Prologue
It was November 7th 2016, a newspaper reassured her as it drifted across the street, into the path of oncoming traffic. Dropped off unhelpfully in Clapham by her useless Time Lord friend, Jasmine found herself moving from bus to bus and train to train, leaching onto whatever transport she could find like some sort of parasite.
It was a cold night. The ground beneath her feet was dry, and the sky above her head was clear, free of clouds and free of spaceships. She wasn't sure which she had expected to see.
She walked some of the journey, enjoying the crisp autumn air. As she strolled along half-empty streets, not as afraid for her life as she should have been, she noticed shut-up shops. The places she used to browse, occasionally treated to a new pair of shoes or jeans by Sheila when she took her out for the day, were now empty facades. The windows once populated by well-dressed mannequins were covered by curtains and rough metal shutters, and the shops’ signs were peeling off, stray letters already comically erased, with New Look turning into a New Loo.
When Jasmine finally arrived in Finchley, she realised she should have checked in with Tommy first, to see if he was even here. This was where his parents lived, in a recently-redecorated ground-floor flat, not too far from the shops. It was a nice area – ‘leafy streets and picturesque homes’, the brochure said, a kinder alternative to ‘the area that misses everything else happening in London.’
Tommy was in, thankfully. He came to the door right away, and beamed when he saw Jasmine. She could not help but run her eyes up and down his form, observing that he was wearing not just a dressing gown, but a pair of panda-themed slippers. He noticed them too, and blushed.
“Um, I’m sorry.” It occurred to him, as late as ever, that he was leaving his friend standing out in the cold. He opened the door and let her in.
Like a wild creature in a new environment, Jasmine swiftly used basic sensory means to evaluate her surroundings. She was first greeted by the scent of citrus from a vicious-looking spray in the hall, and after taking her shoes off, made her way further in to see what smell the air freshener was covering. The best she could make out were freshly-baked bread, and some blooming flowers in front of the fireplace.
No market smells. Not like Croydon. She cursed herself for drawing the comparison. Why did Sheila’s flat have to compete with Tommy’s? No two things in this infernal city ever agreed to coexist.
“You can sit down,” said Tommy, smiling. He took his own suggestion and plonked himself down on an armchair. Jasmine sat on the sofa opposite.
What do I look like? she wondered, deeply self-conscious and deliberately avoiding making eye contact with any of the mirrors in this place. Wet hair, ripped coat, bruised skin, rings around the eyes. The only reason a mugger didn’t target her on the streets was probably because they assumed someone else had got there first. She figured Tommy, an ex-companion himself, would understand. She was sure that the last time she had seen him, when it was his turn to leave, his shirt had been dotted with splashes of blood.
The last time I saw him…
She tried not to remember the kiss. She could see that he was trying to do the same.
“Are you on a break?” he asked. “Has he decided to go back to Gallifrey and you’re not allowed this time?”
“No,” said Jasmine, bluntly.
“So you’ve…?”
“Gone? Yes.” She decided to leave out the fact that it was not her choice. Then she looked into his eyes, remembered his honesty with her, remembered her own conscience, and changed her mind again. “His decision, not mine. But maybe it’s for the best.”
“Maybe.” Tommy rearranged the cushions on the armchair.
“I know this isn’t easy, and it’s…” Jasmine searched for a clock. She found one over the dining room table, and squinted to make out the time, before gasping. “Two AM! Blimey! Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tommy laughed. “I don’t think you’ve woken anyone. What were you going to say?”
“I, uh…”
The most challenging thing of all was not to be distracted by the knowledge the Doctor had imparted. Yes, she was looking at her old friend, more than a friend, even, but that prospect only added more stress. Yes, she was looking at Tommy Lindsay, ex-companion of the Doctor, political activist, and lovable dork. But she was also looking at the future Prime Minister. The future sodding Prime Minister!
If she were not careful, she would spend all their conversations with her jaw agape.
“I need to tell you everything. I’ve kept you in the dark for way too long. I’m…”
Say something, you dozy idiot. She cursed herself. It’s a simple subject. Stop thinking about it and say something!
“I’m not Autumn Rivers.”
Well, didn’t you deliver that one well? Give yourself a pat on the back, Miss Subtlety.
“Okay.” Tommy said that, but Jasmine was sure that it wasn’t.
“I mean, she was reincarnated. Into me. Technically, I am. But I need you to know that… I need you to know that the soul, it’s not the mind, you know? It’s just life-force. I carry that life-force, maybe I even carry the legacy, but I don’t carry her personality. I have some memories, but they’re not like memories of a life I’ve lived, they’re like memories of a film I’ve watched. I’m really sorry, I should have told you. This must be…”
“Stop it.” Tommy shook his head. “It’s not anything. I wasn’t wishing for a miracle. When I met you, I had a feeling you weren’t anyway, and I expected you to be just another person aboard the TARDIS, another carefree adventurer. You… weren’t. You were so much more.”
They both jumped as the door behind creaked open. A girl, about eight years old and with a face half-resembling Tommy’s, walked awkwardly over to the kitchen and strained to open the biscuit tin. She chose two Jammie Dodgers and started heading back. Jasmine laughed to herself.
“Ahem.” Tommy spoke up deliberately, and the young girl looked back, startled. “Where are you going, missy? Secret high-five?”
The girl beamed and ran over to her older brother. They engaged briefly in what looked to Jasmine like a complicated ritual, before she gave him a hug and ran off back to bed.
“That’s Mary,” said Tommy when she was gone. “My little sis.”
“She’s lovely.”
“I know it’s not normal for a big brother to say this, but she genuinely is. I love her to bits.”
“Tommy,” started Jasmine again. “I know you’re okay with it, but I’m not. I’ve kept too much from you for too long. Do you want to know about my life before I met you?”
“If you’re happy to share it, I’d like nothing more.”
Jasmine began.
It was a cold night. The ground beneath her feet was dry, and the sky above her head was clear, free of clouds and free of spaceships. She wasn't sure which she had expected to see.
She walked some of the journey, enjoying the crisp autumn air. As she strolled along half-empty streets, not as afraid for her life as she should have been, she noticed shut-up shops. The places she used to browse, occasionally treated to a new pair of shoes or jeans by Sheila when she took her out for the day, were now empty facades. The windows once populated by well-dressed mannequins were covered by curtains and rough metal shutters, and the shops’ signs were peeling off, stray letters already comically erased, with New Look turning into a New Loo.
When Jasmine finally arrived in Finchley, she realised she should have checked in with Tommy first, to see if he was even here. This was where his parents lived, in a recently-redecorated ground-floor flat, not too far from the shops. It was a nice area – ‘leafy streets and picturesque homes’, the brochure said, a kinder alternative to ‘the area that misses everything else happening in London.’
Tommy was in, thankfully. He came to the door right away, and beamed when he saw Jasmine. She could not help but run her eyes up and down his form, observing that he was wearing not just a dressing gown, but a pair of panda-themed slippers. He noticed them too, and blushed.
“Um, I’m sorry.” It occurred to him, as late as ever, that he was leaving his friend standing out in the cold. He opened the door and let her in.
Like a wild creature in a new environment, Jasmine swiftly used basic sensory means to evaluate her surroundings. She was first greeted by the scent of citrus from a vicious-looking spray in the hall, and after taking her shoes off, made her way further in to see what smell the air freshener was covering. The best she could make out were freshly-baked bread, and some blooming flowers in front of the fireplace.
No market smells. Not like Croydon. She cursed herself for drawing the comparison. Why did Sheila’s flat have to compete with Tommy’s? No two things in this infernal city ever agreed to coexist.
“You can sit down,” said Tommy, smiling. He took his own suggestion and plonked himself down on an armchair. Jasmine sat on the sofa opposite.
What do I look like? she wondered, deeply self-conscious and deliberately avoiding making eye contact with any of the mirrors in this place. Wet hair, ripped coat, bruised skin, rings around the eyes. The only reason a mugger didn’t target her on the streets was probably because they assumed someone else had got there first. She figured Tommy, an ex-companion himself, would understand. She was sure that the last time she had seen him, when it was his turn to leave, his shirt had been dotted with splashes of blood.
The last time I saw him…
She tried not to remember the kiss. She could see that he was trying to do the same.
“Are you on a break?” he asked. “Has he decided to go back to Gallifrey and you’re not allowed this time?”
“No,” said Jasmine, bluntly.
“So you’ve…?”
“Gone? Yes.” She decided to leave out the fact that it was not her choice. Then she looked into his eyes, remembered his honesty with her, remembered her own conscience, and changed her mind again. “His decision, not mine. But maybe it’s for the best.”
“Maybe.” Tommy rearranged the cushions on the armchair.
“I know this isn’t easy, and it’s…” Jasmine searched for a clock. She found one over the dining room table, and squinted to make out the time, before gasping. “Two AM! Blimey! Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tommy laughed. “I don’t think you’ve woken anyone. What were you going to say?”
“I, uh…”
The most challenging thing of all was not to be distracted by the knowledge the Doctor had imparted. Yes, she was looking at her old friend, more than a friend, even, but that prospect only added more stress. Yes, she was looking at Tommy Lindsay, ex-companion of the Doctor, political activist, and lovable dork. But she was also looking at the future Prime Minister. The future sodding Prime Minister!
If she were not careful, she would spend all their conversations with her jaw agape.
“I need to tell you everything. I’ve kept you in the dark for way too long. I’m…”
Say something, you dozy idiot. She cursed herself. It’s a simple subject. Stop thinking about it and say something!
“I’m not Autumn Rivers.”
Well, didn’t you deliver that one well? Give yourself a pat on the back, Miss Subtlety.
“Okay.” Tommy said that, but Jasmine was sure that it wasn’t.
“I mean, she was reincarnated. Into me. Technically, I am. But I need you to know that… I need you to know that the soul, it’s not the mind, you know? It’s just life-force. I carry that life-force, maybe I even carry the legacy, but I don’t carry her personality. I have some memories, but they’re not like memories of a life I’ve lived, they’re like memories of a film I’ve watched. I’m really sorry, I should have told you. This must be…”
“Stop it.” Tommy shook his head. “It’s not anything. I wasn’t wishing for a miracle. When I met you, I had a feeling you weren’t anyway, and I expected you to be just another person aboard the TARDIS, another carefree adventurer. You… weren’t. You were so much more.”
They both jumped as the door behind creaked open. A girl, about eight years old and with a face half-resembling Tommy’s, walked awkwardly over to the kitchen and strained to open the biscuit tin. She chose two Jammie Dodgers and started heading back. Jasmine laughed to herself.
“Ahem.” Tommy spoke up deliberately, and the young girl looked back, startled. “Where are you going, missy? Secret high-five?”
The girl beamed and ran over to her older brother. They engaged briefly in what looked to Jasmine like a complicated ritual, before she gave him a hug and ran off back to bed.
“That’s Mary,” said Tommy when she was gone. “My little sis.”
“She’s lovely.”
“I know it’s not normal for a big brother to say this, but she genuinely is. I love her to bits.”
“Tommy,” started Jasmine again. “I know you’re okay with it, but I’m not. I’ve kept too much from you for too long. Do you want to know about my life before I met you?”
“If you’re happy to share it, I’d like nothing more.”
Jasmine began.
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 4 - Episode 13
The Next Life
Written by Janine Rivers
“Mrs McKnight?” Mr Matthews tapped softly on the door to the English office, and Robin groaned to herself. He was speaking in that voice of his, clear and nice and full of tenderness. I’m so sorry to be here, it always said. I’m so sorry I’m about to be an awkward, time-wasting, predatory jobsworth of a man.
Mr Matthews was a friend of the old headteacher, and landed the job as Head of Drama because of this friendship. He was all that remained, now, of that imperious regime, and did a bad job of hiding it. The best experience anyone in the English office had had with him was prank-calling him in the middle of a meeting, pretending to work at a luxury spa hotel, and speaking at the top of their voices. Robin’s idea.
Robin was the one he always picked on. There were two reasons. The first was that there was a wider gap between them in the hierarchy than there was between most: he was a head of a subject; she barely even qualified as a subject teacher, helping out in the English department only because of staff shortages. The second reason was that she was the headteacher’s husband, and the sins of the husband were the sins of the wife, or something like that.
Mr Matthews’ harassment was always subtle, so subtle that it could not be called harassment. Mr McKnight had wanted to sack him since he took his position, but Mr Matthews took careful steps to ensure that that would not be possible. He was like a bad cough, lingering from last week’s cold and threatening to turn into a full-blown infection.
“Yes, Mr Matthews,” said Robin, passive-aggression apparent in every aspect of her person.
“Sorry,” said Mr Matthews, even though he wasn’t. “You know I hate to do this.” He didn’t. He came in, and sat himself on one of Robin’s colleague’s chairs. He wheeled over to her, and she choked at his overpowering aftershave. “I’m sure you’re under a lot of pressure at the moment, Mrs McKnight, but… well.” He smiled. At least, his mouth did a sort of thing. Robin hated to call it a smile, because she liked smiles. “Someone has to keep tabs on all the teachers here.”
He crossed one leg over the other and rested his arm on the desk. “I’ve received a little, shall we say, comment from one of your students, Billy. Now I’m sure it’s nothing.” He wasn’t. He was sure it was something. Something he could twist into a weapon, file it off so that it pierced her finely and fatally.
“Is this about his coursework?”
“Yes, I’m rather afraid it is. You see, the coursework deadline is the end of the week, and Billy came to me because he was concerned about meeting it. He said you haven’t been giving him much support, and I have to say, the coursework demands a lot of work.”
“I have been supporting him,” Robin said, plainly. “He hasn’t been turning up.”
“The rest of the class also require…”
“The rest of the class have a whole bunch of essays which I’m currently trying to mark,” interrupted Robin. “I’m meant to be going home to my son in ten minutes, but I’m not going to, I’m going to finish these essays. So I would appreciate it, Mr Matthews, if you left my office at the first available opportunity and allowed me to do my job. Is that a… suitable response, to the comment?”
“There’s no need to lose your temper,” said Mr Matthews, and Robin made a face to her colleagues. They reciprocated. Out, they wanted to chant. Out, out, out, out! They could not, however, so they said it with their eyes instead.
“We’re all meant to be adults here,” Mr Matthews muttered, and left the office door wide open as he left. Robin walked up to the doorway and peered down the corridor, glaring at his figure as it disappeared down that hall of light-green. She slammed the door, hoping he heard, and then hoping he didn’t hear, let out a growl that could very nearly be called a howl.
She sat back down, slammed her laptop shut, and launched her pen-holder across the room. The other teachers stayed where they were. It was unusual behaviour from Robin, but not unheard of from any teacher.
“The…” Robin kicked her desk. “Both of them!” she cried. “It’s like they’re bloody well in cahoots with each other! Does anyone else here have Billy?”
“I do,” said the young teacher at the end of the room. “He never does any of the work we set him.”
“I had to keep him back for detention to get the first draft,” started Robin. “I spent ages fixing it, because it was barely comprehensible, and sent him an email with all the things he needed to correct. I came and found him to tell him about the email. I set a deadline and said he could come to me if he had any worries. I said if he didn’t understand any of the comments or was having trouble making the corrections, he could come and find me at any time! I said tonight. Come back tonight with your edited draft and we’ll read over it. What do I get? His friend. He turns up and says ‘Billy said he can’t come tonight, he’s got something else on’. Well I know what else he had on, a meeting with that bleedin’ jobsworth!” She kicked her desk again, for good measure.
“You’re reacting exactly how he wants you to,” said the old English teacher, the one who had read every book ever, twice. “Just take a deep breath, take a day off-timetable if you need to, and remember how insignificant he is. Most of your pupils love you, Robin. Most of his hate him. Just occasionally, like attracts like, students sense tensions and they do their best to exacerbate them. Trust me, teenagers can be… horrible.”
Horrible, thought Robin. It was true. But over the last year, they had had their course specifications changed half-way through, their teachers swapped, their exams made more rigorous, and their grade boundaries raised. Maybe, in a world where ordinary school children were being driven to mental breakdowns, Robin McKnight would have been a horrible teenager, too.
“You’re right,” she said, too exhausted to come up with anything else, and rubbed her head. The headaches were getting worse. Everything, in fact, was getting worse. Her son might have been blessed by that GENIE box, but she was beginning to think she was cursed.
***
Jasmine got out of bed with no trouble, showered quickly, managed to dress and prepare herself in under half an hour, and reached the kitchen only a little bit starving for breakfast. The sun shone in from outside, an experience she had missed – in the TARDIS, one woke up simply to the low hum of an engine, and a golden roundel in the place of the sun.
It was not the usual view of the sun, though; this window was wider, and considerably lower. Tommy Lindsay’s living room had made a comfortable sleeping space, but she would be glad to arrive home.
She put some music on, placing her own phone in the speaker dock, and kept it on low. A bit of the Jackson 5, just to really bring her back to Earth.
The Lindsays' fridge and cupboard were well-stocked, and Jasmine was at first reluctant to take anything, but figured she could always run down to the nearest grocery to restock what she had used.
Back in Hawaii, the investigations had at one point become so dire that she took up a new role: cooking. She gave the chef a week off, and took her turn in the canteen. The chef did not, in the end, have a week off – instead, he spent it teaching her how to make a really good fry-up.
Finchley was not Hawaii. There was no fresh mango juice to go with it. But she hoped Tommy and his family would at least be impressed by the efficiency with which she prepared their breakfast, and of course appreciate the gesture in itself.
“You didn’t have to,” said Tommy. The breakfast was already prepared enough for him to realise she was making it for more than just herself.
“I’m sorry.” Jasmine turned her music down. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Tommy laughed. “People in this house usually wake up at the crack of dawn. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He opened the fridge and got himself an Actimel, swigging it down one gulp. He binned it, and stood against the kitchen cabinets.
“Thank you. For last night. You didn’t have to share any of that with me, it was brave.”
“I did,” said Jasmine. “I owed it to you.”
He was still in his pyjamas, and had obviously just ruffled his hair rather than combed it. There were bristles on his chin, too, and this was a man who shaved every day. He had come straight to see her.
“Thank you for listening,” Jasmine added, and moved closer to him. He looked down, nervously. Jasmine felt her heart skip and decided to take a chance. She placed her hand on his side, just above his hip.
A shiver went up his spine, and he went to do the same. Where was this g-
“Morning!”
She had done it again; Mary had climbed out of bed weightlessly, defying the laws of physics, and crept up on them like a Cyberman in the making. At the sight of the young girl, Jasmine and Tommy did the best they could to mask their actions, Jasmine moving her hand straight off of Tommy and onto the handle of the kitchen drawer, pretending that she was simply contorting to get out a fork. Tommy’s reflexes were not so good, and he moved clumsily to the side.
Mary either seemed not to notice or to not care. Knowing her, Tommy thought, it would probably be the latter.
“Are you the lady from last night?” asked Mary.
“I am, yes. My name’s Jasmine.” She crouched down. “I’ve heard lots about you, Mary. He never shuts up about how awesome you are.”
“No I don’t!” said Tommy. “What are you on about?”
“Yeah, he does,” whispered Jasmine. “All the time.” Mary’s face lit up. “What would you like for breakfast, little’un?”
“What are the choices?” asked Mary, full of confidence.
“Let’s see.” Jasmine opened the larder. “You’ve got coco-pops, cornflakes, porridge… or, you can have the grown-up breakfast, which is eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, and toast. What I call a fry-up. What do you say?”
“I’ll have the fry-up,” decided Mary, and went into the lounge to work on her jigsaw.
“Since when were you so good with kids?” asked Tommy, when she was out of sight.
Jasmine shrugged. “I dunno. maternal instinct, maybe.” She looked pensively at Tommy. “I’ve always wanted kids.”
Oh, God. Why did I just say that? I can’t look away now, he’ll get it then. No, wait, I can’t look at him either, that’s getting weird. What the heck am I doing?!
Tommy’s mother walked in and saved them. She was showered, curlers in her hair like she had just walked out of the 1970s, not her bedroom.
“Oh, hello,” she said, putting the kettle on. “You snuck in.”
“She turned up this morning,” said Tommy. It wasn’t technically a lie. “This is Jasmine.”
“Jasmine, eh?” She finally made eye contact with Jasmine. “I’m Suzanne, it’s nice to meet you. Are you a uni one or a politics one?”
“I-”
“Coffee?”
“Yes pl-”
“Which is it?”
“Sorry?”
“Uni or politics?”
“Um, neither.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, I’m-”
“Did you say coffee?”
“Yes, I think-”
“Mum!” complained Tommy. “Give the poor girl a chance to speak!”
“Yes, sorry dear.” Suzanne smiled and patted Jasmine on the shoulder. That was reassuring – she was beginning to suspect that breakfast would end in an interrogation. “You sit yourself down, I’ll finish the breakfast. Then you can tell me all about how you know my son…”
***
“So, Jasmine,” said Tommy’s dad, “where did you go to school?”
He was a tall and skinny man, with grey hair and wide-framed glasses. If Tommy resembled any of his family, it would be his father, and Jasmine had him down as a long sufferer. He waited for his opportunity to speak, made sure his wife was in the middle of a mouthful, and struck while he was safe.
“Woodcote in Croydon,” replied Jasmine. “I went to both the primary and secondary there.”
“And college?”
“I… didn’t go to college.” She was sure that Suzanne nearly choked on her coffee. “My father died during my GCSEs.”
Father. That was a sophisticated word, she thought; most people these days said Dad. But she used it to create a distance, a sense of detachment between them, like the daughters who sometimes spoke of their ‘Fathers’ who worked very hard and left them with their nannies all day.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Tommy’s dad.
“Yes,” agreed his mother. “Very sad. What did you decide to do, once you had finished, should I say, grieving?”
“I was offered a place in a research project in Dubai. A sort of astronomy thing.”
“A physicist?” Tommy’s dad beamed, and Suzanne rolled her eyes.
“Benjamin has a doctorate in Physics from the university of Cardiff,” explained Suzanne.
“Wow! That’s awesome.”
“Well…” Benjamin raised his hands modestly. “I say degrees were much easier back then. And a degree isn’t the only sign of intelligence, as I’m sure our Tommy recognised in you.”
Jasmine smiled. It now was easy to see how that being known as Tommy Lindsay had developed, exposed to two individuals at opposite ends of almost every known spectrum. He must have learnt to intuit those divides wherever they existed; he always shrewdly detected imbalance.
The television in the kitchen was trying to tell them about the usual thing: another terrorist attack, another madman who thought he’d give a reason, a slogan, for gunning down crowds of ordinary civilians. Once upon a time, they turned Jasmine’s stomach. Now the only unease she felt was when there hadn’t been a terrorist attack for a while – she wondered what reason they had for being so quiet, what they were building up to. It was unthinkable, these days, that a month would go by without an atrocity.
“And you tell me we don’t need better border control, Benjamin,” said Suzanne. Tommy despaired. His mother seemed to have been watching an entirely different report to the one he had.
“Will you just leave dad alone for one minute?” asked Tommy.
“Well I can’t argue with you about it, can I? You’re too clever.” Suzanne turned to Jasmine and whispered. “Never argue with a politician. He’s a clever one, my lad. Always such a bright spark.”
***
“Jasmine! Jasmine!” Sheila drowned her in hugs and kisses, and hurried her through to sit her down. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home! Oh, it’s so lovely to have you back! How’s Hawaii? Can you tell me anything else about it yet?”
She was reaching for cups, making drinks, reaching for cushions, making her adopted granddaughter comfortable; reaching for thoughts, making sentences. Jasmine hoped she did not reach too far, and have a sudden heart attack.
“Nothing was happening in Hawaii,” said Jasmine. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow over her. The door to the balcony was half-open, just how she liked it. “I went travelling for a bit, just a short while. I… met this boy.” She felt sick. She hated those words with a passion. They didn’t communicate the story of Jasmine Sparks and Tommy Lindsay, not at all.
“A boy, eh?” Jasmine did not think it possible, but Sheila was now even more excited than she had been before. “What’s his name? How did you meet him? Will I like him? When will I get to see him?”
“His name’s Tommy. We met… well, that’s complicated, I suppose you could say we met on the beach in Hawaii. He’s a bit older than me.” Jasmine had to concentrate to remember even how old she was. It wasn’t her speciality. “He’s a graduate, and he’s into politics. He’s planning to run for MP.”
“Oh my goodness, Miss Sparks, you really know how to turn my world upside-down.” Sheila put the teas on the table and sat down opposite her. “Wow. That’s… wow.”
“And you’d love him,” said Jasmine. That much was definitely true, and could not be put any other way. “He’s kind, sensitive, wise, thoughtful, intelligent… seriously handsome…”
“Are you sure he’s not gay?”
“Um… quite sure. Maybe it’s something I should check with him, just in case there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Sheila laughed, happy that her adopted granddaughter seemed to have found, even temporarily, the one thing she did not and could not have.
***
“Was that your girlfriend?” Mary asked inquisitively as she continued to work on her jigsaw. Tommy crouched down and joined her, helping her to fill in the sky. She always found the block colours more difficult.
“Sort of,” said Tommy, unhelpfully. “Maybe. It depends really, on what she would want me to call her.”
“But you do fancy her?”
“Yes.” Tommy laughed. “Yes, I do. Do you like her?”
Mary nodded. “She talks to me like a grown-up.”
“She talks to everyone like a grown-up. She’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who has the same voice no matter who she’s talking to.”
“I quite like her,” said Benjamin, strolling into the living room and picking up the paper. He sighed, remembering he had let his wife buy it this morning, and realised it was the Daily Mail. He skipped to the puzzle pages. “She’s a bit guarded but she seems like a really nice, stable girl. Lots of potential.”
“What does that mean?” enquired Mary.
“It means…” Benjamin stroked his chin, not sure how to provide a straightforward answer to his daughter’s question that didn’t reuse the word ‘potential’ somewhere.
“It means she could become something really special,” tried Tommy, “if she wanted to and used her talents right. Which I think she will.”
“Like the third brother?” said Mary. “The one who didn’t bury the money but made even more of it?”
Tommy glared at his father. “I told you not to send her to a Catholic school.”
Benjamin looked defensive. “It was your mother’s choice!”
***
Jasmine scanned the shelves upon shelves of identical essentials, dodging old people, their disapproving glances, and their trolleys full of condolence cards and ready-meals.
She allowed herself to extend sympathy to one elderly man who passed her by with three different Dearest Condolences and Sorry For Your Loss cards at the top of his trolley. It must have felt bad, to reach that age where birthdays were replaced by deaths, newly-weds by widows, new jobs by retirement. Special occasions winding down into an unsatisfying diminuendo.
She found herself in the books aisle, not as interested in food as she should have been. She had packed a few essentials, but that was it. Autumn would have raided the cakes and biscuits.
Go Set a Watchman, that was the book she was drawn to, still in hardback, still claiming to be a bestseller. She had never read it, though by technicality she had seen it being written. She turned it over to read the blurb, but was given only a quote.
“Every man’s island, Jean Louise, every man’s watchman, is his conscience.”
Jasmine was a greater victim of that than most. Her island was secluded from all others, a desert island where the treasure was not buried, but up in the sky. She wondered what that said about her conscience.
She picked up the book and found a self-service checkout.
Barcode-side, it was meant to be. She scanned it across again and the thing did nothing. And again. The machine tried to atone for its mistakes, and registered two copies. A reflex response, Jasmine hit a button before she read it.
“Please seek assistance.”
“Oh, for…”
“Please seek assistance.”
The supposed ‘assistance’ was too busy flirting with the woman at the currency exchange counter. Jasmine whacked another button, and the machine shut up. It had fixed itself. She looked for a bag.
Where do they keep the bags? The last time she had shopped, they were on the bit next to the checkout. That was not helpful. She lifted the book off.
“Item removed from bagging area. Please seek assistance. Item removed from bagging area. Please seek assistance.”
“Oh, shut up!” she hissed, and threw the book back on the bagging area as the machine continued to harass her. She walked off, sadly accepting that she was not destined to find out the secrets of her watchman, or the means to escape her island.
Getting out her phone, one responsive piece of technology, she dialled Tommy’s number. He picked up instantly.
“Hello?”
“Tommy? Can we meet?”
***
Mr Matthews was a friend of the old headteacher, and landed the job as Head of Drama because of this friendship. He was all that remained, now, of that imperious regime, and did a bad job of hiding it. The best experience anyone in the English office had had with him was prank-calling him in the middle of a meeting, pretending to work at a luxury spa hotel, and speaking at the top of their voices. Robin’s idea.
Robin was the one he always picked on. There were two reasons. The first was that there was a wider gap between them in the hierarchy than there was between most: he was a head of a subject; she barely even qualified as a subject teacher, helping out in the English department only because of staff shortages. The second reason was that she was the headteacher’s husband, and the sins of the husband were the sins of the wife, or something like that.
Mr Matthews’ harassment was always subtle, so subtle that it could not be called harassment. Mr McKnight had wanted to sack him since he took his position, but Mr Matthews took careful steps to ensure that that would not be possible. He was like a bad cough, lingering from last week’s cold and threatening to turn into a full-blown infection.
“Yes, Mr Matthews,” said Robin, passive-aggression apparent in every aspect of her person.
“Sorry,” said Mr Matthews, even though he wasn’t. “You know I hate to do this.” He didn’t. He came in, and sat himself on one of Robin’s colleague’s chairs. He wheeled over to her, and she choked at his overpowering aftershave. “I’m sure you’re under a lot of pressure at the moment, Mrs McKnight, but… well.” He smiled. At least, his mouth did a sort of thing. Robin hated to call it a smile, because she liked smiles. “Someone has to keep tabs on all the teachers here.”
He crossed one leg over the other and rested his arm on the desk. “I’ve received a little, shall we say, comment from one of your students, Billy. Now I’m sure it’s nothing.” He wasn’t. He was sure it was something. Something he could twist into a weapon, file it off so that it pierced her finely and fatally.
“Is this about his coursework?”
“Yes, I’m rather afraid it is. You see, the coursework deadline is the end of the week, and Billy came to me because he was concerned about meeting it. He said you haven’t been giving him much support, and I have to say, the coursework demands a lot of work.”
“I have been supporting him,” Robin said, plainly. “He hasn’t been turning up.”
“The rest of the class also require…”
“The rest of the class have a whole bunch of essays which I’m currently trying to mark,” interrupted Robin. “I’m meant to be going home to my son in ten minutes, but I’m not going to, I’m going to finish these essays. So I would appreciate it, Mr Matthews, if you left my office at the first available opportunity and allowed me to do my job. Is that a… suitable response, to the comment?”
“There’s no need to lose your temper,” said Mr Matthews, and Robin made a face to her colleagues. They reciprocated. Out, they wanted to chant. Out, out, out, out! They could not, however, so they said it with their eyes instead.
“We’re all meant to be adults here,” Mr Matthews muttered, and left the office door wide open as he left. Robin walked up to the doorway and peered down the corridor, glaring at his figure as it disappeared down that hall of light-green. She slammed the door, hoping he heard, and then hoping he didn’t hear, let out a growl that could very nearly be called a howl.
She sat back down, slammed her laptop shut, and launched her pen-holder across the room. The other teachers stayed where they were. It was unusual behaviour from Robin, but not unheard of from any teacher.
“The…” Robin kicked her desk. “Both of them!” she cried. “It’s like they’re bloody well in cahoots with each other! Does anyone else here have Billy?”
“I do,” said the young teacher at the end of the room. “He never does any of the work we set him.”
“I had to keep him back for detention to get the first draft,” started Robin. “I spent ages fixing it, because it was barely comprehensible, and sent him an email with all the things he needed to correct. I came and found him to tell him about the email. I set a deadline and said he could come to me if he had any worries. I said if he didn’t understand any of the comments or was having trouble making the corrections, he could come and find me at any time! I said tonight. Come back tonight with your edited draft and we’ll read over it. What do I get? His friend. He turns up and says ‘Billy said he can’t come tonight, he’s got something else on’. Well I know what else he had on, a meeting with that bleedin’ jobsworth!” She kicked her desk again, for good measure.
“You’re reacting exactly how he wants you to,” said the old English teacher, the one who had read every book ever, twice. “Just take a deep breath, take a day off-timetable if you need to, and remember how insignificant he is. Most of your pupils love you, Robin. Most of his hate him. Just occasionally, like attracts like, students sense tensions and they do their best to exacerbate them. Trust me, teenagers can be… horrible.”
Horrible, thought Robin. It was true. But over the last year, they had had their course specifications changed half-way through, their teachers swapped, their exams made more rigorous, and their grade boundaries raised. Maybe, in a world where ordinary school children were being driven to mental breakdowns, Robin McKnight would have been a horrible teenager, too.
“You’re right,” she said, too exhausted to come up with anything else, and rubbed her head. The headaches were getting worse. Everything, in fact, was getting worse. Her son might have been blessed by that GENIE box, but she was beginning to think she was cursed.
***
Jasmine got out of bed with no trouble, showered quickly, managed to dress and prepare herself in under half an hour, and reached the kitchen only a little bit starving for breakfast. The sun shone in from outside, an experience she had missed – in the TARDIS, one woke up simply to the low hum of an engine, and a golden roundel in the place of the sun.
It was not the usual view of the sun, though; this window was wider, and considerably lower. Tommy Lindsay’s living room had made a comfortable sleeping space, but she would be glad to arrive home.
She put some music on, placing her own phone in the speaker dock, and kept it on low. A bit of the Jackson 5, just to really bring her back to Earth.
The Lindsays' fridge and cupboard were well-stocked, and Jasmine was at first reluctant to take anything, but figured she could always run down to the nearest grocery to restock what she had used.
Back in Hawaii, the investigations had at one point become so dire that she took up a new role: cooking. She gave the chef a week off, and took her turn in the canteen. The chef did not, in the end, have a week off – instead, he spent it teaching her how to make a really good fry-up.
Finchley was not Hawaii. There was no fresh mango juice to go with it. But she hoped Tommy and his family would at least be impressed by the efficiency with which she prepared their breakfast, and of course appreciate the gesture in itself.
“You didn’t have to,” said Tommy. The breakfast was already prepared enough for him to realise she was making it for more than just herself.
“I’m sorry.” Jasmine turned her music down. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Tommy laughed. “People in this house usually wake up at the crack of dawn. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He opened the fridge and got himself an Actimel, swigging it down one gulp. He binned it, and stood against the kitchen cabinets.
“Thank you. For last night. You didn’t have to share any of that with me, it was brave.”
“I did,” said Jasmine. “I owed it to you.”
He was still in his pyjamas, and had obviously just ruffled his hair rather than combed it. There were bristles on his chin, too, and this was a man who shaved every day. He had come straight to see her.
“Thank you for listening,” Jasmine added, and moved closer to him. He looked down, nervously. Jasmine felt her heart skip and decided to take a chance. She placed her hand on his side, just above his hip.
A shiver went up his spine, and he went to do the same. Where was this g-
“Morning!”
She had done it again; Mary had climbed out of bed weightlessly, defying the laws of physics, and crept up on them like a Cyberman in the making. At the sight of the young girl, Jasmine and Tommy did the best they could to mask their actions, Jasmine moving her hand straight off of Tommy and onto the handle of the kitchen drawer, pretending that she was simply contorting to get out a fork. Tommy’s reflexes were not so good, and he moved clumsily to the side.
Mary either seemed not to notice or to not care. Knowing her, Tommy thought, it would probably be the latter.
“Are you the lady from last night?” asked Mary.
“I am, yes. My name’s Jasmine.” She crouched down. “I’ve heard lots about you, Mary. He never shuts up about how awesome you are.”
“No I don’t!” said Tommy. “What are you on about?”
“Yeah, he does,” whispered Jasmine. “All the time.” Mary’s face lit up. “What would you like for breakfast, little’un?”
“What are the choices?” asked Mary, full of confidence.
“Let’s see.” Jasmine opened the larder. “You’ve got coco-pops, cornflakes, porridge… or, you can have the grown-up breakfast, which is eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, beans, and toast. What I call a fry-up. What do you say?”
“I’ll have the fry-up,” decided Mary, and went into the lounge to work on her jigsaw.
“Since when were you so good with kids?” asked Tommy, when she was out of sight.
Jasmine shrugged. “I dunno. maternal instinct, maybe.” She looked pensively at Tommy. “I’ve always wanted kids.”
Oh, God. Why did I just say that? I can’t look away now, he’ll get it then. No, wait, I can’t look at him either, that’s getting weird. What the heck am I doing?!
Tommy’s mother walked in and saved them. She was showered, curlers in her hair like she had just walked out of the 1970s, not her bedroom.
“Oh, hello,” she said, putting the kettle on. “You snuck in.”
“She turned up this morning,” said Tommy. It wasn’t technically a lie. “This is Jasmine.”
“Jasmine, eh?” She finally made eye contact with Jasmine. “I’m Suzanne, it’s nice to meet you. Are you a uni one or a politics one?”
“I-”
“Coffee?”
“Yes pl-”
“Which is it?”
“Sorry?”
“Uni or politics?”
“Um, neither.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, I’m-”
“Did you say coffee?”
“Yes, I think-”
“Mum!” complained Tommy. “Give the poor girl a chance to speak!”
“Yes, sorry dear.” Suzanne smiled and patted Jasmine on the shoulder. That was reassuring – she was beginning to suspect that breakfast would end in an interrogation. “You sit yourself down, I’ll finish the breakfast. Then you can tell me all about how you know my son…”
***
“So, Jasmine,” said Tommy’s dad, “where did you go to school?”
He was a tall and skinny man, with grey hair and wide-framed glasses. If Tommy resembled any of his family, it would be his father, and Jasmine had him down as a long sufferer. He waited for his opportunity to speak, made sure his wife was in the middle of a mouthful, and struck while he was safe.
“Woodcote in Croydon,” replied Jasmine. “I went to both the primary and secondary there.”
“And college?”
“I… didn’t go to college.” She was sure that Suzanne nearly choked on her coffee. “My father died during my GCSEs.”
Father. That was a sophisticated word, she thought; most people these days said Dad. But she used it to create a distance, a sense of detachment between them, like the daughters who sometimes spoke of their ‘Fathers’ who worked very hard and left them with their nannies all day.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Tommy’s dad.
“Yes,” agreed his mother. “Very sad. What did you decide to do, once you had finished, should I say, grieving?”
“I was offered a place in a research project in Dubai. A sort of astronomy thing.”
“A physicist?” Tommy’s dad beamed, and Suzanne rolled her eyes.
“Benjamin has a doctorate in Physics from the university of Cardiff,” explained Suzanne.
“Wow! That’s awesome.”
“Well…” Benjamin raised his hands modestly. “I say degrees were much easier back then. And a degree isn’t the only sign of intelligence, as I’m sure our Tommy recognised in you.”
Jasmine smiled. It now was easy to see how that being known as Tommy Lindsay had developed, exposed to two individuals at opposite ends of almost every known spectrum. He must have learnt to intuit those divides wherever they existed; he always shrewdly detected imbalance.
The television in the kitchen was trying to tell them about the usual thing: another terrorist attack, another madman who thought he’d give a reason, a slogan, for gunning down crowds of ordinary civilians. Once upon a time, they turned Jasmine’s stomach. Now the only unease she felt was when there hadn’t been a terrorist attack for a while – she wondered what reason they had for being so quiet, what they were building up to. It was unthinkable, these days, that a month would go by without an atrocity.
“And you tell me we don’t need better border control, Benjamin,” said Suzanne. Tommy despaired. His mother seemed to have been watching an entirely different report to the one he had.
“Will you just leave dad alone for one minute?” asked Tommy.
“Well I can’t argue with you about it, can I? You’re too clever.” Suzanne turned to Jasmine and whispered. “Never argue with a politician. He’s a clever one, my lad. Always such a bright spark.”
***
“Jasmine! Jasmine!” Sheila drowned her in hugs and kisses, and hurried her through to sit her down. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home! Oh, it’s so lovely to have you back! How’s Hawaii? Can you tell me anything else about it yet?”
She was reaching for cups, making drinks, reaching for cushions, making her adopted granddaughter comfortable; reaching for thoughts, making sentences. Jasmine hoped she did not reach too far, and have a sudden heart attack.
“Nothing was happening in Hawaii,” said Jasmine. She closed her eyes and let the breeze blow over her. The door to the balcony was half-open, just how she liked it. “I went travelling for a bit, just a short while. I… met this boy.” She felt sick. She hated those words with a passion. They didn’t communicate the story of Jasmine Sparks and Tommy Lindsay, not at all.
“A boy, eh?” Jasmine did not think it possible, but Sheila was now even more excited than she had been before. “What’s his name? How did you meet him? Will I like him? When will I get to see him?”
“His name’s Tommy. We met… well, that’s complicated, I suppose you could say we met on the beach in Hawaii. He’s a bit older than me.” Jasmine had to concentrate to remember even how old she was. It wasn’t her speciality. “He’s a graduate, and he’s into politics. He’s planning to run for MP.”
“Oh my goodness, Miss Sparks, you really know how to turn my world upside-down.” Sheila put the teas on the table and sat down opposite her. “Wow. That’s… wow.”
“And you’d love him,” said Jasmine. That much was definitely true, and could not be put any other way. “He’s kind, sensitive, wise, thoughtful, intelligent… seriously handsome…”
“Are you sure he’s not gay?”
“Um… quite sure. Maybe it’s something I should check with him, just in case there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Sheila laughed, happy that her adopted granddaughter seemed to have found, even temporarily, the one thing she did not and could not have.
***
“Was that your girlfriend?” Mary asked inquisitively as she continued to work on her jigsaw. Tommy crouched down and joined her, helping her to fill in the sky. She always found the block colours more difficult.
“Sort of,” said Tommy, unhelpfully. “Maybe. It depends really, on what she would want me to call her.”
“But you do fancy her?”
“Yes.” Tommy laughed. “Yes, I do. Do you like her?”
Mary nodded. “She talks to me like a grown-up.”
“She talks to everyone like a grown-up. She’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who has the same voice no matter who she’s talking to.”
“I quite like her,” said Benjamin, strolling into the living room and picking up the paper. He sighed, remembering he had let his wife buy it this morning, and realised it was the Daily Mail. He skipped to the puzzle pages. “She’s a bit guarded but she seems like a really nice, stable girl. Lots of potential.”
“What does that mean?” enquired Mary.
“It means…” Benjamin stroked his chin, not sure how to provide a straightforward answer to his daughter’s question that didn’t reuse the word ‘potential’ somewhere.
“It means she could become something really special,” tried Tommy, “if she wanted to and used her talents right. Which I think she will.”
“Like the third brother?” said Mary. “The one who didn’t bury the money but made even more of it?”
Tommy glared at his father. “I told you not to send her to a Catholic school.”
Benjamin looked defensive. “It was your mother’s choice!”
***
Jasmine scanned the shelves upon shelves of identical essentials, dodging old people, their disapproving glances, and their trolleys full of condolence cards and ready-meals.
She allowed herself to extend sympathy to one elderly man who passed her by with three different Dearest Condolences and Sorry For Your Loss cards at the top of his trolley. It must have felt bad, to reach that age where birthdays were replaced by deaths, newly-weds by widows, new jobs by retirement. Special occasions winding down into an unsatisfying diminuendo.
She found herself in the books aisle, not as interested in food as she should have been. She had packed a few essentials, but that was it. Autumn would have raided the cakes and biscuits.
Go Set a Watchman, that was the book she was drawn to, still in hardback, still claiming to be a bestseller. She had never read it, though by technicality she had seen it being written. She turned it over to read the blurb, but was given only a quote.
“Every man’s island, Jean Louise, every man’s watchman, is his conscience.”
Jasmine was a greater victim of that than most. Her island was secluded from all others, a desert island where the treasure was not buried, but up in the sky. She wondered what that said about her conscience.
She picked up the book and found a self-service checkout.
Barcode-side, it was meant to be. She scanned it across again and the thing did nothing. And again. The machine tried to atone for its mistakes, and registered two copies. A reflex response, Jasmine hit a button before she read it.
“Please seek assistance.”
“Oh, for…”
“Please seek assistance.”
The supposed ‘assistance’ was too busy flirting with the woman at the currency exchange counter. Jasmine whacked another button, and the machine shut up. It had fixed itself. She looked for a bag.
Where do they keep the bags? The last time she had shopped, they were on the bit next to the checkout. That was not helpful. She lifted the book off.
“Item removed from bagging area. Please seek assistance. Item removed from bagging area. Please seek assistance.”
“Oh, shut up!” she hissed, and threw the book back on the bagging area as the machine continued to harass her. She walked off, sadly accepting that she was not destined to find out the secrets of her watchman, or the means to escape her island.
Getting out her phone, one responsive piece of technology, she dialled Tommy’s number. He picked up instantly.
“Hello?”
“Tommy? Can we meet?”
***
They stood on the balcony of Jasmine’s apartment, watching the market traders packing up for the night, whistling to themselves as they loaded fruit and vegetables back into crates, probably to feed their own families. In the apartment block opposite, families were beginning to draw their curtains and lock their doors. Jasmine did not understand how they could do that before the sunset – those hours were the only reason she kept her curtains open.
Tommy was wearing his black suit, having just done a talk at a local school. Coal Hill had his backing. It was only so long until the other comprehensives did, too.
“I’m sorry I called you. I just got… I don’t know. Scared, sad.”
“It’s tough at first,” agreed Tommy. “That day you said goodbye, I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even go home that night. I just wandered, found myself drifting along the Thames. I gave myself until three, and saw how far I could get in that time. I found myself outside Canary Wharf.”
“But it got easier?”
“Yes. Eventually. It’s still difficult sometimes…”
“Darker stuff?”
Tommy nodded, not looking back at Jasmine this time. His expression was sharp and bitter, as if experiencing sudden pain.
“Do you ever have dreams?” asked Tommy, choosing to elaborate. “I have nightmares. I wake up in a cold sweat, and when I look out of the window I expect something to come crashing down from out of the sky. But it’s like since the Doctor, nothing has. Not even the Earth gets invaded anymore. We just war with ourselves instead.”
“I try not to let it get me down,” replied Jasmine. “Think back to some of the places we went with the Doctor. They fought among themselves too. It’s not unusual, it will always happen, and… I’m happy. I am. Most of the time, I am really happy.”
She watched the sun beginning to disappear beneath the rooftops of the multi-storey buildings in front of them.
I’m happy watching the sunset. I’m happy because I’m with you.
“In fact I’m happy all the time. Two days of it and I haven’t had a moment of sadness. I’m just… struggling.”
“That’s just life on Earth,” said Tommy. “There isn’t that kind of struggle in the TARDIS. Anything is possible. You can go anywhere you like and the people there worship you.”
“That’s why you left.”
“Exactly. Because that was wrong. But here… it’s impossible to be heard.”
Not impossible, thought Jasmine. Not for you.
There were times when she wanted to tell him, to reveal his future. Then they could talk it through together, and work out what it meant for both of them.
The Doctor had told her that Tommy would become their future Prime Minister. He had told her what he would do as Prime Minister. But being the Doctor, they were the only facts he offered, in a depth no greater than GCSE history. He didn’t tell her who he was with as Prime Minister - who he went home to after his days at work. He didn’t tell her what - or who - had inspired him.
Tommy was safe, that much she knew. The universe would conspire to make him leader of his country on Earth. But at what cost? Leaders were inspired by so many things, and Jasmine did not want to be the price for that. She wanted to be by his side. She did not want to be the tragedy, the death, even, that drove his passion.
But the Doctor would have known that, surely. He would not, she was sure, take her home just so that she could die.
Tommy seemed to hear her inward thoughts, detect her anxiety. He put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “Robin was fine, and she was fine because she had someone she could share it with. And us two, we’ve both been through the same thing, both lost that big, big part of our lives. We’ve got each other.”
They turned to face each other, and effortlessly fell into a kiss. Jasmine lifted her hand to Tommy’s cheek, his face now freshly-shaven, skin soft and smooth. He was tall, too; she found herself on her tiptoes, and her heart told her that she could rise up even higher if she wanted to.
“I told you Autumn Rivers was in here somewhere,” Jasmine whispered. “I think I’ve just found her.”
She lifted one hand and, as gracefully as she could manage, began to undo the buttons on Tommy’s shirt. Tommy moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her with none of the awkward gait he usually used to conduct himself.
“One benefit of being away from the Doctor,” remarked Tommy. “Space to ourselves.”
“Oh, shut up.” Jasmine’s hands slid up Tommy’s chest, in that perfect, inimitable sensation of skin against skin, and she moved in for another kiss, this one fiercer, more confident, and longer-lasting.
The sun finished its descent, and Croydon went dark. They returned inside, and drew the curtains on the world outside.
***
Primrose Hill
Robin could not sleep. No matter how many cups of chamomile she tried, no matter how many sheep she counted, it wasn’t happening. It was asleep all day, awake all night. The one opportunity she was given to indulge in the pleasure she had longed for all night – shutting her eyes and drifting away to another world – and her body denied it.
At least Gabriel wasn’t up crying all night now. But somehow, that was better. Back then, her nights served a purpose. Now he no longer needed her through those hours – she needed him.
“Are you okay?”
Chris was awake, too. Robin must have been fidgeting.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Just can’t sleep.”
Chris leant over and turned the lamp on low. He regretted it at first, his eyes stinging, but they soon adjusted.
“Are you stressed?”
“Just a bit.”
“Is this about…”
“Chris, I’m fine, really.” She rubbed her head, cursing the fruitlessness of Paracetamol.
“More headaches?”
Robin nodded.
“What else?” Chris sat up now. He was awake, so he was being himself; he would know when she was lying, and she would have to tell him everything.
“Just…” Robin sighed. “A bit of dizziness here and there. I might have… passed out,” she murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear.
“Passed out? Jesus Robin, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was nothing much!” said Robin, frustrated. “I was just a bit overtired. It only happened the once.”
“Any blurred vision?”
“Chris.” Robin glared, irritated. “If you’ve been looking things up on the NHS website again…”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Yeah.” She leant over kissed him softly on the cheek. “I know you are. I just don’t want you to worry yourself.”
“But that creature,” he persisted. “The one that nearly shipped me off for organ harvesting. You failed its health test.”
“Which is why I have a doctor’s appointment next week,” said Robin. “Look, they probably have different standards to us. Maybe it picked up on that tummy bug I’d caught the week before.”
“Maybe.”
***
Tommy awoke early, earlier than even his own family usually did, but at the right time. The sky was just beginning to announce the day, its blues becoming lighter, and the sun was preparing beneath the horizon for today’s opening act. He tiptoed over to the balcony and looked out over Croydon. Those who were up at this time, the most interesting people of all, were going about their morning business, unaware that they were being observed. Washing was being hung out, dogs were being walked, insomniacs were swearing at the world. And Tommy…
He turned around. There she was, sound asleep, half on his side of the bed. He was in that one place he always wanted to be.
He considered that observation for a minute. Back at school, his friends would have said the same thing, that this was their goal, to have a beautiful woman by their side in bed on a cold autumnal night. That was not, Tommy was sure, what he had meant. All he ever wanted was to look into someone else’s eyes, man or woman, and see who they were, not who they were trying to be for him.
Someone able to love him without sacrificing an essential part of themselves or what they believed. Someone he could love without having to do the same.
Jasmine did that. They almost always agreed, and when they did not, they understood why. They refused to alter their beliefs for each other, but always avoided stubbornness.
You’ll understand when you’re older, his mother had told him once. You’re at that impassioned age now. But when you get older and fall in love with a girl, you’ll start saying things and doing things you never thought you would, things you might have disagreed with before, because you love her.
He had tried to explain to her why that would not happen, but did not have the words for it back then. He could not explain that he would never be able to love someone he could not respect; that love, respect, unity, human decency and admiration, they all came as one unexpected gift.
I’m older, he told her, in his head. I’m older, and you’re right, I do understand now. I understand that I was right all along.
***
Jasmine woke up alone in bed, the duvet on Tommy’s side pulled over. The curtain was half-open, too. As she tried to figure out what she had woken up to, the door to her bedroom opened slowly, and Sheila walked in, making sure first that Jasmine was decent.
“I’ve brought you a tea, dear,” she said, and left it on her bedside table. Milk, no sugar, just how she liked it.
“Thank you, Nan,” said Jasmine. “I’ve missed being here.”
“Breakfast is in the dining room when you’re ready.” Sheila leaned in and lowered her voice. “Your boyfriend is quite the cook.”
“My…” Jasmine squinted, sat up, and straightened her hair.
“He’s lovely,” said Sheila, clasping her hands together. “Such a sweet boy, and you’re right, he’s very handsome!” She laughed to herself. “Oh, I wish I could adopt him as well…”
Something had changed since their last conversation. Jasmine did not cringe – there was nothing about the word ‘boyfriend’ that set her on edge. It was right. No, it was more than right; she was proud of it. She took ownership of it, maybe more than she should have. I chose him, she was saying. His is the life I have chosen to run in parallel with.
Sheila left Jasmine to wake up. She looked over to the bedside table to see a note which Tommy had left for her, a red post-it on the end of a shelf.
Breakfast in the dining room. Then dinner tonight? x
***
It was a small restaurant Tommy had recommended; a struggling business, just out of the centre of main West End, beyond the realm of tourist guides. They were friends of Natalie’s family, and he knew them well; two elderly women who had been married ten years, with a passion for interior design and Italian food.
The food was exquisite, with rich sauces and delectable cheeses. The interior design was utterly unique as well, with decorations made out of old pots and pans. And best of all, Jasmine had never in her life seen restaurant owners so pleased to see her.
Jasmine could see that Tommy had really made an effort, even getting a new haircut for her, and choosing the aftershave she had pointed out to him when they were out shopping together. It had only been a joke, a little comment, but he had treasured it.
But it was not themselves they were talking about this time. Instead, they were having that conversation they were always going to end up having, about the day Tommy left the TARDIS.
“I don’t think it was all true,” explained Tommy. “Not everything I said. And I don’t think I was that angry, either. But to make the Doctor realise something… he’s so set in his ways, you have to make it big. And saying it all at once, walking out, it was the only way. I hope he learnt. He’s a good man, a very, very good one. But if he’s not aware that actions have consequences, the whole universe is at risk.”
“I think he’s aware now,” Jasmine laughed. A little too aware, she thought.
She could see now what she had not seen the day he walked out. She had seen the strength of Tommy’s beliefs and the passion with which he held them, but not this respect for the values of others. She had seen a young man who not only knew how to shake the Doctor, but also one who knew the Doctor.
And Tommy did know the Doctor. It seemed now, that he had always known the Doctor, always respected him, and knew what that meant for them both. Tommy knew everyone, and Jasmine knew that that was the explanation she was looking for.
That was what made him a pioneer for the future of the human race. That, quite possibly, was what was going to get him elected.
“Would you come back?” asked Jasmine. “If he wanted you back that much?”
“If he needed me, I would come back. If I absolutely had to. If the fate of the universe hung in the balance, yeah, I’d come back. I wanted to make a point, but I’m not an idiot. If he just wanted me to, no. I’ve got too much work to do here.”
The question came out before Jasmine had a chance to review it. If she had, she may have deemed the risk too high. “What if I wanted you to?”
Tommy sat in stunned silence. Right on cue, the waitress came along, beaming, and took their plates away. She returned again, and left them with the desserts menu.
“You wouldn’t,” decided Tommy. “And you’d never ask me to even if you did, because you’re fair.”
“Well done,” said Jasmine. She took Tommy’s hand, and held it in her own in the middle of the table. Seeing her running her fingers along his palm, the waitress started searching her cupboards for a candle. “You’ve passed the test. You know me better than I know myself.” She sighed. “Tommy…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve never done this before. I don’t mean this,” she gestured around to the restaurant, to the setting of her date. There had been one UNIT officer, once. It never went anywhere, but it was something. “I mean I’ve never been in this position. Do you realise the implications of this? The Doctor isn’t coming back, ever. I worked that out longer ago then I’d ever admit. For the rest of our lives, it’s just us. We’re the only two who will ever understand.”
“There’s Robin.”
“Each other, I mean. We’re the only two who will ever understand each other, Tommy. Whoever else I meet… I will never be able to share with them what we can share together.”
Tommy found himself tearing up. Why did Jasmine always have to do this, put his words into thoughts before he even understood them?
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll never be able to find anyone else other than you. I thought it was just me who felt that…”
“It’s not.” Jasmine shook her head. “I feel it too.”
“Then why waste time? Why not just get married now?”
Jasmine withdrew her hand. Tommy felt a sudden overwhelming surge of embarrassment.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Was that too far?”
“Just a bit.” Jasmine stood up and put her jacket on. “I can take myself home. You said you’d pay anyway.” She passed him some loose change. “Buy yourself a dessert, you looked hungry.”
I can't. This is too much, I can't, I'm about to cry, I hate him, I hate myself. Jasmine tried to keep her composure. How did Autumn ever do it?
“Jasmine…”
Tommy turned around. Jasmine tried to make it look like she was ignoring him. I don't know what I'm doing, but it's too late to go back now. This whole thing is a mess. I could never have lived an ordinary life. Searching for a handkerchief, she found herself walking away down the street and into the nearest underground. Tommy put his head in his hands.
Idiot, he told himself. You idiot, you stupid, insensitive, impractical idiot. You’ve ruined everything for yourself because you can’t keep your mouth shut, or realise, after all these years, what is and isn’t appropriate to say.
The waitress returned to the table with a lit candle, but stopped when she saw Tommy’s empty table. He felt sorrier for her than anyone – it was only going to be a nice gesture.
***
Sheila opened the door, excited to hear about Jasmine’s date. She entered the house in floods of tears instead, and rested her head to cry on Sheila’s shoulder. At the most inconvenient time, Sheila realised how much she had grown.
“Hey… there, there, dear…” she patted her adopted granddaughter gently on the back. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Jasmine said, simply. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
It was the worst feeling of all. She had assumed that she would have some sort of influence over Tommy’s life, over his future, that in some way she would be the catalyst of it, and grew uncertain of what that would mean. Would they fall in love and end up together? Or would something happen to her?
It turned out, now, that it was neither. They would drift apart. It would not work, she told herself. She would have nothing to do with it at all. Tommy Lindsay would be someone else’s to craft; someone else’s to look after.
Someone wonderful, perhaps. Someone Jasmine hated already. She knew, somehow, that it could not be her, because her first instinct had not been to embrace him, but to push him away.
***
Supermarkets were strange at night, even small express ones, like the one on the edge of this apartment block. It was the way their lights stayed on, but without daylight to balance them, and one could see how clinical and artificial they were. The shoppers were tired, the staff were tired, even the meat on the shelf was tired, but they were all kept awake by that unceasing glare.
No wonder it was so appealing to stare out of the window, just as this shopkeeper, an Indian man in his late 30s, was doing now.
Tommy found the flowers, and picked out a nice-looking bunch. It was mostly guesswork – he was never terribly good at this sort of thing, and feeling like an idiot somewhat impaired his instincts.
And he did feel like an idiot. He had never received as much vitriol from anyone as he was subjecting himself to, mentally, in this store. He hated himself not for ruining his own chances, but for making Jasmine feel the way she did. It was wrong. Maybe I should give up everything, stay away from politics. Maybe I shouldn’t be in charge of anyone.
He passed the flowers to the man behind the till and smiled. Above them, a small television was repeating news stories on those terrible terrorist attacks. It focused on strange and meaningless statistics, like how many British people had died. Neither Tommy nor the shopkeeper were watching it, but both were listening, both aware that the other was too. As the shopkeeper went to pass the flowers back, he stopped, and kept them to himself.
“You look sad,” he observed. Tommy frowned, put off by conversation highly irregular for a shopkeeper. But then, he had never shopped this late at night.
“I am.”
The man looked down at the flowers. “Condolences?”
Tommy shook his head. “Apologies.”
“Hey.” The shopkeeper rested the flowers on the shelf at the back, and searched for something. He found it, on his desk; a pen with an unusually sharp and strangely-shaped tip. “I do calligraphy. Would you like me to write a little note on there for you?”
“Oh, don’t worry.”
“I won’t charge any extra for it, I just thought you might…”
Tommy smiled. “Okay, then. Thank you very much.”
The man got to work, putting his reading glasses on and concentrating on what he was writing. He attached the label to the flowers, and Tommy inspected it. It was, indeed, fine calligraphy, albeit plain in meaning:
I’m sorry.
But it was perfect. He would have opted for a paragraph, tried to explain himself, explain his feelings, and he would have stumbled over and become knotted in them just as he always did. Two words – two words that everybody knew – said as much as he needed to say.
“Thank you, sir,” he said again, and nodded. The shopkeeper gave him a friendly smile, and as Tommy left the shop, he returned to watching news stories of massacres and atrocities on his own. He wondered whether, if he got killed in one on holiday, they would bother to count him among the British people killed.
***
Sheila had used her innate grandmotherly superpowers to calm Jasmine, just as she always did whenever trouble came upon her. She sat her down, said some meaningless but well-delivered words, and got out the PG tips, lest Jasmine forgot she was the Human Teapot.
“It was just so unexpected,” said Jasmine. “I mean… in a way it was our first date.”
“Well, he was over here last night,” pointed out Sheila. “And I didn’t see him sleeping in his own bed.” It was not disapproval, or anything like that. But it was a valid point. She leant across the table. “What was it, dear? What was it that you didn’t like about what he said?”
“I think…” Jasmine considered. “It was the idea of committing, at this stage. Of saying yes, I will spend the rest of my life with you. That was scary.”
“And why was it scary?”
“Because commitments are always scary.”
“But was it scary because you didn’t want to?”
“Well… no.”
“Sometimes, sweetheart, things are scary because they make us realise how we feel. You already felt that, deep down. You felt everything he was saying. I could see it in the way you acted together – I don’t know your little secret, but I know there is one. I know he’s very special to you for some reason. Now obviously, you don’t have to make any commitments at your age, but I just want you to be absolutely sure about yourself. Did you run away because you didn’t want to be together, or did you run away because of how much you wanted to be together?”
“You’re right.” Jasmine stood up and gave Sheila a hug. “You’re always right.” She went out onto the balcony and shut the door behind her. That alone confirmed her suspicions – the only thing she wished right now was for Tommy to be there with her. And he would be, she was sure of it. Every morning, every night. They would watch the sunset and just sometimes, the sunrise too.
She got out her phone and called him. No answer. She cursed, but let it reach answerphone. A recorded message was hardly a bad idea.
“Tommy, it’s me,” she started, and remembered why she never recorded messages. “Um… about earlier… I’m really sorry. I reacted the way I did, because… I think, because you were right. I mean, you were blunt about it, but I don’t think you meant to be. You…” she felt herself tearing up. It was so much for one day. She could not remember where today began, but it seemed to have no end. “…you and me, that’s all I can think of. I can’t settle down with someone who doesn’t understand the things I’ve seen, and Tommy, you’re perfect. I’ve fancied you since the day I laid eyes on you, and I’ve loved you since the day I first spoke to you. I think Autumn did too, and across the reincarnation it’s only gotten stronger. It’s us, Tommy.” She wiped her tears, paranoid that someone from the block opposite would be watching her, entertained. “It was always meant to be us. I made a mistake, but please come back. I love you, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
“Oh bugger!”
As Jasmine hung up the call, she heard Sheila’s voice on the other side of the glass. She slid the door open, and saw her with her head in the fridge.
“We’re out of milk! I’m just popping out to get some. Will you be alright?”
“Yes.” Jasmine smiled. “Yes, I think I’ll be just fine, Nan.”
***
Tommy strolled along the streets of Croydon, flowers held tightly in his arms. Perhaps it was wrong, he considered – perhaps she had been through too much, and it was cruel. But he thought he knew her, thought he knew what would mean something to her. That was all life was, really – guessing what happened in other people’s heads.
He turned back briefly. The street he had just crossed no longer had a single shop. Just as they had once all been clones, the same clothes shop with a different name recurring over and over again like what the Doctor would have called a ‘temporal glitch’, the shutters now had the same effect.
This street was nothing. The absence of anything to see, of anywhere to go. Over and over again.
He felt his phone buzz, and carried on walking.
New voicemail from Jasmine
His heart raced. He opened it as quickly as he could. It started before he could put it to his ear, and decided to hold it at a distance instead. It played at a ridiculous volume, just like everything on his phone always did, except he never remembered to turn it down.
“Tommy, it’s me.” He was so glad to hear her voice. Somehow, he missed her already.
There was something poignant, on an almost spiritual level, about a voice message recorded with that kind of sudden excitement and impulsiveness. Something compelling and reassuring about the bad signal, the unrehearsed speech. Those were how words sounded in his head, when he thought them out before saying them.
“Um… about earlier… I’m really sorry. I reacted the way I did, because… I think, because you were right.”
Everything seemed to stop suddenly, and he could no longer even see the street. Jasmine’s words were not just waves of sound; they were all around him, as if he were back in the time vortex.
He did not see the closed-up shops, or the moon in the sky.
He did not see the stars, or the cars passing by.
He did not see the man, heading his way, posture out of place with no restraint. And so, he did not have time to react before he was stabbed in the stomach.
Straight away, he slumped to the floor. His phone hit the concrete, and continued playing its message. The man was not interested in the phone, anyway: he went straight for the wallet, and ran, leaving Tommy leaning haphazardly against a rusty old shutter.
“I mean, you were blunt about it, but I don’t think you meant to be. You…”
Tommy tried to sit up through the pain, but fell onto his side. One moment, there was nothing; even as it slid inside him, he hardly felt it. Now, he felt it everywhere. Every fibre of his being was on fire, and strange, unfamiliar images were rushing through his mind.
“…you and me, that’s all I can think of. I can’t settle down with someone who doesn’t understand the things I’ve seen, and Tommy, you’re perfect. I’ve fancied you since the day I laid eyes on you, and I’ve loved you since the day I first spoke to you.”
He could see Jasmine as she spoke, standing on her balcony. He looked up at the moon, but then he could see the Earth, and he was standing over it just as he had the first time he had gone inside the TARDIS. Autumn was standing next to him, and she was speaking Jasmine’s words. He looked back at the Earth, and Jasmine’s face was reflected in it.
“I think Autumn did too, and across the reincarnation it’s only got stronger. It’s us, Tommy.”
He was back, now. Back on the street, watching his own blood flowing onto the pavement, feeling the words start to disconnect.
“It was always meant to be us. I made a mistake, but please come back. I love you, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
The most astonishing thing was what Jasmine made him capable of. His body somehow still found a way to let him cry, even if he was not able to reach up and wipe away the tears.
It can’t end here. I can’t leave you on your own.
***
Tommy was wearing his black suit, having just done a talk at a local school. Coal Hill had his backing. It was only so long until the other comprehensives did, too.
“I’m sorry I called you. I just got… I don’t know. Scared, sad.”
“It’s tough at first,” agreed Tommy. “That day you said goodbye, I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t even go home that night. I just wandered, found myself drifting along the Thames. I gave myself until three, and saw how far I could get in that time. I found myself outside Canary Wharf.”
“But it got easier?”
“Yes. Eventually. It’s still difficult sometimes…”
“Darker stuff?”
Tommy nodded, not looking back at Jasmine this time. His expression was sharp and bitter, as if experiencing sudden pain.
“Do you ever have dreams?” asked Tommy, choosing to elaborate. “I have nightmares. I wake up in a cold sweat, and when I look out of the window I expect something to come crashing down from out of the sky. But it’s like since the Doctor, nothing has. Not even the Earth gets invaded anymore. We just war with ourselves instead.”
“I try not to let it get me down,” replied Jasmine. “Think back to some of the places we went with the Doctor. They fought among themselves too. It’s not unusual, it will always happen, and… I’m happy. I am. Most of the time, I am really happy.”
She watched the sun beginning to disappear beneath the rooftops of the multi-storey buildings in front of them.
I’m happy watching the sunset. I’m happy because I’m with you.
“In fact I’m happy all the time. Two days of it and I haven’t had a moment of sadness. I’m just… struggling.”
“That’s just life on Earth,” said Tommy. “There isn’t that kind of struggle in the TARDIS. Anything is possible. You can go anywhere you like and the people there worship you.”
“That’s why you left.”
“Exactly. Because that was wrong. But here… it’s impossible to be heard.”
Not impossible, thought Jasmine. Not for you.
There were times when she wanted to tell him, to reveal his future. Then they could talk it through together, and work out what it meant for both of them.
The Doctor had told her that Tommy would become their future Prime Minister. He had told her what he would do as Prime Minister. But being the Doctor, they were the only facts he offered, in a depth no greater than GCSE history. He didn’t tell her who he was with as Prime Minister - who he went home to after his days at work. He didn’t tell her what - or who - had inspired him.
Tommy was safe, that much she knew. The universe would conspire to make him leader of his country on Earth. But at what cost? Leaders were inspired by so many things, and Jasmine did not want to be the price for that. She wanted to be by his side. She did not want to be the tragedy, the death, even, that drove his passion.
But the Doctor would have known that, surely. He would not, she was sure, take her home just so that she could die.
Tommy seemed to hear her inward thoughts, detect her anxiety. He put an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“We’ll be fine,” he said. “Robin was fine, and she was fine because she had someone she could share it with. And us two, we’ve both been through the same thing, both lost that big, big part of our lives. We’ve got each other.”
They turned to face each other, and effortlessly fell into a kiss. Jasmine lifted her hand to Tommy’s cheek, his face now freshly-shaven, skin soft and smooth. He was tall, too; she found herself on her tiptoes, and her heart told her that she could rise up even higher if she wanted to.
“I told you Autumn Rivers was in here somewhere,” Jasmine whispered. “I think I’ve just found her.”
She lifted one hand and, as gracefully as she could manage, began to undo the buttons on Tommy’s shirt. Tommy moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her with none of the awkward gait he usually used to conduct himself.
“One benefit of being away from the Doctor,” remarked Tommy. “Space to ourselves.”
“Oh, shut up.” Jasmine’s hands slid up Tommy’s chest, in that perfect, inimitable sensation of skin against skin, and she moved in for another kiss, this one fiercer, more confident, and longer-lasting.
The sun finished its descent, and Croydon went dark. They returned inside, and drew the curtains on the world outside.
***
Primrose Hill
Robin could not sleep. No matter how many cups of chamomile she tried, no matter how many sheep she counted, it wasn’t happening. It was asleep all day, awake all night. The one opportunity she was given to indulge in the pleasure she had longed for all night – shutting her eyes and drifting away to another world – and her body denied it.
At least Gabriel wasn’t up crying all night now. But somehow, that was better. Back then, her nights served a purpose. Now he no longer needed her through those hours – she needed him.
“Are you okay?”
Chris was awake, too. Robin must have been fidgeting.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Just can’t sleep.”
Chris leant over and turned the lamp on low. He regretted it at first, his eyes stinging, but they soon adjusted.
“Are you stressed?”
“Just a bit.”
“Is this about…”
“Chris, I’m fine, really.” She rubbed her head, cursing the fruitlessness of Paracetamol.
“More headaches?”
Robin nodded.
“What else?” Chris sat up now. He was awake, so he was being himself; he would know when she was lying, and she would have to tell him everything.
“Just…” Robin sighed. “A bit of dizziness here and there. I might have… passed out,” she murmured, hoping he wouldn’t hear.
“Passed out? Jesus Robin, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was nothing much!” said Robin, frustrated. “I was just a bit overtired. It only happened the once.”
“Any blurred vision?”
“Chris.” Robin glared, irritated. “If you’ve been looking things up on the NHS website again…”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Yeah.” She leant over kissed him softly on the cheek. “I know you are. I just don’t want you to worry yourself.”
“But that creature,” he persisted. “The one that nearly shipped me off for organ harvesting. You failed its health test.”
“Which is why I have a doctor’s appointment next week,” said Robin. “Look, they probably have different standards to us. Maybe it picked up on that tummy bug I’d caught the week before.”
“Maybe.”
***
Tommy awoke early, earlier than even his own family usually did, but at the right time. The sky was just beginning to announce the day, its blues becoming lighter, and the sun was preparing beneath the horizon for today’s opening act. He tiptoed over to the balcony and looked out over Croydon. Those who were up at this time, the most interesting people of all, were going about their morning business, unaware that they were being observed. Washing was being hung out, dogs were being walked, insomniacs were swearing at the world. And Tommy…
He turned around. There she was, sound asleep, half on his side of the bed. He was in that one place he always wanted to be.
He considered that observation for a minute. Back at school, his friends would have said the same thing, that this was their goal, to have a beautiful woman by their side in bed on a cold autumnal night. That was not, Tommy was sure, what he had meant. All he ever wanted was to look into someone else’s eyes, man or woman, and see who they were, not who they were trying to be for him.
Someone able to love him without sacrificing an essential part of themselves or what they believed. Someone he could love without having to do the same.
Jasmine did that. They almost always agreed, and when they did not, they understood why. They refused to alter their beliefs for each other, but always avoided stubbornness.
You’ll understand when you’re older, his mother had told him once. You’re at that impassioned age now. But when you get older and fall in love with a girl, you’ll start saying things and doing things you never thought you would, things you might have disagreed with before, because you love her.
He had tried to explain to her why that would not happen, but did not have the words for it back then. He could not explain that he would never be able to love someone he could not respect; that love, respect, unity, human decency and admiration, they all came as one unexpected gift.
I’m older, he told her, in his head. I’m older, and you’re right, I do understand now. I understand that I was right all along.
***
Jasmine woke up alone in bed, the duvet on Tommy’s side pulled over. The curtain was half-open, too. As she tried to figure out what she had woken up to, the door to her bedroom opened slowly, and Sheila walked in, making sure first that Jasmine was decent.
“I’ve brought you a tea, dear,” she said, and left it on her bedside table. Milk, no sugar, just how she liked it.
“Thank you, Nan,” said Jasmine. “I’ve missed being here.”
“Breakfast is in the dining room when you’re ready.” Sheila leaned in and lowered her voice. “Your boyfriend is quite the cook.”
“My…” Jasmine squinted, sat up, and straightened her hair.
“He’s lovely,” said Sheila, clasping her hands together. “Such a sweet boy, and you’re right, he’s very handsome!” She laughed to herself. “Oh, I wish I could adopt him as well…”
Something had changed since their last conversation. Jasmine did not cringe – there was nothing about the word ‘boyfriend’ that set her on edge. It was right. No, it was more than right; she was proud of it. She took ownership of it, maybe more than she should have. I chose him, she was saying. His is the life I have chosen to run in parallel with.
Sheila left Jasmine to wake up. She looked over to the bedside table to see a note which Tommy had left for her, a red post-it on the end of a shelf.
Breakfast in the dining room. Then dinner tonight? x
***
It was a small restaurant Tommy had recommended; a struggling business, just out of the centre of main West End, beyond the realm of tourist guides. They were friends of Natalie’s family, and he knew them well; two elderly women who had been married ten years, with a passion for interior design and Italian food.
The food was exquisite, with rich sauces and delectable cheeses. The interior design was utterly unique as well, with decorations made out of old pots and pans. And best of all, Jasmine had never in her life seen restaurant owners so pleased to see her.
Jasmine could see that Tommy had really made an effort, even getting a new haircut for her, and choosing the aftershave she had pointed out to him when they were out shopping together. It had only been a joke, a little comment, but he had treasured it.
But it was not themselves they were talking about this time. Instead, they were having that conversation they were always going to end up having, about the day Tommy left the TARDIS.
“I don’t think it was all true,” explained Tommy. “Not everything I said. And I don’t think I was that angry, either. But to make the Doctor realise something… he’s so set in his ways, you have to make it big. And saying it all at once, walking out, it was the only way. I hope he learnt. He’s a good man, a very, very good one. But if he’s not aware that actions have consequences, the whole universe is at risk.”
“I think he’s aware now,” Jasmine laughed. A little too aware, she thought.
She could see now what she had not seen the day he walked out. She had seen the strength of Tommy’s beliefs and the passion with which he held them, but not this respect for the values of others. She had seen a young man who not only knew how to shake the Doctor, but also one who knew the Doctor.
And Tommy did know the Doctor. It seemed now, that he had always known the Doctor, always respected him, and knew what that meant for them both. Tommy knew everyone, and Jasmine knew that that was the explanation she was looking for.
That was what made him a pioneer for the future of the human race. That, quite possibly, was what was going to get him elected.
“Would you come back?” asked Jasmine. “If he wanted you back that much?”
“If he needed me, I would come back. If I absolutely had to. If the fate of the universe hung in the balance, yeah, I’d come back. I wanted to make a point, but I’m not an idiot. If he just wanted me to, no. I’ve got too much work to do here.”
The question came out before Jasmine had a chance to review it. If she had, she may have deemed the risk too high. “What if I wanted you to?”
Tommy sat in stunned silence. Right on cue, the waitress came along, beaming, and took their plates away. She returned again, and left them with the desserts menu.
“You wouldn’t,” decided Tommy. “And you’d never ask me to even if you did, because you’re fair.”
“Well done,” said Jasmine. She took Tommy’s hand, and held it in her own in the middle of the table. Seeing her running her fingers along his palm, the waitress started searching her cupboards for a candle. “You’ve passed the test. You know me better than I know myself.” She sighed. “Tommy…”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve never done this before. I don’t mean this,” she gestured around to the restaurant, to the setting of her date. There had been one UNIT officer, once. It never went anywhere, but it was something. “I mean I’ve never been in this position. Do you realise the implications of this? The Doctor isn’t coming back, ever. I worked that out longer ago then I’d ever admit. For the rest of our lives, it’s just us. We’re the only two who will ever understand.”
“There’s Robin.”
“Each other, I mean. We’re the only two who will ever understand each other, Tommy. Whoever else I meet… I will never be able to share with them what we can share together.”
Tommy found himself tearing up. Why did Jasmine always have to do this, put his words into thoughts before he even understood them?
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll never be able to find anyone else other than you. I thought it was just me who felt that…”
“It’s not.” Jasmine shook her head. “I feel it too.”
“Then why waste time? Why not just get married now?”
Jasmine withdrew her hand. Tommy felt a sudden overwhelming surge of embarrassment.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Was that too far?”
“Just a bit.” Jasmine stood up and put her jacket on. “I can take myself home. You said you’d pay anyway.” She passed him some loose change. “Buy yourself a dessert, you looked hungry.”
I can't. This is too much, I can't, I'm about to cry, I hate him, I hate myself. Jasmine tried to keep her composure. How did Autumn ever do it?
“Jasmine…”
Tommy turned around. Jasmine tried to make it look like she was ignoring him. I don't know what I'm doing, but it's too late to go back now. This whole thing is a mess. I could never have lived an ordinary life. Searching for a handkerchief, she found herself walking away down the street and into the nearest underground. Tommy put his head in his hands.
Idiot, he told himself. You idiot, you stupid, insensitive, impractical idiot. You’ve ruined everything for yourself because you can’t keep your mouth shut, or realise, after all these years, what is and isn’t appropriate to say.
The waitress returned to the table with a lit candle, but stopped when she saw Tommy’s empty table. He felt sorrier for her than anyone – it was only going to be a nice gesture.
***
Sheila opened the door, excited to hear about Jasmine’s date. She entered the house in floods of tears instead, and rested her head to cry on Sheila’s shoulder. At the most inconvenient time, Sheila realised how much she had grown.
“Hey… there, there, dear…” she patted her adopted granddaughter gently on the back. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” Jasmine said, simply. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”
It was the worst feeling of all. She had assumed that she would have some sort of influence over Tommy’s life, over his future, that in some way she would be the catalyst of it, and grew uncertain of what that would mean. Would they fall in love and end up together? Or would something happen to her?
It turned out, now, that it was neither. They would drift apart. It would not work, she told herself. She would have nothing to do with it at all. Tommy Lindsay would be someone else’s to craft; someone else’s to look after.
Someone wonderful, perhaps. Someone Jasmine hated already. She knew, somehow, that it could not be her, because her first instinct had not been to embrace him, but to push him away.
***
Supermarkets were strange at night, even small express ones, like the one on the edge of this apartment block. It was the way their lights stayed on, but without daylight to balance them, and one could see how clinical and artificial they were. The shoppers were tired, the staff were tired, even the meat on the shelf was tired, but they were all kept awake by that unceasing glare.
No wonder it was so appealing to stare out of the window, just as this shopkeeper, an Indian man in his late 30s, was doing now.
Tommy found the flowers, and picked out a nice-looking bunch. It was mostly guesswork – he was never terribly good at this sort of thing, and feeling like an idiot somewhat impaired his instincts.
And he did feel like an idiot. He had never received as much vitriol from anyone as he was subjecting himself to, mentally, in this store. He hated himself not for ruining his own chances, but for making Jasmine feel the way she did. It was wrong. Maybe I should give up everything, stay away from politics. Maybe I shouldn’t be in charge of anyone.
He passed the flowers to the man behind the till and smiled. Above them, a small television was repeating news stories on those terrible terrorist attacks. It focused on strange and meaningless statistics, like how many British people had died. Neither Tommy nor the shopkeeper were watching it, but both were listening, both aware that the other was too. As the shopkeeper went to pass the flowers back, he stopped, and kept them to himself.
“You look sad,” he observed. Tommy frowned, put off by conversation highly irregular for a shopkeeper. But then, he had never shopped this late at night.
“I am.”
The man looked down at the flowers. “Condolences?”
Tommy shook his head. “Apologies.”
“Hey.” The shopkeeper rested the flowers on the shelf at the back, and searched for something. He found it, on his desk; a pen with an unusually sharp and strangely-shaped tip. “I do calligraphy. Would you like me to write a little note on there for you?”
“Oh, don’t worry.”
“I won’t charge any extra for it, I just thought you might…”
Tommy smiled. “Okay, then. Thank you very much.”
The man got to work, putting his reading glasses on and concentrating on what he was writing. He attached the label to the flowers, and Tommy inspected it. It was, indeed, fine calligraphy, albeit plain in meaning:
I’m sorry.
But it was perfect. He would have opted for a paragraph, tried to explain himself, explain his feelings, and he would have stumbled over and become knotted in them just as he always did. Two words – two words that everybody knew – said as much as he needed to say.
“Thank you, sir,” he said again, and nodded. The shopkeeper gave him a friendly smile, and as Tommy left the shop, he returned to watching news stories of massacres and atrocities on his own. He wondered whether, if he got killed in one on holiday, they would bother to count him among the British people killed.
***
Sheila had used her innate grandmotherly superpowers to calm Jasmine, just as she always did whenever trouble came upon her. She sat her down, said some meaningless but well-delivered words, and got out the PG tips, lest Jasmine forgot she was the Human Teapot.
“It was just so unexpected,” said Jasmine. “I mean… in a way it was our first date.”
“Well, he was over here last night,” pointed out Sheila. “And I didn’t see him sleeping in his own bed.” It was not disapproval, or anything like that. But it was a valid point. She leant across the table. “What was it, dear? What was it that you didn’t like about what he said?”
“I think…” Jasmine considered. “It was the idea of committing, at this stage. Of saying yes, I will spend the rest of my life with you. That was scary.”
“And why was it scary?”
“Because commitments are always scary.”
“But was it scary because you didn’t want to?”
“Well… no.”
“Sometimes, sweetheart, things are scary because they make us realise how we feel. You already felt that, deep down. You felt everything he was saying. I could see it in the way you acted together – I don’t know your little secret, but I know there is one. I know he’s very special to you for some reason. Now obviously, you don’t have to make any commitments at your age, but I just want you to be absolutely sure about yourself. Did you run away because you didn’t want to be together, or did you run away because of how much you wanted to be together?”
“You’re right.” Jasmine stood up and gave Sheila a hug. “You’re always right.” She went out onto the balcony and shut the door behind her. That alone confirmed her suspicions – the only thing she wished right now was for Tommy to be there with her. And he would be, she was sure of it. Every morning, every night. They would watch the sunset and just sometimes, the sunrise too.
She got out her phone and called him. No answer. She cursed, but let it reach answerphone. A recorded message was hardly a bad idea.
“Tommy, it’s me,” she started, and remembered why she never recorded messages. “Um… about earlier… I’m really sorry. I reacted the way I did, because… I think, because you were right. I mean, you were blunt about it, but I don’t think you meant to be. You…” she felt herself tearing up. It was so much for one day. She could not remember where today began, but it seemed to have no end. “…you and me, that’s all I can think of. I can’t settle down with someone who doesn’t understand the things I’ve seen, and Tommy, you’re perfect. I’ve fancied you since the day I laid eyes on you, and I’ve loved you since the day I first spoke to you. I think Autumn did too, and across the reincarnation it’s only gotten stronger. It’s us, Tommy.” She wiped her tears, paranoid that someone from the block opposite would be watching her, entertained. “It was always meant to be us. I made a mistake, but please come back. I love you, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
“Oh bugger!”
As Jasmine hung up the call, she heard Sheila’s voice on the other side of the glass. She slid the door open, and saw her with her head in the fridge.
“We’re out of milk! I’m just popping out to get some. Will you be alright?”
“Yes.” Jasmine smiled. “Yes, I think I’ll be just fine, Nan.”
***
Tommy strolled along the streets of Croydon, flowers held tightly in his arms. Perhaps it was wrong, he considered – perhaps she had been through too much, and it was cruel. But he thought he knew her, thought he knew what would mean something to her. That was all life was, really – guessing what happened in other people’s heads.
He turned back briefly. The street he had just crossed no longer had a single shop. Just as they had once all been clones, the same clothes shop with a different name recurring over and over again like what the Doctor would have called a ‘temporal glitch’, the shutters now had the same effect.
This street was nothing. The absence of anything to see, of anywhere to go. Over and over again.
He felt his phone buzz, and carried on walking.
New voicemail from Jasmine
His heart raced. He opened it as quickly as he could. It started before he could put it to his ear, and decided to hold it at a distance instead. It played at a ridiculous volume, just like everything on his phone always did, except he never remembered to turn it down.
“Tommy, it’s me.” He was so glad to hear her voice. Somehow, he missed her already.
There was something poignant, on an almost spiritual level, about a voice message recorded with that kind of sudden excitement and impulsiveness. Something compelling and reassuring about the bad signal, the unrehearsed speech. Those were how words sounded in his head, when he thought them out before saying them.
“Um… about earlier… I’m really sorry. I reacted the way I did, because… I think, because you were right.”
Everything seemed to stop suddenly, and he could no longer even see the street. Jasmine’s words were not just waves of sound; they were all around him, as if he were back in the time vortex.
He did not see the closed-up shops, or the moon in the sky.
He did not see the stars, or the cars passing by.
He did not see the man, heading his way, posture out of place with no restraint. And so, he did not have time to react before he was stabbed in the stomach.
Straight away, he slumped to the floor. His phone hit the concrete, and continued playing its message. The man was not interested in the phone, anyway: he went straight for the wallet, and ran, leaving Tommy leaning haphazardly against a rusty old shutter.
“I mean, you were blunt about it, but I don’t think you meant to be. You…”
Tommy tried to sit up through the pain, but fell onto his side. One moment, there was nothing; even as it slid inside him, he hardly felt it. Now, he felt it everywhere. Every fibre of his being was on fire, and strange, unfamiliar images were rushing through his mind.
“…you and me, that’s all I can think of. I can’t settle down with someone who doesn’t understand the things I’ve seen, and Tommy, you’re perfect. I’ve fancied you since the day I laid eyes on you, and I’ve loved you since the day I first spoke to you.”
He could see Jasmine as she spoke, standing on her balcony. He looked up at the moon, but then he could see the Earth, and he was standing over it just as he had the first time he had gone inside the TARDIS. Autumn was standing next to him, and she was speaking Jasmine’s words. He looked back at the Earth, and Jasmine’s face was reflected in it.
“I think Autumn did too, and across the reincarnation it’s only got stronger. It’s us, Tommy.”
He was back, now. Back on the street, watching his own blood flowing onto the pavement, feeling the words start to disconnect.
“It was always meant to be us. I made a mistake, but please come back. I love you, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.”
The most astonishing thing was what Jasmine made him capable of. His body somehow still found a way to let him cry, even if he was not able to reach up and wipe away the tears.
It can’t end here. I can’t leave you on your own.
***
Jasmine slid her thumb left and right across her lock screen, realising that she was doing nothing. She was always terrible at passing the time; even those years she had spent waiting for the Doctor, and those weeks she had spent watching Tommy, and those months she had spent in Hawaii. She had the strength to face them – not that she had any other choice – but she would never say that she faced them well.
There was so much to do in this apartment. She had bought three books, all of which sat unread. She had two box-sets unwatched, two shopping bags unpacked, and a collection of short story notes unfinished. She never had herself down as a procrastinator, but wondered now what else she could be.
A storm was brewing outside: the heavens were starting to open up and the streets of Croydon would soon become un-walkable. She worried about Tommy, who had only gone out in a modest and non-waterproof jacket, trapped in the storm, probably just as worried about her.
She cursed herself again for the way she had spoken to him. At least he was Tommy: he would receive the message, and he would understand. Anyone else, no – but with him, it was never too late.
The phone rang in her hands, and she answered it without even hesitating. It was an unfamiliar number; probably the settings playing up again. It had to be Tommy.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” asked Jasmine, confused. It was a woman’s voice; an older woman, she would have guessed. She could have been much older, but Jasmine sensed that her voice was not weary, just shaken. She was crying. “Who is this?”
“I’m so sorry,” continued the woman. “Is this Jasmine? Jasmine Sparks?”
“Yes, yes it is. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Suzanne, Suzanne Lindsay. Tommy’s mother.”
“Oh, hi Suzanne!” Jasmine tried not to make their first phone-call sound as awkward as it really was. “How are you?”
“I’m so sorry,” continued the woman, definitely crying. “I wish there was another way to tell you.”
“Tell me… what?”
“It’s our Tommy. He…”
Don’t say it, Jasmine pleaded. Please don’t say it. I don’t care what it is. Find something else, make it true.
“He was… stabbed. They still don’t know who did it or why… he was on his way back to you, and…”
“Where is he?”
“The doctors tried everything, but by the time they found him he was unconscious… he’d lost so much blood…”
“He’s dead?”
She did not expect to hear those words coming from her mouth. She never expected to hear those words from anyone, not in that context. Suzanne was crying on the other side, now unable to even speak.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” whispered Jasmine, and hung up the phone.
And that was it.
There was no knock at the door, no friendly policeman, no cup of tea, no blanket, no questioning, not even a hug. There were just those few words, and then the call was over, and Jasmine was back; back in the same place she had been in before she answered that blasted phone, with everything the same except for the things she knew.
She understood why there was a storm: the sky, just as she was doing now, had decided that the day’s events were wrong. It had thundered, throwing all it had down on the world beneath it, water upon water in the hope that it would somehow wash it all away.
Jasmine wished that were the case. She wished that lives were like water; evaporating and ascending before being poured back down again, the cycle never-ending. But she knew by now that that was only her life: she returned, whilst everyone else simply vanished.
She started to cry.
Another’s company would have filled the room with a different voice; a television or radio would have scored the moment with a soundtrack she would never forget. Instead, the only sounds were her own hopeless sobbing and the rain crashing against the windows.
A few hours later, in the dead of a long and sleepless night, an off-duty police officer brought Jasmine a soggy, ruined and half-dead bunch of flowers, passing them to her with pointless condolences across the barrier between the hallway and her apartment. She took them, silently reading what she could of the ink-stained note hanging off them, in once-beautiful calligraphy:
I’m sorry.
A man had stabbed Tommy dead in the street, yet the person Jasmine most hated now in the universe was herself. Not only had he died in pain; he had also died in regret, thinking that he had done something wrong, that he was a waste of space. You deserved better than me, she told him, knowing full well that he could not hear her. All that was left of him now were a few dead flowers, a gesture which somehow made it from this life into the next.
There was one man who she always talked to about these things: whenever anything went wrong, whenever she went through something so far apart from what most people experienced, he would understand. It was through those interactions that she had grown to fall in love with him, wholly dependent on the fact that someone out there would always understand what most people refused to even believe.
And now he was dead on a slab somewhere. He had died thinking he had made a mistake; uncertain, miserable, regretful and alone when, Jasmine told herself, he should have been anything but.
***
With UNIT’s help, it took the police less than twenty-four hours to track down the killer. He was moved into a UNIT prison, the standard procedure for anyone who had committed an offense against an ex-companion of the Doctor.
He was a beggar, a vagrant. He lived on the streets of Croydon, had done for years. Jasmine wondered how many times she had walked past him, ignored him. How many times he had made vocal that desire for any spare change, love, and she had not spared any, instead wasting it on a pack of chewing gum, or a charity that would probably give half of it to its executives.
She wished that she had used it to buy him a coffee, just once. Or that she had saved up those stamps and given him the card and granted the privilege of a free drink to one who was actually entitled to it. Perhaps that one isolated act of kindness would have made him into someone different – someone who smiled and waved to those who passed him by, politely stepping aside rather than drawing a knife.
Jasmine watched him now, through the one-way window into the interrogation room. He watched her, in a way; really, he was just watching what he thought was a wall. He wore UNIT prison clothes already, but had not yet had his beard trimmed or his long, straggly hair cut. He had not even had a shower, it seemed.
“You know what usually happens now,” said Jasmine. She had been next to Colonel Ward for three minutes, just looking on, and could no longer stand the silence. “I come forward, because the person he loved always does. I give this big speech to the world about equality, about how despite it all, I’ve found the strength to forgive him, and that forgiveness is the only way to move forward. But I don’t. I don’t forgive him. If you put me in that room, I’d kill him.”
“Do you know how long it took us to find the right guard to stand in that room with him?” asked Ward. Jasmine frowned. “You have no idea how beloved Tommy really was. So many people here couldn’t handle the fact we had his killer under this roof.”
“Except he’s not the killer,” said Jasmine. “I hate him, I do, but he’s not the problem. You know… of all the things that have happened since Tommy’s death, this is the one that sickens me the most. That man had spent years on the streets and no one even acknowledged him. No one spared him change, no one asked what was the matter. No one even wondered why he was there. And now look at the way the world’s reacting to Tommy’s death – all these big stories about having to protect yourself on the street, how no one is safe, how the homeless are dangerous and how the rich are being targeted. It’s disgusting.”
“They’re just trying to keep people safe,” said Ward, and soon wished he hadn’t: Jasmine turned and glared at him, keeping her eyes set on his eyes, even when he did his best to loosen their grip.
“Like I said, Ward, I don’t forgive him. There’s nothing to forgive what he did. But Tommy would have, if not forgiven him, at least asked the right questions. Why is that man having to beg in this day and age? How did he get there? Is there a way out? He was asking those questions until the day he died. Whatever I think of the killer, Tommy’s death should have been a chance for us to reach out to the marginalised, build that bridge again, narrow that gap between the people who have everything and the people who have nothing. But this world, this repulsive world, has turned it into something toxic and terrifying and paranoid. And you’re no better than the rest.”
***
“Such a smart young man,” the old woman was saying. “So handsome – he’d have found himself a nice girlfriend, yes, been very happy. So sad…”
Jasmine zoned out, trying to keep passive-aggression out of Tommy’s wake. Some of the people here were frightful, understanding Tommy about as well as they understood the composition of rap music, or the politics of Metebelis Three. She moved along past them.
There were some people she tried to avoid. She knew her grief would nenever compare to what Suzanne must have felt, that one thing in her life which should never be taken away from her, stolen regardless. Sons should never be referred to in the past tense. Jasmine felt sorry for her, but kept out of her way. She would never know what to say.
The babble of voices mixed together, and passing through them almost formed one continuous conversation, words linking to words and other similar words, though the overall message was meaningless.
Remember when… yes, yes… Church, seven… oh, but he didn’t… tried to change the way they… used to have that friend, Simon was it?... don’t know where… either, weird how none of them turned up… oh definitely, and I think they always respected his right to… must be feeling awful, can’t imagine what she’s… to lose a child… didn’t think he had one, maybe she’s keeping quiet, must be feeling bad too… remember back in Kent that time… would have made a fine Prime Minister… should be ashamed of themselves, just not safe these days, not with them around… they reckon he was an immigrant too… maybe Enoch Powell had a point after all.
There was a table at the far end of the room; on it were some snacks, left mostly untouched. Jasmine was not hungry, but she was drawn to the table. She wanted to launch it across the room and break up that venomous congregation of bigots and reactionaries who had somehow wormed their way into this sacred place.
“Jasmine.”
There was one she had forgotten – one person who had to be here, but who had somehow not even crossed her mind since Tommy’s death.
“Robin. I…”
Robin looked as elegant as ever, but a lot less healthy than she usually did. She was skinny, bony even; she looked tired, and moved slowly, holding on to every bannister, occasionally supporting herself with the walls.
It’s killing us, thought Jasmine. An infection in the air. Planet Earth is slowly breaking us. We can’t survive here.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Jasmine knew, unlike the rest, that Robin meant it, and accepted her hug. She sensed that Robin was crying, too, as they embraced, and remembered why.
“Oh God,” said Jasmine. “I’m so sorry. This must remind you of…”
“Yeah.” Robin smiled sadly. “The two bravest young men I ever knew, the two I loved as my own… and now they’re both…”
Jasmine saw it coming first, and passed Robin a tissue. She wiped her tears. Jasmine could feel hers starting again; something about Robin McKnight being sad cast a shadow over the whole of civilisation. It was almost a relief – for two days, Jasmine had been silently awaiting another catharsis. When her life turned into hell, she never anticipated how much she would enjoy crying.
“If ever you need me,” said Jasmine, “just come and find me, okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Robin shook her head. “You were in love with him, and now I’m…”
“You loved him like he was your son.” Jasmine took Robin’s hand, gripping it firmly and reassuringly. “And he loved you like a mother. You did your best, and he noticed. Now… I’m sorry, do you mind if I…?”
Robin sniffed and nodded. Chris put his arm around her, secretly just as distraught himself, and Jasmine stepped outside, and began walking.
She walked away from Tommy’s apartment first, only turning back when it was out of sight. She carried on walking – even through this area of London she was only just getting to know. Being a natural adventurer was a curse, in a way: the more places you saw, the more places became familiar to you, and the fewer places there were to escape to. You became imprisoned in your own memories.
So she walked on further, continuing in the same direction – north, east, south, west-- she wasn’t sure which it was, and it didn’t matter. She walked past houses: pretty ones with lawns and flowers and bay windows and ordinary families; ugly ones with flat fronts and thorns and drainage scents; and the strange, unknowable and fascinating ones, those without conventional shape, those without those tell-tale features, those without anything to describe at all.
She walked past shops and nightclubs, cafes and restaurants, travel guides and train stations, theatres and dark alleyways, and those tall glass buildings that seemed to be full of nothing but suits, desks and paper.
She found herself in places she had never seen before, and would never see again; places from which there would be no way back.
She continued walking.
***
“Mrs Moon.”
Robin snapped out of her trance, and tapped Chris on the knee to let him know it was their time. She followed the doctor into his room at the end of the corridor. He offered her a limp handshake, and smiled as she reciprocated it and entered.
She wished he wouldn’t. Doctors smiling… there was something about that which signalled the ominous.
“Please, take a seat.” He was soft-spoken, and looked like he had just come back from the hairdressers; his hair was gelled and sprayed, but with too much precision to be a personal effort. Robin wondered why she was noticing all this. “Now, I know this must be difficult for you, and I apologise for some of the awful waits you’ve had. But we’ve finally got the results of your tests, and I don’t want to waste any time now in letting you know what we found.”
Robin nodded. “What is it?”
Chris grimaced, and wished he had just been able to wait for this. Why did he have to Google the symptoms?
Headaches, muscle pains, fatigue, dizziness, fainting, blurred vision, neuralgia pains, nausea, mood swings, weight loss, memory problems, insomnia.
It was his wife, he had to know. But all he had on his side was an overactive imagination and an unreliable search engine.
He knew what he read. He knew what other people had said. But it couldn’t be true. No – it wasn’t true.
Even now, as he watched the doctor’s facial expression, at once both reassuring and concerned, he repeated it in his head. It wasn’t true.
“Mrs McKnight,” said the doctor, flipping through the papers on his desk. “We’re almost certain about this conclusion, but you are of course open to a second opinion if it doesn’t satisfy you.”
“Just say it, please.”
“You’ve been suffering from chronic stress.” The doctor carried on as if this was the worst news in the world, but Robin sighed with relief, and grabbed Chris’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
We’re free, the gesture said.
“All the symptoms you described match up to what we would expect to see in response to prolonged stress, and the scans indicated absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.” He looked up at Robin. “The symptoms develop over a long period of time, and are exacerbated by the continual presence of stressors in your life. Stress hormones are healthy and important for you in the short-term, but can have very detrimental effects in the long term. Would you say you’ve been stressed a lot recently?”
“Yeah,” admitted Robin. “Work’s been a nightmare. I’m teaching a subject I’ve only got an A Level in, and dealing with all the changes to the education system. And one of my, er, best friends… well, you’d have heard about it on the news. Tommy Lindsay. He died, and I’ve only just come back from his wake.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about your loss. And those are all things which would cause a considerable amount of stress to anyone. Would you say you were stressed when the symptoms started?”
“A few months ago?” Robin considered. “Yes. Well, it was around the time of the Victoria Station invasion, and I was there. My life was on the line…” she recalled that one terrible moment: her husband gone, her child so far away, and her, standing still, unable to move… the phone-call… Tommy. And then the Doctor, in that new body of hers, that never quite made sense. “…a lot of stuff happened,” she said simply. “And I’ve only just got back off maternity leave.”
“Mrs McKnight, honestly…” the doctor smiled again. “The diagnosis does not surprise me one bit. It’s the most certain I’ve ever been, in fact. First of all, I can grant you…”
“…time off work?” interjected Chris. “That won’t be necessary, I’m her boss. She’s not going back until every one of those symptoms is cleared up.”
Robin grinned at her husband, remembering why she loved him, and realising on today of all days why that was so precious.
“That’s good. I was going to suggest a rolling two-week sick-line with fortnightly review, but your plan sounds even better. What I would like to do is prescribe a low dose of beta blockers, just for the short-term, then move on to benzodiazepine, and at the same time a course of counselling, all paid for by the NHS. It sounds like you've been through a lot, and I think it would be highly beneficial.”
Robin nodded. “Whatever you think is best, doctor.”
“We’ll do anything,” affirmed Chris. “But I don't think I'll ever be able to give Robin what she needs here. This country is falling apart Maybe we need to move away.”
Robin turned to her husband, and the doctor returned to scribbling a prescription. "Do you really mean that?"
Chris nodded.
"But you've... you've got a life here, and..."
"I can get a new one somewhere else." Chris smiled. "A new life, Robin. How would you like that?"
“I’d like that,” said Robin. “I’d like that very much, Mr McKnight.”
***
There was so much to do in this apartment. She had bought three books, all of which sat unread. She had two box-sets unwatched, two shopping bags unpacked, and a collection of short story notes unfinished. She never had herself down as a procrastinator, but wondered now what else she could be.
A storm was brewing outside: the heavens were starting to open up and the streets of Croydon would soon become un-walkable. She worried about Tommy, who had only gone out in a modest and non-waterproof jacket, trapped in the storm, probably just as worried about her.
She cursed herself again for the way she had spoken to him. At least he was Tommy: he would receive the message, and he would understand. Anyone else, no – but with him, it was never too late.
The phone rang in her hands, and she answered it without even hesitating. It was an unfamiliar number; probably the settings playing up again. It had to be Tommy.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” asked Jasmine, confused. It was a woman’s voice; an older woman, she would have guessed. She could have been much older, but Jasmine sensed that her voice was not weary, just shaken. She was crying. “Who is this?”
“I’m so sorry,” continued the woman. “Is this Jasmine? Jasmine Sparks?”
“Yes, yes it is. Who’s calling?”
“It’s Suzanne, Suzanne Lindsay. Tommy’s mother.”
“Oh, hi Suzanne!” Jasmine tried not to make their first phone-call sound as awkward as it really was. “How are you?”
“I’m so sorry,” continued the woman, definitely crying. “I wish there was another way to tell you.”
“Tell me… what?”
“It’s our Tommy. He…”
Don’t say it, Jasmine pleaded. Please don’t say it. I don’t care what it is. Find something else, make it true.
“He was… stabbed. They still don’t know who did it or why… he was on his way back to you, and…”
“Where is he?”
“The doctors tried everything, but by the time they found him he was unconscious… he’d lost so much blood…”
“He’s dead?”
She did not expect to hear those words coming from her mouth. She never expected to hear those words from anyone, not in that context. Suzanne was crying on the other side, now unable to even speak.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” whispered Jasmine, and hung up the phone.
And that was it.
There was no knock at the door, no friendly policeman, no cup of tea, no blanket, no questioning, not even a hug. There were just those few words, and then the call was over, and Jasmine was back; back in the same place she had been in before she answered that blasted phone, with everything the same except for the things she knew.
She understood why there was a storm: the sky, just as she was doing now, had decided that the day’s events were wrong. It had thundered, throwing all it had down on the world beneath it, water upon water in the hope that it would somehow wash it all away.
Jasmine wished that were the case. She wished that lives were like water; evaporating and ascending before being poured back down again, the cycle never-ending. But she knew by now that that was only her life: she returned, whilst everyone else simply vanished.
She started to cry.
Another’s company would have filled the room with a different voice; a television or radio would have scored the moment with a soundtrack she would never forget. Instead, the only sounds were her own hopeless sobbing and the rain crashing against the windows.
A few hours later, in the dead of a long and sleepless night, an off-duty police officer brought Jasmine a soggy, ruined and half-dead bunch of flowers, passing them to her with pointless condolences across the barrier between the hallway and her apartment. She took them, silently reading what she could of the ink-stained note hanging off them, in once-beautiful calligraphy:
I’m sorry.
A man had stabbed Tommy dead in the street, yet the person Jasmine most hated now in the universe was herself. Not only had he died in pain; he had also died in regret, thinking that he had done something wrong, that he was a waste of space. You deserved better than me, she told him, knowing full well that he could not hear her. All that was left of him now were a few dead flowers, a gesture which somehow made it from this life into the next.
There was one man who she always talked to about these things: whenever anything went wrong, whenever she went through something so far apart from what most people experienced, he would understand. It was through those interactions that she had grown to fall in love with him, wholly dependent on the fact that someone out there would always understand what most people refused to even believe.
And now he was dead on a slab somewhere. He had died thinking he had made a mistake; uncertain, miserable, regretful and alone when, Jasmine told herself, he should have been anything but.
***
With UNIT’s help, it took the police less than twenty-four hours to track down the killer. He was moved into a UNIT prison, the standard procedure for anyone who had committed an offense against an ex-companion of the Doctor.
He was a beggar, a vagrant. He lived on the streets of Croydon, had done for years. Jasmine wondered how many times she had walked past him, ignored him. How many times he had made vocal that desire for any spare change, love, and she had not spared any, instead wasting it on a pack of chewing gum, or a charity that would probably give half of it to its executives.
She wished that she had used it to buy him a coffee, just once. Or that she had saved up those stamps and given him the card and granted the privilege of a free drink to one who was actually entitled to it. Perhaps that one isolated act of kindness would have made him into someone different – someone who smiled and waved to those who passed him by, politely stepping aside rather than drawing a knife.
Jasmine watched him now, through the one-way window into the interrogation room. He watched her, in a way; really, he was just watching what he thought was a wall. He wore UNIT prison clothes already, but had not yet had his beard trimmed or his long, straggly hair cut. He had not even had a shower, it seemed.
“You know what usually happens now,” said Jasmine. She had been next to Colonel Ward for three minutes, just looking on, and could no longer stand the silence. “I come forward, because the person he loved always does. I give this big speech to the world about equality, about how despite it all, I’ve found the strength to forgive him, and that forgiveness is the only way to move forward. But I don’t. I don’t forgive him. If you put me in that room, I’d kill him.”
“Do you know how long it took us to find the right guard to stand in that room with him?” asked Ward. Jasmine frowned. “You have no idea how beloved Tommy really was. So many people here couldn’t handle the fact we had his killer under this roof.”
“Except he’s not the killer,” said Jasmine. “I hate him, I do, but he’s not the problem. You know… of all the things that have happened since Tommy’s death, this is the one that sickens me the most. That man had spent years on the streets and no one even acknowledged him. No one spared him change, no one asked what was the matter. No one even wondered why he was there. And now look at the way the world’s reacting to Tommy’s death – all these big stories about having to protect yourself on the street, how no one is safe, how the homeless are dangerous and how the rich are being targeted. It’s disgusting.”
“They’re just trying to keep people safe,” said Ward, and soon wished he hadn’t: Jasmine turned and glared at him, keeping her eyes set on his eyes, even when he did his best to loosen their grip.
“Like I said, Ward, I don’t forgive him. There’s nothing to forgive what he did. But Tommy would have, if not forgiven him, at least asked the right questions. Why is that man having to beg in this day and age? How did he get there? Is there a way out? He was asking those questions until the day he died. Whatever I think of the killer, Tommy’s death should have been a chance for us to reach out to the marginalised, build that bridge again, narrow that gap between the people who have everything and the people who have nothing. But this world, this repulsive world, has turned it into something toxic and terrifying and paranoid. And you’re no better than the rest.”
***
“Such a smart young man,” the old woman was saying. “So handsome – he’d have found himself a nice girlfriend, yes, been very happy. So sad…”
Jasmine zoned out, trying to keep passive-aggression out of Tommy’s wake. Some of the people here were frightful, understanding Tommy about as well as they understood the composition of rap music, or the politics of Metebelis Three. She moved along past them.
There were some people she tried to avoid. She knew her grief would nenever compare to what Suzanne must have felt, that one thing in her life which should never be taken away from her, stolen regardless. Sons should never be referred to in the past tense. Jasmine felt sorry for her, but kept out of her way. She would never know what to say.
The babble of voices mixed together, and passing through them almost formed one continuous conversation, words linking to words and other similar words, though the overall message was meaningless.
Remember when… yes, yes… Church, seven… oh, but he didn’t… tried to change the way they… used to have that friend, Simon was it?... don’t know where… either, weird how none of them turned up… oh definitely, and I think they always respected his right to… must be feeling awful, can’t imagine what she’s… to lose a child… didn’t think he had one, maybe she’s keeping quiet, must be feeling bad too… remember back in Kent that time… would have made a fine Prime Minister… should be ashamed of themselves, just not safe these days, not with them around… they reckon he was an immigrant too… maybe Enoch Powell had a point after all.
There was a table at the far end of the room; on it were some snacks, left mostly untouched. Jasmine was not hungry, but she was drawn to the table. She wanted to launch it across the room and break up that venomous congregation of bigots and reactionaries who had somehow wormed their way into this sacred place.
“Jasmine.”
There was one she had forgotten – one person who had to be here, but who had somehow not even crossed her mind since Tommy’s death.
“Robin. I…”
Robin looked as elegant as ever, but a lot less healthy than she usually did. She was skinny, bony even; she looked tired, and moved slowly, holding on to every bannister, occasionally supporting herself with the walls.
It’s killing us, thought Jasmine. An infection in the air. Planet Earth is slowly breaking us. We can’t survive here.
“I’m so, so sorry.” Jasmine knew, unlike the rest, that Robin meant it, and accepted her hug. She sensed that Robin was crying, too, as they embraced, and remembered why.
“Oh God,” said Jasmine. “I’m so sorry. This must remind you of…”
“Yeah.” Robin smiled sadly. “The two bravest young men I ever knew, the two I loved as my own… and now they’re both…”
Jasmine saw it coming first, and passed Robin a tissue. She wiped her tears. Jasmine could feel hers starting again; something about Robin McKnight being sad cast a shadow over the whole of civilisation. It was almost a relief – for two days, Jasmine had been silently awaiting another catharsis. When her life turned into hell, she never anticipated how much she would enjoy crying.
“If ever you need me,” said Jasmine, “just come and find me, okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Robin shook her head. “You were in love with him, and now I’m…”
“You loved him like he was your son.” Jasmine took Robin’s hand, gripping it firmly and reassuringly. “And he loved you like a mother. You did your best, and he noticed. Now… I’m sorry, do you mind if I…?”
Robin sniffed and nodded. Chris put his arm around her, secretly just as distraught himself, and Jasmine stepped outside, and began walking.
She walked away from Tommy’s apartment first, only turning back when it was out of sight. She carried on walking – even through this area of London she was only just getting to know. Being a natural adventurer was a curse, in a way: the more places you saw, the more places became familiar to you, and the fewer places there were to escape to. You became imprisoned in your own memories.
So she walked on further, continuing in the same direction – north, east, south, west-- she wasn’t sure which it was, and it didn’t matter. She walked past houses: pretty ones with lawns and flowers and bay windows and ordinary families; ugly ones with flat fronts and thorns and drainage scents; and the strange, unknowable and fascinating ones, those without conventional shape, those without those tell-tale features, those without anything to describe at all.
She walked past shops and nightclubs, cafes and restaurants, travel guides and train stations, theatres and dark alleyways, and those tall glass buildings that seemed to be full of nothing but suits, desks and paper.
She found herself in places she had never seen before, and would never see again; places from which there would be no way back.
She continued walking.
***
“Mrs Moon.”
Robin snapped out of her trance, and tapped Chris on the knee to let him know it was their time. She followed the doctor into his room at the end of the corridor. He offered her a limp handshake, and smiled as she reciprocated it and entered.
She wished he wouldn’t. Doctors smiling… there was something about that which signalled the ominous.
“Please, take a seat.” He was soft-spoken, and looked like he had just come back from the hairdressers; his hair was gelled and sprayed, but with too much precision to be a personal effort. Robin wondered why she was noticing all this. “Now, I know this must be difficult for you, and I apologise for some of the awful waits you’ve had. But we’ve finally got the results of your tests, and I don’t want to waste any time now in letting you know what we found.”
Robin nodded. “What is it?”
Chris grimaced, and wished he had just been able to wait for this. Why did he have to Google the symptoms?
Headaches, muscle pains, fatigue, dizziness, fainting, blurred vision, neuralgia pains, nausea, mood swings, weight loss, memory problems, insomnia.
It was his wife, he had to know. But all he had on his side was an overactive imagination and an unreliable search engine.
He knew what he read. He knew what other people had said. But it couldn’t be true. No – it wasn’t true.
Even now, as he watched the doctor’s facial expression, at once both reassuring and concerned, he repeated it in his head. It wasn’t true.
“Mrs McKnight,” said the doctor, flipping through the papers on his desk. “We’re almost certain about this conclusion, but you are of course open to a second opinion if it doesn’t satisfy you.”
“Just say it, please.”
“You’ve been suffering from chronic stress.” The doctor carried on as if this was the worst news in the world, but Robin sighed with relief, and grabbed Chris’s hand, squeezing it tightly.
We’re free, the gesture said.
“All the symptoms you described match up to what we would expect to see in response to prolonged stress, and the scans indicated absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.” He looked up at Robin. “The symptoms develop over a long period of time, and are exacerbated by the continual presence of stressors in your life. Stress hormones are healthy and important for you in the short-term, but can have very detrimental effects in the long term. Would you say you’ve been stressed a lot recently?”
“Yeah,” admitted Robin. “Work’s been a nightmare. I’m teaching a subject I’ve only got an A Level in, and dealing with all the changes to the education system. And one of my, er, best friends… well, you’d have heard about it on the news. Tommy Lindsay. He died, and I’ve only just come back from his wake.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about your loss. And those are all things which would cause a considerable amount of stress to anyone. Would you say you were stressed when the symptoms started?”
“A few months ago?” Robin considered. “Yes. Well, it was around the time of the Victoria Station invasion, and I was there. My life was on the line…” she recalled that one terrible moment: her husband gone, her child so far away, and her, standing still, unable to move… the phone-call… Tommy. And then the Doctor, in that new body of hers, that never quite made sense. “…a lot of stuff happened,” she said simply. “And I’ve only just got back off maternity leave.”
“Mrs McKnight, honestly…” the doctor smiled again. “The diagnosis does not surprise me one bit. It’s the most certain I’ve ever been, in fact. First of all, I can grant you…”
“…time off work?” interjected Chris. “That won’t be necessary, I’m her boss. She’s not going back until every one of those symptoms is cleared up.”
Robin grinned at her husband, remembering why she loved him, and realising on today of all days why that was so precious.
“That’s good. I was going to suggest a rolling two-week sick-line with fortnightly review, but your plan sounds even better. What I would like to do is prescribe a low dose of beta blockers, just for the short-term, then move on to benzodiazepine, and at the same time a course of counselling, all paid for by the NHS. It sounds like you've been through a lot, and I think it would be highly beneficial.”
Robin nodded. “Whatever you think is best, doctor.”
“We’ll do anything,” affirmed Chris. “But I don't think I'll ever be able to give Robin what she needs here. This country is falling apart Maybe we need to move away.”
Robin turned to her husband, and the doctor returned to scribbling a prescription. "Do you really mean that?"
Chris nodded.
"But you've... you've got a life here, and..."
"I can get a new one somewhere else." Chris smiled. "A new life, Robin. How would you like that?"
“I’d like that,” said Robin. “I’d like that very much, Mr McKnight.”
***
Jasmine was on a street so far away that when she looked up, she was not even sure she recognised the sun. The sun was departing anyway, disappearing one way or another, casting a thin layer of orange over the treetops.
The trees were in the centre of the road, on a small island; a rare fixture in London. The island was surrounded by townhouses, or flats – it was difficult to tell. The road was carless, save those that were parked. Jasmine walked over to the island and perched on it, her legs finally able to take no more.
The air was cold and crisp. There was a storm overhead, and her shelter was makeshift at best. There was nothing, no one, and nowhere. Even when she looked to what she could have had back home, she saw nothing.
Where there was no Tommy, there was no home.
She began to cry, not because of what she had been through, but because of what she finally understood of others. That man, that vagrant who had killed the thing she loved most in all the world…
This must have been how he felt. Every day, without end.
Belonging was far away, a quality or sense possessed by people with families, with good fortune, with a stronger moral compass, self-belief and a life that made sense. It was not for her, and it would never be.
“Excuse me.”
Jasmine looked up. A man was standing over her, grey-haired and casually-dressed, with wrinkled but welcoming hands. He offered a hand to help her up, she accepted it, and then, remembering why she had chosen to sit down, her legs buckled again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” said the man. He spoke good English, but did not quite seem to be English; Jasmine noticed the trace of another accent. A faint memory of Russia, she thought. “I just saw you out of my window and thought you looked like you needed some help. Are you far from home?”
Jasmine looked around. Realistically, admitting that she was alone and vulnerable may not have been the best move in her situation, but she no longer cared for her own safety.
“Yeah. Very.”
“How far?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
“Do you know where you are now?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Jasmine repeated, hating the sound of her own voice. For some reason, whenever she spoke now, her words carried with them a warning; they were sad and lingering, wandering and uncommitted. She couldn’t throw it off, however much she tried.
“Listen, I know this does not sound like the safest idea for a young woman in the middle of night, and you don’t have to take the offer at all… but I have nothing else to do with my time, and that old thing is mine.” He pointed to a battered black car, what looked like a land-rover, parked in the driveway of one of the houses. “I can give you a lift back to wherever you are from, or take you to someone who can look after you.”
“Um…” Jasmine panicked. “Okay.”
He guided her over to the car, and she found herself subconsciously evaluating him. He was not strong enough to pin her down, not fast enough to chase her. Even as tired as she was, a sudden rush of adrenaline could easily get her out of the way of a man his age.
But it wouldn’t need to. It took her a few minutes to realise that; she at first sat in the back of his car digging her nails into the chair, avoiding eye contact through the rear-view mirror, assessing escape options and being reminded of the darkest television dramas she had ever watched, or the warnings she had been given as a child. After those flashes passed, she saw in the man a simplicity, honesty, straightforwardness, and a basic human desire to help and protect that she had not seen since…
Since you.
“My boyfriend died,” explained Jasmine. She owed the man that much. “It was his funeral today. I just…I was at the wake, and I couldn’t take it anymore… I couldn’t take any of them, and their… and I walked out, and didn’t know where I was… and found myself here… I’m so stupid, the mess I get myself into.”
She remembered the days when words were her companion, faithful and illuminating, always working with and alongside her. Now they took one look at what she was feeling and ran away from her.
“Oh, you poor thing,” said the man. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you home.”
***
The car pulled up outside the apartment block, and Jasmine found herself experiencing a sensation which she did not expect to experience ever again, let alone tonight, a thought which could be articulated into two simple words.
I’m home.
For once, a man had just listened. He had done something because he could, because doing something kind was always better than doing nothing at all. And under his roof, Jasmine had, for one brief moment, belonged.
“Thank you so much,” she said, feeling herself welling up no longer because of grief, but at pure, unbridled kindness. “Thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said the man, and smiled. “Is there someone inside who can look after you?” Jasmine nodded, and got out of the car.
Sheila was waiting for her in the apartment, out of her mind and clutching the phone in her hands. She must have been watching the clock, counting down the hours until she could report her adopted granddaughter as a missing person. Jasmine felt another surge of guilt.
“I’m just pleased you’re back,” Sheila was saying, doing everything she could to avoid negativity. “I was so worried, it’s just so good to see you… oh, look at you… sit yourself down dear, I’ll put the kettle on.”
And Sheila made one of her teas, before sitting down and giving Jasmine one of her talks.
“I love him,” Jasmine said, the tears still streaming from her eyes, the events of the day still colliding together. Cause and effect seemed to be breaking apart around her, an effect that seemed to be beyond even the time vortex. “I loved him.” It felt good to say it, at last. Maybe she had said it, but she was not sure. She had always meant it, but never felt it leave her lips like this, never felt the declaration become real and tangible and indisputable.
“I loved him more than I can even describe,” she finished. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“And you won’t,” said Sheila, with frankness that took Jasmine aback. “You won’t know what to do for… oh, for such a long time. That’s what it’s like when you lose someone. It was just the same with my husband. But now I’m old and alone, dear, and I’m far too old for anyone to ever love me. Don’t let that happen to you. Remember that someone will always love you, Jasmine. There will always be somewhere for you to belong.”
Jasmine smiled at Sheila, and knew what to do.
“Nan… you’re right,” she began, trying to put on a happy face. “There is always someone. So if there’s one thing you can do for me, it’s this. Go downstairs. You’ll have to be quick, so take the elevator. Outside, in an old black land-rover, if you’re lucky, there’ll still be a man waiting, maybe just leaving. I think he’s on his own, and I think he’s lonely.” She got out her purse, and passed Sheila a note. “Take him out. Buy him a drink. Tell him you’re doing it because you don’t like to see anyone on their own. And give me a call to let me know how it goes, okay?”
Sheila did not question where that instruction came from.
“I’ll do that,” she promised. “Look after yourself while I’m gone.” And with that, she put on her coat, and stepped out into the night, a night filled with promise and purpose.
The trees were in the centre of the road, on a small island; a rare fixture in London. The island was surrounded by townhouses, or flats – it was difficult to tell. The road was carless, save those that were parked. Jasmine walked over to the island and perched on it, her legs finally able to take no more.
The air was cold and crisp. There was a storm overhead, and her shelter was makeshift at best. There was nothing, no one, and nowhere. Even when she looked to what she could have had back home, she saw nothing.
Where there was no Tommy, there was no home.
She began to cry, not because of what she had been through, but because of what she finally understood of others. That man, that vagrant who had killed the thing she loved most in all the world…
This must have been how he felt. Every day, without end.
Belonging was far away, a quality or sense possessed by people with families, with good fortune, with a stronger moral compass, self-belief and a life that made sense. It was not for her, and it would never be.
“Excuse me.”
Jasmine looked up. A man was standing over her, grey-haired and casually-dressed, with wrinkled but welcoming hands. He offered a hand to help her up, she accepted it, and then, remembering why she had chosen to sit down, her legs buckled again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” said the man. He spoke good English, but did not quite seem to be English; Jasmine noticed the trace of another accent. A faint memory of Russia, she thought. “I just saw you out of my window and thought you looked like you needed some help. Are you far from home?”
Jasmine looked around. Realistically, admitting that she was alone and vulnerable may not have been the best move in her situation, but she no longer cared for her own safety.
“Yeah. Very.”
“How far?”
“I’ve got no idea.”
“Do you know where you are now?”
“I’ve got no idea,” Jasmine repeated, hating the sound of her own voice. For some reason, whenever she spoke now, her words carried with them a warning; they were sad and lingering, wandering and uncommitted. She couldn’t throw it off, however much she tried.
“Listen, I know this does not sound like the safest idea for a young woman in the middle of night, and you don’t have to take the offer at all… but I have nothing else to do with my time, and that old thing is mine.” He pointed to a battered black car, what looked like a land-rover, parked in the driveway of one of the houses. “I can give you a lift back to wherever you are from, or take you to someone who can look after you.”
“Um…” Jasmine panicked. “Okay.”
He guided her over to the car, and she found herself subconsciously evaluating him. He was not strong enough to pin her down, not fast enough to chase her. Even as tired as she was, a sudden rush of adrenaline could easily get her out of the way of a man his age.
But it wouldn’t need to. It took her a few minutes to realise that; she at first sat in the back of his car digging her nails into the chair, avoiding eye contact through the rear-view mirror, assessing escape options and being reminded of the darkest television dramas she had ever watched, or the warnings she had been given as a child. After those flashes passed, she saw in the man a simplicity, honesty, straightforwardness, and a basic human desire to help and protect that she had not seen since…
Since you.
“My boyfriend died,” explained Jasmine. She owed the man that much. “It was his funeral today. I just…I was at the wake, and I couldn’t take it anymore… I couldn’t take any of them, and their… and I walked out, and didn’t know where I was… and found myself here… I’m so stupid, the mess I get myself into.”
She remembered the days when words were her companion, faithful and illuminating, always working with and alongside her. Now they took one look at what she was feeling and ran away from her.
“Oh, you poor thing,” said the man. “I can’t imagine what that must be like. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you home.”
***
The car pulled up outside the apartment block, and Jasmine found herself experiencing a sensation which she did not expect to experience ever again, let alone tonight, a thought which could be articulated into two simple words.
I’m home.
For once, a man had just listened. He had done something because he could, because doing something kind was always better than doing nothing at all. And under his roof, Jasmine had, for one brief moment, belonged.
“Thank you so much,” she said, feeling herself welling up no longer because of grief, but at pure, unbridled kindness. “Thank you.”
“It’s a pleasure,” said the man, and smiled. “Is there someone inside who can look after you?” Jasmine nodded, and got out of the car.
Sheila was waiting for her in the apartment, out of her mind and clutching the phone in her hands. She must have been watching the clock, counting down the hours until she could report her adopted granddaughter as a missing person. Jasmine felt another surge of guilt.
“I’m just pleased you’re back,” Sheila was saying, doing everything she could to avoid negativity. “I was so worried, it’s just so good to see you… oh, look at you… sit yourself down dear, I’ll put the kettle on.”
And Sheila made one of her teas, before sitting down and giving Jasmine one of her talks.
“I love him,” Jasmine said, the tears still streaming from her eyes, the events of the day still colliding together. Cause and effect seemed to be breaking apart around her, an effect that seemed to be beyond even the time vortex. “I loved him.” It felt good to say it, at last. Maybe she had said it, but she was not sure. She had always meant it, but never felt it leave her lips like this, never felt the declaration become real and tangible and indisputable.
“I loved him more than I can even describe,” she finished. “I just don’t know what to do.”
“And you won’t,” said Sheila, with frankness that took Jasmine aback. “You won’t know what to do for… oh, for such a long time. That’s what it’s like when you lose someone. It was just the same with my husband. But now I’m old and alone, dear, and I’m far too old for anyone to ever love me. Don’t let that happen to you. Remember that someone will always love you, Jasmine. There will always be somewhere for you to belong.”
Jasmine smiled at Sheila, and knew what to do.
“Nan… you’re right,” she began, trying to put on a happy face. “There is always someone. So if there’s one thing you can do for me, it’s this. Go downstairs. You’ll have to be quick, so take the elevator. Outside, in an old black land-rover, if you’re lucky, there’ll still be a man waiting, maybe just leaving. I think he’s on his own, and I think he’s lonely.” She got out her purse, and passed Sheila a note. “Take him out. Buy him a drink. Tell him you’re doing it because you don’t like to see anyone on their own. And give me a call to let me know how it goes, okay?”
Sheila did not question where that instruction came from.
“I’ll do that,” she promised. “Look after yourself while I’m gone.” And with that, she put on her coat, and stepped out into the night, a night filled with promise and purpose.
Jasmine got up and walked into the living room. She stopped still when she saw the man who stood there, by the door to her balcony, looking just as he had the last time she saw him.
The Doctor.
She stared at him, and he looked back, uncomfortably, trying to extend sympathy or whatever that look was on his face. He was perfect, that was what annoyed her. He was wide awake, his hair was neatly-combed, his back was up straight, his eyes were tearless. It was like he didn’t even have the decency to grieve.
“There are no monsters on Earth,” quoted Jasmine, and shook her head. “You bastard.”
“Jasmine,” uttered the Doctor, and she finally heard something resembling sadness in his voice. “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry?” retorted Jasmine, feeling her heart beating in her chest. “You know, people who are ‘sorry’ don’t make the same mistakes over and over again. Why did you do it Doctor, hmm? Why did you have to take him with you? You saw that perfect life of his, that future, and thought, no, no human would ever be capable of that alone. It must be me, you thought, I must make him into that hero, that visionary of humankind’s future. But because of you, he met me, he ended up on that street, and he… died.”
Even now, even after all this, she still did not believe it.
“He died, Doctor, because you couldn’t leave well enough alone. You couldn’t accept that one person was capable of changing the world. You played God, and you killed him, and I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life.” She walked up to him, not caring about those extra inches he had on her height. “You destroyed our future, you destroyed my life, and you destroyed the most precious being that ever walked this Earth. And you’re sorry.”
The Doctor said nothing.
“Why do you always have to know best?” cried Jasmine. “Why do you always have to come here, do this? Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
At last, the Doctor was crying. Tears rolling down his cheeks, he clenched his quivering jaw shut.
“I wish I’d never followed that past of mine. I wish I’d never joined UNIT. I wish Autumn had finished you off all those years ago when she first had the chance! I hate you! I wish…”
And that was it. Her words were expended, her voice was finished, and her soul had given up. It had been crushed and stamped on, had made one last stab, and had succeeded. She had run out of strength, and she fell toward the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder as he embraced her after everything.
They both stood completely still, while the world outside continued to move.
Two old friends, together. And both of them alone.
The Doctor.
She stared at him, and he looked back, uncomfortably, trying to extend sympathy or whatever that look was on his face. He was perfect, that was what annoyed her. He was wide awake, his hair was neatly-combed, his back was up straight, his eyes were tearless. It was like he didn’t even have the decency to grieve.
“There are no monsters on Earth,” quoted Jasmine, and shook her head. “You bastard.”
“Jasmine,” uttered the Doctor, and she finally heard something resembling sadness in his voice. “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry?” retorted Jasmine, feeling her heart beating in her chest. “You know, people who are ‘sorry’ don’t make the same mistakes over and over again. Why did you do it Doctor, hmm? Why did you have to take him with you? You saw that perfect life of his, that future, and thought, no, no human would ever be capable of that alone. It must be me, you thought, I must make him into that hero, that visionary of humankind’s future. But because of you, he met me, he ended up on that street, and he… died.”
Even now, even after all this, she still did not believe it.
“He died, Doctor, because you couldn’t leave well enough alone. You couldn’t accept that one person was capable of changing the world. You played God, and you killed him, and I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life.” She walked up to him, not caring about those extra inches he had on her height. “You destroyed our future, you destroyed my life, and you destroyed the most precious being that ever walked this Earth. And you’re sorry.”
The Doctor said nothing.
“Why do you always have to know best?” cried Jasmine. “Why do you always have to come here, do this? Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
At last, the Doctor was crying. Tears rolling down his cheeks, he clenched his quivering jaw shut.
“I wish I’d never followed that past of mine. I wish I’d never joined UNIT. I wish Autumn had finished you off all those years ago when she first had the chance! I hate you! I wish…”
And that was it. Her words were expended, her voice was finished, and her soul had given up. It had been crushed and stamped on, had made one last stab, and had succeeded. She had run out of strength, and she fell toward the Doctor, resting her head on his shoulder as he embraced her after everything.
They both stood completely still, while the world outside continued to move.
Two old friends, together. And both of them alone.