Maeve awoke wrapped in thin, grey hospital sheet, to a knock at the door. Wearing only a gown, tied several times at the back, she padded apprehensively towards the noise. A thin glass panel, threaded through with tiny crosshatched metal wires for support, split the door down the middle. Through it, she made out the silhouette of a tall man with very little hair. He was wearing a grey pinstriped suit and a bowler hat. She had been introduced to him several times before. Mr Portas. He was her temporary care worker. It was unusual for state custody to be granted to individual adults, and less so for them to be assigned a social worker. However, Maeve had been declared a "special case" by several experts, and without consultation, she was sectioned and placed under the care of a one Mr Paul Portas.
Through the glass, their eyes met: hers was cold and icy blue; his, a disconcertingly warm amber colour, that seemed at odds with his large and chiselled jaw and unfriendly mouth. His eyes, from the moment they'd met, reminded Maeve of a beautiful gem set in a particularly unpleasant ring. In a way, once she'd begun to get to know him, this could also have easily been applicable to his personality. For one so endowed with wits and intelligence, Paul Portas, like the way the hospital door was ran through with glass, had a well disguised violent streak, which, although seldom displayed, was well known. Maeve had seen it a few times; when dealing with her nurses, in the queue in the cafeteria...Though never had Maeve allowed herself to fall into the trap of getting on Mr Portas' bad side. Consistently, since the day she had fallen back to Earth, had she tried to maintain an amicable (if not friendly) relationship with the man who effectively held the key to her freedom.
He knocked again. Maeve pulled the door towards her, and with a slight stick and a whoosh, it opened. Portas smiled grimly. He knitted his greasy brow and moved forwards, so that Maeve felt his hot breath on her face.
"May I come in?" he asked, feigning courtesy.
Maeve smiled and nodded in response. Moving to one side, Portas shuffled into the room and took a seat on one of the six blue benches that sat by the great window that overlooked the hospital car park. It was with great hesitation that Maeve opened the blinds that framed the panelled window each morning. Although happy to have something to distract herself in the long hours she spent waiting between meals and the occasional visit from government officials, the window acted almost solely as a reminder that independence was out there, but just a little out of her grasp.
Portas smiled again, and rubbed his hands together; Maeve took a seat on her bed. She knew he was thinking of the "progess" they had made the preceding morning. She had tried to think of anything but that. In a way, Maeve felt manipulated; as if they were using her pain in order to take down a force they had wanted rid of for years.
"We think it's time," he said. Maeve shuddered at his use of the word "we"; it was nauseating for her to imagine that men in suits and women in pencil skirts decided, behind closed doors, her fate. "For you to be moved to a select government compound."
Maeve had to try very hard to maintain her straight face. Although the words "select government compound" were empty and practically meaningless, the freedoms, and potential freedoms, she was imagining exploded like fireworks in her mind.
Reading her like a book, Portas continued:
"This, of course, would simply be a small apartment in a highly regulated government block on the Isle of Wight. But you would be allowed to explore the village by yourself, permitting, of course, that you don't lose sight of your...target..."
Maeve smiled thinly. None of Portas' promises had done anything to reawaken her eyes; they'd lain dormant of emotion for a long time. However, she felt more alive in that moment then she had done for months.
"Don't worry," she assured him. "It's my number one priority."
It was dark outside, and an arctic wind was blowing persistently down the street. Lily pulled her lapels together once more and kicked disdainfully at the snow. Towards her in the moonlight ambled a pair of washed out headlights. She picked up her bag and heels and slung out her arm, praying the driver would see her in the gloom.
The bus eased to a stop; the doors opened with a swish. She heaved herself up the stairs. Casting a glance up the centre aisle of the bus, she noticed it was semi-full: half a dozen old ladies, each with steely grey hair and matching pink, floral cardigans, snapped their necks to face the front. They all looked physically very different: some were tall, some thin; one was mixed-race...However, each of them had the same intense expression and a pair of the same, piercing grey eyes.
It wasn't until the driver asked for her money, a few moments later, that she realised she'd been staring. She shuddered as they continued to look at her and handed the driver a five pound note.
"You got the two pence?" he asked, politely.
"No...sorry..." she muttered, in reply.
He handed her change across, and her ticket, and she nervously took a seat towards the front. It was a short ride back home, but the eyes of the six elderly women, occupying the back seats like sickly yobs, bore into her back, making the ten minute journey feel like hours.
Every so often she would turn to find them still glaring, open mouthed. She clutched at her belongings: the bag she got for Christmas and the black stilettos she wore for work. She hated them so much she'd carry around a pair of battered old trainers to change into as soon as she left the office.
She tried looking out of the window as a distraction. To no avail. The lights inside the bus ensured that she saw, not scenery, but grey reflections in the glass.
The bus suddenly slowed to a stop. She cupped her hands to the window. Instead of the normal, concrete pavements, surrounding the bus were the tallest trees and bushes, silhouetted against the moon.
Pulling herself up, she walked to the driver's compartment. She rounded the corner to find the driver's seat empty, save for a small puddle of water by the gearstick.
She lost it; she couldn't help it. She started banging on the doors of the bus, screaming and crying for help. The ladies at the back started moving towards her in a pack.
"Oh, dear!" they said, mechanically. "Don't worry! We don't want to hurt you! We just want you to rest!"
"R...Rest?" she whispered.
They smiled instinctively and reached out their hands. Lily flinched. Then it all went black...
"The tape stops there," Maeve said. "There's no more footage. They found the bus just across from Clapham Green the next morning, fifteen miles off its usual route. There was no one on board. All that was left was a couple of damn seats and these,"
She held up her sister's stilettos. They were still clean, slightly worn in places, but very well-kept. The police had returned them as soon as they realised that Lily wasn't coming back any time soon. They said they were no use to their investigation: they were Maeve's last reminder of the sister who she'd loved.
"There were no further reports of the old women," Maeve cut-in, just as he was about to open his mouth.
He closed it again, slowly, and scratched at the nape of his neck. His earpiece buzzed and chattered. He pressed a button and murmured "not now". He pulled himself up straight and looked me in the eyes.
"Why contact me?" he questioned, slowly. He looked almost impressed, as if getting hold of him was a difficult task: something to be rewarded.
"Because I heard you could really help," she replied, quietly. "And I could really use some help."
My voice cracked. The first example of emotional weakness I'd displayed in well over a year. Since Lily's disappearance, Maeve had put on a front: dealing with chauvinist policemen and cockney PI's had hardened her to such an extent that she was rarely unsettled by the Lily-shaped hole in her heart. But this seemed like her last hope. No trace of her sister had been found. None. It was as if she never made it out of the bus; yet, there was no evidence of her having died there. No evidence in fact, besides the CCTV tape, of anyone having been in the bus with her: not even the driver.
Captain Jack Harkness grinned broadly, his handsome features expelling concern. His office was clean and glassy, and on his desk, a curious rock formation glowed green, then pink, then fiery red.
"If I agree to help you, you're going to see things...experience things you could never imagine. It could really mess with your head. You're already fragile enough..."
Maeve cut him off with a glare, as steely as the girders that ran along the ceiling. Her fists curled into balls and her heart filled with icy cold anger.
"I'm not fragile," she spat through gritted teeth. "Don't you dare just become another man in a long line of men who've just decided that by looking at me they know who I am."
She lowered her gaze and her voice, her final claim taking the form of a whisper.
"Please do not underestimate me."
Jack swallowed and raised his eyebrows, touched. He reached over files and paperwork and picked up the handset of the stainless steel telephone in the centre of the desk. Pleased and relieved, I stood back, hands on hips, as he pressed, not numbers, but a single rectangular blue button on the side.
"This is Jack," he said, not taking his eyes off me. "And I could really do with a Doctor!"