Chapter 8: Appointment With Death

In a way, it quite reminded her of a hawk.

She'd seen the documentaries about then when she was younger, on the rainy days when going outside wasn't an option and there was nothing else on.

She'd seen the way they circled their prey, taunting it, slowly creeping closer towards, inch by inch by inch, until it finally made the last move.

She'd seen the way it struck out at the prey, snapping it up and devouring it in a matter of seconds.

She'd seen it fly away, content with its meal and heading for its next target.

They were trapped. That was a fact, she had come to accept, which was no small feat. All they could do was hope that their glares would fend off the predator, or that pretending not to notice it would turn its stomach and halt the attack.

Discretely, Mel checked the pocket watch, so that Maisy wouldn't notice. It was just gone four in the morning. At this time of year, there should be at least the faintest chance of a sunrise by now, the remotest glimmer of light beaming over the horizon.

But there was nothing. An opaque, impenetrable wall of blackness was at every window, blotting out the village, hills and sky above them. Mel pressed her face right up against the glass, but it did no good. The distant sanctuary evaded her sight.

The reminders of futility hanging over their heads, they barricaded the doors and windows, fortifying the house. Anything that even slightly resembled a weapon had been gathered in the dining room, from the revolver to the butter knives in the kitchen. Instead of packing them away, they kept them lying on the floor, plain to see. This way, if one were to go missing, they'd realise as soon as possible.

After gathering their cache, they made their way up the stairs, inspecting each room they passed. There was eight rooms on the second floor; the library, the bathroom and 6 guest rooms. Of these 6 guest rooms, 2 were empty, and the rest were used by Mel, Alice, Professor Oakley and Maisy respectively.

However, if you were to check each room with a clear mind, that wasn't the impression they gave.

Mel's was full of the usual clutter, in the same piles and disorder as she had left it before. That was a relief – the figure hadn't returned to her room.

Maisy's was almost infuriatingly neat, as if it were a deliberate subversion of her manner. All of her clothes were packed into the suitcase, the bedspread was pulled taut across the mattress and tucked at the corner and the vase on the windowsill emptied of the dying flowers.

In fact, apart from the suitcase in the corner, it was almost indistinguishable from the other rooms.

All the other rooms, including those of Alice and Professor Oakley, were immaculately made, clear of any traces of dust and litter.

'It's like they were never here…' Maisy gaped absent-mindedly, as she tested the bed for hidden secrets. 'No sign of them.'

'They've moved on from just the bodies, then,' Mel replied, looking in vain out of the window. 'They're taking their lives as well as their deaths.'

'This is what's going to happen to me.' Maisy nodded slowly, dropping to the bed as the blood was sucked from her face. 'It's going to kill me, and then I'll be gone. Never have existed.'

'It's not going to get you,' Mel tutted, as warmly as she could manage. Oh. That was a good lie. She'd never thought of herself as a good liar; she'd always believed herself to be honest and open to others. Someone trustworthy.

'I'm not stupid,' Maisy sniffed, starting to lose her already tenuous grip. 'It's going to come for me. If it's not, then it's coming for you.'

'It's not coming for either of us.' Mel answered, joining her on the bed. 'We're going to get through this. Both of us.'

Maisy shrugged her away, staring at a small gap in the floorboards. 'Arthur didn't,' she replied at last. 'Alice didn't. The Professor didn't. Why are we going to be any different?'

That got her. Mel paused, looking away in shame.

'Just look at my room,' Maisy cried, throwing her hand in the vague direction. 'It wasn't like that before. It's packed up my stuff, tidied everything away. It's getting ready for me. It's getting ready to make me disappear.'

Mel had to admit, she did have a point. Unless they did something quickly, it wasn't looking good for Maisy. Of course, she'd never tell her that. As the Doctor would say, poor bedside manner.

'I have a friend,' she finally said, turning to Maisy. 'He can help. He'll know what to do.'

'Yeah? Where is he?'

'…I don't know. But he'll be here. He said he was coming to get me, when the holiday was finished.'

'So we just have to wait 6 short days with a homicidal killer roaming loose?'

Mel frowned. Was there any other type of killer? Fortunately, she managed to conceal it at the last second.

'Don't suppose anyone will mind if I pop it,' Maisy muttered. 'Nobody'll give a toss. Yeah, they'll pretend to, say how they always wanted to know me better, or thought I was a good person. But it'll just be a lie. Truth is, they'll barely remember my name, or my face. Enough people died over the last few years. What's one more, eh?'

Suddenly, she was shaken, like she'd been knocked unconscious and was struggling to stay vertical.

'Of course,' she wobbled, barely forming the words through her lips 'that's to say I'm still here in the morning. If – when it kills me, I'll vanish. Fade away into the house, along with Alice, Arthur, the Professor, all the others. Bet you won't remember me.'

'I won't need to,' Mel replied. 'because you're not going to die. You're going to make it.'

'Do us a favour,' Maisy told her, her hollowed-out eyes boring into Mel's mind. 'leave the fantasy alone. Come back to the real world.'

For the first time in a few minutes, Mel turned forwards, positioning her hands on her knees and holding her gaze at Maisy. 'There's only one room left,' she said, standing to her feet.

In a single movement, her head spun around, finding the door.

The figure was stood before her.

With a meaningful flourish, the Doctor rapped away at the console, over-dramatically pressing buttons and hoping he looked convincing enough. The stony glare of the Commander flooded over him, examining his every move with the utmost scrutiny.

'Are you nearly done?' the Commander asked loftily, generously tossing boredom over his statement.

'Nearly,' the Doctor replied, pressing one last button with a sense of false achievement. 'I just need to make some adjustments to the engines…'

He stepped towards the bulkhead, going to leave. As he predicted, the Commander moved to block his path, away from the hatch. Quickly, the Doctor eyed it, before returning his sights to the Commander.

'I think one of our own will suffice,' the Commander answered, laughing amicably. Never let a crocodile smile, thought the Doctor to himself. 'Besides. You'll be much too busy in here, won't you.'

It wasn't a question, the Doctor decided instantly. It was a declaration. 'Yes,' he agreed, breaking out into a smile. 'Good idea.'

The Commander beckoned for the nearest guard to exit the room with a swift motion of his hand.

'I had a box,' the Doctor mentioned quietly, getting back to work. 'In the corridor. I don't suppose you know where it went?'

'Waste removal, probably.' sniffed the Commander. 'It was cluttering up the place.'

The Doctor felt the blood drain from his face. 'Yes, of course.' he mumbled back, one eyebrow raised in an expression of part-confusion and part-sorrow. 'I couldn't have it back, by any chance?'

'I shouldn't think so. Most likely thrown out into space by now. If only you hadn't wasted so much time running about…' the Commander tutted. 'Shame, I suppose. It would've gone so lovely with the rest of the ashes.'

The Commander strode across the bridge, back to his original position. With baited breath, the Doctor watched as he moved closer, inch by inch, to the service hatch. Closer…closer…

A sigh of relief. He just missed it, standing a foot or so to the side. Not much, but better than the first time.

From what he could gather, the ship was fully automated, based upon the controls at his fingertips. Whilst this meant that it could function with a minimalist crew such as this, it also meant that it would only take one or two wrong buttons to set off a chain reaction. Basic human error; the greater the responsibility, the more likely a chance of failure.

With a swipe of his index finger, the Doctor deactivated the door-locks on this deck. They hissed in retaliation, but the guards seemed not to notice. Perhaps they'd been trained to ignore all the odd creaks and groans of a ship this size, all the better to allow them to focus on their duties. Perhaps they were just ignorant.

The two plates forming the hatch quivered, the seal being broken evidently. One step closer to freedom. His eyes darting upwards, the Doctor's gaze met with that of a guard's, stood just opposite him. All eyes were on him, it would appear. Don't worry, he reassured himself. You could be making a cup of tea and they still wouldn't notice.

There was an automatic option for the hatch, according to the monitor. Whilst it saved him the time-consuming job of opening it, it still wouldn't provide a diversion. That was something he'd have to sort out himself, apparently.

Idly, the Doctor started to whistle. The tune wandered aimlessly through the notes, eventually fixing on a mix between Camptown Races and It's a Long Way to Tipperary. In the corner of his eye, he saw one guard exchange confused looks with another and chuckled to himself.

'The rendezvous will be here shortly.' one of the guards chirped suddenly, making the Doctor flinch at the sudden sound. '22 minutes, according to their calculations.'

'Good. You have a deadline, Doctor.' the Commander drawled. 'Otherwise, we can get one of their engineers to finish the job, and you may become a tad…superfluous.'

'Nothing like pressure to hasten the workload, eh?' the Doctor replied nervously.

Reinforcements. Never a good sign. Even if he managed to stop this ship, there'd be at least another one to take its place. Unless…yes, that was a possibility. Scant, but it might just work.

That portion of the plan could wait. First things first, he needed to escape. Fantasising about future developments was all well and good, but he needed a touch of realism more than anything. The umbrella, hat and other items would have to remain here. He simply wouldn't have time to reclaim and make his mistake. That's alright, he decided. If his plan worked, he'd have more than enough time to come back for them. And if it didn't…well, he could always buy a new umbrella, couldn't he?

The console chimed, a regular pulsating beat of four. All of the guards stood attention to it, whilst the Commander rolled his eyes in irritation. 'Problem, Doctor?' he asked.

'No, no,' the Doctor replied cheerfully, frantically pressing as many buttons as he could to try and stop the noise. 'That's supposed to happen.'

'That's the security alarm. It means that somebody's trying to get into the system via an unorthodox route.'

'Does it? How fascinating.'

'You better not be trying anything, Doctor. I hate to get blood on the deck, you see. Almost impossible to get out.'

'Hate to be an inconvenience,' the Doctor muttered under his breath. Slamming his fist on the console with a single, hard thump, he silenced the alarm.

One button was ready to go – open the hatch. The command had been keyed in ages ago, but he simply didn't have the chance to use it. He'd be turned into a block of Swiss cheese before you could say 'Don't shoot, it wasn't me'.

Nonchalantly, the Doctor noticed the pipes running around the top of the bridge. Stencilled on one side was the words 'OXYGEN SUPPLY. DO NOT BLOCK.'

A rather interesting idea popped into the Doctor's mind, as they seemed to have a habit of doing every now and then. A valve was in the arch of the pipe, presumably computer-synchronised…yes, that would do quite nicely.

With a well-placed press, the oxygen in-flow into the pipes increased tenfold, as high as it would go. At the same time, the valve tightened, cutting off the overflow tanks. The pipes began to scrape, the metal straining under the pressure of the increasing gas. One by one, the guards all looked at the ceiling, bemused by the new arrival of sound.

Some of the pipes started to expand outwards, a small curve in the arced metal.

WARNING: PRESSURE EXCEEDING SAFETY LIMITS, the computer screen said. DO YOU WISH TO CONTINUE?

Almost gleefully, the Doctor pressed 'YES'.

There was a whistling, a pinprick in the pipes amplified by the magnificent rush of air. And suddenly, there was a bang.

It was like a dozen balloons being popped all at once, the actual ground shaking with the force. The guards all clutched their ears in a desperate bid to block out the dreaded ringing sound.

Tapping the button, the Doctor dove forward, his body curved like a dolphin. He soared through the air, passing the annoyed, confused, dazed gawk of the Commander.

His hands passed through the hatch, followed by his arms, then his torso, then abdomen, legs and finally feet. Not a second later, the hatch slid shut again, sealing with a clunk.

Instincts were useful things, really, Mel had decided. They told you whether to turn and run as fast as you can or know when it's your time to fight. They can tell you who to avoid, or what you shouldn't eat, or whether you should an umbrella or sunhat out with you.

They can also bring disjunct memories racing to the surface, events remembered but buried under a lifetime of actions. She was eight, as far as she could remember (which was to the second). Her school had just introduced a gymnastics class for her year – every Monday lunchtime, they'd take them to the assembly hall, put down some safety mats and let them leap and prance through the air.

Mel had immediately taken to the activity, her petite form providing a useful asset even at that age. Within a few sessions, she'd learnt how to properly kick off with her legs, getting the right angle to throw yourself backwards safely.

Whilst the class had stopped after a few months thanks to funding (or rather, the lack thereof), the motion had been locked in her memory, along with every other minute of her life. When she combined it with the hours of aerobics she'd participated in, the answer came to her.

Grabbing Maisy's shoulders with her hands, Mel kicked against the floor, slamming down with her dominant foot. The force threw the two of them over the bed, rolling across the duvet. Mel definitely wasn't strong enough to move the two of them all the way, but Maisy got the hint almost instantly. Tucking her head into her chin, Maisy allowed herself to roll the rest of the wall, falling onto to the floor. A moment later, Mel joined her.

They didn't allow themselves any respite. Mel practically threw herself up, watching the figure across the bed. It stood there, motionless, anticipating their next trick.

'So now what?' Maisy asked, pressing herself into the corner.

'We'll see what it does.' Mel answered. 'If it goes around the bed, we can go over. If it goes over, we can go around.'

The adversary didn't move. Mel watched its shroud flap in the light breeze, the pale glow of the corridor's candlelight shining through the thin fabric.

'I think I can see a slight dilemma with your plan,' Maisy murmured, daring to blink even once. 'What do we do now?'

'We'll have to wait.' Mel resigned. 'There's not much we can do.'

A tense few beats passed. Both women stared at the figure, eagerly anticipating its next move.

'Run.' Maisy said. 'Just run.'

'I can't leave you here,' Mel protested. 'You won't stand a chance!'

'It's me it wants, not you. You can buy yourself a bit more time to think, or run, or whatever. You said it yourself – it's going by alphabet. There's nothing you can do, ma'am. It's got us cornered.'

'I'm not leaving you.'

Mel glanced downwards. In particular, she started to examine the edges of the quilt tucked underneath the mattress. An idea came to her.

'When I say run,' she whispered to Maisy 'run.'

'What?!'

Before Mel could respond, she ducked down and stuffed her fingers underneath the mattress. Snapping her legs up again, she tossed the mattress over, sending the pillows flying through the air. The blanket formed a rough net, ensnaring the figure.

It happened way too quick for the figure. As Mel leaped forwards, the mattress landed on top of it. If it was made of matter, it would've felt the crushing atop it.

'Run!' Mel cried, jumping over the now empty bedframe and onto the mattress. The combined weight of both her and Maisy seemed to be enough to keep it down, and within a few clambering movements, they were through the door.

The two of them landed in the corridor, impacting against the wall opposite. Feeling the keys in her pocket, Maisy grabbed the door handle and swung it shut, clicking the lock shut.

Both of them leant against the wall. They gulped for breath, due to the hefty dose of shock and exhaustion.

'That was close,' Maisy huffed, pointing at the door. 'D'you think it can get out of there?'

'Most likely, yes,' Mel replied, downcast. 'We've got to hide somewhere.'

'What time is it?'

Mel checked the watch. 'Half past four in the morning.' she answered, stifling a yawn once more. 'We should be getting some sunlight by now, surely?'

'Something's wrong,' Maisy nodded in agreement. 'You know, I thought the bloke would at least by trying the door by now. Seeing if he can break the lock.'

'We'd have heard it. And the locks weren't any problem before.'

Mel turned to Maisy suddenly, her eyes wide. 'The window.'

It was quite a gamble, if he was entirely honest. Schematics, plans and blueprints could only tell you so much. For example, they could tell you that it was four feet to the conduit beneath, and that the tunnel was composed of cast-iron metal.

What it didn't tell you, however, was how much it would hurt to crash into it head first, feet sprawling in the air.

Quietly, he let out a muffled groan, gingerly rubbing his head. There'd be a lump there come morning, he was sure.

Through the metal plating of the hatch, he could hear the Commander barking orders to the men and, against his better judgment, gave a little giggle at the thought. At least one way or another, he'd managed to land them in hot bother.

The tunnel stretched out before him, continuing for miles and miles before his eyes. A set of rungs was moulded into the side of the conduit, presumably so the engineers wouldn't become trapped whenever the artificial gravity when off-line. A myriad of lights and cables were dotted up and down the place, joining by a regular hum of machinery.

Inching his elbows, forward, he started to crawl through the tunnel, risking getting his shoulders wedged in place with every movement.

All along the side of the tunnel, bits of wire and mechanism were hanging out, the leftovers from dozens upon dozens of repair jobs, all started but very few finished. It went someway to explain the state of the ship, then. Perhaps the Commander had all the engineers shot whenever the ship lurched and spilt his afternoon tea. Or perhaps they were simply just as incompetent as the rest of the crew.

The tunnel reached a cross-junction, providing him with a little bit more space. A ladder ran upwards, to the next series of shafts that were zig-zagged throughout the core of the ship. On the wall opposite, 'EE-57' had been carved into the metal.

Hooking his arms around the nearest pole, the Doctor rested for a moment, catching his breath. As far as he could tell, the ladder went from the very top to the very bottom of the ship, going just as far in the opposite direction.

Muttering wordlessly, he plotted the course ahead in his mind. Down the shaft twelve levels to EE-69 and across to GH-69. Easy as pie.

Ending his relief, the Doctor started to descend down the ladder. The various tubes crept past him, each one identical in every respect to the last and next.

At last, he reached his exit. Repositioning himself, he started to move to the left – or at least, he thought it was to the left. He was already starting to lose his sense of direction.

There was a thrumming, echoing through the tunnels. As he heard it, the Doctor froze, gripping the rung as tight as he could.

'He's in here somewhere!' a voice shouted, rebounding through the conduit. 'Get looking!'

It seemed to come from everywhere at once. The Doctor looked all around for a few tries, but it was useless.

'Change of plan,' he reassured himself, trying to turn around and failing embarrassingly. 'Going down!'

He reached the next ladder, pulling himself into the shaft. From somewhere, there was a pounding of boots as seemingly dozens of troops piled into the system.

'Fan out!' the voice shouted, accompanied by the hissing of a door sealing. 'Find an entry point, guard it with your life!'

Precariously, the Doctor looked down the channel. The circle shrank the further the tunnel led down, forming a minuscule pinprick at the nadir. Even he would struggle with counting the levels it led to.

The thumping of boots grew closer. With a reluctant whimper, the Doctor pulled his sleeves up over his hands and gripped the poles of the ladder as best he could.

'Here we go…' he murmured, placing his first foot on the ladder. The rush of anticipation filled him, and a grin pure with excitation formed on his face. The second foot joined the first.

'Hey!'

A guard appeared in the tunnel, a few metres away from the Doctor. In the frantic few seconds he used to fumble for his weapon, the Doctor kicked away from the ladder and slid down.

The chute flew by, each conjoining tunnel flitting by faster and faster and faster still. The thin material between his skin and metal stopped the Doctor searing the flesh from his hands, but the wind still whipped his hair and ruffled the loose strands of shirt at his waist. Bewildered guards gasped and yelled at the sight, each of them unable to fire in time.

He glanced down. The ground was getting closer all the time, now plainly visible. 'Oh no…'

The Doctor tightened his grip on the ladder, starting to slow him down.

A guard shot out at the bottom of the shaft. As fast as he could, the weapon was aimed upwards and a single blast was fired.

As soon as the trigger was squeezed, the Doctor reached his arms out, a single movement that shot him against the opposite wall of the tunnel.

The blast missed the Doctor by mere inches, one of the miniature tendrils licking at his shirt and scorching it. However, it flew up the tube like a flare, eventually blasting at the peak.

For the last few feet, the Doctor was in freefall, both arms and feet flailing for want of a hold. It didn't work.

He landed in a pile on top of the shooter, knocking him out in an instant. The Doctor landed on his feet, his legs buckling straight away from the force. But he made it.

Beaming at the success, the Doctor started to the crawl through the next tunnel.

'There's just one last thing,' Mel told her friend as they passed the ladder. 'before we go downstairs.'

'Yeah, yeah, fine, just hurry up.' Maisy retorted, checking over her shoulder quickly.

Nodding in silent response, Mel started to climb the ladder, leaving the field of light behind.

The loft was just as before, the boxes arranged almost perfectly, if not the slight disruption of an inch or so. Through the still air, the tapping of the typewriter resonated. But this time, Mel wasn't frightened. She simply didn't have the time.

Moving around the corner, she watched the typewriter clack and ding, a constant stream of letters being pressed into the crinkled paper.

The enemy moved around the side of the house, following the decayed brick wall. Above it, the night sky was a sheet of dark blue, without the slightest hint of dawn present.

It knew its time was approaching, its last chance at salvation. Time was rapidly escaping, however; the vanishing horizon growing closer evermore told it that much.

The hills had been lost to the night now. The distant lands were only mere memories, and the village a caricature of its old self.

The typewriter stopped. Mel had raised it in the air, checking the space underneath for any sign of a hidden mechanism.

There was a thin sheet of dust covering the desk, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. But apart from that, it was a crate, the exact same as the others piled up all around.

At the side, there was the two candle, as tall as they had been the first time. Experimentally, Mel licked her thumb and index finger and prodded at the candle. It extinguished, putting half the room into darkness.

So the candles were real, then. Which did raise the question of how they were keeping alight for this long? Even with salt, they'd have melted more of the wax that this.

Mel grabbed onto the paper and pulled it from the slot, scooping up the pile next to her and shuffling them together. She rolled the pile into a cylinder and held it like a bat, as she headed back towards the ladder.

'It's still there,' she shouted down the hole to Maisy below. 'The typewriter.'

Maisy turned and called back: 'What I want to know, is where's all the paper coming from?'

'I don't know. Must a box of it somewhere.'

'Shame we can't use it. Makes good firewood.'

Mel jumped down the last few rungs to the ground. 'That's it, now. Nowhere else anybody could be hiding.'

The Doctor pulled himself out of the tunnel, streaks of grime and dirt across his shirt. Around him, the corridor was silent, completely free of any life.

Pressing the button, he shut the hatch, shutting off the conduit inside. Dusting his hands, he stood up straight.

According to his calculation, he was at the exact base of the ship. Unless you knew for sure, there was no way to know – it was verbatim to all the other corridors.

There'd be guards en route even now. And quite frankly, he was starting to run out of places to hide.

The Doctor started to walk down the corridor, tucking his hands into his pockets. He had…ooh, 12 minutes or so before the reinforcements arrived. Even if he had complete control of the ship, he still wouldn't stand a chance at stopping them; he was glad to admit his military strategy was on the rusty side.

He rounded a corner, examining the nearest door. ADVANCED TRAINING read the sign next to it. 'This will do nicely…' the Doctor purred. He tapped the button to open it.

In lieu of the soft bing that usually came, it was an ugly clunk. The door refused to budge. The Doctor tested the button a few more times, before hitting the door in annoyance with the base of his fist.

He looked up and down a few times, before placing his fingers into the tiny gap in the door. Despite his best efforts, it still wouldn't open.

The stomping of boots boomed just around the corner. Guards. The Doctor ducked back behind the corner, out of sight.

Before him, the two guards passed by, emotionless marionettes in action. They headed towards the end of the corridor, not noticing the Doctor a few metres away.

He returned to the corridor, heading in the opposite direction.

Two minutes later, he was just was baffled as before. Presumably, the Advanced Training was the bulk in the centre of the ship, the mysterious chamber the Commander didn't want him to know anything about. All the more alluring, he thought to himself.

And another thing – it was the only door so far that had been locked. Even the bridge had only been guarded. Which implied that it wasn't locked for security reasons, but for safety.

A computer terminal. That would do nicely…he'd lost the element of surprise, so anything was up for grabs.

He reached the next door. CABIN 47. Gently, he pressed the button and opened the door.

The lights flashed on as soon as he entered. A quartet of bunkbeds was in each corner, with a communal computer terminal in the middle. The Doctor crossed towards it, cracking his knuckles.

'Here we go…' he intoned slowly, as he started to type.

ACCESS CODE: SCHEMATICS

ACCESS DENIED

ACCESS CODE: OVERRIDE

CLEARANCE REQUIRED

PRIMARY PRIORITY

ACCESS PERMITTED

The Doctor smiled.

ACCESS SCHEMATICS / D1

A wall of text flooded the screen, words and numbers more or less illegible. 'Yes, yes, yes,' the Doctor grunted, waving his hand in exasperation. 'Ah ha!'

The blueprints moved onto the screen, highlighting the name of each room.

At last, he reached the room for which he was looking. Advanced Training. INFORMATION BLOCKED. The Doctor barely resisted the urge to hit the computer; instead, he re-typed the security code once more.

His eyes filled with the information.

'Oh dear…'

Logic. It was a simple enough process, and an important one at that. Working with computers had given Mel enough experience with it; it was second nature by this point.

Logically, for example, she knew to suspect Maisy. She knew for a fact that she didn't commit the murders, and Maisy was the only other person in the area, not to mention her somewhat cavalier attitude to the murders.

But that wasn't enough. Despite what sheer evidence was telling her, Maisy just couldn't be a suspect. The impracticality would be evidence enough, but there was a human side as well. Against her better judgment and whatever cold hard logic would tell her, she couldn't see Maisy as anything other than an ally.

'We've got to see it,' Maisy said suddenly.

The two of them were sat back-to-back in the main room; Maisy with the revolver in front of her, Mel with the sheets of paper. This way, if the figure tried to sneak on one of them, the other could provide some warning.

'Sorry?'

'We've got to see it. The bodies, I mean.'

'What do you mean?' Mel asked.

'Before the…thing, whatever it is, can only take the bodies away after we've seen them. The Professor and Arthur had been dead for ages and the bodies were still there, but Alice only took a few minutes. We had to see it before the body could go.'

'Yes…' Mel replied, not entirely convinced. 'It fits.'

'Makes about as much sense as everything else tonight. See? Not so thick, am I?'

'No, you're not.'

'Thanks, ma'am. Didn't want to say anything, but your friends running a bit late.'

Mel laughed a little. 'He tends to.'

There was a lull, before Maisy spoke once more: 'Do me a favour?'

'Anything.'

'When it gets me-'

'Maisy,'

'When it gets me, don't look at my body. Just run. Because when you see it, that's when it can get at me. Take me away. So whatever you do, don't let me go. Don't forget me.'

'I won't forget you,' Mel replied, as comfortingly as she could make her voice sound. 'And it's not going to get you. One of us will see it coming.'

'When we stop whoever this is,' Mel continued, after a deep breath. 'I was wondering…if you'd like to come with me. Me and my friend, I mean. We go travelling, all around – this was just a holiday. A break. And our…ship, that we go around in, there's always room for a small one.'

Mel bit her lip, waiting for the response. 'So…would you like to come?'

Maisy didn't reply.

'Maisy?'

Mel stood up, turning around. Behind her, Maisy slumped onto the ground. A thin red line trickled down her forehead, her eyes rolling backwards.

'No…' Mel cried, on the brink of sobbing. 'Maisy…'

On the floor of the living room, with a gun in her lap and blood on her forehead, Maisy Walker had died.