The woman was rather standoffish. Her long face positioned in a very unamused expression, fingers typing rapid fire on the unseen keys behind the desk. A man leaned against the polished marble reception counter, peering over to get a better look at what she was doing, giving a small satisfied nod. Yes, she was definitely the right woman. He was certain.
She glanced up, her brow twitching in frustration at the sight of him "Oye! What are you staring at? What do you want?"
The man gave a sad smile that pulled at the ends of his thin lips to draw them into an invisible line, softly laughing in the back of his throat.
"Do you think something is funny? Because I don't see anything funny around here, mate." She snapped before returning to typing up what appeared to be expense reports, then again he was never very good at business-y things, so it could have been the mortgage or a grocery list.
The young man leaned further over the desk so that he stood on tip toe in his out-of-place hiking boots "Actually I'm looking for someone, could you happen to tell me where I could find a-", he turned his hand to examine something written on it "Ms. Donna Noble."
"I'm Donna Noble."
"Aha lovely that's what I thought!" He grinned further, lips completely disappearing, his eyes sparkling with an unnerving amount of enthusiasm.
The woman, Donna Noble, didn't even try to hide her confusion and annoyance at the strange man who was now almost all the way over the desk and could very possibly fall into her small office that she shared with one other temp.
"What do you want?"
"There's something I want to show you!"
He then proceeded, like an overly excited child, to fling himself over the desk, grab hold her of wrist, and pull her out the back door of Smiths & Smith Accounting without another word.
Harold could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, the screen glowing with an infuriating vibrancy through his denim pants under the pew style tables of the lecture hall. He continued to rapidly scribble notes down on the page. Whatever it was they could call him back later.
His attention was focused back to the front of the room, where the professor had now proceeded to derive a "complex" formula that he had figured out some years ago. He allowed his mind to wonder, pale eyes fixed on the blackboard, part of his mind absorbing the material while the other part contemplated far more important things.
Like how pretty the tiny brunette girl in the row in front of him was.
He could imagine himself with a smart girl like that. If anyone existed that could possibly manage to hold his interest as long as he could. Which he seriously doubted. Other people didn't much matter to Harold. For all he knew, he was the only one that was really thinking right now and they were all just part of his delusion of the conscious mind.
Including the pretty brunette who was now straitening her camisole under her sweater when she thought that no one else in the hall was looking.
And then his mobile lit up again and let out a small ping of a text message.
He let out a low curse that made the few people next him glance over with puzzled expressions before returning to their transfixed, glazed over stares to the front of the room. He slid the phone out of his pocket, not at all surprised and increasingly frustrated to see is stupid-idiot-of-a-roommate's name on the screen.
What the hell could John possibly want now?
He tapped the screen to open the message.
Hey Harry, do you know what 'Allons-y' means?
Harold let out an exasperated sigh; he had quickly learned that it was better to just play along with John. If you didn't he would probably just keep sending 'Allons-y!' to the phone until he did finally respond.
I don't know. I'm not French, idiot.
His flat mate was eccentric by most standards, and not in the way that girls thought was cute. John Smith, although a man of a common name, was a most uncommon man. He had interested Harold since he was a young boy living down the street. And that was saying something since Harold usually didn't give much of a damn about other people and would much prefer to be reading his books.
John would often go several days without eating or speaking to anyone, simply lying on his bed and staring at the stain splattered ceiling of their flat like the squiggles of questionable brown fluid were really constellations of a far of galaxy swirling with a wonderful majesty that Harold failed to see. He then would have instances where Harold swore he was living with a thirteen year old boy. Where he talked with his hands more than his mouth and would disappear for long periods in the middle of the night only to be found in the living room the next morning surrounded by yo-yo's and balls of yarn.
This was one of those lovely moments.
His phone let out another ping, someone down the pew shot in another dirty look. Harold ignored it and opened the message.
It means "Let's go!" So come on Harry, make like a Frenchman and allons-y!
A few second later a second message appeared on the screen.
I'm bored. There's nothing to do in the flat.
Harold rolled his eyes. John was skipping class. Again. Typical. So utterly typical. And John wondered why he was on academic probation once again this semester. And yet Harold couldn't help himself. Whenever John wanted to go on an adventure strange things always seemed to happen that Harold couldn't possibly explain. One time they had ended up at a gay bar and—
Hold on. I'll meet you at the flat.
Harold shook his head, sending the message, chuckling softly as he swung his satchel over his shoulder, giving one last look at the equation that he already knew how the solve on the black board before slipping out of the lecture hall.
It was raining outside, which wasn't much of a surprise. In a way Harold was almost relieved. When it was sunny out people were often far friendlier and occasionally some random stranger would try to strike up conversation on the street. Which Harold did not have time for. But when it was raining the dreary gray and mist created an invisible wall between people as they shuffled about from one destination to the next. And he could walk alone in peace.
That may have been why no one noticed the body.
Harold only noticed it because he saw these things, little bits and pieces of things that didn't belong. And a slumped figure that wasn't the shape or color of trash bags propped up against the wall with the trash more certainly wasn't typical of this part of town.
Without a moment of hesitation he whirled on his heels and slid into the thin alleyway, relieved that his shoulders there thin enough to fit between the two brick walls. He knelt down next to the not-a-trash-bag. He was going to be late. John wasn't going to be pleased.
At first Harold wasn't all that concerned. Maybe she had just passed out from too much to drink the night before. It happened. Maybe not in this part of town. But who was he to judge, maybe the accountants in the Smiths & Smith building next door had gotten slammed last night. Probably not. But still.
He felt for a pulse. Nothing. Not even a feeble flutter. Her skin was as cold as the brick that he now nervously tapped his fingers against. A bad habit he'd had since he could remember. All the color on her had been drained out besides her navy sweater and deep mahogany colored hair.
Harold's hands were shaking. His heart was beating unevenly in his chest. His hands fumbled for the phone in his pocket, punching in the number for the police without even thinking. Usually he wouldn't care about something like this. Just leave her for someone else. But there was something familiar about this woman that made some part of his mind scream in discomfort. Like there was something on her back that he couldn't see or that he couldn't remember.
"Hello this is the police. What is the problem?"
"Um…" It was one of the few moments where Harold was at a loss for words and when he did finally speak his voice was hesitant and uneasy "I'd like to report a murder, or a homicide or… there's a body of a…a woman…on the south alley of the Smiths & Smith building."
"What's your name sir?"
For a moment he swore that he had forgotten his name, his eyes just couldn't leave the colorless blue lips of the unknown woman. Who was she? Why was she important?
"Sir?"
"Oh, um sorry. Harold Saxon. My name is Harold Saxon."
"Thank You, Mr. Saxon, we will send someone to your position. They should be there in a few minutes. Please stay where you are and don't attract any attention to yourself." And then the line fizzled out.
Harold held the phone up to his ear for a few more moments before slipping it back into his pocket. He let his back press again the brick wall, sliding down so that no one from the street could see him cry behind the body and the trash. He didn't know why he was crying, but the tears just wouldn't stop. Slipping silently down his still warm skin for a woman that he didn't even know. Who had not been thrown in the garbage, he noticed, but laid there almost lovingly. Her back perfectly propped up and her head gently tucked to the side like a parent putting his little girl to bed. It was sickening.
And that was when he felt something wrong behind his back. A certain wet stickiness that shouldn't have been there, even on a rainy day in an alley filled with the half eat lunches of cubical workers.
He sprang back up, staring in wide eyes horror at the wall he had just been leaning against. If he had not had such a strong stomach he most certainly would have thrown up. Wondering how he had not seen it before as the police pull up on the main street and ushered him away from the scene. Harold couldn't hear them. He stayed transfixed on the wall until they had removed him from the crime and taped off the area. Even then he could still see it in his mind.
Circles. Hundreds on interlocking circles and lines and dots strewn across the brick. Painstakingly drawn out so that each circle was somehow perfect in every way. It looked beautiful. And horrible. Since it glistened the muted dark red of coagulated blood. Right above the woman head, in English, was written
"Donna Noble. I am so, so sorry."
