Disclaimer: Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC.
We meet people and fall in love.
And when we part,
they leave marks for us to remember them by.
Our lovers sculpt us.
They define us.
For better or worse.
– George Sands, series 1, episode 5.
Chapter 2. First footsteps
The floor sloped away evenly beneath his feet and the purple glow intensified as, hands outstretched against the gloom, Nick walked on. The corridor walls were pressing in now, close enough to reach on either side, and funnelling down further with each step he took. He was slowing, faltering as unease settled on his spine like a tarantula on a rotting log. What was this? A blind alley? Or a labyrinth? A trap? And where was everyone? He'd never minded being alone but... But this was ridiculous.
A sudden longing knifed him. Hal. Always the leader. He'd have known what... But... He shook his head at the memory of his maker, trying to ignore the churn of indignation and betrayal that surged in his guts. Fifty-five years doing a Fossey. And lining up on the side of the primates. Unbelieveable.
The corridor curved suddenly to the right, breaking into a flight of steps to capture the unwary, and then on round, out of sight but more brightly lit. Nick swayed at the first drop but held his dignity. Then, as he negotiated the bend, a door loomed, blocking his way. A heavy, iron bound door. Like one from an old fortress. No guards, though he couldn't help wondering if there was a portcullis inside, or what may wait for him there. It wasn't clear how he got in. If he wanted to. He supposed he had to knock. But there was something odd about the door. The colour. A wheat-blade green in the clearing light. And the smoothness. No wood grain. Familiar and unfamiliar in one. It didn't aid his rising anxiety.
Still, there was nothing for him out here, so...
Right, first impressions... Cutler paused, putting on his tie from his pocket before checking his shirt collar with his fingers and dusting down the front of his jacket. Hoping that the rest of him was presentable, he straightened his posture and assumed his professional demeanour. A legal representative visiting a wealthy client who nevertheless needed his services. What could possibly go wrong?