After the Summer - Halloween, 2018

"Jelly baby?" The old man said genially, shaking a crumpled paper bag under Clara's nose.

Clara, who greatly liked the little sugary treats, took a couple from the bag, popping them into her mouth without looking - orange and green, she thought, the sweetness spreading out across her tongue. The old man grinned broadly, his round blue eyes twinkling wetly. "Make you chubby." He observed in a booming voice.

"Made you chubby." Clara shot back, her eyes dropping to the old timer's not inconsiderable belly, wrapped beneath an off-white shirt, waistcoat and green blazer.

"Rude." The old man said with a shrug, pulling a face. Shaking his head, as though the idea of his own rotundness didn't bother him a jot (which it didn't) he popped a couple into his mouth. Pink and yellow, he knew. Knew. He'd eaten enough jelly babies over his long life to know their subtly different tastes off by hearts plural.

"So," he began, stretching out in his armchair, the crumpled bag on the chair's left arm, an exquisitely powerful vodka and orange sitting beside him on a little footstool. Clara had watched him make it; a little orange juice, and a lot of Vodka underneath. A screwdriver fit for a king; a sonic screwdriver, you might say. "So,"...

"So..." Clara nodded, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Yeah. Long time no see, like they say."

"Oh, quite so," the Curator replied gently, "quite. How long is it for you?"

"Ages." Clara said bluntly, as the Curator reached slowly for his cocktail, taking a generous slurp; he didn't even wince. "Ages and ages. I think...fifty years ago. I met the Thirtieth. Remember her?"

"Certainly," the Curator agreed. "She was deaf. One of the most challenging lives I've ever lived."

Clara shrugged. "You adapted well to it, as I remember. You were ever so brave - never let it hold ya back."

The old man grinned again. "Why thank you, my dear. I think your a very brave girl as well! A very pretty one too, probably. Now, for me, we've met a lot more recently that that. Right here, in this very museum. Five years ago. Remember?"

"I remember," Clara agreed, sipping her own drink - simple white wine, dry and smooth.

"How do you like my pad?" The Curator asked, in a cringe-inducing attempt to sound "street." He'd heard people speak "street" out in the...well, in the street. Now and again he ventured outside the National Gallery and took to the streets of London. He'd even tried clubbing one night - once was enough.

Clara looked about her - she saw an office, the office of the Curator of the National Gallery, a messy little cavern located somewhere in the bowels of the old building. It was cramped, but deliciously comfortable, it's red wallpaper and little (always lit) fireplace giving it the air of a little Edwardian parlour, equipped with a small oak work-desk, two pink armchairs (occupied by the man himself and Clara) and a big mahogany bookcase filled to the brim with old tomes. There was even a bed, for when the Curator worked late. He would sometimes stay overnight in the little office, and lie awake for hours in bed, a rich book hovering before his face, an dazzlingly hard vodka and orange-juice (read sonic screwdriver) at his bedside. Clara couldn't help but feel pleasantly warm and at peace here. As if to prove the point, the Curator hooked his foot around the leg of the footstool on which had stood his drink, and pulled it across the carpeted floor, depositing it before Clara.

"For drinks and feet." He explained, "but not at the same time."

Clara shrugged and deposited her's on it, leaning back in the armchair. "Thanks. Well, sure. What I see is your office, Doc. Nice place."

"Yes," the Curator replied patiently, "but more than that, you see the dwelling of a man past his prime and proud of it. A man who takes comfort in the fact he isn't as active these days."

"Okay." Clara said awkwardly.

"I mean it though." The Curator pressed, looking at Clara evenly. "I really mean it, you know - I guess I always wondered how I'd feel if...and it was always a big if...I retired for good. Sad to be done? Scared to be going sooner than not? Not a bit of it. I'm at peace. I'm old and out of lives, and I'm not afraid to die - I've had my time."

"Sure," Clara said at once, "and trust me - that's a stance I can relate to, oh so very well. I'm seventy-five now, believe it or not. Old for a human, though I'll always look young. I can't go on forever, nor really do I want to try."

The Curator opened his mouth to reply, and then snapped it shut, frowning. "Can't go on forever...don't want to...why, your misquoting Willy Wonka, my girl! It won't do!"

"Got me," Clara giggled, "bang to rights. He reminds me of you."

The old friends chinked glasses and took to their drinks again; Clara a gentle sip, the Curator a wholesome gulp. His glass was nearly half-empty, and from the wistful look in his watery eyes as he examined the contents, Clara guessed it might be refilled at least once before the night was out.

"I should have come to see you before now." Clara blurted out, looking at her raised feet, unable to meet the Curator's eye. "I've known you've been here for a long time. I swear I meant to."

The Curator waved a hand. "Oh, come now! You've better things to do than bother with an old curmudgeon such as me!"

"Well maybe I have and maybe I haven't," Clara said fairly, "but I still ought to have."

The Curator chuckled. "Well maybe you should and maybe you shouldn't," he retorted, "but I'd hate to deprive you of the wonders out there - that is to say, I'd rather you are out there having fun than bothering with me. You know that."

"Speaking of which," Clara said, keen to change the subject having established the old fool wasn't bitter, "been off world at all in the past few generations?"

"Why, no." The Curator replied, "no, no. All given up. Retired."

Clara nodded slowly, smiling. "And tell me...do I look stupid?"

The Curator spent a little too long considering that question, Clara thought. Finally he shrugged. "Well...I don't know how much of 2018 you've visited dear, but the Summer was stifling. Much too warm. I may have taken a short sabbatical 'til the hot weather passed. Nothing more, I assure you."

"Uh huh, sure." Clara said sarcastically. "I definetley believe you. For sure."

"Good!" The Curator exclaimed, raising his glass again, and knocking another slurp back. He exhaled contently. "Splendid stuff - squeezed the juice myself, you know."

"Cool," Clara said, sipping her own drink again. The two of them lapsed into friendly, if vaguely awkward silence - not uncomfortable in each other's company, but both wishing they had a little more to say to the other.

They both struck the answer at the same time; "Hey!" They said simultaneously, before cutting off abruptly to let the other speak. Clara giggled. "No, you go first."

The Curator shrugged. "Well...Halloween isn't it? Game for a scary story?"

Clara grinned, her big frying-pan face as wide as a moon. "Go for it! A proper one though; one of the Doctor's."

"What else?" The Curator chuckled. "But you go first! What's the scariest thing you've ever done?"

"Getting killed." Clara said at once.

"Oh," The Curator said quietly, "oh yes. Quite so. Well I've got plenty of scary stories - the good Doctor had a lot of adventures, and not all of them were fun."

"Sure," Clara laughed, "pick one at random. See if you scare me. Bet you won't." She winked.

"I beg to differ," The Curator exclaimed, his eyes widening, "you know...there was one thing...it comes to mind now because it happened on a Halloween night as well...but perhaps it's a little grim?"

"I'll be the judge there, Doc," Clara insisted, putting her feet down and sitting up straight in her chair enthusiastically, ready to listen, "pray tell!"

The Curator shrugged, "so be it."

Putting on his deepest, grandest voice, he began, "the story you are about to be told...took place, for me, in the days of old...my Thirteenth life had but recently begun..."