Part 1 – The Shadows of St Luke
"As incompetent in life as in death, I loathe myself and in this loathing I dream of another life, another death. And for having sought to be a sage such as never was, I am only a madman among the mad . . ."
― Emil Cioran, A Short History of Decay
Warning - This story deals with heavy themes and subject matter that some viewers may find upsetting. Read with caution.
It was the morning of October 19th, 2015, when the sense of hallows eve was drawing near. Everyone seemed excited, preoccupied with planning their midnight parties while scanning their weary eyes over the dry ink printed on white whenever they felt the weight of eyes upon them. It wasn't like most places, where the youth would disregard their time with mundane tasks and daydreaming over lovers. Instead, St Luke's University was a place of learning that earned its name and reputation for being one of the best in Britain. It had competition, of course, but as it was everyone was content.
The young woman, with her apron and afro tied back, cleaned the dining tables of the site knowing that soon they would be considered bins to pile trash on. Of course, work was work, and the paycheck was almost enough to make up for the repetitive tasks. She didn't mind, however, since it was a subtle way to pass the time and it allowed her to have a moment of peace as she recovered from the cluster of youths scavenging for the last chip.
When the morning lectures came to an end, it felt as though a stampede of coloured hair and bright clothes swarmed the dining hall. Thankfully, it was also a warm day, and many of the students had decided to spend their break resting on the freshly cut green. The young woman couldn't help the smile that crept over her face when a group of girls quivered at a harmless bee.
She often found herself chatting to many of the students of diverse backgrounds and ambitions. Most of those who graced her with more than a few chosen words tended to have a degree in the scientific field, but the young woman wasn't that interested in the mumbo jumbo. But, despite her disinterest, she very much enjoyed listening to their conversations and found herself talking about the most mundane of things. She found it comforting, even as the news chose to forget the achievements made in favour of whatever would get the most attention.
Since no one was watching, and her supervisor was busy elsewhere, she took a seat on an empty table and ate away at a French fry she had boldly swiped from someone's plate. After all, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and any student that found out would reply with a cheeky grin. Everyone knew her at the University, and it was hard to scramble words that would speak falsely of their favourite cleaner.
As she minded her own business, wandering off for the tenth time that day, she saw a familiar face with pigtails and blonde hair in the crowd and lifted her hand lazily as if to wave. The girl offered a smile and set down on the table with a plate that displayed a smaller portion than recommended.
"Hello, Miss Potts." The girl spoke.
The cleaner smiled in response, eyeing the red plate. "You still on a diet?"
"I've been putting on weight, so I have to watch what I eat."
"You look fine to me. Who's been saying you've put on weight?"
The girl didn't seem to answer straight away, falling over her words almost as she struggled for a response. "Well, no one."
"If anyone said that to me, I'd tell them to piss off!"
A squeak passed the girls lips. "Miss! You shouldn't be swearing like that!"
"We're all adults, Rebecca! I'm sure we can handle it."
Rebecca Bowers was one that would be considered quiet at her school but not so much to blend too far into the crowd. She spent much of her time in the warm embrace of stories written on parchment and placed study over pleasure. The only time Potts engaged in conversation with her was usually in the mornings as Rebecca would spend the rest of the day hanging out in the study hubs with students from her unit, mostly to work on group projects in photography. She had a best friend, as she mentioned many times to Miss Potts, who studied eight hours away from home but always made sure to make time for her friend with calls and texts. Much like Miss Potts herself, it was challenging to think of a bad word for Rebecca as she was well-liked in her class, and people admired Rebecca for her skills with the lens.
"If you say so, Miss." Rebecca smiled as she took a bite out of her chicken curry.
"I know so." With the tip of the French fry now devoured, Potts wiped her hands on her dark blue apron and leaned forward on her elbows on the table. "So then, what's the gossip for today?"
"Miss, I'm not an eavesdropper."
Potts replied with a raised eyebrow and a cheek to her grin. Rebecca couldn't help the small blush of embarrassment at being caught in her lie.
"Ok, you got me."
"Well?"
Potts also didn't deny that she got quite a lot of gossip from Rebecca, especially when she didn't talk much with people and decided to use her ears rather than her mouth. As long as she wasn't digging for the next scoop, Potts didn't make a fuss.
"So," Rebecca started, "I heard that there's a new lecturer to replace Dr Stacey in the Physics department."
Potts scoffed. "Again? Didn't he join a few months ago? What happened?"
"I'm not sure, and they said he left on a personal matter. I didn't listen further since I didn't want to be rude."
"Yeah, I get that. So, who's the new guy, then?"
"He's called John Smith, and he's already been gaining a lot of attraction from the girls."
"Handsome bloke, then?"
"Mmhm." Rebecca peered over her shoulder, looking over at the students waiting in line for their next meal. In the queue, a tall man waited with a white tray and one hand situated in his jean pocket. Dressed in a dark blue suit with his brown hair spiked up with gel, Potts could imagine why the girls could find him attractive. To her, however, his hair looked like nothing but greasy twigs. Rebecca nodded in his direction, gesturing to Miss Potts. "That's him there."
Her eyes followed the food that lazily fell with a splat to his tray and shuddered inwardly. Suffice to say; she was not impressed. "He isn't very tidy; that's for sure."
"People have been talking about his lectures. They're considered perfect even if they go off topic a lot."
"I'm surprised he still has his job if that's the case."
"I haven't been to one of them, so I don't know how good they are. Maybe you could sneak in and tell me if it's good?"
"Sorry, Rebecca, but I still have a job to do."
"Just once, please? It's the only favour I'll ask for."
Miss Potts pondered on the idea. After all, it wasn't like she couldn't get someone else to do her shift and she could quickly work overtime without a fuss. That was something Potts was willing to do after all. However, merely dismissing her work could result in dire consequences, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to risk her job for this. However, the conversation with Rebecca had made her curious, and the one thing Potts was a victim of was her desire for prying knowledge. So, why not?
With a sigh, Potts stood from the table and grabbed her cloth from the pocket of her apron. "Alright, Rebecca. Once and that's all. Now, I need to bugger off so I can get back to work."
Rebecca laughed at the comment. "Enjoy yourself, Miss."
"Oh, I will. Promise me, Rebecca. Never get a job like mine."
"I'll make sure I won't; don't worry."
With a smile, Miss Potts returned to her duty and mopped the once clean and sparkling floors of the dining hall. The students scurried out from their seats and left the building in disarray for the next set of lectures for the following afternoon. With a heavy sigh, Miss Potts got to work for the next hour or so, wishing that she was enjoying the late summer breeze.
So, with her word kept, Miss Potts turned full-on investigation mode and invaded the many timetables of the University. It turns out, the head of the science department was much more accommodating than most, and it wasn't long before she was skimming through the timetable that he had offered to her. All it took was some convincing and maybe a small white lie. She examined through the document now saved to her phone and looked for the name John Smith listed on the dates.
"Just one," she reminded herself, "Just one lecture, and I can get this over and done with."
Life is a funny thing; events that seem constant and ordered can be rather flimsy and undefined. One choice can lead to a tonne of disasters or wonders, and men can shape the very concept of being. That certainly wasn't something Potts expected to say in her whole life, especially not a month later with a notepad and pen, sitting among other students in a lecture room.
John Smith was a unique case, holding himself with wisdom and ecstatic energy that lifted a tired and dreary class from the gloom of the earth and high above the clouds of space, among the shining stars and nebula. He was laid back and close in demeanour to the students, which allowed them to feel comfortable and focused. He spoke about many things, some things that weren't even relevant to the class, but no one seemed to speak up or stop him. Instead, they allowed him to brag and chat about all sorts of things. Of course, after minutes of talking about Rome and the many years it would take to get to Jupiter, he always managed to get back on track somehow and do his job.
Potts recalled one time when he talked about the importance of life, from the smallest moments to the most bizarre. He spoke about all of them, shaping the person you were and the person you would become, the scholar or the astronaut or the artist or the musician. To which path any would take, he expressed that it must be a future written by you and to use your experience of the past to learn and grow, to become a more exceptional person then you could ever be.
Potts couldn't help the hint of sadness in his voice, a low and gentle hum of waves that glowed with comfort among the people. He was a young man, but Potts sometimes wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. More than, in some way, hurt him deeply.
That night, when the stars were silent, and the static of the TV sizzled, and a lone woman cuddled her frame on the leather of the couch, she thought about her mother.
She tried to remember the smallest moments she had with her, the moment her little and chubby hands connected with hers before the light from her beautiful eyes were taken and envisioned her beautiful voice putting the young Potts to sleep. She hoped, substantially, that to whichever moment was her last it was one of happiness and joy. She prayed quietly, as she stared up at the ceiling above her, that more moments could have existed between them.
Moira, her carer, came home from work an hour later seeing the shivering form of the young Potts alone in her bed, having cried herself to sleep.
Days had passed since Potts last thought about her mother. She tried to keep herself occupied with the extra shifts at the canteen and concentrated on the mundane and monotonous movements of food falling onto the plates of students. She kept her routine with Rebecca, asking about her day and talking about simple things, especially her time with Mr Smith albeit sparingly. She would do anything that would drag her mind away from the lost moments she would never get back, and for a time, it managed to distance her attention from the ordeal, but the usual distraction was soon beginning to lose its effect.
At the end of the lunch break, when Rebecca bid her goodbye for another hour of lessons, Potts asked her boss to leave for a few moments and wasted no time in an answer as she rushed out of the canteen while ignoring the concerned whispers from her co-workers. The thoughts lingered within Potts as her fear began to build up inside against her control.
With little thought or care, she found herself alone in the corridors of the building leaning against the wall beside her and allowed the stifled tears to breach her weary eyes.
She wished that she knew her mother's face and the colour of her eyes and the tone of her voice. Sometimes she begged for a moment to talk to her and learn everything about her. She wondered if the two had anything in common if they would speak more or wander away from each other. As much as anything, she wished she knew her mother. She dreamed for a chance to have her loving embrace by her side.
Alive.
Potts was so deep in her thoughts, swimming in her own deafening and internal screams, that the smallest touch that rested on her shoulder shook her back into reality and caused her to wipe her eyes of the evident sorrow quickly. When she locked eyes with the person beside her, she noted the worry in her russet gaze.
"Are you alright?" Her voice was soft and wrapped with comfort.
Potts nodded; a small sniffle escaped her, and a smile forced its way through the cracks. "Yeah, 'course."
The sadness in the woman's eyes was enough conviction that her words held no weight of the false truth and within moments arms wrapped around her, taking Potts back almost instantly.
"You don't have to lie."
The barriers broke, and before Potts even knew what was happening, she found herself sitting in the office of Mr Smith.
Time was slow, creaking against the seconds that ticked from the old grandfather clock and singing among the rain that tip tapped the window opposite her; staining it with its drops. Potts was unsure of the kind gesture, knowing that it wasn't every day that a stranger would find her breaking down in the school hallways and offer her tea, but the woman insisted; saying that Mr Smith wouldn't mind since he was busy with other things. Potts didn't question further, not wanting to pry and possibly ruining her first impression. Although, she gathered that her embarrassing scene earlier was enough to squander that potential.
While waiting, Potts looked around the room and felt surrounded by a sense of nostalgia and a home-like aroma. She was seated on an old brown leather chair mixed with the brunet walls of black and white photos of past students seated stiffly upon rows of others and combined with fake smiles that proceeded to greet her through the glass. On the desk in front of her, a frame held a photo of a young girl with its surface wrinkled and folded— possibly a girl from the early 1960's— alongside a small jar containing a single rose freshly cut from the bushes of the University gardens.
Something that caught Potts's eye, however, was a large object sitting alone in the corner of the room. From memory, Potts identified it as a 1960's police box and noted the 'out of order' sign hanging on the knob of the door. Potts smiled a little, seeing how it sat quietly with obedience and strangely matched the tone of the room despite it being many centuries out of date. Although, she questioned how it was even able to be here in the first place due to its enormous size. She guessed that Mr Smith assembled it from scratch from a catalogue. Or maybe Mr Smith won it in a raffle. Whichever way the circumstance fit, it certainly was a sight to behold, and it caused a small glee in her eyes to surface.
"Sorry for the wait; the coffee machine was acting up a bit."
Potts was pulled from her thoughts as she smiled in understanding at the woman who walked in with a freshly made cuppa. Potts took the brew and held it tightly in her hand. With her work gloves still in tow, the heat from the cup caused no harm. The young woman then sat down in the chair opposite her, which admittedly had been worse for wear and held her mug close with woollen hands containing the fuming heat.
"It's alright; you weren't that long."
The woman smiled lightly, taking a small sip of her drink.
"I'm sorry about earlier," Potts spoke with sudden guilt. "It's the first time for me."
"You don't have to apologise. We all have one of those days. I certainly did for a while."
"Yeah, but I shouldn't be flipping crying in the middle of the hallways." Potts made a small effort to laugh, not caring on its credibility and certainly ensuring that she kept her language in check. As always, Potts didn't use such strong language with strangers, not knowing if such words would be familiar to them.
The woman merely nodded, keeping her caring eyes on the grieving cleaner. She showed hesitation, tapping her fingers in a rhythm of four against the pottery of the cup, before speaking with caution. "Can I ask what brought it on?"
Potts shrugged. "I d'know, just been having one of those weeks, I guess?"
"Do you normally have these periods?"
With a small sniffle and a scratch from the back of her wrist, Potts shook her head. "No. Normally I get on with it. I think it started with that lecture Mr Smith gave. Something about small moments?"
The woman nodded knowingly with a slight amusement surfacing on her face. It seemed that this kind of thing was common knowledge to the young lady. "Yeah, I remember that."
"That day, I started thinking about my Mum. The thing is, I've never met her. She died when I was born so—I never got to know her or have any idea on how she looked. And lately, I've just been living through some mundane routine, and I just...broke."
The woman placed a soft hand on Potts's shoulder as her eyes of understanding met hers. Potts invited them, seeing through the cloud that separated them. "I'm so sorry. It must have been hard for you."
"Yeah, I mean Moira does her best with me since I can get a bit difficult. I don't mean to be it's—I d'know. I guess when I think about it, my life hasn't been that interesting."
"I'm sure that's not true. It might seem that way, but you have people who will support you and a woman who cares about you. How you feel is completely understandable. I mean, I don't want to say that I get what you mean since I've never been in your shoes. But I'll be here if you need me. If you need to talk about anything, I'll be here to listen."
"I don't want to get in the way of your work-"
"You won't be. Seriously, if you need to talk at any time, I'll be here."
It was strange; Potts had never seen such kindness from a stranger before or even someone willing to help a mere cleaner with her troubles. It almost felt comforting, and like half of her problems could finally be lifted from a dark and miserable vale.
"Thank you," Potts responded, trying to keep herself from causing another unwanted scene of emotion, "you have no idea how much that means to me."
"You don't need to thank me. I saw someone who needed my help and, if it makes your life feel any better, I'd gladly do it regardless."
"Thank you. I'm Potts, by the way. Bill Potts."
"I'm Martha Jones," Martha held her hand to shake, and Bill gladly accepted it with a genuine smile. "It's very nice to meet you, Bill."
When Bill went home that night, feeling a sense of warmth that was absent for many months, Moira was sitting on the sofa with the TV playing some random game show in the background. Resting on her lap was a small box containing photos of someone Bill had never seen before, and as Moira stood from her seat, she explained that photos related to her seemed to almost appear out of nowhere after she went digging in the loft that very much needed a spring clean. For the rest of the night, Bill looked at each of the pictures one by one and felt herself fall into a deep silence. As she flicked through the photos of different qualities and some hidden with lens flares of bright greens and oranges, happy tears fell freely from her face.
A soft smile she now recognised glanced back at her, one that she now knew was the smile of a Mother.
Her Mother.
Bill found a close friend in Martha and spent much of her breaks in the comfort of a freshly made cuppa and the humour of the everyday gossip. Rebecca didn't mind too much when Bill told her the news and seemed very happy that Bill found a new friend. She bypassed the conversation and expressed that she was nearing her finals and needed as much time as possible to study. Potts took note of the worry in her voice despite her attempts to hide it to which Bill offered her comforting smile and told her not to worry since she was outstanding in her course of choice. After all, Bill had never forgotten the first time Rebecca showed her the many photos of herself and her best friend, Sara Bates. With a smile, Rebecca left for her lessons, and Bill found herself with a deep sense of hope and maybe even pride.
Martha, in one of many conversations, explained that she was acting as Mr Smith's assistant and went on to say that the two knew each other by name. Bill, out of curiosity, asked about their history together.
"It's quite funny actually," Martha told her. "We met at a hospital. I was studying to be a doctor, and he was my patient. And it went from there."
In disbelief and shock, Bill leaned forward in her chair with a gaping mouth and digging eyes. "You were training to be a doctor? That's fricking awesome! How come you're here?"
As Bill learned very quickly, Martha had a 'no swearing' policy and kept her words to a PG standard. She didn't think much of it, but it seemed to set Martha off a little when Bill let slip a few misplaced words. Potts never asked, but she suspected it was something upsetting.
"I don't know," Martha continued, "I guess other things got in the way. Mr Smith being one of them, of course. Maybe I'll go back one day if I ever have the chance."
"Are you and Mr Smith..." Bill gestured with her hands, trying to suggest that the two were possibly a couple. Martha shook her head at the thought.
"Oh, no, just friends. I think I'm the third wheel if you know what I mean."
"So, he loves someone else?"
Martha nodded with a noticeable dryness in her eyes. "Yeah, something like that."
Bills next words were said with caution, knowing that a subject such as love was a tricky one. "He doesn't know you love him, right?"
When Martha uttered no words in response, Bill knew her answer. She opted to go gently into the conversation as to not say something that could offend.
"First time I came here," Bill began to explain. "I met this girl, really pretty, and I gave her extra chips. You know, out of kindness. I hoped she got the hint, but it kept going and eventually, after giving her so much, I made her put on weight."
Martha scoffed. "That sounds like a recipe for disaster."
"God it was, and I found out that I'm no Romeo that this kind of thing. But I keep hoping that I'll find someone someday. It won't be any time now, obviously, so I guess I'm destined to be single."
"I'm sure you'll find other girls. You have your whole life to find one."
Bill laughed at that. "Find me a time machine, then I'll believe you."
Life is a cruel thing, forged with iron and fire and cast onto anyone that found its pale light. It turns at the flick of a switch, from the warmth of one day to a dark reality another. Bill wished, prayed even, that this would never happen to her. She hoped that her life, despite its ups and downs, would hold some hope for the future and grant her an extensive line of happiness to remember and look upon fondly.
That day, when the sun hid behind the white and cluttered clouds, and the birds sang their songs of the morning air, life turned vile. It revealed its real face, a sickening display of deception and false promises.
When Bill came in for her morning shift, she was told to clear up the student halls for the next few hours while the students were elsewhere preparing for the next few weeks of studying before the Christmas fever truly set in. The block was nothing to gaze with awe and very much resembled that of a teenagers room having left for others to sort out. It wasn't overpacked with junk as Bill had expected, but it was beginning to show signs of dust and neglect. So, armed with rubber gloves and vacuums freshly emptied, Bill got to work.
Each week, cleaners were given schedules to clean out the shower heads and plug holes to maintain a functional bathroom for the students. No one needed to be present since the cleaners were given access to the rooms when needed but, let's say, that Bill wasn't the first to catch someone in the act of 'having fun.'
Rebecca never told Bill which room she was staying, or even which building block. So, when Bill knocked on the seventh door of block C and received no answer, she didn't expect to see her as she opened the door with her key. Bill would have said hello, acted surprised that Rebecca lived in this part of the building and maybe even asked if it was alright to do her job. Perhaps, she would have also started a conversation as she did so and start the day relatively well.
She didn't say anything, neither did she utter a word, when she saw the young girl on the floor with an empty bottle of pills. Lifeless.
She expected to cry or maybe even scream and to fall on her knees and damn the heavens for eternity. Perhaps, she would have shaken the cold and still form and begged them to wake up and to see those beautiful and bright eyes gleam with life.
None of that happened, nothing dramatic or sorrowful showed itself on the scene. Bill Potts stood alone in the empty corridor of the student halls, having uttered nothing or even taking a single breath.
Life, it seemed, was a cruel thing indeed.
The funeral was mere days later with a crowd of black and stained eyes among the salty rain. Martha stood beside the young cleaner, dressed in black dresses and fighting the harsh coldness of the world. Family members, even students, had come to pay their respects to the life that was lost. Mourning, to the future, scrapped too soon. A story that had ended with a conclusion never to come.
"This wasn't your fault."
Maybe Martha had said those quiet and gentle words, or perhaps it was the unspoken ruler of all things revealing his sickening smile and wonder. Bill didn't know, and neither did she care. Instead, she stared at the mud that fell with grace onto the wooden coffin that slowly melted away into the earth and rain. The heavy smell of the dirt hit her senses and surrounded her with the unchallenged notion of the fallen. The lives wiped away, and the ones never to come back. She hated the smell, more than ever.
When the dust had settled, Martha and Bill came face to face with a young woman. Her hair was a deep rose and grown past her slender shoulders. She, along with the other mourning souls, held a dark umbrella and dressed appropriately in flat shoes that sunk into the muddy ground. When she came to the two young women, she offered a friendly smile that seeped through the creaks of her sad face.
"Hello, you must be Bill Potts, right?"
Bill nodded, slipping a bare minimum smile. She supposed it was better than keeping the blankness in her expression and wished for something better, something to bring warmth to this world of ice.
"Rebecca told me about you; she said you were a good friend. I'm Sara, by the way."
Again, despite her desperate attempts to end her silence by uttering some sentence, she nodded.
Martha stepped forward, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder. "I'm so sorry; I can't imagine how hard this must be."
"It's alright; I just wished I came down more often. I remember Rebecca talking about going to America for a trip when I came back." The smile fell from her cold face, water dripping, and hiding the formation of tears. "I guess that won't be happening now."
"Don't forget, you have others who are willing to help you. Talk to them if you need to."
"Of course, thank you."
When the time for words was exhausted, the young Sara Bates joined her family and drove away with one of the many hearses. Bill watched her disappear into the haze as Martha stayed by her side.
In the distance, a lone man stood against the blossom tree and watched the cloud of murk and ink spread into the disturbed whole in the earth. The girls remained where they stood, cloaked in the grief that never left and when the scene had dulled down the woman, with her hair now dampened by the rain, had turned her gaze to the lone man with an unfocused look and eyes filled with such pain.
He never said a word, and perhaps it was best that he didn't.
After that, nothing felt the same, and everyone could feel it at the University. The once vibrant halls were now a wasteland of silence and misery. The days that went by felt like an obligation and slowed beyond comprehension. Bill thought it the most, working as she always would but somehow feeling a never-ending hole that grew too deep for her to handle. She found herself talking to Martha less, not wanting any optimism or kind words. Such things felt like a sick joke now, holding no weight or a promise of change. Nothing felt like it would get better, and nothing would ever be the same again.
No one heard from Sara afterwards, believing that she left town to resume her studies. Whether that was a smart idea or not was beyond Bill since she had no idea how she would cope with the never-ending guilt and dread that swarmed her veins and clouded her judgment. When the promise of continuing her cleaning meant some hope of peace of mind, even that was taken away when police officers began appearing on the scene. They all told the same story that they were investigating the suicide, but it seemed almost pointless. Bill didn't want to think that someone out there would have had the nerve to lay their own hands on the sweet girl and hoped that such a death was by her own devices rather than the sick and twisted mind of another.
It wasn't long until Bill was relieved of her work for the police to continue their investigation. Students dismissed themselves from their studies to clear their minds of the horrible event, and each department of study rescheduled finals until the bitter vibe would fade. Bill didn't mind so much, thinking that she needed the change to breathe again after so long. However, it seemed that even that was out of the question when the police were swarming in their advance. Thousands of alarm bells in Bills head began to screech as she knew that something was wrong. She began to think that this couldn't have just been a suicide, or even believing that some sicko could have killed poor Rebecca.
Martha came back after some time with a stranger demeanour than average. Bill suspected that something was up but, unlike Martha, wasn't as open to discussing this. She debated, leaving her to her troubles, knowing full well that such thinking was cruel. But what could Bill say? She had been distant from her since the funeral, and she knew it was on her. She couldn't just go up to her and ask how she was, right?
The answer became clear before she could even try to find out when Mr Smith appeared beside the woman with a stern face and a presence that spoke business. Now, Bill was even more nervous to ask as she didn't want to get in the way of what they were discussing. But, as she looked between them, she saw a wave of intensity. An exchange of rapid breaths and harsh whispers occurred between them, and Bill began to think that something had occurred beyond her knowledge. She didn't want to seem like a snoop, but with everything going on she didn't want to leave any log unturned. For the time being, she decided to keep an eye on the two.
Within the week, Bill followed the two and ensured that she was keeping her distance from them as not to be spotted. Each day, they wandered to the back of the University to a lone wooden door at the bottom of the stone steps. Mr Smith was the one that entered more frequently then Martha and, on some occasions, they stayed in there for hours on end. It was strange. Bill wondered what they could be doing in a basement for half the day, and frantically removed the dirty thoughts from her mind before they could manifest.
By the end of the week, Bill knew the route instantly and decided to traverse down to the basement. On that day, when the clouds hovered over the University, and the wind began to pick up, Bill made her way quietly across the damp grass and towards the stone stairs leading to the door. In an instant, the cold began to crawl across her body and shiver her bones to the core.
"Bloody hell…"
The wood was old, almost medieval-like and Bill pondered how she never noticed the door before. After all, compared to the rest of the University, the door would have stuck out like a sore thumb. Regardless she reached out and opened it with care, hearing the creak from the rotted wood and took her first step into the basement.
The first thing Bill saw was, in fact, nothing. A chasm laid waste before her, a pit that seemed to descend further than any human could comprehend. The light, it seemed, was trapped by the edges of the wall and from within only the notion of darkness remained. Perhaps it was a sign that Bill should turn away, that this was a horrible idea from the start but with everything happening she did not wish to give up and go back to a world of just accepting. So, with her breath deep and her heart ready, she proceeded.
The whispers of the water were the first thing that awoke from within the darkness of the tomb. Tears wept through the rotting ceiling and ran off the precariously placed rock slabs before her. Bill took a chance at the stability and trusted that it wouldn't collapse anytime soon. From her pocket, her iPhone sprung alive with its artificial light, and the young woman pressed her finger to the touchscreen to enable the flashlight. The room once coated in ink now flashed with grey stone and wooden pillars.
The room was like a catacomb made from gravel that bled into the embedded wood that held the place together. The ground crunched beneath her feet as Bill skipped past the puddles that had built up over what must have been years. She focused her light in front of her, and an image slowly came into view, a tall object armoured with iron and engravings.
An arrangement of circles and shapes covered the bronze of the wall that resembled another old door. This time the wall was covered with metal symbols and a pad in the middle that Bill presumed was a lock. Bill had to step back to view the door in its entirety; the size of it was mesmerising. She gazed at the pad again, noting the regular spread of red lights across the metal surface. She suspected that the red lights must have signified that the room before her was out of reach, at least for now. Bill didn't complain since she had no intention of going inside. Even if her curiosity demanded otherwise, she certainly didn't possess the key to that weird looking lock.
As she turned, the striking splash of blue greeted her like an old friend. The recognisable blue of the police box stood before her with the same 'out of order' sign left on the handle. However, the plank had notably taken damaged, and edges from the paper had burnt away. Bill almost swore she could see a small sign of flaming orange that dimmed away moments later. Whatever damage had taken place, it happened recently. She frowned, having no idea how such a big object had moved without her or anyone seeing it and especially with little to no scratches or hinges out of place beside the burns on the paper. Surely the wood should be at least a little charred.
Now Bill was beginning to feel the nerves in the pit of her stomach. The red flags were even more prominent now, and everything was telling Bill to get the hell out.
In a dark and gloomy place like this, she didn't have to think twice.
"Bill?"
She was spotted, a rabbit in the headlights. She turned swiftly to the sight of her captor and almost dropped her phone in the progress.
Martha Jones stared in alarm.
"Bill, what are you doing here?"
She struggled to scrape up a reasonable excuse. 'I snuck in' or 'I lost my way' but she was startled into silence and unable to think of anything. Her mouth remained agape as her face flicked from Martha and the towering door.
'This is my chance,' she thought, 'I can find out what's going on.'
"Bill, you can't be here," Martha rushed towards her and held her by the shoulders. Bill was still coma toast and unable to escape from her grasp, "if the Doctor finds you here, we'll both be in trouble."
The Doctor? What – or rather who – was she talking about, and why did this room even exist?
Bill finally managed to form words, despite their volume being too low to hear. "Why? What's going on?"
"Please! Pretend none of this happened-"
"Martha!"
They both turned, caught in the heat of the moment and saw a man standing in the remaining light from the entrance, his silhouette like a creature from an old photograph blurred and distorted. Bill knew him almost instantly as the light cast upon his face, the spiky hair and the mud of the coat with the blue of his suit and the blood of his trainers. He was closer now, tangible.
Mr Smith had found them, very much as alarmed as Martha had been, and holding a silver device in his hand. Before any of them could explain the predicament or plan an escape, the man stormed forward, a loud echo from his feet rippled against the stone. It seemed as if the rubble shivered at his presence.
"Martha, who's this?"
"It's Bill; she's a friend-"
Cutting her off, the man in the coat stepped further with dark intent. "She can't be here!"
"I know that! I don't know what happened- she must have snuck in!"
"We have to get her out now!"
Bill couldn't even register what was happening as her senses seemed to be shutting down and dulling her response. The next thing she knew, the two had descended into a contest of screaming over each other. Throughout it all, when life felt so far from reach, she turned to the door again and felt the air turn still and cold. The voices faded away into silence, and the ringing in her ears droned.
Then, suddenly, there was a bang. A chant of dongs as if a great and mighty church had invaded her head. The echoes of Martha and Mr Smith's voices silenced and turned to the blue of the box. The grand object chimed in rhythm to a deep hum.
"Doctor…" Martha spoke in the gaps of silence. She knew that sound well.
Mr Smith stared with horror at the blue box as its sound echoed throughout the tomb. His breath turned ragged, struggling to push air through his lungs.
"Something's wrong…"
Then, as the man turned to the panel, the red lights flickered, and the lock clicked and coiled.
He bolted.
"No, no, no, no, no, NO!"
He slammed his body against the wooden door and used his metal device that buzzed and glimmered with a blue hue against the panel. Martha followed not far behind, and Bill was helpless to do anything other than stand in the very spot she had occupied.
"Doctor, what's happening?"
"The doors unlocking, I have to stop it!"
"You said the Tardis was keeping an eye on it- you said it could scan for anything!"
"Well, yes, right now!"
"Doctor, what's in there?"
"I don't know!"
"You're not acting like 'you don't know'!"
"Martha please I can't-"
Click!
Silence.
The absence rang out through the stone walls and the dripping water from the ceiling. There was nothing, not a peep, only the sound of heavy breaths and shallow lungs from the young cleaner.
They waited, fearful of the unknown.
"Both of you get back."
"Doctor…"
When the man turned to his friend, she felt her heart skip a beat.
"Back now!"
Martha, very much in the same predicament as Bill, complied and pulled the young woman away. However, she felt the restraint from her friend.
"What's going on?"
"Bill, come on…"
"Who the hell are you people?"
Martha wished she could answer, provide clarity to a scenario that very much needed it. But right now, she needed to get her friend away from the door and protect her from whatever horrors dared to show their ugly face.
"Doctor," Martha whispered. "What is it?"
There was a moment when the man said nothing, breathing steadily and compiling his will to stand strong in front of these two young and vulnerable people. He eyed the door as it creaked open and took a deep breath.
"I don't know."
As the doors exposed what lied beyond, the ground below trembled and caused small pallets of stone to hit the floor. The wood scrapped against the gravel and left a fresh trail in its wake. They watched helplessly as the blackness from within became clear to them, and they braced themselves for the fears that would come alive.
They waited, gripping the very last of their sanity until the silence would pass, and whatever monster had slept inside the abyss took its first steps into the light.