The gulls are not your friends

“Come with me if you want to love.” It wasn’t the greatest chat up line, and sounds like a Hollywood cliché now, but to a very naïve villager two weeks shy from home, it sounded mysterious, dramatic and everything my 16 year old heart had wanted to hear. I was also more than a little turned on.  In the late ‘60’s it was possible to be more open with yourself and others,hence the reason why I moved to Brighton. I knew that no one in my family would ever understand; they had their fixed, Victorianly rigid ways of behaving and seeing themselves. The ‘60’s were an anathema to them and had I come out to them I would have been disgraced and expulsed as a leper. Far better to bite the bullet and move away of my own free will. No note, no apology, no word of explanation –whatever heartache my leaving created (and I very much doubted there would be any) would be nothing compared to what I had been subjected to since my apotheosis. 

Realising myself was the most important thing in my life and I knew that living in Brighton would best suit my transformative needs. Even in the late ‘60’s Brighton was known for its gay scene. Once you avoided the Mods and Rockers, who frowned heavily (at least on the surface) on anything pertaining to the ‘fag’ scene, there was a certain degree of freedom. I had learnt to hide my proclivity, as had most of us; as much as I admired Quintin’s audacity I did feel he had some kind of death-wish (if not a degree of sublimated self-loathing).
Although the Sexual Offences Act had made things slightly easier for us the general public’s attitude to us was still the same, if not worse. Decriminalising homosexuality was akin to waving a red rag to their bullish demeanours. I remember a discussion at a local bar when a burly Welshman drunkenly stated:
 ‘Of course, it could never happen in Aberystwyth!’. I struggled hard to keep my mirth contained. Upon relating this to another chap at the Spotted Dog he simply replied,
 ‘Oh, really. Perhaps you should have told him that Aberystwyth is actually advertised as the Brighton of West Wales! Shows how much he knows, eh?’

 It was in the Curtain Club where I met Saul though. I sat by the bar, nervously nursing my Babycham when he crept up behind me and whispered huskily into my ear. “Come with me if you want to love” before nibbling my earlobe. That alone surprised me as there were strategically placed people who had been hired specifically to stop that kind of thing from happening.  The ‘60’s may have been permissive if you were straight but there were strict rules still forbidding men even dancing close together! And if two men so much as touched on the dance floor they were quickly separated. 
Saul was a Gold Card holder though, which allowed him to queue jump… and coupled with his size and demeanour few people could make him do anything against his will. He wasn’t a bully –there were plenty of butch, muscly Northerners, brash and belligerent, to fill that criteria- he just knew how to get his own way. He was manipulative but no one seemed to mind that too much –those that objected were seldom seen again. I was flattered by the attention but shocked that anyone could be so bold. 
Saul sat down next to me and ordered a ‘Shirley Bassey’ before asking: 
“Which are you, boy? Bitch or butch?” His voice was deep and masterful, suede covering a granite interior. The pink, raspberry monstrosity was plonked down in front of me and I’d taken a sip as he asked me the question and nearly choked on the sweetness. 
“Neither.” I snapped. 
“Ah, a bold boy, eh? Just a bijou chicken then. Ripe as a charver should be.” 
 “I’m not a fucking whore.” I snapped back loudly, ready to throw the contents of the glass over him. “Keep it down, keep it down, lad, eh?” He hissed. “Don’t get your knickers twisted. You are a bona boy though, aren’t you?” 
“Would I be here otherwise?” 
“You’d be surprised, lad… I’ve seen many a police try to make solicitations, lead unsuspecting chaps out to the alley where his friends are awaiting only to jump on the poor dilly..” I blanched at this. I knew that that sort of thing happened but thought that the Curtain Club was beyond it.. being a supper club. Lord, how naïve I was! “I can tell you’re not police, son. Sorry to cast such aspersions on your fine character. Let us start over, yes? My name is Saul.” He held out his large,ring adorned hand out to me as if he was royalty (and I suppose he was at the time). 
 “Yes… I know who you are.” I replied, feeling my Adam’s apple vibrate with the words. I tried not to blush. “My name’s Les.” 
“My fame precedes me, fantabulosa! Fresh of the bus and he knows me already. Do you like; what you see?” I didn’t have to think before answering, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. I had clocked him upon the first time I entered the club. 

The Curtain Club was situated under the Queen’s Hotel, on the Kings Road side. I felt a little lost the first time I entered, star-struck upon finally reaching Brighton and making connections so quickly in The Spotted Dog. It was easy to mark those people of the persuasion –we had our own language! (Saul dallied with it but only managed to mangle it further). Pretty soon I had been felt up and prospected before being led through the Twittens to the Curtain Club. I wasn’t prepared for the entrance fee but duly paid it; it was a ‘supper club’ after all.  The entrance fee got you an inedible and indigestible meal but also meant that the establishment could serve alcohol and play music up until one in the morning. Upon paying the entrance fee I was led through the arcade-like foyer and down the steps. On the right was the small bar where quiet music played and sweet nothings were whispered, but to the left was the dance floor. This was where I first saw him. 
He wore a fitted grey two piece tweed suit, a peach paisley tie and polished shoes and he just swayed out of time to “Whiter Shade Of Pale” with another man. He seemed both wraith like but powerful; a bodybuilder physique, lantern jawed but his movements were serene, dreamy. He seemed totally unaware of the other man he danced with. 
“You’ll do.” I replied and hoped that my gamble paid off. I was a quick learner (or so I thought) and knew that I was being tested. I was pretty sure that Saul wanted me, now I was to know for sure. He clapped me on the back just as the rest of the bar took a collective in-breath. I had no idea who I was getting involved with. I’ve asked myself since whether I would have changed my tactic had I known any differently, and I honestly don’t know. 
 “I like your spirit, Les! By God, I’ll do, will I? Let’s drink to it, shall we?” “How about a proper drink? Whiskey?” I replied, not wanting to take another sip of that concoction. “Why not… and then after the drink maybe something a little more?” 

He took me upstairs. He had a permanent suite at the Queens, overlooking the sea and he took me three times that evening. He must’ve known I was cherry for I did a poor job at hiding it, but the first time he was gentle; loving almost –if that was possible in such a man. I knew I wasn’t his first, and probably not his only, but he made me feel as if I was. The second time was mutual lust, I was spurred on by his desire of me and the newfound freedom that I found. We collapsed in each other’s arms on the bed, sated –or at least I was. He just lie there, staring intensely out the window. He must have waited for me to be asleep –oh, he could be patient when he wanted to- and before I knew it he had tied my hands and feet to the bed. I woke up splayed out like a sacrifice, face down, and he was sitting on the chair by the bed, watching me. I was afraid but knew that it would do no good; something told me the more afraid I became the worse it would get for me. 
“You’re mine, see? You promise to be mine?” He said, flat like an automaton; none of the charm that won me over just a short while ago. There was an intense look, a coldness I’d never seen before in a person and I could only nod. “Good. And because you’re mine we’ll seal it.. I’ll brand you as mine and you’ll never be anyone elses.” 
He took out his cigarette lighter from one pocket and a knife from another. He unfolded the knife and held the blade over the naked flame of the lighter until it glowed red hot. “If you love me you’ll not scream out. If you love me then this won’t hurt at all.” He said and marked me as his own. I didn’t scream. Afterwards he was loving, kissing his brand before taking me violently; making me his own in body and soul. I didn’t resist. 

That was one of only a handful of times that he became violent towards me, though he ruled me with a velvet fist. He only had to change his intonation or gesture a certain way and people knew that his mood was about to shift and left him alone. We were in a café on the seafront when one of the waiters misread the situation. 
“Your bill, sir?” The waiter had said as Saul put his coat on. 
“You’re new here, I take it?” He replied, always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt. 
“Yes, but I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.” The waiter replied imperiously. Saul called this type of person a Jobsworth Johnny; much akin to the security guard taking ownership of the whole property, this man was too wound up for his own good. 
“Put it on the tab.” Saul growled. 
“I hardly think so, Sir. This isn’t a pub, this is a respectable establishment.” Things happened too quickly to establish cause and effect. 
One minute the waiter was squaring off against Saul, a scrawny 5ft bootlicker against the goliath; the next he was writhing about on the floor, blood pouring from his lacerated face; broken bloodstained crockery strewn around him lik china snow. Saul led me outside quietly whilst the rest of the patrons looked on in horror. No one did anything to stop us; they knew Saul, knew what happened to those people who crossed him. It was just a shame no one had told the waiter. 

 A week later I found myself working at the exact same tea shop as there was now a vacancy. Saul felt that a job would do me good; build my character; he didn’t want people to think that I was sponging on him and he would always be assured quality service when he visited. I was treated with almost religious awe and forbidden to do anything demeaning like washing the dishes or sweeping up, regardless of how many times I asked. 
The fear was that Saul would find out and take offense so I was promoted to Head Waiter, much to the chagrin of the previous chap, Donald; but what could he do? Anyone who made a complaint against Saul wasn’t heard from again and pride over a job is no reason to risk your life. It did mean that I was isolated from my fellow workers regardless of how many times I tried to make friends with them; they all thought I was trying to gather information on them for Saul and either went out of their way to be nice to me or ignored me completely.
Every night he would meet me outside in his Bentley, calmly straddling the double yellow lines knowing that no one would ever ticket his car. He’d always ask how my day went and I’d lie convincingly. I was consistently tipped over and above the usual amount by the customers and quite often gave the money to beggars I’d pass in the street, sickened by the prospect –this was not money I had earned, it was a form of tithe. One evening Saul raised this with me on the journey home. 
“Why do you give your hard earned money to those fuckers that’ve never worked in their life?” I couldn’t figure out how he knew what I’d been up to unless… 
“Have you been following me?” I asked, shocked that he had resorted to such Machiavellian tactics, especially when I had given him no reason to resort to such things. 
 “It’s necessary.” He replied simply as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “More for your safety than anything. I worry for you.” Saul worried about nothing and for no one… or a least that had been the case up until recently.  I was never allowed to read newspapers while living with him; we never talked about what he did for a living. All I knew was that he was some kind of entrepreneur, a promoter of talent and a risk taker –he told me that on our second ‘date’. 
Working at the cafe, however, allowed me the chance to read other peoples newspapers when they’d finish with them. From that I managed to figure out what kind of entrepreneur Saul really was and why people were so afraid of him. Recently though there had been a new business concern, a rival promoter had set up shop and threatened his status quo. 
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” I said, trying to placate him. 
“People could use you to get at me… I couldn’t allow that.” 
“How do you know that for sure?” I replied. 
“That’s what I’d do.” 

So he had me followed. I suppose I should have taken offense at that, but honestly I couldn’t. I was doing nothing wrong and despite all I’d learned to the contrary I did actually love him –I saw a side of him that few people even dreamed existed and that made me feel special. He rarely raised a hand to me…. So I saw this as just an extension of his caring. But I also saw it as further proof that he was becoming more paranoid and, though he would never admit to it, afraid.  His once stable business was crumbling. Saul was fast finding out that strength and will were not enough; his competitors had something that far outstripped his bullyboy tactics. They were ruthless and didn’t care how they gained power –there was nothing they wouldn’t do. His business associates were deserting him in droves, more with every week that passed and there was nothing that Saul could do.  He was too rooted in the old fashioned ways of crime, still held to a creed that this new generation spat on –there was no way to reason with people like that. The last time that I saw him he was gaunt, his once lantern jaw and butch physique seemed scarecrow thin and the fire had dimmed in his eyes. 

He woke me in the very early hours of the morning, there was a sea fret blanketing the town, lulling it to a false sense of security but Saul used it for cover. He hushed me out of bed and bade me to get dressed –my suitcase was already packed waiting for me. We left through the side door, carefully watching every shadow. I knew enough not to talk, the fear in his eyes spoke more than either of us could say. 
Despite all this I felt safe; whatever happened I was with him and all was right in the world. It was only when we were in the car driving inland that he finally talked to me. His voice was coarse, broken. 
“You’ve got to forget about me. You’re gonna forget about me. Whatever we had, whatever we were going to have it’s all gone now but I’m damned if I’ll let them take you away from me. I’d rather die.” I looked at him, the shock now registering. “I’m not going to, but I need you to be out of it. I can’t protect you and do what I need to do…. So I’m going to send you away, see. No one else knows where you lived so you’ll be safe… and when this is all over I’ll come for you. You’ll have to get the train from here to Lewes and then back home, but it’ll be safer dropping you here. No one would ever think to look for you here.” 
He dropped me outside Southease train station, in the middle of nowhere at 5 in the morning. I was wrapped up warm but felt cold from his haunted look. “I will come back for you, you’re the only one.” And he was gone. 

I got home safely. The family made a fuss of me, despite me coming out to them. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, it seems –but I missed Saul terribly. I told my family nothing of what went on with him and no one pushed me too hard. The time with Saul had changed me, I was no longer guilty of my secret and managed to walk tall. Every day I checked the newspapers to find out if anything had happened to him. There was a lone stabbing outside the Queens Hotel about two weeks after, but no names were mentioned; sources put it down to a lovers tiff gone wrong; but I never saw anything else…. And I never heard from Saul again.

The 90% (Or All is right in the world)

She had to prove him wrong. Time was fast ticking away and it had been a disastrous day, but she had to disprove his damn worldview; had to. Yesterday was a different story, a view of the world that made her happy: all was right with the world and people were generally good. The he joined her team at work, had the audacity to sit next to her and over the course of the day turn her life upside-down.

John, from Hassocks, was 24; barely out of university and so green he could have been a walking advertisement for the Vegan brigade. Tall and sickly thin, freckles, ginger hair and glasses were an unfortunate combination which, coupled with the medical complaint known as ‘running at the mouth’, made him an annoying shit.

Why was it that those that went to university felt the need to rub it into everybody else’s face; justify their existence and piss everyone off with their new found wisdom. They saw themselves as superior, and experience had taught her that they were anything but!

Of course, she didn’t know any of this when she first met him; she was always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt; it took just her ten minutes of his elitist crap to come to that conclusion. She was a quick study, being a firm believer that a picture is worth a thousand words and first impressions were never wrong. It took her ten minutes to decide that she didn’t like John from Hassocks at all. His ego rankled her and they clashed on everything. He was staunchly anti-religious (especially regarding Christianity) whereas she was a Protestant and proud of it. She was the vegan and he was a lapsed, but still very keen, fisherman; enjoying the occasional trip with his father. She believed in turning the other cheek, seeing the good in everyone and England for the English. Good and evil; black and white.

“So you’re a racist.” John replied, upon hearing this.

“If that means being proud to be English then, yes. I am.” She replied, unnerved by the reply. She was, actually, very racist but that wasn’t something she wanted other people to know.

“Yes, then… and a hypocrite as well.” He challenged. “What does it actually mean to be ‘English’? We’ve been invaded so many times that the original inhabitants of the green and pleasant land were either butchered or bred out a long, long time ago.”

This was infuriating. She saw herself as being essentially cool, calm and collected; but in the first half an hour of talking to him she had almost lost her shit completely. She was also due to go on jury service in the next couple of weeks and made the mistake of mentioning it in conversation.

“I have a dislike for the judiciary system...” He jabbed at her.

“Why does that not surprise me?” She countered, really not wanting to get into the conversation. Where was a large polo mallet when you really needed one, she asked herself.

“The whole system is corrupt.” He replied, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, come on; that’s total crap.” She snapped. She tried her best not to let her feelings get the better of her but his whole attitude just annoyed her so much!

“Look – discounting the fact that the whole system is pre-dictated on the facile agreement that everyone swears to tell the truth on a fictional document; it’s not up to the lawyers to ascertain the guilt of someone, it’s to find a way to justify their massive salary. The lawyers are paid to understand the law, not people. If they can get their clients off on a technicality then they will do whether they’re guilty or not.” She let the words ‘fictional document’ go over her head; now was not a time for a religious debate, so she said:

“But that’s why there’s a jury, surely...”

“Oh, please. Look, it’s like this: people are selected at random on the basis that everyone is created equal and it’s a jury of their peers, right? Well, I hate to say this but we’re not all equal. It all depends on economic, sociological and intellectual biases for a start. I’m not the same as you.” You can say that again, she thought and really wished that she hadn’t started the damn conversation. “By putting me on a panel with a 44 year old Sun reader with the intelligence of a used teabag is ridiculous. There is no average person.”

“That’s crap and you know it.” She snapped back.

“Harlan Ellison once said that 90% of everything is utter shite… and he was right, you know. If you look at art or music in terms of quality, or even people on a graph you’ll get a bell-curve. You’ve heard of that, I’m sure. The peak is always in the middle and that’s called the average. So those that exceed are in the top 90%...”

“Ah – so you think of yourself as one of the top ten percent, I take it? Riiight.” She snapped, incredulous at this attitude.

“Ok – let’s take an extreme example. Serial killers.”

“What?” She asked, curious as to where the conversation was now leading.

“Well, take people’s perception of serial killers; look at all the films about them. They’re perceived as ‘different’ to us; and much is made of their perverted nature… In fact, anything further that people can do to distance themselves from serial killers the better. But you want to know the real rub?” He didn’t even wait for her to answer, John was on a roll. She got the feeling that he’d got this patois down through countless retellings. Perfect for chat up lines… “Your ‘average’ person is one bad day from becoming a serial killer… if only they knew.”

“I can’t believe that for an instant. What you’re saying is that there’s no innate difference between…” She shook her head, trying to take it in. “..between a Joe Nobody and a serial killer?”

“Think about it – most of these serial killers had diabolical upbringings. I mean, really, really shitty.  I’m not making any excuses and can’t generalise, obviously… but a case could easily be made. Most people turn round and say ‘I could never do anything like that!’… but had they had lived the life of, say, Ted Bundy or Charlie Manson, then I can’t help but wonder how they would’ve turned out.”

“Bollocks. I’ve known people who have had far worse lives. I mean, how many people are walking round with a life that is just as bad, if not worse than Ted Bundy, and have not become serial killers?”

“It’s impossible to know what the triggers are for each person…”

“Look, I’ve read up on serial killers too, and from my experience these people were just projecting how bad they felt onto others so they didn’t have to take the rap for it… or they felt that their behaviour was justified because their victims were ‘asking for it’.” She couldn’t believe how this conversation was unfolding. One bad day or not, she really wanted to smite John at that very minute!

“That’s such an oversimplification!” John replied, almost mimicking her objection earlier.

“These… people, these serial killers always try to play the victim.. “ She pushed back. “‘Poor me, my childhood was terrible’ ; we could all say stuff like that! But it never adds up to anything, if you ask me, as their crimes were always premeditated!  It’s rare for these killings to be spur of the moment. These were clear thinking individuals making clear and informed decisions.”

“I said nothing about ‘playing the victim’;” John replied. “And I actually agree that their crimes were premeditated.. but that’s not the point…” She was having none of it though, she interrupted him.

“When something is carefully planned in advance… and the person knows it’s illegal then they are totally responsible and should be held accountable. I had some really bad experiences but that doesn’t mean that I want to go out and kill, kill, kill!” Although at that particular moment there was one person that she would happily have throttled. “When you start talking to people you find that it’s actually quite common!”

“Ok – so maybe you’re getting confused by my argument; getting bogged down in semantics. I’m saying that you can’t say for certain that you wouldn’t end up like them if you lived their life. You’re saying that’s not true –you would never kill like that. How do you know that for certain? Talk about living in a glass house! Life happens in increments; each incident stacks up; you never know what’s going to break the camel’s back. People can crack up in two ways, you know… suicide or murder.”

“That’s such an oversimplification! How you can come up with such generalisations without the slightest bit of evidence is beyond me! I wonder what the stats would show us: comparing those men who have been abused by their mothers and chart how their lives turned out. How many of them turned out to be psycho’s.” She wanted this conversation over, but there was only one way out: admit that he was right, there was no way she would let him have the final word.

“How the hell can you use statistics as a comparison? If you’re saying that my views are an oversimplification then you’ve got to be doubly careful with your rash generalisations purely because of the type of measurements you make. It’s not just a case of looking at ‘those men who were abused by their mothers’ and seeing how many of them end up killing anyone…”

“It’d be far more accurate than taking ONE example, like you did, and drawing conclusions from that!” Oh, please, she thought. What have I done to deserve this? This is only the first morning; it can only go downhill from here.

“I haven’t given any examples and nor have I drawn any conclusions.” He replied snidely. “What I actually said was that I don’t agree with people’s views of serial killers.”

“No, what you actually said was ‘’People are one bad day away from mass killing.’”

“Right – remember that petrol crisis a few years ago?” He replied.  “People were killing others over a tank of petrol… other people have been stampeded in Black Friday deals.”

“I think I need evidence to back those up.” She said.

“It was on the news… In America recently there was a Chinese kid who was shot because he knocked at the wrong house in a Halloween costume! Shot for no reason at all.”

“But that’s America, surely?” She regretted saying that, and knew that she’d just added more fuel to the already fanned flames.

“I don’t think you can afford to be that blasé about it all. It’s no good saying that in America you get shot for no reason because it’s America! That’s happening over here now!”

“What are you? Some kind of pessimist?”

“Well, I’d actually call myself a realist.”

“Ha! I would describe my view as realistic; at least as far as humanity goes… and at least as far as I can make it; although with my history I should probably be the one busy cutting men into pieces.” Men like you, she thought to herself.

“I don’t see the worst in people… I let them dig their own holes.” John grinned.

“Well; I’m naturally a kind person… I feel for others. You have to lack empathy in order to hurt others in a premeditated way and some of us just aren’t built that way. I can’t take credit for it though, it’s a mixture of brain chemistry and environment.”

“So you agree with me then!” She was stunned by his conclusion, but when she later unpicked what she’d said she realised that he was right.

“No… that’s NOT what I said. You’re just turning my words against me!”

“Ok… You think that people are generally friendly and kind. Is that your world view? You don’t believe in my 90% and that only the really screwed up ones kill. Have I addressed all your concerns?”

“Yes.” She replied through gritted teeth.

“Well then; I’ll set you a little test. In one day I want you to prove me wrong. Believe me, I want to be proved wrong. If you can tell me of at least three positive interactions with people over the next... well, let’s say by the end of tomorrow then I will concede that you’re right and I’ll change my world view.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Well, nothing… nothing really. But let’s hope that I am wrong, eh?” John said smugly. Oh, how she wanted to wipe that wry grin off his mouth.

She had just over one day to prove herself. She so desperately wanted to prove him wrong and, more importantly, prove herself right. They didn’t speak for the rest of the day, bizarrely enough; save for work related questions, nor did he mention the bet or make any snide remarks but she was pondering on what she could do to make a difference.

It was no good approaching people at work; in her mind she already had a rapport built up and it would be far easier to prove kindness in people she already favoured (and John would, no doubt, dismiss them). No, the whole crux of John’s argument was dealing with the ‘average person in the street’; and that meant random acts of kindness –something that she agreed with in principle, but had never actually put into practice. Now was as good a time as any.

That evening on the platform she noticed someone drop a five pound note from their pocket and she was about to pick it up to give it back when another person pushed her out the way. “Bloody thieving bitch.” The elderly man remarked, prodding at her with his finger, drawing the attention of the woman who dropped the money.

“What’s happening?” The woman asked.

“This bloody woman was about to nick the money that had fallen out your purse.” He said.

“I was not! I was just about to give it back to her.” She replied in disbelief.

“Oh piss off.” The woman snapped and she meekly moved down the platform, drawing looks from the other passengers. On the train journey home she was treated with distrust and disparaging looks so she couldn’t try to engage anyone in conversation. Was the world always like this, she asked herself. Was John right after all? No, she couldn’t allow herself to think like that. She just had to try harder.

The next day she did her best to wear a happy face and greet everyone with a smile, but no one else seemed to share her positivity. All she got in return was lewd stares, grunts of disapproval and, when she did try to strike up conversation, affirmations of a completely different kind. She sighed inwardly and felt dejected, crippled inside.

John’s effervescence made things ten times worse. Although he never mentioned the bet it was easy to tell from her expression that things weren’t going so well. She so wanted to ram that sparkling smile down his bloody throat.

At lunchtime she gave money to a couple of charity workers waving collecting tins. She didn’t even bother to see which charities she was giving to she just wanted to feel good about herself. However by the time she’d walked to the other end of the pavement she was almost swamped by the other chuggers who had witnessed her display of goodwill and wanted to get in on the act. She ended up losing her temper at them and told them, in no uncertain terms, to sod the fuck off.

She tried giving money to the homeless to elicit some kind of response and was rewarded with a sarcastic “50p? Wow, this will go handy towards my Ferrari! Bloody Tories, no idea of how the world works; not everyone has a silver bloody spoon round their necks!”

She then saw a pregnant woman smoking and felt for the unborn baby inside; she couldn’t stop herself and said something. The woman looked shocked and she thought for a minute that she’d actually done something worthwhile; made a difference. A slap in the face made her realise that the woman wasn’t pregnant… just fat. A crowd of people had to drag the two of them apart in the end. It was all put down to a misunderstanding.

At the end of lunch she finally had her chance; a young girl came up to her sniffling away. She’d lost her purse and needed some money –just 50p- to call her mummy. Deeply touched, she gave her the money and it was worth it just to see the look on the little girls face. Five minutes later she realised that whilst all that was going on some other little shit had stolen her wallet.

Back at work she had to ask one of her friends to lend her the money for the train home; the only act of kindness in the whole day, but she was beyond caring now. John was staring at her with a knowing look in his eye and she just couldn’t return his gaze. In fact she did everything she could to avoid talking to him, even going so far as to listen to her I-player for the rest of the afternoon. At the end of the day she dashed away without speaking to him and stood on the train platform sobbing inside. Had she really worn blinkers all these years? How could this fucking university freak make such a fool of her? It wasn’t fair.

“What’s it like living in the 90%?” She heard the voice and didn’t want to turn around, but there he was; large as life and twice as ugly. John. “Still believe that people are inherently good? Still live in fairy land?”

That was enough. Something inside her finally snapped; even though it went against everything that she had ever believed in, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She didn’t believe in cliché’s but as the red mist descended she coolly and calmly took him by the shoulders and just pushed him on to the railway tracks as the 17.22 to Brighton entered the station.

All was right again in the world.

Am I still safe?

Steve was having a bad morning and it was going to get a lot worse. It had taken him ages to find her on Punterlink: the perfect girlfriend experience and he had been looking forward to seeing Sandy all week; and she didn’t disappoint physically. She opened the door and he caught sight of the red bra and panties he’d asked her to wear. She then stepped aside and shut the door behind him. He walked into her studio flat and saw the worn out double bed with the contrasting fresh towel adorning it. The stale scent of baby oil, musk and loneliness hung in the air and he desperately wanted to open a window, but it was too cold outside for that.

He turned round and watched her glide past in her open silk dressing gown; she was everything he had hoped and more with a beautiful shapely figure, flowing sandy hair and full red lips. He handed over the money and things just went downhill from there.

It wasn’t much of a girlfriend experience; she was cold, aloof and in a bit of a hurry to get him finished. It was like being fucked by a speak your weight machine... It was actually more of an ex-girlfriend experience: over very quickly and tinged with regret and self-loathing. Actually for £200 it was more like an ex-wife experience: he’d been taken advantage of and fucked over. He was then stewarded to the door quicker than a fart in a blizzard.

Ten floors up. Standing outside the flat whose door had just been ceremoniously slammed in his face, Steve pondered what he was going to do next. It was only 11am, the rest of the day to waste; he felt used and depressed. There was no way he was going to take the stairs – ten floors down- so he stabbed at the lift button with his sausage-like finger.

Three minutes more than he wanted to spend in that corridor and the lift finally arrived with a dull metallic drone. There was one man there already so Steve made sure he stood in the opposite corner to him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone; he felt too embarrassed by the whole experience, not to mention poor and demoralised.

The man in front of him was a bit of an enigma: his whole outfit was ill-fitting; the trousers showed far too much ankle, the jacket was baggy and hung oddly from his shoulders and his shows looked threadbare. His hair would have been one cut short of concentration camp victim if not for the violent clumps of ginger hair that seemed to erupt from his pitted scalp. What made it worse was that the man was actually talking to himself:

“They're holding 'wellbeing MOT's' on the fourth floor... probably dealing with health & body issues... and it wasn't so long ago they were having workshops on stress.... These days it's either the Mind or the Body that people seem to be concerned about -the 'soul' (for want of a better word) is totally ignored. And who can blame them -on one hand you have the dogma and sheer banality of religion and then on the other you have the 'Ripleys believe it or not' / Heinz 57 varieties of 'spirituality'. -Both of which obfuscate the whole picture.” The voice was a nasal monotone and for a few seconds Steve was unsure whether he should actually reply. 

“What makes me laugh is that those that follow either religion or spirituality believe that they will be better people and more 'enlightened'.” 

Steve was stunned. That was another voice entirely, a deeper timbre with more inflexion with an actor-like quality: clear annunciation with a little bit of tremolo thrown in for good measure. But it was just Steve and this guy in the lift, he was sure. He took another look around but it was just the two of them. The first voice answered back.

“Yes, but none of these diversions represent the individual -they eclipse the individual and prevent them from actually understanding their own truth.”  This was taking things to a new level; it couldn’t get any worse, surely.

The lift shuddered and then stopped moving, the lights dimmed in sympathy and then died altogether. Ten seconds later the emergency lights kicked in and Steve was rueing the day he had decided on following his lusts. The guy was still talking though in his nasally voice; was this some kind of elaborate prank or hidden camera show? Was he a ventriloquist practicing his act? Or was it more likely that this guy was a complete nutter and now Steve was stuck with him. Occam’s razor favoured the latter of these explanations.

“There was an advert on Facebook which said 'Welcome to Native Spirits'.” The first voice explained. “As interesting as it is to read their wisdom, what does it actually have to do with me? Certainly I can take on board some of the ideas and learn from their example.”

“But you’re not a native Indian.” Interrupted the second voice. This was getting confusing to Steve so he named the first voice Larry and the second voice Mo. Larry replied to Mo’s comment:

“No… I’m not and I can only really learn on a comparative level; it serves no purpose to live like them or try to incorporate their philosophy for my own... but too many people do.”

“Ironically you can swap and change the 'American' Indians for any major movement.” Larry interjected.

“Excuse me.” Steve interjected. “Does anyone… I mean, do you know where the emergency button is here? How can we tell anyone that we’re stuck here?” He was unsure whether it was a good idea to antagonise the man but Steve was getting concerned now. No one knew he was here; he hadn’t had the foresight to bring his mobile phone with him (it was still charging on his desk at home) and he didn’t relish the thought of being trapped any longer than necessary with a nutcase.

“I shouldn’t worry.” Replied the man in a completely different voice. This was a far friendlier tone; completely at odds to his appearance. There was compassion and a jovial edge to it and Steve felt the first nigglings of dissonance enter his head. Reality seemed to slowly unpeel around him like the lift carpet. What was going on? The man continued, unaware of Steve’s uncertainty. “It sticks sometimes; it’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.”

“So I’m perfectly safe here then?” Steve asked, trying to find a tactful way of discerning this blokes mental state. “I get claustrophobic at times.”

“Makes us wonder why you bothered taking the lift then.” Larry replied, sneering.

“It was either that or take the stairs.” Steve said, automatically.

The man turned around and faced Steve now. “Pardon?” The man replied in his own voice, Steve could see his lips more. The man had a pocked marked, character filled face (lots of worry lines and almost hollow eyes because of the bags that hung droopily).

“I’m sorry. I thought you spoke to me.” Steve said sheepishly.

“No. I just said that the lift sticks sometimes.” He replied.

“So you didn’t make a retort about my claustrophobia then.”

“No.” The man looked at him strangely now, as if it was Steve that was hearing things and acting strangely…. And maybe he was.

“Do you mind if I ask you your name? My name’s Steve.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“It would put my mind at rest; I’m very nervous at the moment. You don’t have to if you don’t want to..”

“My name is Paul.” The man said.

“Mine’s Mo.”

“Mine’s Larry”. Paul looked at Steve askance as sweat broke out on his brow; he’d gone as off-colour as the walls of the lift.

“Tell me you heard that.” Steve replied.

“What?” Paul asked, “All I did was say my name – as you asked me to, I might add.”

“But then you said call me Mo and Larry… In two different voices.”

“No – I didn’t!”

“To be fair… he didn’t.” Mo said.

“Shut up.” Steve snapped.

“How dare you.” Paul replied.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Steve said, getting confused by what was now happening.

“Well, who else were you talking to?” Paul asked. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Am I still safe?” Steve asked, unsure of his own safety or sanity.

“The question is, am I safe?” Paul muttered, turning his back on Steve. “Nutter.” He said under his breath.

“I’m sorry; I’ve just had a really bad morning.” Steve explained.

“They do say it only takes one bad day…” Larry replied.

“Noooo.” Steve groaned. This was becoming too much. He was damn sure that it was one massive wind up but without confronting Paul –if that really was his name- he couldn’t be sure; and he really didn’t want to do that. Steve didn’t like confrontations at the best of times.

All of a sudden Larry started his monologue again: “The alternative is far more difficult -trying to understand who we are and why we do what we do, especially when the rest of society is doing its best to push / pull / pervert / cajole / threaten / entice and squash you in other directions. Other people are no good as role models as they're subject to the same problems as the rest of us -the only difference is that they're trying to masquerade as something different... I mean, the further that we seem to 'advance'..”

“Whatever that actually means.” Mo interrupted.

“Indeed.” Larry agreed. “The further we seem to advance the more estranged we become.”

“You know what?” Mo continued. “I know that to be true. In myself, there's this definite schism between who I am in myself and who I appear to be when I'm in company and that's become more apparent the more I've learnt about myself (if that makes sense) and that's a 'cost ' that I'm happy to bear because there's a definite pay off for me –finding out about myself. But other people seem more than happy drifting off into this realm of illusion and fantasy never realising that there's anything else other than mind... or body...”

“I can’t take much more of this…” Steve exclaimed.

“You and me both.” Paul muttered.

“You can’t hear what I hear.” Steve snapped back.

“What I hear is bad enough.” Paul retorted.

“I can hear voices – two people.. Two men, and then there’s you. Are you telling me that you can’t hear them?”

“Hearing your voice is bad enough… you’re not making me feel any calmer.” It was obvious Paul was trying his best not to provoke him, but Steve was trying to remain calm despite his whole world crumbling around him.

“Just let go.” Mo cajoled.

“You know you want to –no one would miss him.” Larry agreed.

“What do you mean no one would miss him?” Steve was shocked. Paul turned his head around in dismay, wondering just what the hell was going on.

“It’s been a bad day.” Larry confided. “No one would blame you if you vented a little steam.”

“Ideally you should’ve killed the bitch… she deserves it after all.” Mo agreed.

“Yes; but you could always kill her afterwards.” Larry sympathised. Steve banged his head against the wall of the lift in dismay and desperation.

“I’m not going to vent off steam.. I’m not going to kill the bitch.” Steve shouted.

Suddenly the lift shuddered back into life, the lights taking them both by surprise and Paul struck the elevator panel trying to select the closest floor. Steve whimpered in the corner almost ignorant of Paul’s hasty retreat. The door closed behind him and carried its way warily downwards. At least there would be no more voices, Steve thought. With Paul gone there would be no more voices.

“That’s what you think.”

Doctor Who: Communion

For those races that mark time in terms of seconds,  minutes and hours (and humanity is not alone in this peculiarity) the thought of doing absolutely nothing for years –in effect, not existing- is baffling, unimaginable even. And in truth full body stasis is something that only a few races have mastered –mainly due to their slow metabolisms (their hearts beat but once an hour), consequently their perception of time is quite different. The other race that has mastered this feat are, of course, The Time Lords; but for them it had become a form of spiritual discipline and before the Time War it was used as a form of cleansing; far better on the remaining regenerations to meditate for a while year. However, since the Time War the Time Lords lost that connection to the Matrix; their collective psyche scarred by the atrocities on both sides. Currently only one person had been able to enter into that state of Communion and she has spent that time plotting; and for one Time Lord life will never be the same again.

I)

There were certain planets that the Doctor had always wanted to visit but had never found the time (or he’d been interrupted on the journey). During a recent visit to Earth he had heard of the term ‘bucket list’ and although it didn’t necessary apply to Time Lords he agreed with the principle: lives were too short, so why put off the good things? He had visited Metabalis 3 and the Eye of Orion so al that was left of his ‘top 3’ was to visit The Isle of Communion where the whole planet existed in a state of harmony –all lives in perfect synchrony –that particularly appealed to the battle weary Doctor.

He knew that Emily would enjoy that as well; she had been quite withdrawn recently. The battle between the Sontaron’s and the Cybermen had shocked her Victorian sensibilities; nothing could have prepared her. Somehow the Doctor had never taken into account his companions state of mind whilst travelling. He’d always assumed that they took it in their strides as he so often did. He treated it all as one big adventure (most of the time) but then he’d had the experience to just shuck it all off; but what had Emily experienced prior to meeting the Doctor? Nothing; she had been extraordinary in relation to the people around her to be sure, but she had never dealt with vampiric shapeshifting aliens, time travelling buffoons, let alone two warbound aliens races determined to eliminate each other regardless of who else got in the way.

It was Tegan and her reaction to the Daleks attempt to replicate the High Council that made him realise the affect his life had on others. Battling the Daleks always involved high stakes but that encounter had been particularly brutal. Of course, Adric’s death hadn’t helped –proof, if it were ever needed, that life aboard the TARDIS wasn’t always such an adventure after all.

The Doctor was about to call out to Emily when he heard a strange sound, similar to the wheezing and groaning that accompanied his TARDIS dematerialising, but an octave higher. Then he heard the ominous tolling of the Cloister Bell, which only rang in extreme danger to the ship. Someone was trying to breach the TARDIS but only another Time Lord could do this.

“Doctor… please help me. For all we shared, please help me.” The voice was unmistakable. It was Missy, otherwise known as the Master.

II)

At one stage the Doctor thought that Missy could actually be rehabilitated as a force for good, and, although for a time this seemed to work, things quickly unravelled as she experienced a previous regeneration. This was a much deadlier, bloodthirsty version who had very nearly succeeded in killing her, permanently; however she managed to trigger his regeneration instead; a bizarre murder-suicide that left deep wounds. Consequently she had gone her separate way from the Doctor. He had meant to track her down again but lives got in the way.

In his own way he felt as if he owed her the benefit of the doubt and did his best to trace the source of the transmission.

“Doctor, please help.”

“Missy; you know that I will.”

“I can feel someone trying to latch on to my own TARDIS which can only mean another Time Lord. For the first time I’m actually scare –of course, I blame you for this new feeling… I never used to be! You must help me!”

“Wait, I’ve nearly locked on to you coordinates… hang on, Missy, I’m almost there!”

“Too late, Doctor.” Interrupted a voice that was both strangely familiar but unknown to him.

“You! What are you…” Missy’s voice was suddenly cut off and the Doctor lost all contact and signal from Missy’s TARDIS. For a moment it had been ghosted by another signal, as if another TARDIS had overshadowed it; and then there appeared a very strange dimensional anomaly; the like of which the Doctor had only seen a handful of times. It was a CVE.

Fear was a new sensation for Missy and one that she didn’t much care for. She’d been the source of other people’s for millennia –often holding the fates of whole planets in her grasp, but she’d never felt the emotion herself. It wasn’t until she’d been faced by her previous regeneration and he attempted to kill her that she actually understood what it was to feel fear. She had almost died! And now facing this new enemy she once again feared for her lives.

“Pathetic!” The Rani chided. “I mean, I’ve never respected you –you were always so trumped up; egotistical, even for a Time Lord…but at least you were ruthless! Now you’re just a spineless milksop…And why this pretentious fancy dress?” The she motioned with her hand at Missy’s outfit –it was a cross between a 19^th century school-mistress and a gothic wet dream.

The Rani was right; as the Master she had never felt the need to dress to impress. He was always most comfortable in his black velvet suit but since her regeneration she felt the need to express herself more; if only to distance herself from her previous selves. The Rani, on the other hand, always wore clothes that uniquely identified her. Like now, she wore a fuchsia, ribbed jacket with a striking high collar; it was both stylish and acted as a form of armour. Her trousers were plain black and her blouse cream; stylish but it also exuded a danger. She was someone to fear alright.

“All the better to hide; to blend in.” Missing replied, trying to regain her demeanour.

“Why would you feel the need to hide? Disguise yourself when necessary, but never hide! You are a Time Lord; far more powerful than any other race; they should be hiding from you!”

“Ah, so is that why you’ve brought me here? To give me a pep talk?”

“Of sorts… I need a partner for my latest venture, and I naturally thought of you.”

“Naturally…”

“Yes.. but now I can see that you’re going to need a bit of work done before you can be my partner again.”

“What kind of work?”

“I need you back to how you were; ruthless.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Missy replied and tried to put her hands on her hips in defiance but realised that she couldn’t actually move; the Rani had her in a stasis field. “And how do you propose to do that?” She said, trying to figure a way out.

“Just wait and see… Missy.”

III)

The gateways to other universes were shut; ever since the Time War it had become virtually impossible to travel between them, let alone create your own CVE. The Charged Vacuum Emboitments were the rarest of all space-time events which, according to certain Wiki’s contained highly charged quantum particles suspended in pockets of super-vacuum. In other words they occupied the spaces between universes and when one formed it could literally punch through into a whole new existence; similar to how wormholes worked.

The Doctor had, inadvertently, travelled into them on a few occasions and knew of only a couple of people who had actually created them; both long since dead: Adric and the Monitor. Adric had devised the math but never actually put it into action.. but did the math itself lead to creation? Was the math that powerful? The Monitor probably would have agreed… but then who captured Missy?

To the Doctor’s thinking only one person could have fit the bill; someone who’s knowledge of theoretical and practical physics and advanced stellar mathematics actually dwarfed his own: The Rani.

That actually fit as she was never seen during the Time War and it was entirely probable that she created her own means to travel between the universes until it was safe enough to return. The question was: why return now?

“So colour me impressed – you’ve found a way to create your very own CVE… but why return now? And what are you doing with me? Is this fulfilling one of your fantasies, having me strapped to this table?”

“Cease your prattling and face the facts: with each regeneration you have become more unstable… you were even given the reasoning behind it by Rassilon himself; yet you have done nothing about it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But just then Missy started to hear something in the background; soft but insistent but then with each pulse it became louder… LOUDER; it was the sound of drumming.

“Yes..  you hear it now, don’t you? And now you will always hear it; it will drive you mad and will never go away… unless…”

“Unless?”

“You undergo complete cellular reversion.”

“Oh, you’re going to shut me down and start again? Restore my factory settings?”

“Your attempt at humour is pitiful but essentially correct.”

“So why me?”

“I have long worked on this theory… it is the sole reason I was banished from Gallifrey. I realised that it would be possible to give a Time Lord an entirely new set of regenerations… The concept of too much power always did frighten them..”

“But? C’mon – there’s always a but…”

“There are still things that need perfecting…”

“And you need a Time Lord physiognomy to really see if the machine works… so how do you know it will work with me?”

“Your hatred will see you through.”

“My hatred?”

“Not you.. but the Master that is to come. His hatred will see you through… now; we shall begin.” The Rani flicked one switch and the air around Missy suddenly became charged; arcs of orange and blue energy pulsated through her causing her to writhe and scream in agony. The Rani shook her head, ““Pathetic.” She muttered and turned to watch as her TARDIS passed back through the CVE to the universe she had called home.

The Doctor knew that there was only one place he could go to get the necessary technology to force his way after the Rani –Gallifrey. He didn’t want to create a fuss though; there was only one way to do this –materialise in the wasteland, where only one person had the guile to visit him there. He just hoped he hadn’t caught her at a bad time.

iv)

Leela had finally settled down –it had been a very tough time, with the Time War, but it was now finally over. She had helped lead the rebuild of her city; her experience as a savage had held her in good stead after all. The Doctor would be proud.

“Mistress?” K-9 bustled into the living area. Each day he sounded crankier, his little motor becoming noisier. She kept offering him an upgrade but he refused, saying that only one person could do that. She had remarked on numerous occasions that his stubbornness could easily be called cranky; an emotion particular to humans, to which he would reply:

“But I am not human, mistress.”

“I think you’re more human than what you let on, K-9.” She would mutter under her breath and she could swear she saw his tail wag at this.

“Mistress; you are needed.” K-9 suddenly said, breaking off her reverie.

“By who, K-9?”

“By Doctor Master. He has contact me through the telepathic circuits of his TARDIS.”

“Why didn’t he contact me?”

“You are not telepathic, mistress.” Leela thought about for a second and then nodded. As usual K-9 made perfect sense.

“Where do we need to go?”

“Outside, to the wasteland…. But you will need to carry me.”

“So I am only needed to carry you now, and that only? I am not impressed.”

“Doctor Master specifically requested you to greet him; he trusted you and you alone to keep his arrival secret.” Leela smiled at this.

“Then I shall not disappoint him.”

It took less than ten minutes for Leela to find the TARDIS, with K-9’s help but she stopped before entering. She was unsure of who was going to greet her. She had long since accepted that she would never see her Doctor again, which made her sad, but she knew enough to realise that his affection for her would never change; and she felt exactly the same. She pushed the door and walked in, wondering how the TARDIS would look after all this time away.

“I swear it gets bigger each time I come back, Doctor.”

“As long as you don’t say you don’t like the redecoration…”

“Doctor?”

“Sorry.. private joke.  How have you been, Leela?” The sense of humour and randomness was still there, but this man was so different to the others she’d met in the intervening years. He was dressed strangely: a long collared paisley shirt hung loosely over faded jeans; and clumsy, clunky boots with a strange leather jacket! His hair was long and unkempt and he now had stubble, something she had never seen the Doctor with before. It was pink with a white striped down the cleft.

“Yeah… the regeneration never comes out exactly how one expects…” The Doctor replied to Leela’s unspoken question. “..but I’ve almost become used to it. I’ve just started growing the stubble… like it?”

“No.”

“Well, maybe that will grow on you.”

“Like it has on you, Doctor?” Leela smiled at the joke she cracked… the Doctor remained, as ever, unflappable. “Why have you brought me here?”

“If I had arrived in the panoptican then all hell wold have broken loose, but I knew that you’d find me in the wasteland… Plus, I needed K-9.”

“Well… Now you have K-9 you won’t need me anymore. I’ll be going.

“Don’t be like that, Savage.” The Doctor placated. “I need you for something a bit more.. delicate.”

The Victorians were always too prissy for Emily; she was, according to the Doctor, ahead of her time. She didn’t believe in the sanctity of womanhood or marriage; let alone the fastidiousness of puritanism. She believed in a life outside the mortal shell, which the Doctor had proved to her without a shadow of doubt, and she believed in equality for all. She was forward thinking alright, but lazing in the swimming pool she realised just how little she knew, and how small she really was in relation to the rest of the universe.

And now the Doctor was talking of other universes? It was getting too much for her to take.

“It can seem a bit overwhelming at times, can’t it?” A woman’s voice echoed round the room.

“You must be Leela; the Doctor said you’d be joining us.” Leela nodded and sat on one of the loungers near the pools edge. “Tell me, is it always like this?”

“Gallivanting across the universe, nearly getting killed by dangerous aliens and monstrous robots? Yes.. but you will get used to it… in time.” Emily smiled at Leela’s frankness. The Doctor was right, she was easy to like… and not unattractive either.

As the two companions chatted about the lives they shared with their Doctor’s, K-9 was getting cranky with the latest regeneration.

“Master?”

“I’m working on it, K-9.. I know it’s here somewhere. I never throw anything out!”

“What are you searching for, Master?”

“Adric… you remember Adric, don’t you, K-9? Maybe not.. well, anyways… he started working out the maths to get us back to E-Space. He was actually going to create his own CVE!”

“Is that possible, Master?”

“Well, if anyone else had mentioned it then I would have said it was impossible… but Adric was a genius, with a badge for mathematical excellence… Uh… here we go!” The Doctor pulled out the small ring bound notebook and found the page that had the calculations on it. “Remarkable! What do you think, K-9?” The Doctor held up the page so K-9 could scan it.

“Impressive, Master.”

“Yes.. but will it work?”

K-9 thought about it for a bit, the motor inside whirring. The Doctor felt sorry for him; if only he’d kept the box of spare parts, but it had been part of the TARDIS that had been jettisoned some years ago.

“Master Adric was one decimal point out on the second to last computation, but it can still be completed. Do you want me to finish it?”

“Not yet, K-9. I’m not ready yet. I need to get a fix on Missy’s bio-rhythm first… besides which..”

“I won’t be travelling with you on this one, Doctor.” Leela replied as she walked back into the console room. “K-9 and me are a little too old for this now.”

“Mistress?”

“If you want to stay with the Doctor, then of course you can. But I won’t.”

K-9 thought for a minute and then bowed his head to her. “I will stay by your side, Mistress.”

“What about you, Emily?” The Doctor asked her. “I appreciate this has been difficult for you, but you can sit this one out with Leela, if you like. Alternatively the Time Lords will be able to find a way to get you back to your own home time.”

“I’d prefer to stay with you, Doctor; if you’ll have me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

v)

The Doctor had gotten used to goodbyes- over the years he’d had more than his fair share of them. The two that had been hardest were of Susan, his Granddaughter and his final goodbye to Sarah Jane Smith. There had been something unflappable about her; her journalistic instinct for rightness and stubbornness that rivalled the Doctors own. She had shepherd him through the rocky road between his third and fourth regeneration and then become a big help through his tenth. He’d actually wept when news came to him about her death. To a Time Lord all people are dead and buried; time travel changes the perception of all emotions, everything becomes transitory… but he had real affection for Sarah Jane.

But it was Missy he was more concerned over. For someone who had, through their lives together, so violently shifted from close friend to hated foe and then almost back again he was willing to help her. She had taken great steps towards atoning for her pasts and he didn’t want that to be in vain.

He’d set the scanner to key in on her bio-rhythm the moment they went through the CVE. He actually felt quite smug when he’d managed to trace the Rani’s TARDIS emission but then realised that she had probably allowed him to do just that. He had to remember just how dangerous she really was.

He keyed in the last of the block transfer computation, marvelling at Adric’s ingenuity. He had even calculated the negative coordinates, just as he’d said. He mulled over their last argument. Even though it was so long ago it still rang true: it was never The Doctors fault when things went wrong. He hoped that he’d changed in the time since then.

“Are you ok, Doctor?” Emily asked. The Doctor’s finger had been poised over the red button for a couple of minutes now. She’d been told that the journey was going to be dangerous but there was no way she could even comprehend what was involved.

“I’m just thinking… Are you ready, Emily? This is going to be a bumpy ride.”

“More so than normal?”

“That’s the spirit… Here we go!!” The Doctor punched the final button and braced himself for the impact. Nothing happened. They both looked at each other. The Doctor shrugged and was about to press it again when the whole universe around them blinked out of existence.

Then again.

And again.

Each blink shook them to the core; before long the blinks became like a Morse Code tapping out a cosmic SOS before finally settling.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned.” The Doctor replied.

“Will you stop saying that.” Emily replied.

“Put it down to nerves.”

“That makes me feel so much better.” If the Doctor feels nervous then how should I feel, Emily wondered.

“I do believe we’ve made it.”

“Thank God; I don’t know how much more of it I could have taken, Doctor.”

“I’ve managed to find her. Hold on, Missy; hold on.”

vi)

Piloting the TARDIS through E-space was so much harder than normal and it was obvious that the ‘old girl’ didn’t like it (and the Doctor didn’t blame her.) She finally materialised inside the Rani’s TARDIS but most of the lights were out, except for the central column which cast an unholy glow around them. The Doctor was already on his guard.

Suddenly the overhead lights were switched on, but the rest of console room was dark, A voice could be heard advancing out of the black.

“So glad you could finally make it, my dear Doctor.” The Doctor didn’t recognise the voice; it was an older man, soft but stern; one that could shake hands and stab you in the back at the same time. “Over here, Doctor. Can’t have you missing the show.

A thin man walked towards them out of the gloom, much taller than the Doctor; his head was all but bald except for grey hair covering the back of his head. He had a grey beard and moustache, and his eyes… they were piercing, an intense look –only one man could hate like that.

“You? But how? What happened?” The Doctor asked, aghast at the sudden change of events. “What happened to..?”

“Missy? We all make mistakes, Doctor, even me; but all that is in the past.” The Master was immaculately dressed in a black suit and white tie; like a business mogul sent from the devil himself. “I have been shown the error of my ways.” He chuckled and clicked his fingers; another part of the TARDIS was suddenly bathed in light.

“Doctor!” Emily shouted. It was a Cellular Modulator, one of the Rani’s tinker toys and it was her that was tied to it, her body twisting and writhing in agony.

“What’s happening? Why have you done this?” The Doctor asked, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing.

“The Rani was very kind enough to point out where I’ve been going wrong all this time and showed me how to rise above it all… and it seemed only fair to repay her in kind.”

“But why this? Why torture her?”

“Why not? I am now unencumbered by my past. I am free!” The Master shouted. “When we meet again… IF we ever meet again the you will find yourself against a very different man.” He moved towards the edge of the console room.

“You know I can’t just let you leave. We need to talk. I can help you… Please, let me help you.” The Doctor begged. How could things have gone wrong, this quickly? How could he have not foreseen it?

“Talk? Help? Why should I need any help. I have always hated you, Doctor; even when we were children… and I left that hate cloud my judgement, but no more. You have a choice now, stop me or save her.” He snarled the last word.

He didn’t even pause to allow the Doctor time to consider the options, he walked to the corner and just disappeared.

“A cloaking field? That’s new.” The Doctor couldn’t help but marvel at his ingenuity.

“What about the Rani?” As usual Emily was right, he had to get his priorities right. He rushed over to the machine but he realised it was too late. The process was far too gone and the Rani was dead; she had been for some time. Damn him, the Master had fooled him, but he’d never been this ruthless before. There was the sound of a scythe through glass and he briefly caught a glimpse of it de-cloaking before it dematerialised.. only for it to promptly materialise again, groaning as it did so.

“The Rani must have anticipated his betrayal; she’s sabotaged her own TARDIS! The question is, will we be able to escape?”

The Doctor dragged a still shocked Emily back to his own TARDIS, slamming the doors behind him. The Rani must have created a gravity bubble around the Masters TARDIS, but even she couldn’t have guessed he’d be that bloodthirsty.

Luckily his TARDIS dematerialised on the first attempt, everything went smoothly… except for one violent jolt which the Doctor put down to escaping the gravity bubble, but then all systems were fine again.

The Doctor turned on the scanner and could make out the Rani’s TARDIS; it was in a state of flux as the gravity bubble grew; the chameleon arch shifting the external frame from one shape to another, vibrating more with each shift before finally exploding. And then nothing.

The Doctor wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d seen the last of the Master, not after all this time, but he knew how tricky gravity bubbles were.

“Is it over, Doctor? Are we safe?” Emily asked.

“Well, yes… and no. We’ve escaped from the Master but we’re still trapped inside E-Space.”