I went to Wellington and WROTE. For, like, four days. What. And I saw art by Colin Mc Cahon whose name is a bitch to pronounce, and it was good, but my Great-Aunt found spelling mistakes in one of his paintings, which kind of mutes the Colin Mc Cahon effect. Clearly I get my nit-picking from her. No, really, it's a genetic disorder, I'm certain.
There is not enough Harriet Jones in this chapter. I must remedy this in further chapters. Maybe I could write an ode?
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Rose Tyler awoke to the sound of Mozart. Very tinny, squeaky, blotchy Mozart. She was suddenly aware of the jolts and vibrations of the van, the filthy joke that one rugby player was saying to another rugby player, and Mozart. It was not so far removed from waking up on an alien planet.
"Your phone's ringing," said one of the rugby players.
Rose woke up properly. The rugby player sitting in the seat in front of her was wearing a tight khaki shirt which clearly displayed the kind pectoral muscles that people take photographs of and put on calendars. Rose did not have time for pectoral muscles because, in one bold-tendoned hand, he was holding out her phone, which was still breathlessly attempting to finish Mozart's 40th on an abbreviated loop.
Rose snatched it, registered that the number was unknown, then answered. "Hello? Doctor?"
"Hello," said a very kindly English lady. "Is that Rose?"
"Yeah. Yes," she quickly corrected herself, because the voice sounded like one of those schoolteachers who refuse to answer to 'yeah'. "It's Rose. Who's speaking?"
"Harriet Jones, dear. We met at Christmas. And in Downing street a few months before that."
Rose felt her throat give an excited gulp. She covered the mouthpiece of the phone for a moment and glanced up at several of the rugby players who had seen her chest-bouncing reaction to the last phone call and had turned around in their seats to see if they would get a similar reaction this time.
"I've got Harriet Jones on the phone!" Rose squeaked.
One of the rugby players gave her a disdainful look. "What Harriet Jones?"
"What Harriet Jones do you think, nimrod?" Rose replied. "My old lady neighbour Harriet Jones? Do you think I'm going to get excited about that? Oh, my God, the Prime Minister called my phone," she put the mobile back to her ear. "Are you there? Sorry about that."
"Quite. Now listen, dear, I've got the Doctor here with me…"
"Oh my God, thank you," Rose leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. "You are a wonder, Harriet Jones. I'm sorry I missed the election; I would've voted twice if I could. How did you find him?"
"I found him a great inconvenience," Harriet Jones said sternly. "First he practically jumped in front of my vehicle as I was approaching Powell Estate. Then he climbed into the car without so much as a by-your-leave. Then he was nearly shot by my driver, who automatically assumed I was being attacked by some foreign assassin. And now he won't tell me why on earth he needs my help in the first place."
Rose had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. When she was certain she could keep her voice at an appropriate tone for speaking to the leader of Britain, she did so. "I'm afraid that's the sorta behaviour you just have to get used to with him. He doesn't mean to be avoiding explanations, though. He can't talk."
"I gathered that much, dear. His gestures seem to be indicating that his brain's been scrambled, or possibly that he wants omelette for lunch. It's hard to tell."
"The first one. A bit, anyway," explained Rose. "I think some kind of alien threat has tried to put him out of action. He's totally normal, he's just forgotten how to speak English mostly."
"Totally normal is rather relative, don't you think?"
"Yeah. Oh, yeah. God, I'm glad you found him, I saw the newspaper this morning and I was so bloody worried, I had no idea where he's got to."
"Then don't stop being worried. What one earth is going on, Rose? What not on Earth? His picture's in the paper and one of you had better start explaining…"
"He's not the murderer," Rose interrupted quickly. "He's been with me during half the deaths. I promise you, Harriet Jones, he's innocent. There's something else in London killing those people. A shapeshifter, I think."
"A shapeshifter," said Harriet Jones doubtfully. "Well. I can't tell you I completely believe you, or trust you, but… I suppose I fully accept that nothing is impossible anymore. Where are you?"
"I'm just driving back from Coventry with the TARDIS. I'll be in London before six."
"Back from Coventry?"
"It's a long story. I'll tell you everything you when I get there."
"Very well. Now what do you want me to do with the alien sitting here in my car?"
"Oh. Um. Don't let the police arrest him."
"Yes."
"And don't let him out of your sight."
"Yes."
"And ask him if he's seen my mother, she's not answering her phone."
"Alright. But what do I do with him? Where can I meet you when you get here? If anyone recognises him there's going to be hell to pay, but I can't very well take him back to Downing Street and hide him in a cupboard or something. Well, I suppose I could…"
"You could try. Just… just keep him under wraps a little while longer. Thank you so much, Harriet Jones, I mean really, thank you. I know you've probably got better things to do."
"Like running the country."
"Like that. Thanks. Put him on, can you?"
There was the fumbling sound of a phone being transferred from ear to ear, and then the Doctor's voice burst out of the speaker. "Rose! Hello!"
"Hello, Doctor," Rose found her legs trembling with relief. "I suppose there's not much I can say to you that you'll understand."
The Doctor answered in a flurry of alien nonsense.
"Yeah. I bet you're saying something really rude, you bastard," she laughed. "And I bet you think it's funny, too. Anyway, I've got the TARDIS…"
"Buh?" said the Doctor.
"The TARDIS. Rose – has – TARDIS. Coming – to – London."
"Buh?"
"Never mind. Just let Harriet Jones take care of you until I get there. I'm going now, Doctor, goodbye. Did Albert teach you that word? Goodbye."
The Doctor replied with more jabber. Rose sighed and hung up.
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They reached London sometimes around six – just a little bit late because the rugby bus voted (very undemocratically, Rose felt, but she was riding on their charity and didn't want to complain) to drive through a McDonald's for tea. Rose took the chance to make sure the TARDIS was still securely fastened and ring her doppelganger again.
The team finally finished their journey at a suburban rugby clubhouse. There, under Rose's meticulous supervision (she was getting rather good at this ordering-people-about thing, she felt with a swell of pride) unloaded the ship and plonked it in the back of the clubhouse where she felt it would be reasonably safe. Once Harriet Jones had brought the Doctor here, he would restore his connection to the ship and they could move it wherever they liked.
"We're all staying in the motel just around the corner," the team captain told Rose. "But we're playing a game tonight at eight, if you want to watch."
"If I've got a chance, maybe," she hinted.
"Have you got somewhere to stay?" he glanced over his shoulder at his team-mates and grinned, "You're welcome to bunk down with us tonight."
"Yeah, come on, Rose!" several of the boys hollered.
"It's tempting, but my mother is still living here," she said with a wink.
The boys roared their disappointment as, laughing, she headed outside to get her bag from the van. The carkpark was a zebra-coat of shadows and beams from the floodlights, but its emptiness made her hurry across the gravel. That was when she walked into a veritable wall of muscle.
Automatically she leapt back and tensed to run, just as the figure stepped out of the van's shadow and into the light.
She felt her mind distance itself from her body. "Jack," she whispered.
"Hi there, sweetcakes," he said with a characteristic half-smile.
Rose couldn't help flashing back to every ancient romance film she'd ever seen, full of swooning damsels and men with chiselled features. If she hadn't been so overcome by the sight of this dead man, she'd have slapped herself for acting like one of those damsels. But it was so impossible for him to be here.
She said exactly what every shocked black-and-white film heroine had said before her: "It is you."
"In the flesh," he said, sauntering closer. He was still wearing the white lab coat from the hospital.
Rose massaged her temples. "I brought you back, didn't I? With all the golden light and godly powers, is that what happened?"
"Damn lucky you did, too. But we've got more pressing issues on hand. I'm afraid I lost the Doctor. Right before the seventh murder," he turned his head a little, exposing his best angle while also managing to look mildly apologetic. His every gesture and movement was just as she had remembered him: he hadn't changed a bit, except for that hint of grey at his temples,
She had to lean against the van to get her thoughts straight. "But how did you get here? You were thousands of years away!"
"I hitched a ride on a passing timeship eventually," shrugged Jack with that self-satisfied smile that was so familiar to her. "I'll explain everything later. You have the TARDIS here, right?"
"Yeah, I found it in Coventry. Mad, huh?" Rose chuckled, tongue in her teeth.
She expected Jack to ask how the ship had gotten to Coventry, but all he said was, "Good. She'll be safe here. You have to come to the hospital with me: I know who's doing all this to the Doctor and I know how to stop it. Don't worry about transport," he added, "I stole an ambulance."
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They didn't talk much on the way to the hospital. Jack seemed… laconic. Rose was so stunned to have him beside her, living and well and driving an ambulance down Oxford street at ninety miles an hour, that she didn't mind. But it was odd.
"How long has it been – watch out for that bike – since we last saw you?" She asked after the silence began to get annoying.
"About fifteen years. I've been around," he shrugged. "Didn't you notice the grey?"
"I did actually," she said huskily. "I kind of like it."
He grinned and turned his head to cup her cheek with one palm. "I knew there was a good reason to come back here."
"You should watch the road," she smiled.
"Shit. Yeah," he swerved around a limousine backing out of an alley and took a corner so fast Rose was thrown against the window.
There was silence for another ten minutes until the glowing toothpaste-coloured windows of the hospital came into view. Jack parked the ambulance in the darkest and deepest recesses of the carpark and jumped out to open the door for Rose. She told herself not to simper at him. He offered his hand for Rose to step down. She simpered.
Jack seemed to know the key-code to get into a medic's door at the back of the hospital. He lead her through brightly-lit but mostly deserted corridors, occasionally pulling her into storage cupboards if someone in uniform was coming around the corner in the opposite direction. Rose found the Mission Impossible soundtrack playing in her head, and hummed Mozart to try and get it out.
"Here," Jack said, as they reached a corridor of small offices. Rose followed him inside one room halfway along, noticing that Dr Richard Mitchell was embossed on a plaque on the door
"Are you kidding? Why would you put it in this git's office? He had the Doctor handcuffed!" she hissed.
"I hid it in here for safekeeping. The police took him in for questioning after I vanished," Jack said. Which didn't really answer her question to the extent she would have liked, but she didn't want to nag. The lights were off inside the office and Rose's eyes were slow to adjust. She balked her shin on what she hoped was nothing more sinister than a wastepaper bin and began to feel the romanticism of creeping around with a time agent-cum-con artist beginning to wear thin.
"Jack, what is going on?" she whispered, feeling for his arm in the darkness. She could see the white outline of his coat but the rest of him was invisible, a smudge in the shadows. A moment later he stepped into the square of light coming through the doorway. He was holding a brown leather briefcase and beckoning to her.
They hunched over Dr Mitchell's desk. Jack was flicking the locks on the case when Rose put her hand on his wrist.
"Are you sure this thing is safe? Maybe we should call the Doctor first," she said.
"Of course it is – and you can't call the Doctor anyway. Besides the fact that he wouldn't understand a word you said, you left your cellphone in your bag in the van," Jack answered.
"Oh," said Rose. "So I did." She hadn't noticed. How had he known?
"It's perfectly safe. I've used it before," he lifted up the lid of the briefcase. Rose squinted, but there were too many shadows.
The case looked as if it was filled with a pool of darkness. A pool of darkness that was sloshing against the leather sides. A pool of darkness that was gathering into a form that was slowly reaching up out of the briefcase…
"Jack…" Rose straightened up a little. "You mind filling me in on what this thing is?" She made to step away from the desk.
Jack's arm shot out and his fingers locked around her neck from the side, thumb curled around her throat. She froze.
"It's fine," he said. His voice was toneless.
Rose tried to ease out of his grasp and felt it tighten. She did not whimper. "Let me go," she said quietly.
"It's alright," Jack said, and his voice was so friendly: that cocky, accented, confident voice that had convinced her to dance with him the first night they met. It was so familiar. So exactly how she remembered it, "There's nothing to worry about, Rose. Just take a look."
She tilted her head upwards, but couldn't keep herself from looking down at the briefcase with only her eyes. Something had solidified out of the blackness: a limbless, twisted, black something that was beginning to raise itself toward her face.
Rose tried to jerk away.
Jack grabbed her arm above the elbow and forced her towards the briefcase. She shrieked and struggled.
A wastepaper bin came soaring out of nowhere and slammed into the side of his head.
The hands clutching Rose released her. Off-balance, she fell towards the desk and the writhing black monster leapt up to greet her. Mostly out of the instinct to restore upright posture her arms flew out, grabbed the lid of the briefcase and slammed it down as hard as she could. A split-second later Rose landed splayed across it with all her weight. The edge of the desk caught her in the diaphragm and performed an amateur Heimlich manoeuvre, winding her completely.
All this happened in about a second.
Gasping for breath and unable to make sense of anything her eyes were seeing in the poor light, Rose's other senses leapt to the forefront. Firstly, she could hear somebody being battered unconscious with a wastepaper bin and secondly, something under her stomach was wriggling.
She pushed herself upright and saw that the black monster had been trapped half-in and half-out of the briefcase. It was flapping and struggling like an electrocuted rabbit and a ringing noise like the blue-screen of a telly filled Rose's ears – or was the ringing only in her head? Liquid that looked equally black had spurted across the desk where the briefcase had nearly cut the creature in half. There was the strong smell of antiseptic and concentrated sheep droppings, the latter of which Rose did not recognise because she had never been in the habitation area of many sheep.
For a moment, still unable to catch her breath, she stared in disgust. Then she grabbed the keyboard sitting behind the desk computer, ripped it off its power chord and brought it down on the black creature's approximate head-appendage. Several times. Hard. After a while, she noticed it wasn't moving any more. She dropped the keyboard on the ground.
There was a click and fluorescent light brought Rose's eyeballs back to work with a vengeance. Squinting and wheezing, she saw Dr Mitchell standing by the door with one hand on the light switch. In the other he clutched the rim of a metal wastepaper bin.
Jack lay front-down on the floor, eyes closed, head turned to the side to display some bloody and purpling wounds in the locality of his temple, though Dr Mitchell obviously hadn't been too fussed exactly which part of Jack's face he hit. With each breath that he took, his skin rippled, briefly displaying the features of a man twice his age with none of his good looks.
Rose felt her breathlessness diminish to make way for a sickness that had nothing to do with disgust and everything to do with shame.
"Oh, God," she choked. "I believed him," she looked up at Dr Mitchell, who was staring at his handiwork in shock, his hand over his mouth. "It didn't even cross my mind… he knew everything about Jack… he knew things only Jack would know… but it's not Jack… it's not even human…"
Dr Mitchell put his back against the wall and slid to the floor, still holding the wastepaper bin.
"It's perfectly safe. I've used it before," the impostor had told her less than a minute ago. Rose felt her legs trembling and put her hand on the desk to keep herself upright. Seven times before echoed in her head.
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