.
Love, Laugh, Die
Chapter 3
…
The grass, once soft and vibrant in pigment, has gone a dry, crusty dark red, like congealed blood. It makes a crunching noise under his boots. He traverses the field, or what was once a field at any rate, and does his best to ignore the bodies.
There's a barn in the distance, and two small barrack-houses, and this becomes his destination. He steps over the body of a small boy, no older than three. As he approaches the barn, he spies the tall wooden post that has always been stationed just behind the barracks. Ropes and strings are attached to it sometimes so that the children may play games. Today, there are ropes – strong, sturdy rope – but something else is attached as well.
The girl is about six years old, and her robes – the drab burgundy colours of orphanage uniform – have been ripped aggressively around her abdomen, revealing the wounds where her stomach has been cut open. The child's eyes are open and wide, and her feet are bare. Her narrow, pale face has been branded in strange dirt markings, carefully done. They streak and mar the soft skin.
She has been dead for about three days.
He can tell by the smell. Of rot and of emptiness, a tiny shell void of life for far too long.
He stops at the foot of the post, and hesitantly touches the hem of the child's robes. They are worn and frayed; she is probably somewhere between the sixth and the ninth to use these.
The little girl is not the first dead orphan to show up, marked and branded and all ripped up, and he doubts she will be the last. Her kind have been showing up all around the city and in its outskirts, limp and empty trophies of enemy victory.
From the barracks, hordes of children begin to pour out, boys and girls, all of them different ages. They crowd around him, and their eyes wander up to their fellow orphan. They do not cry and shriek; they do not even seem frightened. Then their eyes wander to him, and in their depths, where there should be youth and laughter and innocence, there is anger instead.
"This is your fault," says a little boy towards the front.
No, it isn't, he thinks, but the children hear him anyway. They form a circle around him.
"This is your fault."
"It's not. I never touched her!"
"This is your fault."
"It's not! Clear off, kids, before you get hurt."
"No, it isn't," the children all agree as one. "But something will be."
Then their robes curl and smoke, and catch fire, and then the children begin to burn too, and the whole while they just stand there staring at him in hatred. He does not linger. He runs away instead, but now the field is burning and finally he starts to hear the screams of pain.
He flees for the barn, because somehow he knows that in the barn he will find his escape. The barn will remain standing, in the dream; even as the rest of the planet burns away, it will remain intact. He sits on the straw-covered floor and covers his ears and covers his nose and covers his heart, but it doesn't work really.
He knew it would never work.
The barn bursts into golden flames, and among the cries that are still audible outside he starts to burn too, feels the flames pulsating at his very core.
He woke up screaming.
…
It wasn't the first time Rose had heard him during the night. The first time had been after Charles Dickens and she'd woken up, frightened and worried. She'd hurried for his room and knocked on his door, calling through and asking if he was all right. There had been no response. She'd peered in through the keyhole but had been able to see nothing.
There had been other, similar incidents. The next one had followed the Slitheens in Downing Street; another after a visit to the artificial planet of Haven; and then again after the incident in Utah 2012. Each time Rose had tried to come to him, to comfort him, but to no avail.
Now, she woke, eyes snapping open. She lay there, her vision not yet adjusted to the darkness, listening to his cries. For just one moment she hesitated, then, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, slipping her feet into her fuzzy pink slippers. She opened the door very quietly, and crept out into the passageway. She knocked softly on his door.
The screaming began to lessen, but she could still hear his heavy breathing, panting, deep, hungry gasps, as if he were trying to suck all the air he could into his lungs. She knocked a little louder, but he either chose to ignore her or was unaware of her.
Rose paused, her fingers stroking the doorknob, toying with the idea. The tiniest of turns, and she was surprised to find that it was unlocked.
A whimper, or what sounded like one.
"What the hell," she muttered to herself, and turned the doorknob all the way. The door swung open.
The Doctor didn't seem to notice her, not at first. He was encased in his own prison. The sheets were knotted about his legs; the duvet had fallen in a tangled heap to the floor. The Doctor was shirtless, and his face and back were drenched in sweat. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were stretched open wide and tortured in a silent plea for liberation.
"Doctor?" she whispered, coming to sit on the edge of his bed. His eyes screwed shut tight, then snapped open as he turned to face her. He started, then yanked up the sheets to cover himself.
"Christ, Rose!" He tried to look annoyed.
Rose ignored him. She lifted a hand, hesitantly, as if she were about to take hold of a fireplace poker still glowing a gentle orange-red, and touched his shoulder. He was still trembling. His muscles tensed at her touch; she could feel them tightening under her fingers; then he relaxed. His head drooped.
"In the war," he said suddenly, and Rose jumped – she hadn't been expecting him to open up – "there were quiet periods. Just tense times, like a cold war. It was a long war. And it wasn't all battlefields and explosions, wasn't all the Daleks. There were paradoxes and black holes, and attacks on civilians. Some of our enemies would kidnap civilians, maim the bodies, and then put 'em on display in public. Trophies of their victory.
"The High Council resented that. We had soldiers, hunting out the enemy in populated areas, and extra guards. They did a decent job, too, they did. The killings started to cease."
There was a dull, empty look in his eyes, and his voice was almost monotonous, as if he were reciting from a textbook.
"They killed kids, too. From the city sometimes. Other times, they'd get the ones from the orphanage. High Council wouldn't intervene then. No-one cared about the orphans."
Rose hesitated. "How come?" she finally ventured.
He snorted and looked at her scornfully, as if she'd just asked if water was vegan.
"You kiddin' me? The High Council carin' a scrap about the orphans? You didn't want to be an orphan on Gallifrey. Meant no-one wanted you, most o' the time." He shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Anyway, fact is, the bodies would show up days later. And… "
Suddenly the Doctor seemed to forget his half-naked state as he all but leapt to his feet. "Of, of course! Rose, listen." He sat next to her on the bed, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Why would the bodies show up?"
"Er." Rose trod carefully. "Because… they wanted to show they were powerful? Winnin'? Scare people?"
He held up a finger in the air, excitedly. "The bodies. The bodies on the ship. What's the point of placin' 'em in the passageway? To show people they're here; scare the passengers. Most of the races what did that in the War would maim the bodies. But these people were intact." He shot to his feet again.
Rose looked up at him. "Does that narrow it down any?"
He began to pace the small space. "Some. Still plenty that would just display the bodies. The bein'-dead part was enough to instil fear." He ticked a few off on his fingers. "Sycorax. Silurian. Dyrfain. Slitheen; sometimes they'd hang abandoned skin suits. Garde. Maiyae. Few others I might be forgettin'." The Doctor's face shone with manic excitement, then he sagged onto the bed again.
He looked over at her. "Anyway, it's late. Get yourself back to bed, Rose Tyler." He smiled softly now.
Rose wanted to ask him more. She wanted to ask if he was all right now, even though she knew he wasn't. She wanted to ask what his dreams were about, even if she had a general idea.
But instead, she nodded, and stood up. "Night, Doctor. Sleep well."
He didn't reply, and she finally left the room, shutting the door behind her. As it slipped home neatly into its frame, Rose thought she heard shaky breathing again, but she might have been wrong.
Later, lying in her bed, trying to fall back asleep, Rose wondered if he'd put on the guise of over-excitement for her or for himself.
She fell asleep before she could come up with an answer.
…
He had breakfast alone that day. By the time he'd dragged himself out of bed, Rose was gone. He was relieved, to be perfectly honest. He wasn't in the mood to talk with anyone really, much less Rose. She would nag him, and she would ask if he was all right, and he didn't want that.
He scraped an omelette onto his plate and drained a bitter coffee, then wandered into the games room. Life had made its way back onto the ship, put itself back together. A ragtag bunch of men and women mucked about, playing games of ping-pong and pool.
The Doctor settled down on a chair, crossing one leg over the other. He watched the humans at their games, watched their every move. They all seemed too clueless and oblivious to have any information – hell, they probably weren't even the sort that had information without realising they had information.
Fantastic. Rose had probably made a whole horde of useful little friends who knew all kinds of things by now. Maybe she had even run into Stephen again. The Doctor wasn't sure how useful he'd prove in the long run, but he must have something to offer.
"'Scuse me." A man of about forty, the same age the Doctor appeared to be, approached him. "Sorry, but… would you, er, happen to be a ping-pong player? I mean, would you care to… ?"
No. Bugger off, tend to your fun and don't involve me.
"Sure," the Doctor grunted. He got up and stretched. "Why not. I've got a decent arm, me."
The man nodded, leading him over to one of the empty ping-pong tables and handing him a racquet. Unexpectedly, the man reached over and shook the Doctor's hand. "Josh, by the way."
"Er. The Doctor."
Josh cocked an eyebrow. "How about just giving me your name?"
Just the Doctor was usually his response to this, but he sensed that Josh was one of those blokes who embraced his utter and complete masculinity, in a good-natured sort of way, and would probably just throw a fuss. The Doctor didn't have the energy for a fuss.
"Dr Tyler," he said, then cringed internally. Tyler? What was he thinking?!
"Hmm," Josh replied, dissatisfied, taking his racquet again. "Well." He produced a small ping-pong ball and hit in across the table to the Doctor. It bounced sideways. The Doctor lunged and hit it back.
They want back and forth like that for a while, falling into the neat rhythms of the simple game, until Josh suddenly dropped his arm to his side and shook his head, chuckling sort of defeatedly.
"Sorry. Just… well, I reckon it's hard on all of us. Everyone's scared."
The Doctor set his racquet down. "You mean yesterday. The bodies."
"'course. I mean, it's spooky, isn't it? Not right. I was talking with my wife and she couldn't get it either. Why the bodies weren't all rotted, and why they won't tell us anything. Did you get this under your door this mornin'?" Josh fumbled in his pocket, producing a small slip of paper no bigger than a business card. It didn't look familiar to the Doctor. He shook his head, and Josh passed it over to him.
In tiny print it read:
To our valued passengers:
Word has spread of the disturbing and tragic incident that occurred yesterday morning on Deck M. The crew of the SS Bad Wolf is putting forward every effort to investigate this matter thoroughly. If you are experiencing any anxiety or fear please do not hesitate to locate a member of staff, who will put you in touch with someone to speak to.
Due to an unexpected technical failure in the ship's PA system we are unable to broadcast this message vocally. The crew of the SS Bad Wolf is doing their utmost best to fix this inconvenience.
In the meantime please enjoy the remainder of your cruise. We issue apologies for any anxiety, fear, worry, or trauma the unexpected incidents may have caused you from the highest-ranking members of our company.
Here to serve you,
The Captain.
"I must've got up before they sent them out," the Doctor muttered, returning the card.
"Hmm," Josh murmured. "Anyway, it's freaky, isn't it?"
"Couldn't someone sue?" the Doctor asked suddenly. "I mean, two passengers died on the cruise ship. Someone's gotta sue."
"Oh, did you skip over the terms and agreements when you booked your ticket? We can't sue over matters out of the board's control."
"And stiffs count?"
"I reckon so. Anyway, shall we resume the game? You're not half-bad as a partner."
"Sure." The Doctor raised his racquet arm, but in that moment a small girl of about eight with long, dark hair ran up. She tugged insistently on Josh's arm.
"Dad," she said in childlike urgency. "Dad, I need a wee."
"Oh. Just a moment, Maryann." Josh looked up apologetically at the Doctor. "Sorry. Another time, then, eh, old chap?"
The Doctor nodded curtly, watching as Josh was hauled off by his daughter. He placed the racquet back on the ping-pong table, leaving it open to any other hopeful players, and returned to his cabin, just to check.
When he opened the door a small slip of paper was lying at his feet. He bent and picked it up, skimmed it over. It was the same note Josh had shown him, and he breathed a small sigh of relief.
…
He'd made no effort to make his private, second-class cabin seem like home. If he made it seem like home, that meant it would remind him of his room. If he brought his comforter and his favourite pillow, they would still smell of her, even if it had been five weeks since she'd left him. Even the picture of his Doberman, Jessie, in its expensive frame, had stayed behind on Earth.
Toby's cabin room was tiny, and maybe it was a little depressing. Certainly it was bland. But that was good; bland was good. It reminded him he'd come along on this trip to try and clear his head, pack away his troubles in his old kit bag, shove it under his bed back home to collect dust, and smile smile smile.
He'd been doing a shite job of that so far.
Nine days on the ship and most of the time he'd spent skulking in his room, avoiding human interaction. The pool was out; that went without saying. Too many girls. He'd spent a bit of time around the miniature indoor golf court; it was mostly blokes in there.
Toby pulled his pillow over his face. God, he couldn't believe he'd been such a bloody idiot. He'd gone sprinting out of the church, still in his tux, calling out her name like a five-year-old, sure she was just late. She was always late to things; she'd been late to every lecture they'd had together in uni, back before they'd started going steady.
But – but nothing.
Two nights after the wedding that wasn't, he'd gone over to the pub, ordered himself a few too many tequilas. There'd been a girl there at the pub, still in uni, mucking about with her mates. They'd had a nice one-night stand, quick and easy, and then afterwards, he'd gotten the ticket half-price off a friend who felt sorry for him.
Toby rolled over, kicking at his duvet. Finally, he gave up and sat up. There was a bar open 24/7 on Deck N; they did a decent pint.
Not even caring that he was in his jimjams, Toby threw on a dressing gown and stuck his key card and access pass into his pocket. He yanked on some socks and exited the room. The door swung shut behind him, clicked as it locked automatically.
The passageway was poorly lit this time of night. It was darker than he would have liked. Still, he could see the light of the Exit sign on ahead, a flickering red. By the dim light of the passageway he followed the beacon.
It struck Toby that it was cold, and he wrapped his dressing down closer round himself. But it seemed to him that no matter how much he walked, the exit doorway never got any closer. Toby was tired. He walked and walked, but how much further could the exit be? Maybe fifteen strides.
He started counting. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight…
Still fifteen strides away.
The lights flickered, and went out. Toby froze.
But then they turned back on again, grim and dim though they were, and when they turned back on there was a woman at the end of the corridor. She had her back to Toby, and she was taller than he was.
Long dark hair fell to her back. She was wearing a short white nightdress that revealed her figure, and her legs, slim but with noticeable curves. He felt her saying his name then, though he got the vague impression she had not spoken aloud. "Toby." She breathed it out, in his head, alluringly, as if it was just the two of them in some strange but beautiful place.
"Hello?" Toby called out, although his knees were shaking, because now the chill was crawling up his back, seeping through the pores of his skin into his bones, enveloping him in its cruel embrace. He shivered. "Sorry, who are you?"
"I'm sorry about what happened to you." She turned her head sideways, but he couldn't see the woman's face. "That was so wrong. So very, very wrong. But… if you like… " She turned to face him now, but she was cast all in shadow. She held a hand out to him. "I make it up to you, on her behalf."
It was so cold. But somehow in her voice there was a promise of warmth, and he made for it like a fish to a worm. The woman laughed gently, then began to walk away down the corridor. He did not question her. She was leading him somewhere, she must be.
But an inkling of reason nagged at him. There were cloths dangling in front of his eyes, gleaming but raggedy, and he batted them aside. "Wait," he called out. "Where are we going? Who are you?"
She laughed, pushing open the door leading to the stairs. She held it open for him. "I will love you," she said gently. "That's what you want. Isn't it?"
"But who are you?" Tony asked.
"I will love you."
"But – "
"I will love you."
Toby faltered. She would, wouldn't she? She would love him, and he would love her back. They would share a bed tonight, and their hearts would beat in unison and their chests would heave as one. They would kiss and never have to stop, and draw breath and lust from each other's lungs.
She was standing there, waiting, by the door.
He joined her.
She led him down the stairs, her feet (which were bare) scarcely making a sound against the concrete floor. When they reached the lowest deck, Deck D, she beckoned with the crook of the finger, and they exited the stairwell.
"Are we going to your cabin?" Toby asked, following her down the passageway.
She paused, and turned her head just so, but still he saw no face. "No. I have a better place. Follow me."
So they continued down the passageway, and then they arrived at another exit. Toby could see a bit through the little window in the door; behind it was another stairwell. But this was the lowest deck, he knew that from the welcome pamphlet. Below them were the engine rooms.
"Down there?" Toby asked sceptically. His reason flickered to life again, briefly, and it told him that you needed a special access card to enter the engine stairwell.
"Follow me," the woman replied, in the tone normally reserved for scolding small children. Then she pulled open the door, and he followed her, all the way down the stairs to Deck A. At the landing, she led him, always just ahead, down the passageway.
The little flame of reason in his heart sputtered, coughed, and died.
It was dark; so dark, she was barely a silhouette in the poor lighting.
He wanted to hold her hand.
He could scarce make out the watertight hatch door at the end of the passageway. The engine room. He called out to her a time or two, as he followed her, but she never answered, never faltered in her footsteps. She seemed… sure of herself.
She stopped at the hatch door, and she turned, but it was too dark to see her face. Toby hurried to catch up to her. Like a schoolboy, he stopped just in front of her, grinning idiotically.
"There's something down here," she said to him, calmly.
"Something you want to show me?"
She faced away from him again, and turned the wheel twice. The door creaked open. Light seeped into the passageway. Behind the door, Toby could see great structures of metal crawling up the concrete walls.
The woman entered the room. "Follow me," she crooned.
So he did – a sharp right, and then she stopped. He could sort of feel his head aching.
"Where are we going?" he wanted to know – no, needed to know.
The woman didn't answer. She rotated, slowly, on the spot, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.
He screamed then. It was the last thing he would ever remember doing.
Her face. It was all wrong.