Gravity - Chapter 4

Oliver Reeder was a prat. And Clara had never felt like strangling another human being quite so badly. Make that torturing, slowly and viciously - the man didn't deserve the sweet relief of death. The day had started badly enough with her late arrival. She hadn't been sleeping properly for days, and with the weekend finally looming, she had pressed the 'snooze' button on her alarm clock one time too many. Having no time to eat breakfast, she had to rely on the office coffee machine, which stubbornly decided not to cooperate - that is, not before it promptly exploded all over her white shirt. On top of all that, Emily primly announced right before lunch that 'Clara's boyfriend' was there. Ollie Reeder had spent so much time these past few days at the Sanctuary Buildings - most often than not, following Clara around - that everyone seemed to imply that he was her fellow or whatever other dreadful word they might come up with. Clara was too hungry and slow to react by that point to refuse his lunch invitation. But she drew the line when he insisted they went somewhere nice. Sandwiches in the conference room was her limit.

Looking at him now, making awfully nauseating eyes at her, she regretted her decision to say yes. Or her decision to let him be in the same room as her. Or the same building. Or city. A whole continent separating them might not be enough, judging by her ever-growing wish to either punch him or throw herself out of the window.

"Windows you can't even open, unfortunately," she said out loud.

"Sorry?" asked the DoSAC advisor, utterly lost.

"Nothing."

Clara tended to forget when and how to filter her thoughts when she was tired. And thus often spoke up without meaning to. She focused on her salmon sandwich once again, and pretended to listen to Reeder's assessment of the coming Special Needs bill and how thrilled he was to work hand in hand with Education on this. What a load of bollocks, she thought. That bill was a fiasco waiting to happen, and she was pretty sure Select Committees would be involved before it got anywhere.

Clara feared she had once again said that last part out loud. Reeder looked like he'd choked on one of his cucumber slices. But she quickly realised that this wasn't the case, and that his reaction was caused by the arrival of a wild Jock. Clara was apparently destined to be rescued from the overbearing familiarity of the bespectacled tosser by one James MacDonald. The smile quickly died on her lips when she realised that this time, she might not actually relish what he was about to say.

"Jamie?" The man looked like he hadn't slept in days, and yet his blue eyes were almost comically huge. But she clearly read distress rather than youthful wonder in them.

"I need to speak to you. Alone." His tone clipped, he barely paid attention to Reeder who, copying Clara, had stood up when Jamie entered the room. Except that she had done so in anguished expectation rather than fearful deference.

"The emergency staircase," she replied, equally short on words.

She left the room without sparing a look backwards, although she was vey much aware that any tedious conversation with Reeder would have been better for her nerves at the moment than listening to what Jamie had come to tell her.

"The police," he started as soon as they were out of earshot, "they told Sarah they have enough to charge him."

Clara leaned against the rail, all felling suddenly leaving her lower body. Her heart, on the other hand, was beating erratically.

"What does that mean?" she asked, dreading the answer she already knew was coming.

"They'll probably arrest him soon," he replied, giving voice to her fears.

"When exactly? Did they say?"

"No, and Sarah and Michael haven't been able to reach the CPS solicitor yet. But it could be on Monday or as early as tonight." Jamie shuffled his feet, and looked anywhere but at her.

"I take it they know where he is, then," she supplied in a soft voice, oxygen coming in short supply.

"Yes, it was agreed that they would let him leave London as long as he stayed within two hours of the city and reachable at all times. We stretched those two conditions a wee bit, but it won't stop them for long."

"So they'll go all the way to Brightstone to arrest him?" Clara couldn't imagine Malcolm being arrested in such quaint settings. It didn't fit, somehow.

"Sarah reckons they might charge him in Newport rather than London, but I doubt it. So yeah, the Met will go themselves."

"That doesn't give us a lot of time," she thought out loud, "but did you... Did you reach him? Did you tell him already?" Jamie sighed deeply, then nodded.

"I left him a message as soon as I heard to go to the phone-box in the village at noon so that I could talk to him properly. He picked up on the first ring. I wished I could have told him face to face, but..."

"It was better than leaving a message," she interrupted him, seeing how guilty he already felt.

"He took it better than I thought. I'm afraid the poor sod was probably expecting it," he added brokenly.

Clara's throat closed up, aware that it was the worst news of all. Malcolm had given up already.

"Or, you know, they could be bluffing. Michael says cops often do that to put pressure on the suspects. Make them crack and say or do something incriminating," he eventually uttered, intent on reassuring Clara now, just like she had tried to reassure him earlier.

But they both knew that luck hadn't been on their side since this whole thing started. And it wasn't about to change now.

"Are you going, then?" she asked, and Clara immediately regretted her question when she saw his crestfallen expression.

"I... I can't. It's a bloody nightmare at the Department with Malcolm gone. I'm barely holding everything together as it is, and... I don't want him to come back to a fucking mess, you know?"

She saw how close to the end of his tether Jamie actually was, and felt guilty for not having commiserated more over his own fate. Clara hadn't taken the time to wonder what it must be like in Downing Street without Malcolm dealing with the never ending list of daily crises. And despite all that, Jamie still believed that his boss would come back. Needed to believe it, probably. Lest he wanted to part with his sanity once and for all.

"That baldy nonce Nicholson is trying to take his place. I won't let that happen. No fucking way. And if the opposition ever gets wind of his absence, this is all going to turn into an even more massive shit storm."

Jamie was still trying to justify his reasons for not being able to go to Malcolm, and Clara knew she should stop him and tell him she understood, but she couldn't think of anything to say to make him feel better. Offering him platitudes wouldn't work, and he was good at self-castigating himself without her help - because, yes, she was definitely cross with him for not going. Although this realisation gave her pause. Was he scared of going, perhaps? Scared of seeing his mentor in such a bad light? Scared of his reaction after having failed him?

"Sarah will just be a phone call's away if he's arrested, of course. She'll go to Newport if necessary, she's still his lawyer," he carried on, perhaps seeing the half-hidden reproach in Clara's eyes.

"I'll go," she then said, interrupting his speech, "I'll go today," she added, her mind made up.

"What? Are you sure? Clara..."

"I can take the afternoon off. I'm certainly allowed that after all I've done for this bloody department since I arrived." Her tone was resolute - there was no room for doubt in her words.

"I'm not sure he'll take it well, you know how fucking furious he can be when he's on the back-foot, and..."

"Jamie," she stopped him, her eyes flashing, "we are not leaving him alone at a time like this, not knowing when or if the police might turn up to arrest him again. I don't care how fucking furious he'll be, I just know that I have to go. I have to do something, and this is it."

He stared at her, trying to decipher her reasons for insisting on doing this. What he saw threw him at first, but then comforted him more than anything she could have possibly said to set his mind at ease on the subject. Jamie almost felt like smiling, and truly believed at that moment that things could turn out alright. More than alright. Energised by her utter composure, he stood a little straighter, the weight of the past two weeks a little lighter, and nodded.

Clara went home and packed a bag. She had bumped into the minister as she was exiting her office, intent on quickly reaching HR to request the afternoon off - she was tempted to leave without informing them, but professional conscience eventually kicked in - and he had looked worryingly at her. When she explained that she was leaving for the day, citing family issues, he took her hand in his and she was startled to see actual concern in his eyes. Take all the time you need, Clara. And be safe. She had swallowed, hard, feeling tears at the corners of her eyes, and eventually nodded, painfully glad for his comforting words.

Driving to Portsmouth took longer than the last time, and she had to stop a couple of times to let her engine cool off. Her old car was complaining about her rough treatment these past few weeks, and Clara eventually slowed down when she realised that having a break down now would be disastrous. It was raining on the way to Fishbourne and the horizon was darkening already, but she still went on the deck, wishing for the ferry to go faster. She only started thinking about what she would say to Malcolm as she reached Newport. Trying not to notice the police station, she racked her brain for ideas. He'd probably be on edge, expecting a knock on the door at any moment. She didn't imagine for a second that he might have done a runner. This just wasn't who Malcolm Tucker was. Still, anticipating his reaction at seeing her was close to impossible.

I'll know what to do when I get there, she kept repeating to herself uselessly.

She parked her red car further from the cabin than the last time, in the hope that she wouldn't spook him. When he opened the door, swiftly, she found out that nothing could have prepared her for the terror she read in his eyes. Her heart stopped, and his face slowly took on a different expression, just as terrible, when he saw that it was her and not the police. A dawning realisation.

"Oh, you're here to get your dog back, then." His voice was raw and utterly alien to her. Small, and almost childlike. Guarded. Ashamed. His head apparently too heavy for his neck and shoulders, bowed down under the weight of the world. The weight of his despair.

Clara's first urge was to slap him, hard. To rekindle the fire in his eyes and hopefully anger him in the process. Anger would be good. Anger would be something she could work with. Instead, Clara acted on her second impulse and all but crushed his body to hers. He didn't have time to react before she looped her arms securely around him and pulled at his hair with more force than strictly necessary. Her mouth came crashing against his, her teeth probably knocking a few of his loose in the process of frenziedly kissing him. Kissing him as though it were the first and last kiss they'd ever have - and perhaps it was. Kissing him like there were no tomorrow - and perhaps there wasn't. She felt his intake of breath against her lips, a beat, a sigh, and then he responded.

Her hands moved from his hair to his face, barely taking note that the heavy stubble of last week had been replaced by an almost fully-fledged beard. She felt the muscles of his jaw working furiously, his tongue against the roof of her mouth, now. When she tired of standing on her tip toes, he boldly pressed her tighter against him, his fingers already making their way past the waistband of her trousers. His intent was clear, but then so was hers. His kisses were bruising and her pleasure was flaring alarmingly fast. There was no way she would make him slow down, though. She breathed hard through her nose as he bit her lower lip, eliciting an involuntary moan from deep inside her chest, a moan he couldn't help but copy. She slid her fingers to the smooth skin at the back of his neck, but quickly missed the bristle of his facial hair.

When clothes eventually got in the way of their roaming hands, Malcolm started walking backwards slowly, his mouth never leaving hers. She followed blindly, her body humming with expectation. A door was opened then closed, and Clara found herself roughly pushed against it. But Malcolm's arms were there to cushion her back, and she ground herself against his unmistakable hardness, one of her legs rising to hook around his waist. He groaned when their centres finally connected, and he helped her raise her other leg to settle all her weight on his hips. Her body now flushed against his, the air around them crackling with desire, Malcolm released her lips and Clara arched her back, pressing herself more snugly against his erection. He emitted a low purr at the contact and rasped his tongue across her neck. Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she let herself succumb under his touch. She tried unsuccessfully to generate more friction between them, but this would mean untangling her legs from his waist. When Malcolm felt her hands slowly sliding down his chest and reach his fly, he stiffened and started walking backwards once more, Clara still draped around him.

She suddenly felt a mattress under her and their clothes were gone in a matter of seconds. Clara then pulled him back into the cradle of her thighs, where he belonged. There was no time for hesitation, only action and reaction. The thudding of her heart answered his and only his and the emotions raging through her were for him and only him. For this moment. This instant between them. Malcolm gazed down at her with hungry, burning eyes and as they joined Clara felt that she was getting him back. She was getting the man she'd fallen in love with back.

Malcolm Finn Tucker, evidence has come to light, as a result of which I'm arresting you on suspicion of holding and distributing child pornography. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is that clear?

He didn't recognise the voice. It was so very cold and inflexible. Other voices followed, other words. All of them just as cruel and accusing. Then another voice, softer. And another sound - a scratching of some kind. The new voice was calling out his name. A woman. But it wasn't his mother or his sisters. He had difficulty recognising that tone, although he unconsciously tried to reach out for it. To find its source. That voice was safe, he knew. That voice...

"Malcolm!"

Darkness. Soft sheets smelling of dust and sweat and...

"Wake up, Malcolm!"

Hands running through his hair. And the scratching sound was still there. It came from the door. Someone was at the door. Someone was there to... He sat up quickly, dread engulfing him once more.

"Shh, it's okay, it's just the Doctor."

Padding feet, creaking wood and a fast shape running straight for him. Blueish light had also appeared from behind the door, and Malcolm managed to catch a glimpse of the whining dog. He leaned down towards him and started patting him expertly behind the ears, like he had done almost every morning this past week.

"The nightmare woke him," said Clara, coming to sit with him on the small bed. Beautiful, naked Clara. He felt his cheeks heating up self-consciously at his own nakedness, and lowered his eyes to the dog.

"Yes, he's always having nightmares," he replied in a raspy voice.

"I didn't mean him. It was your nightmare that woke him. He heard you before I did." Malcolm stopped petting the animal, and turned towards Clara, his embarrassment forgotten.

"What?"

"You were having a bad dream, and the Doctor heard it. Or felt it, I'm not sure how that works. He hasn't done that in a long time, but I remember."

"But... No, he was the one having a nightmare, that's why he's making that sound," Malcolm said, frowning, doubt creeping in his mind.

"He's making that sound because you scared him, and he wants to make sure that you're alright," she enunciated slowly, moving closer to him and looking at him with compassionate eyes. He quickly averted his gaze, feeling trapped. When the Doctor quieted down, he stood up.

"I'll uh, go and sleep on the sofa, no point keeping you awake," he muttered, bending down to retrieve some of his clothes.

"It's almost morning, and I'm not planing on getting back to sleep. Stay here, Malcolm," she told him earnestly.

"I'll go for a swim, then."

"A swim?"

"Yeah, I need a swim. And I have to check for new messages." His boxers and trousers back on, he finally turned towards her once again. She wasn't ashamed of her own nudity, and Malcolm couldn't help but stare at her body longingly for a few seconds. Her eyes remained inscrutable.

"Can I take the Doctor with me? He usually comes with me," he asked, remembering all of a sudden why she had come here. Why she had probably come here. She lowered her shoulders, puzzled.

"Of course you can. But Malcolm..."

"I'll be quick, I promise. If they come while I'm away, tell them I'll be right back." He turned his back to her before he had time to see her reaction, and was soon on his way down the cliff.

The sun was just about to rise behind him, but he still got in the water much faster than usual. He almost didn't feel the cold, and swam for a short while. He'd managed to swim just a bit longer each day, and today was no exception. The previous morning, he had thought this would be the last time he ever felt the salty water against his skin. The last time for a long time. Maybe today, then. Better make the most of it. He ran back to the towel he now brought down with him, the Doctor at his heels, and only then did he stop and think about Clara, and about what they did. He shouldn't make her wait, she probably wanted to leave quickly. Probably. That word, again.

Towelling himself dry, his limbs shaking, he noticed small red marks on his chest. And the obvious imprint of teeth near his belly button. When she... Jesus, he thought, wondering wistfully what it would be like to make love to her again. Properly. What it would be like if she were his for more that one night. And not just one night she felt enough pity inside her to grant a dying man's last request. Except he hadn't requested anything. And he hadn't tasted pity on her lips. But that's what it had been about, right? His heart clenched painfully, and Malcolm couldn't decide if it was because of the cold or because he wanted to be wrong about his last assessment.