Witchcraft but Dumbledore wouldn't approve: In which I have my worst aquatic nightmares fulfilled (the Shakespeare Code, part One).
I had come to the conclusion that if I was a ghost, I was a terrible one.
After banging my head on the floor for the third time I realized if I was a ghost my head should be sliding through it, not painfully retroacting off it.
His time machine is a recipe for nausea. It rocks violently from side to side and I keep grabbing for the centre object (a console, apparently) missing and falling over. Yes, I have been in one time machine and am already a critic. Sue me.
"Blimey. Do you have to pass a test to fly this thing?" Martha gasps and I hear shuffling noises as she moves off the floor. I try to do the same putting my hands up in the air (all the single ladies) to try to reach a platform to manoeuvre myself up with. Fortunately I still have my seeing stick (which I kept accidently hitting myself in the face with as I was thrown about, ungracefully, like popcorn in a microwave).
"Yes, and I failed it." The Doctor says bluntly which I laugh at. "Now, make the most of it. I promised you one trip, and one trip only. Outside this door, brave new world."
One trip? No, no, no… that's not nearly enough time. Unless he knows, he suspects? It's not like I want to use him just to get my sight back because I don't. I like Martha and him, I really do. But I want to see again.
I'll do anything to see again.
It selfish, I know. I don't care its selfish. In the world we live in you can't afford to be kind. Kindness, I think with a pang, is a luxury. And not one I can afford to give.
No matter what it might cause me to become.
"Where are we?" Martha asks excitedly. I'm more hesitant. Alien worlds? Could it mean more Judoon, more like Florence… at the time I was too full of adrenaline to be as scared as I am looking back on it.
"Take a look. After you." The Doctor says and I get the impression he is enjoying his role as tour guide.
I step forward. Its smells cleaner is my first thought. No constant hum of traffic or the hurried steps of pedestrians like falling rain. I hear running footsteps and the shouts of small children. Where are we if they are free to run about like that without fear of being hit by cars? They sound human as far as I know, though I'm not an expert.
Or… when are we?
"Oh, you are kidding me. You are so kidding me. Oh, my God, we did it. We travelled in time. Where are we? No, sorry. I got to get used to this whole new language. When are we?" Martha babbles with excitement. I feel deflated for a second. I can't see any of it. It isn't fair. Why couldn't someone else be blind? Why'd it have to be me? It makes me more determined at the same time to get the chance to see again.
And travelled in time? When are we? I'm excited despite everything.
"Mind out." The Doctor says suddenly and grabs my coat sleeve to pull me back.
There is a slopping sound as something falls to the ground. I remember from a primary school lesson olden-day people used to throw their waste out the window. And I only remember that because at break time Johnny Rodger took a dump out the window at break time and it hit me.
Why, yes, I am petty enough to still hold a grudge, thank you for noticing.
"Gardez l'eau!" A male voice shouts, probably French for Watch out for low flying shit! Or something. Or maybe he's just telling us to get out of his bathroom.
"Somewhere before the invention of the toilet. Sorry about that." The Doctor says sheepishly.
"I've seen worse. I've worked the late night shift A+E. But are we safe? I mean, can we move around and stuff?"
"Of course we can. Why do you ask?"
"It's like in the films. You step on a butterfly, you change the future of the human race."
"Why a butterfly? What if I step on a caterpillar?" I ask deciding now is a perfect time to debate how insects affect the future. "Tell you what then, don't step on any butterflies. Or caterpillars. What have they ever done to you?" The Doctor jokes but I am still slightly wary about the time destructive butterflies. The consequences of changing time.
"What if, I don't know, what if I kill my grandfather?" Ah, yes the casual recreational activity of murder. I heard about that once- an infinite loop or something. Like an elevator that never stops at any floor and you just get stuck.
"Are you planning to?"
"No." Martha says. "Yes." I deadpan.
"Well this is awkward." I add to the bemused silence.
"And this is London?" A past London where the weather is quite literally shit.
"I think so. Round about 1599." Tudor England? Ginger King messing with the religion to get the Boleyn Booty? About the extent of my knowledge.
"Oh, but hold on. Am I all right? I'm not going to get carted off as a slave, am I?" I didn't even think about historical stuff like that. Would they? Could they? If they tried to I doubt id be much good if it ended up being a fight…
"Why would they do that?" The Doctor asks seeming genuinely puzzled. Does he know so little about Earth history? Or does he just believe most people are good? People aren't good. They have the choice to be and they will always choose the harm rather than hurt… You know that. You aren't completely stupid, after all…
"Not exactly white, in case you haven't noticed." I hadn't. Another reason why I need to see again.
"I'm not even human. Just walk about like you own the place. Works for me." Of course it does. "Besides, you'd be surprised. Elizabethan England, not so different from your time. Look over there. They've got recycling." The rhythmic thump of something hitting a container. I have no idea.
"Water cooler moment." I don't know what he's talking about. Lousy tour guide. I demand a refund!
"And the world will be consumed by flame." A public speaker. Chris referred to them as The Preach Leach. She said they leached all the fun out of life. In London they either preach with a dull loud tone that fades to background music like a radio or in loud, shouting tones demanding you all listen or else perish in the fires of hell (dramatic music). The one here is the dull kind, luckily. Weird to see how somethings don't change.
"Global warming." The Doctor remarks which I snort at. "Oh, yes, and entertainment. Popular entertainment for the masses. If I'm right, we're just down the river by Southwark, right next to-"
His dramatic pause lengthens as we move through the streets.
"-Oh, yes, the Globe Theatre!" He announces. "Brand new. Just opened. Through, strictly speaking, it's not a globe, it's a tetradecagon. Fourteen sides. Containing the man himself."
"Oh my god, Shakespeare." I gasp. I don't have much in the way of academics but books are everything… were everything. I read some Shakespeare- I always found Romeo and Juliet stupid (If they'd just kept it in their pants everything would've been fine) but I loved Othello.
I wish I could still read. I tried to learn braille but I've always been bad at languages. Audio books aren't the same. I know I'm not in a position to be picky but I miss real books most of all. They were the only thing I had that was a constant and beautiful and… and I just can't give that up. Not for anyone.
I doubt Shakespearian England is the place where I'll find a solution. I should enjoy myself for now as much as I can.
Yet I swear to myself the next book I read, properly read, will be with my own two eyes.
The applause was deafening. The audience was almost like a stampede, feet beating the floor and hands clapping. I had never been to a concert before but this was how I imagined it- the wild, nearly uncontrollable atmosphere where the very air itself was electrifying.
We had been watching with the rest of the peasants. Me, a twenty first century peasant, mixing with all the sixteenth century peasants. Surreal. Whereas we might smell overpoweringly of Lynx, they smelt overpoweringly of faeces. It smelt the same level of awful to be honest. Though we were crammed in like sardines (which was terrifying, like being swept away with the currents) it was all worth it, just to be here.
"That's amazing! Just amazing. It's worth putting up with the smell. And those are men dressed as women, yeah?" Martha's excitement echoes my own. Its completely unbelievable.
Even more than the Moon in my eyes. That was terrifying and deadly. I barely knew what was going on and was torn between crying and running away for most of it. This is wonderful and mad and more than I ever could've hoped for in those long empty days in hospital.
"London never changes." The Doctor says. "Its brilliant!" I exclaim, uncharacteristically happy. "Mental, but brilliant."
"Isn't it just?" The Doctor replies happily.
"Where's Shakespeare? I want to see Shakespeare. Author! Author! Do people shout that? Do they shout Author?" Martha asks.
A deep male voice shouts author as well and soon the whole crowd chants it. It feels oddly like a football match (not that I would know the specifics of football) with the same excitement and giddiness.
"Well, they do now." The Doctor remarks.
There is the creak of wooden floorboards as Shakespeare (I presume) steps on stage. The applause grows till it is reminiscent of waves smashing against a beach. I join in, clapping till my hands hurt.
"He's a bit different from his portraits." Martha says and I wish I could know what she meant. "Genius. He's a genius. The genius. The most human human there's ever been. Now we're going to hear him speak. Always he chooses the best words. New, beautiful, brilliant words." The Doctor fanboys over Shakespeare and I would join in only apprehension and excitement has my jaw clenched shut.
"Ah, shut your big fat mouths!" Shakespeare bellows.
I now understand why you should not meet your heroes.
"Oh, well." The Doctor says, rather dejectedly. "You should never meet your heroes." Martha says knowledgably and echoes my own thought.
"You've got excellent taste, I'll give you that. Oh, that's a wig." Is he flirting on stage? I'm not disappointed. Just surprised. He reminds me a bit of Sirius Black. "I know what you're all saying. Loves Labour's Lost, that's a funny ending, isn't it? It just stops. Will the boys get the girls? Well, don't get your hose in a tangle, you'll find out soon. Yeah, yeah. All in good time. You don't rush a genius." He continues ranting, bragging and self-deprecating himself a little. I'm slightly transfixed. "When? Tomorrow night. The premiere of my brand new play. A sequel, no less, and I call it Loves Labour's Won." He finishes grandly to cheers and applause and my own clapping abruptly stops.
Loves Labours Won isn't supposed to exist.
I haven't been this shocked since the aliens came. The very first time they came, and everything we thought we knew about our place in the universe was violently ripped apart.
You know, those fun days.
But the knowledge of this play that simply shouldn't exist has shocked me beyond anything else- some things are lost to time, and now we are glancing at one of them. Its mind blowing- that we could be the first people, well beside Shakespeare himself, to unearth a hidden mystery of time.
"I thought Loves Labours Won was lost to time. How can it be here?" I ask the Doctor. Please let there be a logical explanation. I am not ready to risk death by aliens (or Shakespeare play I guess). "I thought that too. It's the lost play. It doesn't exist, only in rumours. It's mentioned in lists of his plays but never ever turns up. And no one knows why." The Doctor explains mysteriously. Doctor Mysterious. Like an awful comic book villain name.
"Have you got a mini-disc or something? We can tape it. We can flog it. Sell it when we get home and make a mint." Martha says. Privately I had been thinking the same thing. I've never had much money to my name so the chance to make lots of money quickly is irresistible. I'd never have to work again or worry about bills, could just buy a nice house with a lot of books. I ruled the play out because it'd be too difficult to get hold of, but if I see a chance I hope I can end up with my sight back and rich…
No. It isn't right to think like that. But my entire life has been crap so why the hell shouldn't I help myself? Nobody else will… except it is betraying my friends. If they were strangers it would be different but they aren't.
I wish they were strangers. Why not betray a friend? They wouldn't be the first. I cannot silence myself at all. I cannot even win a fight against myself. My hands clench into fists. The thing about the darkness that constantly covers my eyes is its dangerous- I forget I'm not alone sometimes. That showing weakness to anyone is foolish. Also I fall over shit a lot- another reason I'd prefer to be on my own when I do that. Like the Amazing Gravity-Defying boy- watch him trip over anything and everything!
"…how come it disappeared in the first place?" Martha says and I jump off my train of thought. "Well, I was just going to give you a quick little trip in the Tardis, but I suppose we could stay a bit longer." The Doctor says and I swear he sounds happy.
Surprisingly, I am too.
The only other pub I frequented was the Boar with the Tusk (Do boars have tusks or was it just a poorly named sign?) when I was eight. Before my dad died but after he left me in a home, he tried to bond. It initially involved him asking me about my life but as I retreated into sullen silence he retreated into alcohol. Eventually I was left sitting at a bar with a book and a packet of crisps (my dad always twisted the packet into a knot and called it a butterfly) while my dad hovered around the pool table, draining beer like he could find the answers to his problems at the bottom of each glass. Those are the only good memories I have of him.
This is completely surreal in comparison. The Elephant, a tavern with a courtyard is very different. No static-y football in the background, no Northern bartender like the Boar had hollering out drink orders. It doesn't smell like chip fat and cigarettes, it smells like musk and alcohol.
"…enough beer in this lodgings house to sink the Spanish." A female voice says jovially. I listen to people much more than I used to. I remember something about Elizabeth the first and the Spanish Armada. Probably from Horrible Histories. Or a Philippa Gregory book. I am a font of information, tis true. Kind of an unreliable font, but still.
"Dolly Bailey, you've saved my life." The bawdy voice of Shakespeare. This is all so weird. I'm fizzing with excitement, so terrified I'm nearly numb and have a thousand questions on my tongue all at once. I also want to run away, like you do when you see a celebrity in public (and then presumably regret it, go home and bury yourself in Tumblr).
"I'll do more than that later tonight." She says coquettishly and I blush somewhat prudishly. "And you, girl, hurry up with your tasks. The talk of gentlemen is best not overheard." Her voice goes harsher, like addressing someone below her. I recognize being spoken to like that many times. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." The serving girl says timidly. I feel bad for her. I hear the hurried thud of boots moving away on a wooden floor.
"You must be mad, Will. Loves Labour's Won? I mean, we're not ready. It's supposed to be next week. What made you say that?" A low, serious male voice addresses Shakespeare. Almost the opposite tone of Shakespeare himself. "You haven't even finished it yet!" He continues sounding very exasperated with Shakespeare. I get the feeling his exasperation is not a new feeling.
"I've just got the final scene to go. You'll get it by morning." Shakespeare replies without a trace of doubt. So what went wrong in twenty-four hours? I have a sinking feeling we are in the middle of a plot. Tudor times, no police, we could die just like that.
Wait, what do they even do to blind people here? Do they leave them to die? Do they end up as beggars? Will people want to do that to me? My fear is sudden and crashes down like a wave.
"Hello! Excuse me, not interrupting, am I? Mister Shakespeare isn't it?" The Doctor begins cheerfully.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. Who let you in? No autographs. No, you can't have yourself sketched with me. And please don't ask where I get my ideas from. Thanks for the interest. Now be a good boy and shove-" I stupidly stand there with my mouth slightly open because all I can think is Shakespeare is a diva. If he was alive today he would have an angry twitter.
"Hey, nonny nonny. Sit right down here next to me. You two get sewing on them costumes. Off you go." His demeanour suddenly changes, going from closed off to flirtatious. He has definitely caught sight of Martha. Huh. It's difficult to associate the man in front of me with the Shakespeare.
"Come on, lads. I think our William's found his new muse." The same woman from earlier sounding a little more disgruntled.
"Sweet lady." Shakespeare says smoothly. I am suddenly very self-conscious. About to meet maybe the most well-known writer ever, in a pair of crinkly green hospital pyjamas. At least I'm a little hidden by a coat. I was directed to a wardrobe room and got… got is the wrong word, I was given a grey coat with a (sophisticated) collar, boots and sunglasses. It was extremely odd. The label had braille on it which I could read. No, not read, the words were already in my head, as instant as if I had been reading the English. It was… alien, but I wasn't convinced it was real and someone just gave me the clothes and I was actually having a psychotic breakdown. I make a mental note to investigate it more.
"Such unusual clothes. So fitted." He continues and I feel very awkward. I try to avoid romance. Whether it be my own (yes with the frivolous love life I lead) or someone else's romance always makes me uncomfortable.
"Er, verily, forsooth, egads." Martha says and I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling out of my depth while being back in time. "No, no, don't do that. Don't." The Doctor says hurriedly. Like correcting a mistake in another language.
I hear the brief rustle of paper and fabric as he gets something out of a pocket. "I'm Sir Doctor of Tardis and these are my companions, Miss Martha Jones and Mr Leo Renton." He says grandly and now I really wish I was not wearing crinkly pyjamas.
"Interesting, that bit of paper. It's blank." Shakespeare comments mildly but with undertones of suspicion. "Oh, that's very clever. That proves it. Absolute genius." The Doctor says with satisfaction like he won a prize.
"No, it says so right there. Sir Doctor, Martha Jones. It says so." Martha insists, though I see nothing (duh). It's an awful, familiar sinking feeling. Feels like being the last one picked for a team. A stupid comparison but the same feeling of being different.
"And I say it's blank." Shakespeare says with more of his stubborn suspicion. "What is it?" I ask curiously but also impatiently. I hate waiting, which is probably anti-British of me (but if we are going down that track I prefer coffee over tea. I know, the scandal). I think I might have culture shock to be honest. I'm still slightly expecting to wake up in a straightjacket any second.
"Psychic paper. Er, long story. Oh, I hate starting from scratch." The Doctor says absent-mindedly, like he's having a movie style flashback. Movie flashbacks are incredibly boring when you aren't the one having the flashback.
"Psychic? Never heard that before and words are my trade. Who are you exactly? More's the point, who is your delicious blackamoor lady?"
"Did he actually say that or am I deaf now as well?" I say scathingly and with unusual confidence.
"What did you say?" Martha says echoing my disbelief.
"Oops. Isn't that a word we use nowadays? An Ethiop girl? A swarth? A Queen of Afric?" Shakespeare continues, blissfully unaware. "Do you have an off switch?" I mutter rudely the sudden confidence draining as quickly as it came. I bristle at his words. Yep, this is why you don't meet your heroes.
"I can't believe I'm hearing this." Martha mutters and I feel the same.
"It's political correctness gone mad. Er, Martha's from a far-off land. Freedonia." The Doctor lies with easy grace.
I didn't know what outrageous backstory the Doctor was about to come up with for me –a royal or peasant, or tragically blind artist- but at that moment the sudden voice of a man ranting made me jump.
"Excuse me!" He says, in a high, nasal voice that makes the hair on my neck stand up. "Hold hard a moment. This is abominable behaviour. A new play with no warning? I demand to see a script, Mister Shakespeare. As Master of the Revels, every new script must be registered at my office and examined by me before it can be performed." It had taken me no more than the time it took him to finish his rant to realise two things: One, he was seemed like a prat. And two, nasal voices are really annoying.
"Tomorrow morning, first thing, I'll send it round." Shakespeare says smoothly. It was comforting to learn Shakespeare was also a fellow procrastinator. I reminded myself to use that one if I ever had overdue homework, then I realised it would be unlikely I would ever be able to sit in a classroom again. Ah, well, silver lining to blindness and all that.
"I don't work to your schedule, you work to mine. The script, now!" He barks. Around us the whole bar holds their breath, waiting for Shakespeare's reply.
"I can't." Shakespeare admits quietly.
"Then tomorrow's performance is cancelled." The man snaps.
"It's all go around here, isn't it?" Martha jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
The mood did not want to be lightened.
"I'm returning to my office for a banning order. If it's the last thing I do, Love's Labours Won will never be played." He hisses, trying to be menacing but ending up with irritating. I hear the sudden squeak of shoe on wood as he turns on his heel to go.
There is silence for a moment or two as the oh-so-friendly man leaves.
"Well." I say, as we listen to his footsteps fade. "He seemed like a charmer."
The air is cooler outside.
I shiver, push my hands deeper into my (definitely historically inaccurate) hoodie, and listen to the streets as they empty of sound.
I didn't know if it was still evening or night-time, but it definitely sounded later- less people moved around, probably heading home for the night. The night air is cold, stinging my skin, and the I scrape the cobblestones with my walking stick as I move forward. I like it- it's less hectic than modern streets, and I know no cars will run me over. (Which is nice, I like my face to be not run over).
In spite of everything I felt a little proud of myself, able to figure small things out about being blind. It was horrible, sure, and I hated it, but I was slowly getting used to that, the same way you might get used to a relative you hate visiting every Christmas.
Blindness was just something terrible I had to get through, like measles. I feel a rush of determination. It wouldn't be forever, just a bit longer.
All I need is a chance.
"Well then, mystery solved. That's Love's Labours Won over and done with. Thought it might be something more, you know, more mysterious." Martha says, sounding more than a little disappointed. I can't blame her- I might not have been expecting a battle to the death, but I was at least expecting some good old Shakespearian insults getting thrown around.
Be careful what you wish for. A voice whispers in my head, sounding like Chris's. Chris was never an optimist. "Why bother to be one? Optimists just lie to themselves. S'like having hypothermia and saying you're only a little chilly." She'd scoff, though hypothermia was difficult to get in London, unless you decided to set up camp in a fridge.
I am about to tell Martha this when we hear the screams. The scream is weak, would be easily swallowed up by the noise of the twenty-first century. But this is not the twenty first century, and it cuts through the peaceful night air like a siren.
A second, shriller cry follows it-
"Help me!"
-and we are running, the Doctor holding my hand so I won't fall behind, feet sliding on slippery cobblestones, my walking stick swinging wildly from one hand. I think I hit someone, as there is a sudden burst of swearing from my left. I feel heat rise in my cheeks and yell an apology as we pass by, glad for once I can't see who I hit.
I am exhilarated. I am terrified.
I want to run away. I want to keep on running to show the dark I am not afraid (even though I am, I always am).
But still I run.
The mistake I make a lot about being blind is a simple one, but a terrible one. I always assume that leading the shameful, alone existence I do now- being unable to watch telly, do the crossword, or even make a cup of tea without burning myself- means I've not only hit rock bottom but decided to set up camp there.
Only that was my mistake.
Yeah, being blind and alone is awful. But (as it turns out) its even worse when there's a dying man three fucking feet in front of you.
And you can't.
Do.
Anything.
Martha fell to the mans side with a thump on the cobblestone road. "Got to get the heart going. Mister Lynley, come on. Can you hear me? You're going to be all right." She began to reassure him in a no-nonsense Doctor tone (One I'd become incredibly used to hearing at the hospital myself).
"What's going on?" I asked, trying (unsuccessfully) to mask the tremble in my voice.
"It's the man from earlier- Mr Lynley-" Who? For a panicked minute my head was completely blank, my mind unable to place the Voiceless man, and then I remembered the tight-schedule man from earlier with a gasp. "He's struggling to breathe."
As if he wanted to confirm this point Lynley began to gurgle, a harsh, watery groan not unlike the sound I remembered the pipes in my Dads flat making when they got too clogged with hair and barely-eaten takeaway neither of us were quite able to stomach.
"Oh god." I moaned. A man was dying in front of me. A man I had been taking the piss out of barely five minutes ago, a man who was dead just like the ones in the hospital- shit, shit shit-
Somebody else is dead because of me. Just like Chris.
A wave of dizziness washed over me and I thought I might be sick. Bile rose in the back of my throat as the thought cut through my head.
Get a fucking grip Leo, or do you want the only chance you have of getting your eyes back to walk away from you?
Furiously, I wiped away tears I did not remember falling. Crying was apparently my go-to move when dealing with the supernatural. I fought to return myself to normal, burying my emotions down.
"What the hell is that?" Martha asked in shock.
"I've never seen a death like it. His lungs are full of water. He drowned and then, I don't know, like a blow to the heart, an invisible blow."
"He drowned? On Land?" I asked. "And then got beaten up by a ghost?"
"It seems so."
I was suddenly very, very glad I could not have seen the state that Lynley must have been in even if I wanted to.
There was a sudden flurry of footsteps towards us and a high-pitched wail. Fortunatly, the Doctor was on-call to bullshit.
"Good mistress, this poor fellow has died from a sudden imbalance of the humours. A natural if unfortunate demise. Call a constable and have him taken away."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll do it, ma'am."
"And why are you telling them that?"
"This lot still have got one foot in the Dark Ages. If I tell them the truth, they'll panic and think it was witchcraft."
"Right, so we don't get burnt as witches or whatever. Good plan." I butted in.
"Okay, what was it then?" Martha asked in impatience.
"Witchcraft." The Doctor said, and I don't need eyes to tell you he was smiling.