Bill woke to the glare of late morning sunlight. Urgh. Her mouth felt parched and her head thumped. Memories of the previous night washed over her. Kissing Ozzy. Ozzy running from the bar. Drinking all that lager. Stumbling home in the early hours and spewing in the downstairs toilet.
She pulled the duvet over her head, cringing. How bloody stupid she'd been! Imagining that Ozzy actually might welcome her advances. She'd totally misread the signals, there. Thank God she didn't have to go into work today. No way could she face Ozzy. Anyway, she wouldn't blame Ozzy for firing her over this. Snogging your boss was completely inappropriate. Bloody hell, it might even be seen as harassment!
Bill sighed. No chance of getting back to sleep now. Might as well get up. She rolled out of bed, limbs stiff. Her radio clock read: 11.46am. She stood underneath the shower until the water nearly ran cold, chucked on last night's jeans and a clean jumper. Fried up some egg and toast, dissolved an aspirin into a glass of flat Coke, and scoffed the lot in front of the telly.
Moira was at work. Time hung heavy in the small flat. Nothing on the television – just a bunch of stupid game shows, sit-com repeats, and nature documentaries. Bill clicked it off. Maybe she ought to think about looking for another job? There had to be something out there. Anything that didn't involve chips suddenly seemed very appealing – heck, even it meant working in a shop, or pruning hedges or cleaning toilets. She got her laptop out and fired it up.
She was about to start searching, when another memory floated up. Ozzy saying "My name is Clara Oswald."
Bill hesitated, then typed 'Clara Oswald' into the Google search bar. She took a breath, and hit 'enter'.
Within seconds, the results flashed up on her screen. Bill looked at the first one and frowned.
"No way! That can't be right."
It was an article from a local paper in east London. School Mourns Popular Teacher: second tragedy in two years.
Bill clicked on the link.
Clara Oswald had been an English teacher at Coal Hill School. Much beloved by her students and respected by her colleagues. She had died suddenly, on an unspecified London street, from an 'undiagnosed medical condition'. The article also mentioned that the school had lost another teacher a couple of years previously, in tragic circumstances. Mr R. Daniel Pink, who had also been Miss Oswald's boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Oh. Somehow, Bill had never thought about Ozzy dating a man before. There was a photo that accompanied the article. Ozzy and this Mr Pink – a bearded, kindly-looking man – with a group of adolescents, taken on some camping trip. Everyone looked very happy. Ozzy was beaming with life.
Bill checked the date of the article. Three years ago. She frowned again. The woman in the picture was clearly Ozzy. What was going on? Had Ozzy faked her own death? If so, why?
"And what sort of a name is 'Pink', anyway?" said Bill, aloud.
The other search results comprised various notices from Coal Hill School; old public missives mentioning Ozzy's name, among others. Parent-Teacher night. School fete. Athletics carnival.
Down the bottom of the page was an older article from the same local paper. Local Teacher Dies After Fatal Accident. It appeared that Mr Pink had been hit by a car. Believed to have been talking on the phone at the time. Driver not at fault. No family, but survived by his girlfriend, Clara Oswald.
Poor Ozzy. How horrible. What had it been like for her, receiving that news? Then a thought struck Bill: had Mr Pink been talking to Ozzy on the phone when he was killed? That'd give anyone a complex. No wonder Ozzy was a bit crackers, sometimes.
She clicked on the next few pages of search results, ignoring the links irrelevant to Ozzy (which were most of them). Then, buried six pages in, was a link from a site that featured articles on historic mansions in Britain. This article was about some old, gothic looking pad called Caliburn House. But what did it have to do with Ozzy? Bill scrolled down the page – and came across a range of photos. One of them immediately caught her eye.
Four people – two men, and two women, one of whom was Ozzy. The caption below read: Professor Alec Palmer (owner of Caliburn House from 1968 to 2003), his future wife Emma Grayling, and friends John Smith and Clara Oswald.
But that couldn't be right! The photo – black and white – was taken in 1974. Ozzy looked almost exactly as she did in the present day. If she was in her twenties then, she'd practically be eligible for the pension today – which clearly wasn't the case!
Bill looked at this John Smith, grinning next to Ozzy. Silly looking bloke with a big chin and a stupid looking bow tie. She wondered who he had been?
"What other photos have you been in, Ozzy?" murmured Bill.
She clicked the 'back' arrow, which took her back to the Google results, then hit the 'Images' button. Instantly, the screen filled with photos. There was the one of Ozzy and Mr Pink. There was the one of Ozzy and Mr Smith. And many more, both in colour and black and white. One of Ozzy and Mr Smith again, this time accompanied by other two men dressed in naval uniforms, standing in front of a submarine. The date read '1983', but again, Ozzy looked no different, saved for the tied-back hair.
And here was Ozzy again, all ruffled skirts and lacey boots and bouffant hairdo. Sepia picture. Taken outside a rather Dickensian looking inn. Bill checked the date. 1892.
For God's sake. This was getting ridiculous.
Bill shoved the laptop aside, and plopped back down on the couch, gnawing her lip. This was seriously weird. Just who was Clara Oswald?
She was still pondering the mystery, half drowsing, when there came a knock on the door. Bill leapt to her feet. Dusk had fallen outside. Probably Moira, forgotten her keys. Or Shireen, seeing if she wanted to go for a drink (Bill decided she'd pass that one up). But when she opened the door, there stood Ozzy.
Bill's mind raced. Had Ozzy come over in person to tell her off for last night? She looked serious, but not upset. But one never knew with Ozzy.
"Hi," Bill said rather breathlessly. Then, quickly – "Listen, about last night. I was really out of line. Really, really, out of line. I'm so sorry. Dunno what I was thinking. Went a bit mad, with the lager, I guess." She laughed nervously. "Really shouldn't drink, because it goes straight to-"
"Bill," said Ozzy, "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, just shut up."
Bill shut up.
"Listen," said Ozzy. "Can I come in?"
"Um, sure." Bill led her to the kitchen table, where they sat down. "Fancy a cuppa?"
"No thanks," said Ozzy. "This shouldn't take long."
"Okay," said Bill. "Should be right. So long as we don't get interrupted by anyone. Say, the Pope. Or the Secretary-General of the United Nations." She gave another nervous chuckle.
Ozzy looked at her curiously.
"Sorry," said Bill. "I'm listening."
"I need your help," said Ozzy.
Bill leaned forward eagerly. "Is this to do with those missing dogs?"
"Yeah," admitted Ozzy. "Look, Bill. I'm about to say something you're gonna think is totally weird, and you probably won't believe me. But here goes." She took a deep breath. "These dogs are being taken by an alien."
"Okay."
Ozzy blinked. "What do you mean, 'okay'?"
"I mean, okay. That actually makes a lot of sense. I mean, I saw that thing with the wings." She mimed the flapping.
"But – that doesn't freak you out?"
"Nah. I've known for a while that aliens exist. Really curious to know how you know they exist."
There was a long pause.
"Right," said Ozzy. "Something to discuss later, maybe. Right now, I need your help in capturing this alien. Before it gets any more dogs."
A growing excitement rose in Bill's heart. She hadn't felt like this since Heather had dumped her back on Earth.
"I am so up for this!"
Ozzy smiled, despite herself. "Thanks. We just have to go back to the diner and get a few things." Then abruptly, her expression changed. "What's that?"
Bill realised, to her slight horror and embarrassment, that Ozzy was pointing at her laptop, which still displayed the images from the 'Clara Oswald' search. There was a thick, charged, silence.
"Were you looking me up?"
Bill felt her cheeks grow hot. "No! Well – maybe. I mean, I was just curious to know…" her voice trailed away.
"They're just photos of someone who looks like me," said Ozzy. But her voice was unconvincing.
A thought struck Bill. "Oh my God! I know what you are."
"Um, do you?" asked Ozzy, looking slightly alarmed.
"It all makes sense," whispered Bill. "You've lived for over one hundred years, and you don't age. You can't die, and you have no pulse."
"Bill, listen…"
"Oh my God, you're a vampire!"
Ozzy looked taken aback. "Definitely not a vampire."
"But it all makes sense! Are you going to suck my blood? Or – or, turn me into one?"
"Bill," said Ozzy firmly. "I'm not a vampire, okay? I will explain later. But right now, we need to go."
Bill hesitated. "Fine," she said, warily. At the door, she turned, and looked at Ozzy. "But what about the…" her voice dropped, "kiss?"
Ozzy threw her an inscrutable look. "We'll talk about that later, too."
Parked outside the flat was a scooter, which Ozzy headed for.
"Is that yours?"
Ozzy took a helmet, and tossed her a second. "Wear that, and hold on tight."
Bill donned the helmet, and climbed on behind Ozzy. Ozzy kicked the bike into life, and they sped through the streets, towards the diner. Bill clutched Ozzy's waist, feeling the excitement mount. An adventure awaited. Off to tangle with an alien! It was almost – but not quite – like being with the Doctor.