine did not need to worry about anything. Sheila would fall asleep the second her head hit the pillow, and there would be no waking her until the morning.
It was not surprising that she had picked up on the Doctor. Jasmine had written his name the most, usually next to the parts she could not explain. She remembered him: at least, she remembered the memory of him, and she remembered the name, and what that name had made Autumn Rivers feel. She remembered the anger and the vengefulness. Then she remembered the guilt. Then the respect. Then, finally, the pain of separation. She remembered Autumn’s exact thoughts, and how she had articulated them into a coherent sentence, despite the tumult of emotions inflicted on her.
He will never be able to see me. A whole eternity, and we will never be able to see each other again.
A part of Autumn may have wondered if that were really true, but she had understood it nevertheless. She had understood what death meant: eternal separation. A final loss of all power over the mortal world. And whilst she considered the memories, Jasmine quickly realised something about herself, something which was becoming clearer as she studied this strange, unfathomable woman.
I’m not Autumn Rivers.
There were many things she could have felt after that realisation. Relief, that hers was not the burden of a thousand mistakes. Indignation, that another woman’s memories had been left to her. Or pride, perhaps, as she became more self-concerned: pride that she was her own person, shaped by her own experiences, not some enigmatic stranger’s.
Nevertheless, she felt sorrow, a deep pang of despair like none she had ever felt.
Autumn had died. Her memories had been preserved, perhaps even her consciousness. But everything she was, all the experiences which had formed her and chemical reactions which had resulted in what she called a personality, were gone. A whole independent chain of cause and effect, wiped blank, replaced by a clean slate. An optimist would call it a second chance. A pessimist would call it death.
Jasmine did not know what to call it. All she knew was that Autumn had feared death, that she had mourned the loss of life, and that in spite of it all, she had died. That was the way the universe worked. And above all, it simply made Jasmine sad.
***
Almost unnervingly, soon after, as if knowledge of a previous life were not distraction enough from pending GCSE examinations, Jasmine learnt from Sheila that her father would be returning home for a week. Four days late, in the dead of night, he arrived.
Jasmine recalled a song from her childhood: ‘I am the music man, I come from far away’, it went, with a particular intonation. She never knew what the music man looked like, but she imagined it might be something like this.
Her father had long, straggly hair and a beard, wore an old pair of glasses, and carried with him a bizarrely-shaped bag, probably containing some scientific instruments which needed repairing. His eyes darted all over the place: ever the mad scientist, ever the wide-awake and rational thinker, though Jasmine still secretly expected him to ask joyfully ‘What do you play?’
“Come in,” she said, as he stood in the doorway, getting drenched. She figured she would have to teach him social etiquette during his short stay in human civilisation.
He came in and sat himself down on the sofa. Sheila was already preparing tea, not deeming him important enough to warrant a warm welcome, even though it had been about ten years since he was last here. Jasmine saw the number of careless food stains on his shirt and was compelled to invite him on a trip to H&M the next day.
“You’ve grown,” remarked Laurence, in the way that a scientist would make empirical observations, but in no way purely to make conversation. He seemed to really mean it – Jasmine guessed he had lost track of time, that ten years had become five through all the hours he drifted away in his research, and that he still expected a pre-pubescent child rather than a young woman who, with some devious cosmetic work, could pass for a twenty year-old.
“I have. You’ve…” Jasmine tried to find a kind way to put it. “Changed.”
Sheila came into the living room and handed them both a tea, still remembering how Laurence took his. “Do you…” she hovered over the coffee table. “Do you want to be left alone to chat for a bit?”
Jasmine nodded and smiled. “Thanks.”
Sheila secretly seemed pleased to leave. She had got up early to prepare the spare room for Laurence, and looked exhausted.
“I like the balcony,” stated Jasmine. “Do you like the balcony?”
“Er… sure.”
“It’s ten past midnight, you,” commented Sheila. She was wearing her aqua-coloured dressing gown, a modern colour that proved a sharp contrast to the glasses around her neck. Jasmine had begged her not to get glasses with a chain. ‘It’ll age you’, she had said. ‘You’ll start buying crossword books and looking to adopt a cat.’
“Is it after midnight?” Jasmine lied, pretending to have only just seen the time. “I was busy.” She realised she had made another mistake: Sheila would realise that something must have sparked her interest if it had distracted her from her usual awareness of passing time, and so would also end up interested in the process.
“What are you making?” asked Sheila, predictably. Jasmine had cleared her laptop off her desk so that she could fit a sheet of A2 onto it, and was constructing what looked like a timeline in an assortment of colours.
“It’s a timeline of major events,” answered Jasmine, not technically lying.
“Is it History?” Sheila looked excited and leant over, squinting to examine the details. “I’m good at History. No… that doesn’t look like History. Who’s ‘the Doctor’?”
“He’s… a character. It’s a timeline for a book I was… thinking of writing.” Jasmine hoped, in Sheila’s old age, that this particular fact would end up slipping her mind, and Jasmine would not have to commit to anything.
But it didn’t.
“A book!” exclaimed Sheila, beaming, and ruffled Jasmine’s hair. “Oh, I knew you had it in you! You’ve always been such a wonderful writer! So full of ideas.” Her eyes were rushing frantically over the timeline now, taking in as many spoilers as she could before Jasmine sent her away.
They were spoilers, in a way. Contained in those fragmented memories were snippets of what might be Sheila’s own future: important people, alien invasions, and a vision of a far future that no one in this century would ever be optimistic enough to imagine.
“I expect to hear it as it goes along,” started Sheila, and Jasmine realised one of her monologues was starting. She began to manoeuvre her out of the room. “You could read it to me, do all the voices with it! What sort of story is it?” She forgot she had asked the question as she reached the door. “I’m reading a good book at the moment. It’s about a woman who loses her memory every time she wakes up. It’s a great mystery. Are you writing a mystery? I think you could write a good mystery. I’m reading it on my Kindle, you know. Did I show you my Kindle?”
“Night, Nan,” chuckled Jasmine, and kissed Sheila on the forehead. Every time Jasmine called her Nan, Sheila beamed, as if she was hearing it for the first time, as if she were being given her purpose in life anew. She shut the door and resumed work on the timeline.
“Don’t stay up too late!” called Sheila from the hall, but Jasmine did not need to worry about anything. Sheila would fall asleep the second her head hit the pillow, and there would be no waking her until the morning.
It was not surprising that she had picked up on the Doctor. Jasmine had written his name the most, usually next to the parts she could not explain. She remembered him: at least, she remembered the memory of him, and she remembered the name, and what that name had made Autumn Rivers feel. She remembered the anger and the vengefulness. Then she remembered the guilt. Then the respect. Then, finally, the pain of separation. She remembered Autumn’s exact thoughts, and how she had articulated them into a coherent sentence, despite the tumult of emotions inflicted on her.
He will never be able to see me. A whole eternity, and we will never be able to see each other again.
A part of Autumn may have wondered if that were really true, but she had understood it nevertheless. She had understood what death meant: eternal separation. A final loss of all power over the mortal world. And whilst she considered the memories, Jasmine quickly realised something about herself, something which was becoming clearer as she studied this strange, unfathomable woman.
I’m not Autumn Rivers.
There were many things she could have felt after that realisation. Relief, that hers was not the burden of a thousand mistakes. Indignation, that another woman’s memories had been left to her. Or pride, perhaps, as she became more self-concerned: pride that she was her own person, shaped by her own experiences, not some enigmatic stranger’s.
Nevertheless, she felt sorrow, a deep pang of despair like none she had ever felt.
Autumn had died. Her memories had been preserved, perhaps even her consciousness. But everything she was, all the experiences which had formed her and chemical reactions which had resulted in what she called a personality, were gone. A whole independent chain of cause and effect, wiped blank, replaced by a clean slate. An optimist would call it a second chance. A pessimist would call it death.
Jasmine did not know what to call it. All she knew was that Autumn had feared death, that she had mourned the loss of life, and that in spite of it all, she had died. That was the way the universe worked. And above all, it simply made Jasmine sad.
***
Almost unnervingly, soon after, as if knowledge of a previous life were not distraction enough from pending GCSE examinations, Jasmine learnt from Sheila that her father would be returning home for a week. Four days late, in the dead of night, he arrived.
Jasmine recalled a song from her childhood: ‘I am the music man, I come from far away’, it went, with a particular intonation. She never knew what the music man looked like, but she imagined it might be something like this.
Her father had long, straggly hair and a beard, wore an old pair of glasses, and carried with him a bizarrely-shaped bag, probably containing some scientific instruments which needed repairing. His eyes darted all over the place: ever the mad scientist, ever the wide-awake and rational thinker, though Jasmine still secretly expected him to ask joyfully ‘What do you play?’
“Come in,” she said, as he stood in the doorway, getting drenched. She figured she would have to teach him social etiquette during his short stay in human civilisation.
He came in and sat himself down on the sofa. Sheila was already preparing tea, not deeming him important enough to warrant a warm welcome, even though it had been about ten years since he was last here. Jasmine saw the number of careless food stains on his shirt and was compelled to invite him on a trip to H&M the next day.
“You’ve grown,” remarked Laurence, in the way that a scientist would make empirical observations, but in no way purely to make conversation. He seemed to really mean it – Jasmine guessed he had lost track of time, that ten years had become five through all the hours he drifted away in his research, and that he still expected a pre-pubescent child rather than a young woman who, with some devious cosmetic work, could pass for a twenty year-old.
“I have. You’ve…” Jasmine tried to find a kind way to put it. “Changed.”
Sheila came into the living room and handed them both a tea, still remembering how Laurence took his. “Do you…” she hovered over the coffee table. “Do you want to be left alone to chat for a bit?”
Jasmine nodded and smiled. “Thanks.”
Sheila secretly seemed pleased to leave. She had got up early to prepare the spare room for Laurence, and looked exhausted.
“I like the balcony,” stated Jasmine. “Do you like the balcony?”
“Er… sure.”
“It’s a warm night.” She opened the door. There was a gust of cool air. Well, warm by British standards. She rolled her sleeves down over her hands to keep them warm, and stepped out onto the balcony. She was not worried about Laurence – he did not seem like the kind of man who would be terribly bothered by the cold, or who would even notice the temperature, unless told to measure it. He followed her out and looked over Croydon, intrigued. Jasmine wondered if it was his first time on this balcony.
“Sheila tells me you’re very clever,” he said. Now he was just making conversation, but he seemed proud nonetheless.
“Well… yes.” Jasmine heard a bit of Autumn Rivers in herself.
“I was just like that at your age. What are you like at science?”
“Not bad.”
“What’s your favourite subject?”
“English.”
“I never really got English. Or any of the arty ones. I liked Music though…”
“I like Music. I’ve still got your old record player.”
“You have?” Laurence seemed touched.
“I quite like your old ‘80s music. I like the pop stuff. And Kate Bush.”
“Kate Bush is great. She helps me concentrate. I remember her album was playing when…” he stopped, hoping for Jasmine to initiate a new discussion to help him out of the hole he had dug himself into.
“So what is it you do?” asked Jasmine. “In your research base?”
“All sorts of things. We’re funded by the government. Well, I say the government, we’re… no, I can’t tell you that.” Jasmine rolled her eyes at his blatant secret service loyalty, then considered whether he had intended her to pick up on it. “We watch the stars a lot, we use special equipment. Right out in Hawaii. I’ve seen some beautiful things.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to go and see them properly?” Jasmine’s dream was starting to sound, to her, more like a viable career plan.
“Yeah, it would…”
To Laurence, it wasn’t even a dream.
“It’s beautiful.” He finally looked Jasmine in the face. “The sky, it’s beautiful. So’s Hawaii. And to the sound of Kate Bush, it’s perfect. I love watching the structure of the universe, the movement of the spheres, it’s so…”
“You get the same joy out of Science that I get out of English,” remarked Jasmine. “We’re not so different. It’s not just a love we get out of our subjects, it’s a lens, a way of seeing the world.”
“You really are good at English. And you’re right… we do get the same joy out of it. That feeling you get that stories go on forever, that you can never run out of stories to tell… I get that when I look through my telescope and see the stars getting further and further away. The universe isn’t just there – that’s good enough – it’s expanding, always growing, just like our imaginations. Jasmine…” Laurence seemed to be struggling with something. “I’m sorry I abandoned you. If you hate me, I don’t blame you…”
“Hate you?” Jasmine scoffed. “Look, it’s the 21st century. You’re my biological father, but you have no moral duty to live my life alongside me. All you have to do is make sure I’m taken care of, and I have been. Sheila’s lovely – drives me barmy sometimes, but lovely. If you’d left me with some abusive junkie of a parent, yes, I’d hate you, but you wanted to live your life, so you did, after you’d taken care of me. I respect that.”
For once, the observatory did not seem more tantalising to Laurence than his daughter. Both had the gift of a cosmic perspective.
“I wish I’d stayed with you,” murmured Laurence.
“No you don’t.”
“No,” admitted Laurence. “I don’t. But I’m very proud of you, Jasmine.”
***
When her new timetable came through, Jasmine was thrilled to discover she had free periods every Thursday afternoon, and was given permission by her head of year to go home and study. Guiltily, she printed a copy of the timetable only after editing it, sticking up on her fridge a version in which Thursdays afternoons were filled with lessons. This gave her, she carefully calculated, two extra hours to kill. During this time, she would travel to Notting Hill and back, affording herself ten minutes at her destination.
During her first three journeys, as she had suspected, she gained nothing. Eventually, she found what she needed to: the house. Feeling like a stalker but justifying her habits by reminding herself that her situation was like no other, she would watch him from afar, knowing it was currently too early to intervene.
She watched as he took his backpack, with its peeling straps, from the one arm over which he had slung it so casually, and got the key out. She watched as, with the other hand, he tried to call someone. And she watched as he waited for the answer: she watched him pacing anxiously on the step, and watched him running his hand through his wavy hair, shaping it effortlessly as he did.
She watched the door click open, and watched him disappear inside. And she did it over and over again, hoping, one day, that she would see the little blue box appear outside; and that she would know, after that day, that it would finally be her turn, and that going to just say hello would not tear a hole in the fabric of time. She hoped he would understand why she had done what she did; why she needed to do it.
Because I need to see you. Because you’re the only one I know how to find, Tommy.
Autumn had felt something. She had not put what she had felt into words, and Jasmine wondered if she even knew she had felt it. All she recalled was a sensation: a sensation so deep and overwhelming that not even death could cut it off - that lingered, unresolved, like a song that refused to end.
***
“Talk to me, dear,” began Sheila, over their lasagne. The meal thus far had been silent, and Jasmine had thought that some conversation would be a blessing. She changed her mind once the conversation started. “You don’t seem to tell me anything anymore. I’m sorry, I know I’m a bit old and I probably stick my foot in it… and I know you’d prefer to have actual parents, I understand that.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Jasmine, not meaning to snap but wanting to make her point clear.
“Then why are you being so secretive with me? Have you got a boyfriend?” She tried to interpret what Jasmine’s silence meant. “Girlfriend…?”
“I haven’t ‘got’ anything. I’ve…” Jasmine dropped her fork. “I’ve just been busy, and I’m sorry Nan, because I don’t want to make it seem like I’m drifting away from you. I’m not, I promise.” She tried to smile. The phone rang, helping to get her out of her predicament, and Sheila wearily got up and headed for the living room while Jasmine finished her lasagne.
“You’re allowed a boyfriend, if you want. Or a girlfriend. That’s not against the rules.” The old man sat down in Sheila’s seat and finished her orange juice. Jasmine leapt out of her chair and against the kitchen units, instinctively searching with her hand for the knife.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“It’ll come back to you.” The old man got up at the same time and opened the dishwasher, considerately putting the empty glass on the top shelf. “It comes to most people, and unlike you, they haven’t met me in a previous life.” He smiled enigmatically and sat back down. Jasmine did the same, trying to keep her voice low, and hoping that Sheila would stay on the phone.
“God,” Jasmine uttered.
“Sheila tells me you’re very clever,” he said. Now he was just making conversation, but he seemed proud nonetheless.
“Well… yes.” Jasmine heard a bit of Autumn Rivers in herself.
“I was just like that at your age. What are you like at science?”
“Not bad.”
“What’s your favourite subject?”
“English.”
“I never really got English. Or any of the arty ones. I liked Music though…”
“I like Music. I’ve still got your old record player.”
“You have?” Laurence seemed touched.
“I quite like your old ‘80s music. I like the pop stuff. And Kate Bush.”
“Kate Bush is great. She helps me concentrate. I remember her album was playing when…” he stopped, hoping for Jasmine to initiate a new discussion to help him out of the hole he had dug himself into.
“So what is it you do?” asked Jasmine. “In your research base?”
“All sorts of things. We’re funded by the government. Well, I say the government, we’re… no, I can’t tell you that.” Jasmine rolled her eyes at his blatant secret service loyalty, then considered whether he had intended her to pick up on it. “We watch the stars a lot, we use special equipment. Right out in Hawaii. I’ve seen some beautiful things.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice to go and see them properly?” Jasmine’s dream was starting to sound, to her, more like a viable career plan.
“Yeah, it would…”
To Laurence, it wasn’t even a dream.
“It’s beautiful.” He finally looked Jasmine in the face. “The sky, it’s beautiful. So’s Hawaii. And to the sound of Kate Bush, it’s perfect. I love watching the structure of the universe, the movement of the spheres, it’s so…”
“You get the same joy out of Science that I get out of English,” remarked Jasmine. “We’re not so different. It’s not just a love we get out of our subjects, it’s a lens, a way of seeing the world.”
“You really are good at English. And you’re right… we do get the same joy out of it. That feeling you get that stories go on forever, that you can never run out of stories to tell… I get that when I look through my telescope and see the stars getting further and further away. The universe isn’t just there – that’s good enough – it’s expanding, always growing, just like our imaginations. Jasmine…” Laurence seemed to be struggling with something. “I’m sorry I abandoned you. If you hate me, I don’t blame you…”
“Hate you?” Jasmine scoffed. “Look, it’s the 21st century. You’re my biological father, but you have no moral duty to live my life alongside me. All you have to do is make sure I’m taken care of, and I have been. Sheila’s lovely – drives me barmy sometimes, but lovely. If you’d left me with some abusive junkie of a parent, yes, I’d hate you, but you wanted to live your life, so you did, after you’d taken care of me. I respect that.”
For once, the observatory did not seem more tantalising to Laurence than his daughter. Both had the gift of a cosmic perspective.
“I wish I’d stayed with you,” murmured Laurence.
“No you don’t.”
“No,” admitted Laurence. “I don’t. But I’m very proud of you, Jasmine.”
***
When her new timetable came through, Jasmine was thrilled to discover she had free periods every Thursday afternoon, and was given permission by her head of year to go home and study. Guiltily, she printed a copy of the timetable only after editing it, sticking up on her fridge a version in which Thursdays afternoons were filled with lessons. This gave her, she carefully calculated, two extra hours to kill. During this time, she would travel to Notting Hill and back, affording herself ten minutes at her destination.
During her first three journeys, as she had suspected, she gained nothing. Eventually, she found what she needed to: the house. Feeling like a stalker but justifying her habits by reminding herself that her situation was like no other, she would watch him from afar, knowing it was currently too early to intervene.
She watched as he took his backpack, with its peeling straps, from the one arm over which he had slung it so casually, and got the key out. She watched as, with the other hand, he tried to call someone. And she watched as he waited for the answer: she watched him pacing anxiously on the step, and watched him running his hand through his wavy hair, shaping it effortlessly as he did.
She watched the door click open, and watched him disappear inside. And she did it over and over again, hoping, one day, that she would see the little blue box appear outside; and that she would know, after that day, that it would finally be her turn, and that going to just say hello would not tear a hole in the fabric of time. She hoped he would understand why she had done what she did; why she needed to do it.
Because I need to see you. Because you’re the only one I know how to find, Tommy.
Autumn had felt something. She had not put what she had felt into words, and Jasmine wondered if she even knew she had felt it. All she recalled was a sensation: a sensation so deep and overwhelming that not even death could cut it off - that lingered, unresolved, like a song that refused to end.
***
“Talk to me, dear,” began Sheila, over their lasagne. The meal thus far had been silent, and Jasmine had thought that some conversation would be a blessing. She changed her mind once the conversation started. “You don’t seem to tell me anything anymore. I’m sorry, I know I’m a bit old and I probably stick my foot in it… and I know you’d prefer to have actual parents, I understand that.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Jasmine, not meaning to snap but wanting to make her point clear.
“Then why are you being so secretive with me? Have you got a boyfriend?” She tried to interpret what Jasmine’s silence meant. “Girlfriend…?”
“I haven’t ‘got’ anything. I’ve…” Jasmine dropped her fork. “I’ve just been busy, and I’m sorry Nan, because I don’t want to make it seem like I’m drifting away from you. I’m not, I promise.” She tried to smile. The phone rang, helping to get her out of her predicament, and Sheila wearily got up and headed for the living room while Jasmine finished her lasagne.
“You’re allowed a boyfriend, if you want. Or a girlfriend. That’s not against the rules.” The old man sat down in Sheila’s seat and finished her orange juice. Jasmine leapt out of her chair and against the kitchen units, instinctively searching with her hand for the knife.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
“It’ll come back to you.” The old man got up at the same time and opened the dishwasher, considerately putting the empty glass on the top shelf. “It comes to most people, and unlike you, they haven’t met me in a previous life.” He smiled enigmatically and sat back down. Jasmine did the same, trying to keep her voice low, and hoping that Sheila would stay on the phone.
“God,” Jasmine uttered.
“Almighty,” added God. “There you go. Confirmation that you’re not mad, if you needed it.” He adjusted his glasses, and Jasmine wondered why he was even wearing them. The man was meant to be able to see all of time and space – that wasn’t a vision that Specsavers would be able to enhance, even on their two-for-one deal. “You want to find him again, don’t you? I’ve been watching you.”
“I’m going to find him again,” corrected Jasmine.
“Not necessarily. You’ll be able to find Tommy, yes – you already have – but the Doctor dropped him off shortly after Autumn died. The same goes for Robin. Neither of them have seen him, and if they can’t find him, what chance do you think you have?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what is happening around you, Jasmine Sparks,” said God, almost threateningly. Jasmine immediately understood it as gloating. “Your old friend the Doctor told me not to interfere, so that’s just what I’m doing – holding back. I’m giving you all free will, and on a scale you’ve never had before. Which means this.” God handed over a photograph, creased and aged, probably just for dramatic effect. Jasmine recognised it, though she had never seen it before: Autumn Rivers and Robin Moon, standing with their backs to two great monoliths. The planet, it was… Dari… Jasmine shook her head, unable to recall it.
“If you think your life is a coincidence, then you are a fool. If you think that of all the things you could have been reincarnated to, it just happened to be a human being in the 21st Century, then you are ignorant. And if you think that your father working on a secret operation is down to chance, then you are insane. All of this has been put in place by me. Certain people are going to be given a certain set of choices,” explained God. “What they choose decides the future. If they choose one option, it will lead to your reunion with the Doctor. If they choose another, you will never see him again. Your life is no longer in my hands – it’s in the hands of ordinary, fallible mortals. So, what do you think?”
Jasmine was silent. Usually, when it came to philosophical debates, she was in there before the points had even finished. Now, she had no response even when prompted, but seemed to seethe with barely controlled anger at the figure across the table. She figured God could read her mind anyway.
“I think,” continued God, “that the Doctor and Autumn Rivers should have lived to see this.” He smiled and tapped his chin. Jasmine scowled. “It’s all about to change, Jasmine, in a very big way. I hope you’re ready.”
“For what?” Jasmine leaned forward, her elbow digging into what was left of her lasagne. “When is it all about to change?”
“Right now.”
Sheila entered, distracting Jasmine momentarily; when she looked back, God was gone. Sheila did not seem to have seen God, nor did she opt to take his seat, but instead stood in the doorway, the phone balanced precariously in a limp, shaking hand, her eyes looking nowhere.
“What is it?” asked Jasmine.
“It’s your father, sweetheart.” Sheila said. “I’m afraid he’s been found dead.”
***
“You’re not in any trouble,” said the detective, staring at Jasmine as if she were a suspected serial killer, sitting in an interview room that looked like something out of an ITV crime drama. The detective, on the other hand, looked like something out of a catalogue, with a face so ordinary and functional that he would be forgotten the second one looked away. “You’re not under arrest or even a suspect in any inquiry, and you’re free to leave at any time. The reason we asked to speak to you here is because the nature of your father’s death is… well, you’re aware that his work was specialised?”
“You mean that he worked for you lot?” said Jasmine, indicating that she knew full well that this was not a standard police interview. “Yes. I figured that much out myself.”
“What I need to ask you, Miss Sparks, is whether you know of any reason your father would want to end his life.”
“It would help,” remarked Jasmine, trying to establish herself as the dominant participant in the interview, “if you told me first how his life ended.” The detective seemed unconvinced. “The context would help me to narrow it down.”
“We stopped receiving transmissions from the base a few days ago, so we sent someone to check it out. What they found…” the detective looked away. Jasmine suspected that he was not the one who was first chosen to notify next of kin about someone’s death. “It appears to be the case that your father first killed everyone in the base, then destroyed all the equipment and wiped all the records, and then ended his own life.”
Jasmine half-expected everything to stop in that moment, but instead it all accelerated; her mind processed the information she had been given, narrowing down possibilities, working through variables ruthlessly and efficiently. She wondered where she had picked up that skill.
“Do you need a moment?”
“What I need, detective,” began Jasmine, looking across the desk pensively, “is to speak to Colonel Ward of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. And, you know…” her eyes wandered over to the clock on the wall. “Soon.”
***
“So I get a call from one of my officers, he says, we’ve got a young girl in… ordinary-looking, she is, I mean, no tentacles or antennae sticking out her head, just your standard defenceless citizen, but then, colonel, she asks to see you.” Colonel Ward pulled up a chair and sat opposite Jasmine, leaning back and stroking his chin thoughtfully. Jasmine, deliberately, chose not to move, and remained in her frustratingly neutral stance: back straight, hands-on-knees.
“My father died,” remarked Jasmine. “You’re not very sensitive.”
“And you’re not very sad.” Jasmine wondered if that was an accusation. “I’m afraid our Domestic Affairs branch shut down a few years ago,” continued Ward, “so I’m not here to provide counselling. What I want to know is how someone your age, from the ordinary world of ordinary people, knows my name.”
“What would you guess?” challenged Jasmine. “If you had to guess?”
“I’d guess your daddy told you a few strictly classified bedtime stories,” guessed Ward. “But you understand, we need to find out exactly what he told you, and then we need your word that you won’t tell anyone else.”
“What do you think he told me?”
“Nice try, but I am actually trained for this sort of thing, you know.” Ward seemed offended by the question. “Let me remind you who’s leading this interview, and let me ask you a question. How do you know my name?”
Jasmine noticed that Ward was still sitting back casually, in all his curiosity. He must have wanted nothing more than to sit forward, on the edge of his seat. She even had him down as a nail-biter, going by the frayed condition of his two index fingers. But he restrained himself to reaffirm his position, just as she was continuing to do.
“I’m a friend of the Doctor,” revealed Jasmine, and watched as Ward forgot all his training and sat forward attentively, his head at least half-way across the table, and his eyes appearing to stretch even further.
“Another one?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes.
“Did he leave you at home?”
“It’s complicated.”
Ward moved away. Jasmine wondered whether he thought the Doctor had left her behind because she had done something awful, whether leaving a companion on Earth was the cosmic equivalent to locking them in a police cell and throwing away the key.
“Okay, another question. Why did you come and find me?”
“My father died. I’d like to know why.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“I don’t know what sort of work he did, and I’d like to know. I’d like to know everything.”
Colonel Ward chuckled. “Yeah, sure. I forgot to mention, the code-word ‘Doctor’… whenever you use it, you get instant access to all our secret files, a tour around Area 51, and a chance to win a holiday to Ibiza.”
“You might not trust me, Colonel, but that doesn’t mean you won’t help me.”
“Won’t it get in the way of your GCSEs?”
“I’ve sat my GCSEs.”
“What will your boyfriend think?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Jasmine wondered why the question had made her think about Tommy, but dismissed it due to him being more or less the only boy she had seen for the last three weeks.
“The Doctor’s definitely got a type,” commented Ward. “He had another friend a lot like you.”
“A woman?” asked Jasmine, playing along.
“Yes.”
“What was she like?”
“One of the scariest women I’ve ever met. Always thought she knew best. Not to be trusted with a gun.” Jasmine tried not to feel flattered. “But strong, and brave, and intelligent. Dependable. When one of the Doctor’s other friends told us she’d died… let’s just say there are times when I don’t make jokes, Miss Sparks, and that was one of them.”
“The woman’s name. Was it Autumn Rivers?”
“Yes, it was.” The Colonel shifted, uncomfortable with how much Jasmine appeared to know. “What’s your name?”
Jasmine raised one of her eyebrows and smiled, trying to keep it restrained. Ward studied her for a moment, and then his eyes widened as he began to process what was being implied.
“You’re…”
Jasmine nodded. “More or less. Now, about my father.”
“The flight to Hawaii leaves tomorrow,” said Ward. “I’ll need to ask you a few more questions first.”
***
Jasmine was seated near the front of the plane, which fascinated her: growing up, she enjoyed sitting in different parts of a plane when travelling, observing the different sounds and sensations they produced. The back of a plane always felt rougher. But nearer the cockpit, she discovered, the sounds were higher-pitched. She found herself jumping every time they seemed to reach a crescendo.
“This must all be very exciting for you.”
She had not even taken notice of the man sitting next to her, clad in military gear with a crewcut and a standard British skin complexion, a man made to blend in to a major event. She was instead captivated by the one thing which could not have blended in with the world she knew: the interior of the plane. The usual dull grey walls were decorated with what at least looked like dark marble boards, to give a polished effect. The foot-space was more than she had in her living room at home. Each of the chairs reclined, and a painting was up on the wall--some important military figure, Jasmine realised--and felt guilty for feeling nothing towards the painting at all.
Then she remembered that she didn’t even like the military.
The first thing she had done when the plane took off was speculate about the threat level on this sort of flight. It was similar to a question she asked herself the last time she flew, when Sheila mentioned that royals and other notable figures often travelled on ordinary flights. Jasmine had wondered whether she was safer because of the increased security, or more at risk because the flight was one which might be targeted. What she had concluded was a balance. Now, she sensed terrorism should be the least of her worries.
“Or has it not sunk in yet?”
Jasmine jumped. She had forgotten that the man had asked her a question.
“Sorry, miles away… yeah,” she whispered. “It’s pretty exciting.”
The man smiled, and offered her a handshake, which she reciprocated warmly. “I’m Mark.”
“What are you doing on this mission, then?” asked Jasmine. It felt good to make small-talk with the rest of the crew; with those on her level.
“I’m in charge.”
…or, perhaps, not on her level.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
Mark waved it off. “Listen, I give orders so grunts will follow them, okay. You’re a civilian, you’re an ex-companion of the Doctor, you seem like an intelligent girl…” Jasmine liked this man already. “I really don’t have the time to order you about, so I’d rather you saw me as a colleague. How much has Colonel Ward told you about this operation?”
“Virtually nothing,” laughed Jasmine.
Mark chuckled. “I suspected as much. Well, Jasmine, we’re heading to Hawaii, to the observatory your father worked at. He was an astronomer of sorts, but the technology he used was what we’ve salvaged from various alien invasions, and discoveries which have been kept out of the public eye. He was a hard worker, and his colleagues all loved him. The fact that he killed himself and all of them… it seems incomprehensible.”
Jasmine nodded. It didn’t seem to fit. It was as if some massive variable had not been accounted for. That, at least, would have been how her father would have explained it.
“I have to ask, Jasmine… actually, I don’t, so if this is inappropriate then you don’t have to answer.” Jasmine had already decided that she was going to give him an answer, whatever the question was. “What’s the deal with you and him? Ward said you didn’t seem to be grieving at all. I know people grieve in their own ways, so…”
“I’m not,” confessed Jasmine, and saved him the trouble of justifying his question. “Not at the moment, anyway. Maybe I will eventually. I’m too caught up in the mystery – how can I grieve something I don’t even understand? I don’t know why my father would have done something like that, and it’s occurring to me now that I don’t even know my father. I only met him, like, twice. I’m no more attached to him than I am to a stranger. It’s sad, but does it make me sad? No. Not yet. But you’re right, it’ll probably sink in after a while.”
***
“I’m going to find him again,” corrected Jasmine.
“Not necessarily. You’ll be able to find Tommy, yes – you already have – but the Doctor dropped him off shortly after Autumn died. The same goes for Robin. Neither of them have seen him, and if they can’t find him, what chance do you think you have?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll tell you exactly what is happening around you, Jasmine Sparks,” said God, almost threateningly. Jasmine immediately understood it as gloating. “Your old friend the Doctor told me not to interfere, so that’s just what I’m doing – holding back. I’m giving you all free will, and on a scale you’ve never had before. Which means this.” God handed over a photograph, creased and aged, probably just for dramatic effect. Jasmine recognised it, though she had never seen it before: Autumn Rivers and Robin Moon, standing with their backs to two great monoliths. The planet, it was… Dari… Jasmine shook her head, unable to recall it.
“If you think your life is a coincidence, then you are a fool. If you think that of all the things you could have been reincarnated to, it just happened to be a human being in the 21st Century, then you are ignorant. And if you think that your father working on a secret operation is down to chance, then you are insane. All of this has been put in place by me. Certain people are going to be given a certain set of choices,” explained God. “What they choose decides the future. If they choose one option, it will lead to your reunion with the Doctor. If they choose another, you will never see him again. Your life is no longer in my hands – it’s in the hands of ordinary, fallible mortals. So, what do you think?”
Jasmine was silent. Usually, when it came to philosophical debates, she was in there before the points had even finished. Now, she had no response even when prompted, but seemed to seethe with barely controlled anger at the figure across the table. She figured God could read her mind anyway.
“I think,” continued God, “that the Doctor and Autumn Rivers should have lived to see this.” He smiled and tapped his chin. Jasmine scowled. “It’s all about to change, Jasmine, in a very big way. I hope you’re ready.”
“For what?” Jasmine leaned forward, her elbow digging into what was left of her lasagne. “When is it all about to change?”
“Right now.”
Sheila entered, distracting Jasmine momentarily; when she looked back, God was gone. Sheila did not seem to have seen God, nor did she opt to take his seat, but instead stood in the doorway, the phone balanced precariously in a limp, shaking hand, her eyes looking nowhere.
“What is it?” asked Jasmine.
“It’s your father, sweetheart.” Sheila said. “I’m afraid he’s been found dead.”
***
“You’re not in any trouble,” said the detective, staring at Jasmine as if she were a suspected serial killer, sitting in an interview room that looked like something out of an ITV crime drama. The detective, on the other hand, looked like something out of a catalogue, with a face so ordinary and functional that he would be forgotten the second one looked away. “You’re not under arrest or even a suspect in any inquiry, and you’re free to leave at any time. The reason we asked to speak to you here is because the nature of your father’s death is… well, you’re aware that his work was specialised?”
“You mean that he worked for you lot?” said Jasmine, indicating that she knew full well that this was not a standard police interview. “Yes. I figured that much out myself.”
“What I need to ask you, Miss Sparks, is whether you know of any reason your father would want to end his life.”
“It would help,” remarked Jasmine, trying to establish herself as the dominant participant in the interview, “if you told me first how his life ended.” The detective seemed unconvinced. “The context would help me to narrow it down.”
“We stopped receiving transmissions from the base a few days ago, so we sent someone to check it out. What they found…” the detective looked away. Jasmine suspected that he was not the one who was first chosen to notify next of kin about someone’s death. “It appears to be the case that your father first killed everyone in the base, then destroyed all the equipment and wiped all the records, and then ended his own life.”
Jasmine half-expected everything to stop in that moment, but instead it all accelerated; her mind processed the information she had been given, narrowing down possibilities, working through variables ruthlessly and efficiently. She wondered where she had picked up that skill.
“Do you need a moment?”
“What I need, detective,” began Jasmine, looking across the desk pensively, “is to speak to Colonel Ward of the Unified Intelligence Taskforce. And, you know…” her eyes wandered over to the clock on the wall. “Soon.”
***
“So I get a call from one of my officers, he says, we’ve got a young girl in… ordinary-looking, she is, I mean, no tentacles or antennae sticking out her head, just your standard defenceless citizen, but then, colonel, she asks to see you.” Colonel Ward pulled up a chair and sat opposite Jasmine, leaning back and stroking his chin thoughtfully. Jasmine, deliberately, chose not to move, and remained in her frustratingly neutral stance: back straight, hands-on-knees.
“My father died,” remarked Jasmine. “You’re not very sensitive.”
“And you’re not very sad.” Jasmine wondered if that was an accusation. “I’m afraid our Domestic Affairs branch shut down a few years ago,” continued Ward, “so I’m not here to provide counselling. What I want to know is how someone your age, from the ordinary world of ordinary people, knows my name.”
“What would you guess?” challenged Jasmine. “If you had to guess?”
“I’d guess your daddy told you a few strictly classified bedtime stories,” guessed Ward. “But you understand, we need to find out exactly what he told you, and then we need your word that you won’t tell anyone else.”
“What do you think he told me?”
“Nice try, but I am actually trained for this sort of thing, you know.” Ward seemed offended by the question. “Let me remind you who’s leading this interview, and let me ask you a question. How do you know my name?”
Jasmine noticed that Ward was still sitting back casually, in all his curiosity. He must have wanted nothing more than to sit forward, on the edge of his seat. She even had him down as a nail-biter, going by the frayed condition of his two index fingers. But he restrained himself to reaffirm his position, just as she was continuing to do.
“I’m a friend of the Doctor,” revealed Jasmine, and watched as Ward forgot all his training and sat forward attentively, his head at least half-way across the table, and his eyes appearing to stretch even further.
“Another one?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes.
“Did he leave you at home?”
“It’s complicated.”
Ward moved away. Jasmine wondered whether he thought the Doctor had left her behind because she had done something awful, whether leaving a companion on Earth was the cosmic equivalent to locking them in a police cell and throwing away the key.
“Okay, another question. Why did you come and find me?”
“My father died. I’d like to know why.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“I don’t know what sort of work he did, and I’d like to know. I’d like to know everything.”
Colonel Ward chuckled. “Yeah, sure. I forgot to mention, the code-word ‘Doctor’… whenever you use it, you get instant access to all our secret files, a tour around Area 51, and a chance to win a holiday to Ibiza.”
“You might not trust me, Colonel, but that doesn’t mean you won’t help me.”
“Won’t it get in the way of your GCSEs?”
“I’ve sat my GCSEs.”
“What will your boyfriend think?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Jasmine wondered why the question had made her think about Tommy, but dismissed it due to him being more or less the only boy she had seen for the last three weeks.
“The Doctor’s definitely got a type,” commented Ward. “He had another friend a lot like you.”
“A woman?” asked Jasmine, playing along.
“Yes.”
“What was she like?”
“One of the scariest women I’ve ever met. Always thought she knew best. Not to be trusted with a gun.” Jasmine tried not to feel flattered. “But strong, and brave, and intelligent. Dependable. When one of the Doctor’s other friends told us she’d died… let’s just say there are times when I don’t make jokes, Miss Sparks, and that was one of them.”
“The woman’s name. Was it Autumn Rivers?”
“Yes, it was.” The Colonel shifted, uncomfortable with how much Jasmine appeared to know. “What’s your name?”
Jasmine raised one of her eyebrows and smiled, trying to keep it restrained. Ward studied her for a moment, and then his eyes widened as he began to process what was being implied.
“You’re…”
Jasmine nodded. “More or less. Now, about my father.”
“The flight to Hawaii leaves tomorrow,” said Ward. “I’ll need to ask you a few more questions first.”
***
Jasmine was seated near the front of the plane, which fascinated her: growing up, she enjoyed sitting in different parts of a plane when travelling, observing the different sounds and sensations they produced. The back of a plane always felt rougher. But nearer the cockpit, she discovered, the sounds were higher-pitched. She found herself jumping every time they seemed to reach a crescendo.
“This must all be very exciting for you.”
She had not even taken notice of the man sitting next to her, clad in military gear with a crewcut and a standard British skin complexion, a man made to blend in to a major event. She was instead captivated by the one thing which could not have blended in with the world she knew: the interior of the plane. The usual dull grey walls were decorated with what at least looked like dark marble boards, to give a polished effect. The foot-space was more than she had in her living room at home. Each of the chairs reclined, and a painting was up on the wall--some important military figure, Jasmine realised--and felt guilty for feeling nothing towards the painting at all.
Then she remembered that she didn’t even like the military.
The first thing she had done when the plane took off was speculate about the threat level on this sort of flight. It was similar to a question she asked herself the last time she flew, when Sheila mentioned that royals and other notable figures often travelled on ordinary flights. Jasmine had wondered whether she was safer because of the increased security, or more at risk because the flight was one which might be targeted. What she had concluded was a balance. Now, she sensed terrorism should be the least of her worries.
“Or has it not sunk in yet?”
Jasmine jumped. She had forgotten that the man had asked her a question.
“Sorry, miles away… yeah,” she whispered. “It’s pretty exciting.”
The man smiled, and offered her a handshake, which she reciprocated warmly. “I’m Mark.”
“What are you doing on this mission, then?” asked Jasmine. It felt good to make small-talk with the rest of the crew; with those on her level.
“I’m in charge.”
…or, perhaps, not on her level.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
Mark waved it off. “Listen, I give orders so grunts will follow them, okay. You’re a civilian, you’re an ex-companion of the Doctor, you seem like an intelligent girl…” Jasmine liked this man already. “I really don’t have the time to order you about, so I’d rather you saw me as a colleague. How much has Colonel Ward told you about this operation?”
“Virtually nothing,” laughed Jasmine.
Mark chuckled. “I suspected as much. Well, Jasmine, we’re heading to Hawaii, to the observatory your father worked at. He was an astronomer of sorts, but the technology he used was what we’ve salvaged from various alien invasions, and discoveries which have been kept out of the public eye. He was a hard worker, and his colleagues all loved him. The fact that he killed himself and all of them… it seems incomprehensible.”
Jasmine nodded. It didn’t seem to fit. It was as if some massive variable had not been accounted for. That, at least, would have been how her father would have explained it.
“I have to ask, Jasmine… actually, I don’t, so if this is inappropriate then you don’t have to answer.” Jasmine had already decided that she was going to give him an answer, whatever the question was. “What’s the deal with you and him? Ward said you didn’t seem to be grieving at all. I know people grieve in their own ways, so…”
“I’m not,” confessed Jasmine, and saved him the trouble of justifying his question. “Not at the moment, anyway. Maybe I will eventually. I’m too caught up in the mystery – how can I grieve something I don’t even understand? I don’t know why my father would have done something like that, and it’s occurring to me now that I don’t even know my father. I only met him, like, twice. I’m no more attached to him than I am to a stranger. It’s sad, but does it make me sad? No. Not yet. But you’re right, it’ll probably sink in after a while.”
***
Laurence’s eyes were still wide open, and he lay flat on his back, directly underneath the domed ceiling. The effect was an unsettling one. It was as if he had seen something terrible, without the aid of a telescope or some sort of purposefully-filtered camera, up there in the stars; something which could not be unseen; something that could not be changed. Jasmine tried to look up herself, to see things from his perspective. She saw nothing.
It would have been stupid, she realised. Simply changing the angle would not reveal awful cosmic secrets. It would somehow take more than that.
But it wasn’t just that Laurence had seen it: he had chosen for no one else to see. The rest of his team’s bodies were dotted across the room, and the equipment was battered, broken and twisted, so that the moment of his death, the moment all the stars in the sky turned black, could never be recaptured by anyone, anywhere, ever again.
Or so he hoped.
“Can any of this be salvaged?”
“You’d be surprised by the things that can be salvaged,” answered Mark, then admitting: “and even more surprised by the things that can’t.” He walked over to Jasmine, who was still standing over her father’s body, and sensed the one thing she had hoped he wouldn’t. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Jasmine lied. “It’s just…”
“Seeing it? Yeah, I know.” Mark grimaced at the body. “I saw my first body when I was twenty-three, a Weevil victim, neck sliced open, blood trickling down a white coat, hair soaked in a puddle. I threw up. You’re not even out of your teens, and the man in front of you is your father.” He gave her a pat on the back. “You’re a trooper, Jasmine. There’s not a man in here who’d deny it.”
Six Months Later
“No, there hasn’t been any progress. But strictly speaking, I couldn’t tell you if there had.”
“But you would, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me anything.”
Jasmine was tempted to shut the laptop screen. Sheila always had the measure of her, even over a delayed, pixelated transmission.
“I’d tell the first person I saw,” admitted Jasmine. “It’s frustrating. Six months out here and nothing, just nothing. It’s driving me mad.”
“Come home, then.”
“Nope. I can’t go home until I’ve solved this, I just can’t.”
“I understand, love. You’re a bit like him in that way.”
“I am.” Jasmine hesitated. “The picture’s going,” she lied, not wanting to admit that she was simply too tired to carry on talking. “I’ll call you back next week.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, Nan.” Jasmine waved and ended the call. As the laptop powered down, she noticed Mark in its reflection, taking a look at her room. He rarely visited, and she had personalised it: her father’s Kate Bush EPs were scattered across the dusty cover of a 1980s record player, and an un-tuned electric guitar was balanced against the wall. On that wall, she had stuck photos: one of her as a baby with Sheila; another of her with her best friend; and another of Tommy Lindsay, taken directly off his Facebook profile, with post-its stuck around it, each littered with suggestions of things she might have remembered about him.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”
“I didn’t see you.” Jasmine turned in her chair. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s… a bit delicate, Jasmine.” Mark perched on the bed, and Jasmine understood that indeed it was.
“What’s happened?”
“Your grandma told you about the fires, didn’t she?”
Jasmine nodded.
“It’s the Doctor.” Mark swallowed. “He’s been found dead.”
“He doesn’t die.”
“Jasmine, I’m sorry. If there’s any…”
“He doesn’t die,” repeated Jasmine, angrily. “You work for UNIT, you’re meant to understand this.”
“He didn’t have time to regenerate.”
“You’re not listening to me,” snapped Jasmine, and wondered if Mark now wished he had set himself up as her superior at the start. “He doesn’t die.”
“We’ve found the body.”
“He’s not dead.”
Mark sighed. “I know this is difficult. From what I can understand…from what you’ve told me, I know this must be hard…”
“You told me you’d do anything I needed you to do,” said Jasmine, recalling a conversation they’d had on the first day in the observatory. “I’d like to take you up on that offer.”
“Shoot.”
“The home of Robin Moon,” said Jasmine. Mark seemed to recognise the name. “The Doctor’s not dead, and that’ll be the first place he’ll go. I want that house watched, and I want to know the second the Doctor steps outside. Can you do that for me?”
Mark nodded. “I’ll give the order right away.” He stood up and bowed his head. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“What loss?” Jasmine gestured for the door, and Mark realised there would be no convincing her. He shut the door behind him, and Jasmine dimmed the light of her room. She turned back to the photograph of Tommy on the wall, and made a wish.
Don’t you dare give up on him, Tommy. Don’t you ever dare.
The Doctor had no known origin. His movements were impossible to trace, his different faces dotted at different points throughout Earth’s history. His death was the only certain thing about him – that was what a cynic would have said. Jasmine disagreed.
The Doctor simply operated according to a different set of rules. He did not have an origin, and his life did not make any sense. The concept of cause and effect was lost on him, and he rejected every law he was told to live by. Why did death have to be an end for a man like that?
***
It would have been stupid, she realised. Simply changing the angle would not reveal awful cosmic secrets. It would somehow take more than that.
But it wasn’t just that Laurence had seen it: he had chosen for no one else to see. The rest of his team’s bodies were dotted across the room, and the equipment was battered, broken and twisted, so that the moment of his death, the moment all the stars in the sky turned black, could never be recaptured by anyone, anywhere, ever again.
Or so he hoped.
“Can any of this be salvaged?”
“You’d be surprised by the things that can be salvaged,” answered Mark, then admitting: “and even more surprised by the things that can’t.” He walked over to Jasmine, who was still standing over her father’s body, and sensed the one thing she had hoped he wouldn’t. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Jasmine lied. “It’s just…”
“Seeing it? Yeah, I know.” Mark grimaced at the body. “I saw my first body when I was twenty-three, a Weevil victim, neck sliced open, blood trickling down a white coat, hair soaked in a puddle. I threw up. You’re not even out of your teens, and the man in front of you is your father.” He gave her a pat on the back. “You’re a trooper, Jasmine. There’s not a man in here who’d deny it.”
Six Months Later
“No, there hasn’t been any progress. But strictly speaking, I couldn’t tell you if there had.”
“But you would, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me anything.”
Jasmine was tempted to shut the laptop screen. Sheila always had the measure of her, even over a delayed, pixelated transmission.
“I’d tell the first person I saw,” admitted Jasmine. “It’s frustrating. Six months out here and nothing, just nothing. It’s driving me mad.”
“Come home, then.”
“Nope. I can’t go home until I’ve solved this, I just can’t.”
“I understand, love. You’re a bit like him in that way.”
“I am.” Jasmine hesitated. “The picture’s going,” she lied, not wanting to admit that she was simply too tired to carry on talking. “I’ll call you back next week.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, Nan.” Jasmine waved and ended the call. As the laptop powered down, she noticed Mark in its reflection, taking a look at her room. He rarely visited, and she had personalised it: her father’s Kate Bush EPs were scattered across the dusty cover of a 1980s record player, and an un-tuned electric guitar was balanced against the wall. On that wall, she had stuck photos: one of her as a baby with Sheila; another of her with her best friend; and another of Tommy Lindsay, taken directly off his Facebook profile, with post-its stuck around it, each littered with suggestions of things she might have remembered about him.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”
“I didn’t see you.” Jasmine turned in her chair. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s… a bit delicate, Jasmine.” Mark perched on the bed, and Jasmine understood that indeed it was.
“What’s happened?”
“Your grandma told you about the fires, didn’t she?”
Jasmine nodded.
“It’s the Doctor.” Mark swallowed. “He’s been found dead.”
“He doesn’t die.”
“Jasmine, I’m sorry. If there’s any…”
“He doesn’t die,” repeated Jasmine, angrily. “You work for UNIT, you’re meant to understand this.”
“He didn’t have time to regenerate.”
“You’re not listening to me,” snapped Jasmine, and wondered if Mark now wished he had set himself up as her superior at the start. “He doesn’t die.”
“We’ve found the body.”
“He’s not dead.”
Mark sighed. “I know this is difficult. From what I can understand…from what you’ve told me, I know this must be hard…”
“You told me you’d do anything I needed you to do,” said Jasmine, recalling a conversation they’d had on the first day in the observatory. “I’d like to take you up on that offer.”
“Shoot.”
“The home of Robin Moon,” said Jasmine. Mark seemed to recognise the name. “The Doctor’s not dead, and that’ll be the first place he’ll go. I want that house watched, and I want to know the second the Doctor steps outside. Can you do that for me?”
Mark nodded. “I’ll give the order right away.” He stood up and bowed his head. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“What loss?” Jasmine gestured for the door, and Mark realised there would be no convincing her. He shut the door behind him, and Jasmine dimmed the light of her room. She turned back to the photograph of Tommy on the wall, and made a wish.
Don’t you dare give up on him, Tommy. Don’t you ever dare.
The Doctor had no known origin. His movements were impossible to trace, his different faces dotted at different points throughout Earth’s history. His death was the only certain thing about him – that was what a cynic would have said. Jasmine disagreed.
The Doctor simply operated according to a different set of rules. He did not have an origin, and his life did not make any sense. The concept of cause and effect was lost on him, and he rejected every law he was told to live by. Why did death have to be an end for a man like that?
***
Jasmine studied herself in the mirror. Her hair had grown again, and she was sure other things had changed too. The shape of her body seemed better-defined, but she had not gained any height. She was…
She knew what an old relative would have said. Last time I saw you, you were this big… oh, haven’t you grown?
One day she would outlive Autumn Rivers. Perhaps then, everything would make sense: she would no longer be living a life for the second time, and nothing that happened to her would have happened before. More memories were flooding in every day, and as she studied her reflection, she searched for signs that Autumn was beginning to surface in her person, too. But no: she smiled a different smile, laughed a different laugh, used different words and thought different thoughts.
What’s left? That was the question she always asked herself. If the soul truly did exist, then what could be left, once all environmental and genetic influences were subtracted? What could be left of a being comprised of external influences and internal chemical reactions?
There did not appear to be an answer, and it was not a hypothesis worth testing, considering the sacrifice.
Jasmine heard a knock at the door, and was, for once, grateful for the interruption.
“Mark. Come in.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mark, breathless. Jasmine prepared for the bad news: the last time he had said that, all those months ago, everything had changed. She half-expected, this time, to hear that Robin Moon too was dead – or worse. She looked to the picture of Tommy on the wall, then back to Mark.
“What’s happened?”
“I was wrong,” confessed Mark. “You were right.”
Jasmine frowned.
“We put the men outside Robin’s house, just as you told us to. And… he’s there. Now.”
“Oh my…”
Mark held out the phone. Jasmine wondered if she were dreaming. She had experienced similar dreams before. It always happened this suddenly.
“The number’s here. I can’t vouch for the reception, but he’ll be there now.”
Jasmine took the phone, hand shaking and heart racing, and dialled the number. She held the phone to her ear. Rather than giving her the space like he probably should have, Mark paced around anxiously at the edge of the room, keen to see the outcome after months of disappointment in the most uncooperative crime-scene in the universe.
The phone was unanswered for a few seconds.
Please, pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
He did. The other end of the line was silent.
“Hello?” asked Jasmine.
“Hello?”
It was him. She wasn’t sure at first – the voice was shaking, and though it might also have been an effect of the nerves, he sounded older. But she knew the voice. From this life, from another – it hardly mattered.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Is this the Doctor?” asked Jasmine, raising her voice as the reception got weaker.
“Yes, yes, it is!” replied the Doctor. He was right: now she heard him properly, he was the Doctor.
“Oh my God…” Jasmine felt herself tearing up, feeling the emotions she had been dying to feel for so long. She felt…
Alive.
More alive than she had ever felt. And as alive as she had ever wanted to feel.
“Oh my God, it’s you… it’s you…”
“Autumn?” It seemed strange to hear the word spoken by another. She got the impression he was crying.
“Jasmine,” she corrected, not wanting to raise any false hopes. “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,” admitted Jasmine. “Can you come back?” She heard the line breaking up.
“Jasmine? Jasmine, don’t h-----!” The Doctor’s end was going, too.
“There’s a terrible signal here,” called Jasmine. “It’s only reliable for a short period of time. Doctor,” she cried, “I need you to come and find me.” She crossed her fingers, hoping that he could hear. “Will you come and find me?”
“I will!” exclaimed the Doctor, and for one moment she was able to hear him without any interference. He must have been shouting his head off down the phone. “Jasmine, I’m coming, I swear! I’ll find you!”
The connection stopped, and Jasmine lowered the phone. She passed it back to Mark. Her hands were steady, and she smiled, while he stared back, confused, not sure how to respond to what little he could make out.
“I was right,” clarified Jasmine. “I knew it… I was right.”
***
“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.”
Even though he had taken her word on it, it was still unbelievable, and to hear it uttered from the Doctor’s mouth – Gospel truth…
That sneaky cow! thought Colonel Ward, and concealed his joy: Earth’s two greatest heroes had somehow survived death, the only barrier he had ever considered a challenge to them.
“Now,” said the Doctor, getting down to business. “Where’s my TARDIS?”
***
“Did you ever find out, then? What happened?”
Jasmine shrugged, and took a sip of the tea, before feeling a pang of ecstasy run through her. She had missed Sheila’s tea more than anything else about her home – other than Sheila herself.
“They’re still working on it,” she said, putting the tea back down, also cherishing the return of clean surfaces. “I’m not.” It all sounded so simple, even when it wasn’t.
“Do you think they’ll find out?”
Jasmine considered what she thought about that. “I hope so,” she said, nodding. “I disagree with him,” she confessed. “My dad, I mean, I disagree with him. We think he did what he did because he didn’t want anyone else to find what he found, but that’s not something I would ever believe in. I think people deserve to know – people always deserve to know, no matter what that knowledge does to them. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a very, very clever girl, and it’s so good to have you home… even if you are going travelling again.” Sheila smiled and gave Jasmine a hug.
Now that’s what I’ve missed the most, decided Jasmine.
“I’m heading out to get some juice. I remember you, drinking gallons of the stuff…” Sheila wandered out, and Jasmine headed into the living room, for once anticipating her intruder.
“Do cosmic super-beings ever knock?” she asked, and the Doctor chuckled.
“I’m not a cosmic super-being,” he replied.
“Not quite yet. TARDIS?”
The Doctor gestured behind him. The box was parked behind the sofa. It always amazed Jasmine how much could be fitted behind there.
“Need to take anything?”
“Yeah.” Jasmine scanned the room, and found it, carrying it under her arm. The Doctor raised an eyebrow.
“Electric guitar?”
“Well, Autumn could play the piano, and I can’t. I figured you’ve missed having a musician on-board.”
The Doctor smiled. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but was secretly disappointed about something. Jasmine realised it was the first time he had heard her refer to Autumn in the third-person.
She stepped inside the TARDIS, at first surprised by how easily she took it, but then recalled how casually Autumn had, too.
Yet somehow, this time… it was even bigger on the inside.
“I could get used to this,” remarked Jasmine. “Have you still got Alfie?”
“The guinea pig? Yes, I have.” The Doctor rested Jasmine’s guitar next to a bookcase. “Eight years old now, so about twice his expected life-span, and still going fine. They say pets are like their owners.”
Jasmine circled around the console unit, realising she didn’t even have any shoes on. The Doctor noticed too.
“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “Plenty of shoes in the wardrobe.”
The Doctor could not help but observe Jasmine as she moved around the interior of his ship, comparing her behaviour to that of Autumn, and realising that doing that made him far more like his old companion than Jasmine was.
There were differences, but often their effect was the same. Autumn, the Doctor recalled, took command of her setting, entering with a stride to mark her territory. Jasmine did not, but adapted herself to become a part of the scenery. To both, adventuring into new worlds set off a chain of compelling survival mechanisms.
“It’ll be good to leave Earth for a bit,” joked Jasmine, making conversation. “I’ve spent quite a while here…”
“Have a destination in mind?” asked the Doctor. “Or are you going to start with the pair of shoes?”
“Maybe the pair of shoes,” joked Jasmine. “But I do know where I want to go. I’ve had a lot of time to think recently.”
“Well, whatever your request is, madam,” said the Doctor. “You know the rules. No interfering…”
“No wandering off?” Jasmine scoffed at that one. “And I’ve got a rule for you – no messing up my life. I remember what you did to Autumn Rivers, and I saw what you did to Robin Moon.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“You won’t promise that,” corrected Jasmine. “Promise it, and it’ll happen.”
“Okay.” The Doctor nodded. “I promise I will do everything within my power.”
Jasmine hoped he was as powerful as she remembered.
“Let’s go.”
The Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire
Autumn Rivers’ body was burnt.
The Destiny Institute often avoided using the word cremation, preferring to keep an emotional distance from the patients they had failed. As the public became aware of her death, there was no need to hide the ashes, and so they were scattered in a private location, open to those who knew her. It was a park – elevated above the Capital on top of a skyship, and, as solarpunk as the area the Destiny Institute was, drifting in the breeze, which carried with it the scent of freshly-mowed grass.
Autumn was scattered under a small paper birch tree at the end of a long, winding path, where a family of exotic birds gathered, safe from the prying eyes of larger predators. The tree was just out of the shadow of the buildings on top of the skyship, and its peak occasionally drifted through the clouds.
A small signpost stood a few metres away from the tree, providing passers-by with information about the woman who now rested at its roots, lest she be forgotten:
Autumn Rivers was many things: a forensic psychologist, planetary rights activist, adventurer, and even detective. She was best-known for bringing down Lord Dalta, and for ending the decadent practises of planet-making corporations. Little is known about Rivers’ life after her quest for social justice reached its end, and the murder of Quillon Spiros left many to wonder whether she was the hero they thought she was. Regardless, without Rivers’ passion and determination, countless other corporations may have been left to commit genocide. Hero or villain, the Empire, and even the universe, would be a darker place without her.
“Why did you want to come here?” asked the Doctor. “To see what they thought of you?”
“No.” Jasmine shook her head sadly. “I wanted to show you, because I couldn’t face telling you.”
“Show me what?”
Jasmine gestured to the tree. “The final resting-place of Autumn Rivers. Doctor…”
She took a deep breath. It was not as easy to communicate as she had expected; years of rehearsal were wasted as the Time Lord simply failed to grasp the reality around him.
“I’m not Autumn,” continued Jasmine. “I have her memories, and maybe I even have her consciousness, but she’s not who I am. We think differently, we’ve lived different lives, and… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. You can take me home.”
“Take you home?”
“Yes…”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m not who you thought I was.”
“So what?” The Doctor looked away from the signpost and, unexpectedly, embraced Jasmine in a warm hug. “You’re Jasmine Sparks. It’s not every day you win a jackpot like that.”
“But aren’t you…” Jasmine waited for the Doctor to finish, then stepped back. “Aren’t you sad?”
“I thought Autumn died for a long time – I hadn’t processed that she was still alive yet. Even to have her memories preserved, to know that she lived on… somehow… somewhere within you.” He shrugged. “That’s honestly all I need.”
“Thank you.” Jasmine smiled. “Do you mind giving me…?”
“A moment? Sure.” The Doctor walked back up the path towards the TARDIS.
“Did you know her?” asked Jasmine, startling the woman next to her.
“I didn’t realise either of you had seen me.”
“He didn’t,” laughed Jasmine, pointing up the hill. “Oblivious as anything.”
“Yes,” the woman replied eventually. “Yes, I did know her. I was her chief superintendent.”
“Superintendent Goodwin,” recalled Jasmine.
“You knew her too, then?” asked Goodwin.
Jasmine nodded. “What did you know about her death?”
Goodwin grimaced, and looked down. “Too much.”
“You knew about the Destiny Institute? They said she might have been trapped in that nightmare state for the rest of eternity, a sort of technological glitch. They said it would be like… going to hell.”
She knew what an old relative would have said. Last time I saw you, you were this big… oh, haven’t you grown?
One day she would outlive Autumn Rivers. Perhaps then, everything would make sense: she would no longer be living a life for the second time, and nothing that happened to her would have happened before. More memories were flooding in every day, and as she studied her reflection, she searched for signs that Autumn was beginning to surface in her person, too. But no: she smiled a different smile, laughed a different laugh, used different words and thought different thoughts.
What’s left? That was the question she always asked herself. If the soul truly did exist, then what could be left, once all environmental and genetic influences were subtracted? What could be left of a being comprised of external influences and internal chemical reactions?
There did not appear to be an answer, and it was not a hypothesis worth testing, considering the sacrifice.
Jasmine heard a knock at the door, and was, for once, grateful for the interruption.
“Mark. Come in.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mark, breathless. Jasmine prepared for the bad news: the last time he had said that, all those months ago, everything had changed. She half-expected, this time, to hear that Robin Moon too was dead – or worse. She looked to the picture of Tommy on the wall, then back to Mark.
“What’s happened?”
“I was wrong,” confessed Mark. “You were right.”
Jasmine frowned.
“We put the men outside Robin’s house, just as you told us to. And… he’s there. Now.”
“Oh my…”
Mark held out the phone. Jasmine wondered if she were dreaming. She had experienced similar dreams before. It always happened this suddenly.
“The number’s here. I can’t vouch for the reception, but he’ll be there now.”
Jasmine took the phone, hand shaking and heart racing, and dialled the number. She held the phone to her ear. Rather than giving her the space like he probably should have, Mark paced around anxiously at the edge of the room, keen to see the outcome after months of disappointment in the most uncooperative crime-scene in the universe.
The phone was unanswered for a few seconds.
Please, pick up. Pick up. Pick up.
He did. The other end of the line was silent.
“Hello?” asked Jasmine.
“Hello?”
It was him. She wasn’t sure at first – the voice was shaking, and though it might also have been an effect of the nerves, he sounded older. But she knew the voice. From this life, from another – it hardly mattered.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Is this the Doctor?” asked Jasmine, raising her voice as the reception got weaker.
“Yes, yes, it is!” replied the Doctor. He was right: now she heard him properly, he was the Doctor.
“Oh my God…” Jasmine felt herself tearing up, feeling the emotions she had been dying to feel for so long. She felt…
Alive.
More alive than she had ever felt. And as alive as she had ever wanted to feel.
“Oh my God, it’s you… it’s you…”
“Autumn?” It seemed strange to hear the word spoken by another. She got the impression he was crying.
“Jasmine,” she corrected, not wanting to raise any false hopes. “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,” admitted Jasmine. “Can you come back?” She heard the line breaking up.
“Jasmine? Jasmine, don’t h-----!” The Doctor’s end was going, too.
“There’s a terrible signal here,” called Jasmine. “It’s only reliable for a short period of time. Doctor,” she cried, “I need you to come and find me.” She crossed her fingers, hoping that he could hear. “Will you come and find me?”
“I will!” exclaimed the Doctor, and for one moment she was able to hear him without any interference. He must have been shouting his head off down the phone. “Jasmine, I’m coming, I swear! I’ll find you!”
The connection stopped, and Jasmine lowered the phone. She passed it back to Mark. Her hands were steady, and she smiled, while he stared back, confused, not sure how to respond to what little he could make out.
“I was right,” clarified Jasmine. “I knew it… I was right.”
***
“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.”
Even though he had taken her word on it, it was still unbelievable, and to hear it uttered from the Doctor’s mouth – Gospel truth…
That sneaky cow! thought Colonel Ward, and concealed his joy: Earth’s two greatest heroes had somehow survived death, the only barrier he had ever considered a challenge to them.
“Now,” said the Doctor, getting down to business. “Where’s my TARDIS?”
***
“Did you ever find out, then? What happened?”
Jasmine shrugged, and took a sip of the tea, before feeling a pang of ecstasy run through her. She had missed Sheila’s tea more than anything else about her home – other than Sheila herself.
“They’re still working on it,” she said, putting the tea back down, also cherishing the return of clean surfaces. “I’m not.” It all sounded so simple, even when it wasn’t.
“Do you think they’ll find out?”
Jasmine considered what she thought about that. “I hope so,” she said, nodding. “I disagree with him,” she confessed. “My dad, I mean, I disagree with him. We think he did what he did because he didn’t want anyone else to find what he found, but that’s not something I would ever believe in. I think people deserve to know – people always deserve to know, no matter what that knowledge does to them. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a very, very clever girl, and it’s so good to have you home… even if you are going travelling again.” Sheila smiled and gave Jasmine a hug.
Now that’s what I’ve missed the most, decided Jasmine.
“I’m heading out to get some juice. I remember you, drinking gallons of the stuff…” Sheila wandered out, and Jasmine headed into the living room, for once anticipating her intruder.
“Do cosmic super-beings ever knock?” she asked, and the Doctor chuckled.
“I’m not a cosmic super-being,” he replied.
“Not quite yet. TARDIS?”
The Doctor gestured behind him. The box was parked behind the sofa. It always amazed Jasmine how much could be fitted behind there.
“Need to take anything?”
“Yeah.” Jasmine scanned the room, and found it, carrying it under her arm. The Doctor raised an eyebrow.
“Electric guitar?”
“Well, Autumn could play the piano, and I can’t. I figured you’ve missed having a musician on-board.”
The Doctor smiled. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but was secretly disappointed about something. Jasmine realised it was the first time he had heard her refer to Autumn in the third-person.
She stepped inside the TARDIS, at first surprised by how easily she took it, but then recalled how casually Autumn had, too.
Yet somehow, this time… it was even bigger on the inside.
“I could get used to this,” remarked Jasmine. “Have you still got Alfie?”
“The guinea pig? Yes, I have.” The Doctor rested Jasmine’s guitar next to a bookcase. “Eight years old now, so about twice his expected life-span, and still going fine. They say pets are like their owners.”
Jasmine circled around the console unit, realising she didn’t even have any shoes on. The Doctor noticed too.
“Don’t worry about that,” he assured her. “Plenty of shoes in the wardrobe.”
The Doctor could not help but observe Jasmine as she moved around the interior of his ship, comparing her behaviour to that of Autumn, and realising that doing that made him far more like his old companion than Jasmine was.
There were differences, but often their effect was the same. Autumn, the Doctor recalled, took command of her setting, entering with a stride to mark her territory. Jasmine did not, but adapted herself to become a part of the scenery. To both, adventuring into new worlds set off a chain of compelling survival mechanisms.
“It’ll be good to leave Earth for a bit,” joked Jasmine, making conversation. “I’ve spent quite a while here…”
“Have a destination in mind?” asked the Doctor. “Or are you going to start with the pair of shoes?”
“Maybe the pair of shoes,” joked Jasmine. “But I do know where I want to go. I’ve had a lot of time to think recently.”
“Well, whatever your request is, madam,” said the Doctor. “You know the rules. No interfering…”
“No wandering off?” Jasmine scoffed at that one. “And I’ve got a rule for you – no messing up my life. I remember what you did to Autumn Rivers, and I saw what you did to Robin Moon.”
“I can’t promise that.”
“You won’t promise that,” corrected Jasmine. “Promise it, and it’ll happen.”
“Okay.” The Doctor nodded. “I promise I will do everything within my power.”
Jasmine hoped he was as powerful as she remembered.
“Let’s go.”
The Eighth Great and Bountiful Human Empire
Autumn Rivers’ body was burnt.
The Destiny Institute often avoided using the word cremation, preferring to keep an emotional distance from the patients they had failed. As the public became aware of her death, there was no need to hide the ashes, and so they were scattered in a private location, open to those who knew her. It was a park – elevated above the Capital on top of a skyship, and, as solarpunk as the area the Destiny Institute was, drifting in the breeze, which carried with it the scent of freshly-mowed grass.
Autumn was scattered under a small paper birch tree at the end of a long, winding path, where a family of exotic birds gathered, safe from the prying eyes of larger predators. The tree was just out of the shadow of the buildings on top of the skyship, and its peak occasionally drifted through the clouds.
A small signpost stood a few metres away from the tree, providing passers-by with information about the woman who now rested at its roots, lest she be forgotten:
Autumn Rivers was many things: a forensic psychologist, planetary rights activist, adventurer, and even detective. She was best-known for bringing down Lord Dalta, and for ending the decadent practises of planet-making corporations. Little is known about Rivers’ life after her quest for social justice reached its end, and the murder of Quillon Spiros left many to wonder whether she was the hero they thought she was. Regardless, without Rivers’ passion and determination, countless other corporations may have been left to commit genocide. Hero or villain, the Empire, and even the universe, would be a darker place without her.
“Why did you want to come here?” asked the Doctor. “To see what they thought of you?”
“No.” Jasmine shook her head sadly. “I wanted to show you, because I couldn’t face telling you.”
“Show me what?”
Jasmine gestured to the tree. “The final resting-place of Autumn Rivers. Doctor…”
She took a deep breath. It was not as easy to communicate as she had expected; years of rehearsal were wasted as the Time Lord simply failed to grasp the reality around him.
“I’m not Autumn,” continued Jasmine. “I have her memories, and maybe I even have her consciousness, but she’s not who I am. We think differently, we’ve lived different lives, and… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. You can take me home.”
“Take you home?”
“Yes…”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m not who you thought I was.”
“So what?” The Doctor looked away from the signpost and, unexpectedly, embraced Jasmine in a warm hug. “You’re Jasmine Sparks. It’s not every day you win a jackpot like that.”
“But aren’t you…” Jasmine waited for the Doctor to finish, then stepped back. “Aren’t you sad?”
“I thought Autumn died for a long time – I hadn’t processed that she was still alive yet. Even to have her memories preserved, to know that she lived on… somehow… somewhere within you.” He shrugged. “That’s honestly all I need.”
“Thank you.” Jasmine smiled. “Do you mind giving me…?”
“A moment? Sure.” The Doctor walked back up the path towards the TARDIS.
“Did you know her?” asked Jasmine, startling the woman next to her.
“I didn’t realise either of you had seen me.”
“He didn’t,” laughed Jasmine, pointing up the hill. “Oblivious as anything.”
“Yes,” the woman replied eventually. “Yes, I did know her. I was her chief superintendent.”
“Superintendent Goodwin,” recalled Jasmine.
“You knew her too, then?” asked Goodwin.
Jasmine nodded. “What did you know about her death?”
Goodwin grimaced, and looked down. “Too much.”
“You knew about the Destiny Institute? They said she might have been trapped in that nightmare state for the rest of eternity, a sort of technological glitch. They said it would be like… going to hell.”
Goodwin said nothing. She knew. Even before she gave that signal, Jasmine had suspected: it could not have been more than a year after Autumn’s death, but Goodwin looked a decade older. Her clothes appeared un-ironed, and she was not convinced that Goodwin had had any sleep in all that time.
Jasmine felt guilty on Autumn’s behalf. She had taken her toll on another.
Then she had an idea.
“She never told anyone else that she was the one who killed the Prince of V-3-Apple-7,” said Jasmine, and Goodwin’s head shot up. What was left of the detective within her was waking up. “That conversation you had in the office was the only time it was ever mentioned. And that look you gave her,” she continued. “When she fell over that first time, and you thought something was the matter – you were right, of course – and just as she was coming back to consciousness, you suddenly realised how concerned you looked, and pretended you weren’t. But she saw it – she saw how much you cared about her, about all the department, and however much she complained as you nagged her and nagged her to go to get her injuries checked, the fact that you cared meant more to her than, than…”
“How do you know all this?” murmured Goodwin. “I don’t understand…”
“I think you saw the way she looked at everyone, too. I think you saw the way she cared about Peter, and you saw the hope dying in her eyes as she stood over his body. I think you saw every time she rolled her eyes at Prada, even though everyone else in the department somehow missed it. And you saw the way she looked at you when you had that discussion in Atene’s house – when you lied because you couldn’t face breaking another family. You didn’t understand the expression on her face, but that’s because she didn’t understand, either. She just didn’t know how to react. But she thought it over eventually, and it made sense. She had a lot of time to think. I don’t need to tell you what she thought, because you were always right about her, Goodwin, except for one thing. She lived.” Jasmine lowered her voice to a whisper, and tried to contain her grin. “The Destiny Institute lied. Their experiment worked. She lived, and she is so, so happy, and all she wants is for you to be happy too.”
Goodwin choked up. She was beginning to understand.
“…I want you to be happy,” finished Jasmine, and offered Goodwin a hug. Goodwin accepted it, crying tears of joy, relief, and whatever else was tucked away, on Jasmine’s shoulder, while Jasmine looked on, glad that she did not have to look her in the eye.
“You were a great superintendent,” said Jasmine. The Doctor knew what he needed to know, because he needed to know it; all that Goodwin needed was what she deserved. This one lie, this one small manipulation to change the life of a woman Autumn had never been able to save, was not something that would have a weight on Jasmine’s conscience; the only thing it would impact, and for the better, was the legacy of Autumn Rivers.
The branches on the tree were beginning to sway in the breeze, and Jasmine felt a chill in the air. She did not mind: it was the price of the changing seasons, and the falling leaves, the colours of sunset and fire, that reminded her of what made the autumn months so special.
“You were a wonderful friend, and you deserve to be happy.”
Jasmine felt guilty on Autumn’s behalf. She had taken her toll on another.
Then she had an idea.
“She never told anyone else that she was the one who killed the Prince of V-3-Apple-7,” said Jasmine, and Goodwin’s head shot up. What was left of the detective within her was waking up. “That conversation you had in the office was the only time it was ever mentioned. And that look you gave her,” she continued. “When she fell over that first time, and you thought something was the matter – you were right, of course – and just as she was coming back to consciousness, you suddenly realised how concerned you looked, and pretended you weren’t. But she saw it – she saw how much you cared about her, about all the department, and however much she complained as you nagged her and nagged her to go to get her injuries checked, the fact that you cared meant more to her than, than…”
“How do you know all this?” murmured Goodwin. “I don’t understand…”
“I think you saw the way she looked at everyone, too. I think you saw the way she cared about Peter, and you saw the hope dying in her eyes as she stood over his body. I think you saw every time she rolled her eyes at Prada, even though everyone else in the department somehow missed it. And you saw the way she looked at you when you had that discussion in Atene’s house – when you lied because you couldn’t face breaking another family. You didn’t understand the expression on her face, but that’s because she didn’t understand, either. She just didn’t know how to react. But she thought it over eventually, and it made sense. She had a lot of time to think. I don’t need to tell you what she thought, because you were always right about her, Goodwin, except for one thing. She lived.” Jasmine lowered her voice to a whisper, and tried to contain her grin. “The Destiny Institute lied. Their experiment worked. She lived, and she is so, so happy, and all she wants is for you to be happy too.”
Goodwin choked up. She was beginning to understand.
“…I want you to be happy,” finished Jasmine, and offered Goodwin a hug. Goodwin accepted it, crying tears of joy, relief, and whatever else was tucked away, on Jasmine’s shoulder, while Jasmine looked on, glad that she did not have to look her in the eye.
“You were a great superintendent,” said Jasmine. The Doctor knew what he needed to know, because he needed to know it; all that Goodwin needed was what she deserved. This one lie, this one small manipulation to change the life of a woman Autumn had never been able to save, was not something that would have a weight on Jasmine’s conscience; the only thing it would impact, and for the better, was the legacy of Autumn Rivers.
The branches on the tree were beginning to sway in the breeze, and Jasmine felt a chill in the air. She did not mind: it was the price of the changing seasons, and the falling leaves, the colours of sunset and fire, that reminded her of what made the autumn months so special.
“You were a wonderful friend, and you deserve to be happy.”
Next Time: DarksongWhen Jasmine wakes up in a sinister tower haunted by even more sinister creatures, she wonders where the Doctor is.
When the Doctor wakes up in an abandoned orphanage, he knows exactly where he is. And as they begin to explore the lost city of Darksong, only the Master knows where both of them are heading... Darksong will be published on Saturday 8th October. |
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