I was twenty-two, going on twenty-three, when I saw my mother for the final time. A lot happened in my life between my last, drunken meeting with Elijah Spellman, also known as the Pied Piper, also known as Oddbob the Clown. A lot changed.

I'd been a alcoholic, or nearly that. Such was my desperation for booze that I'd hit the town alone, get drunk by myself and drown my sorrows each night with at least two cans of lager. But I was a different person entirely four years later. No one thing had led me to change my life. Just a load of factors, over the years, which made me realize how horrible life had become. To recap - I was...well, you know, roughly twenty when I began to get serious about turning my life around. Twenty-one when, with the help of the council, I'd found that job in the supermarket, and finally moved away from my mother, and in with Steph.

I remember that day so well. It was shortly before my twenty-third birthday, and a month or two before the death of Nick Turner. I'd received a call late at night from a neighbour of my mother's - apparently she'd been up half the night, partying hard and keeping half the estate awake. Whilst it wasn't strictly my problem any longer, I promised the neighbour I'd have a word about it.

I had no idea things would turn out how they did that day.

2018, Lynsey Perron at twenty-two

I walked along the pavement towards my old home, a familiar, downtrodden feeling sweeping over me as I walked those old, familiar streets. How often had I staggered down them, drunk, high or both? I didn't like being back. Although part of me felt slightly proud to be walking these old haunts as a reformed woman, a larger part of me felt anxious - for the first time in a long time, I found myself craving a drink that day - I was worried that if I stayed too long, that temptation would only increase.

So I'd left home at twenty-one, a year before - and in that time, I'd only texted and phoned my mother, save a couple of dismally uncomfortable meetings at nearby coffee shops. I hadn't set foot in this area in all that time, however. This was the first time in a year, yet it felt horribly as if I'd never been away.

I wouldn't have come for anybody else, but the neighbour who'd phoned me to complain was somebody rather special to me. Her name was Jeanne Anne Plodd. In those vague, far-off memories of my early childhood, she had already been old. Now that I was all grown up, she was very old. Probably well into her nineties. Her husband was long gone, and had been even back then, and she had only one child, a son who lived in Australia. His name she would often tell me to make me laugh; upon marrying a "Plodd", and falling pregnant with a child, a boy, she'd cleverly named him "Paul Christopher Plodd." P.C. Plodd. That used to make my two-to-seven year old Noddy fanatic's self laugh, although I always reminded Jeanne that PC Plod had only one "D" in his name, whilst she and her son had two.

I spent a lot of time with Jeanne. She often fed me as a child when my mother was too drunk or lazy to do so. If ever mother dearest failed to lay out an evening meal, I'd simply pop around to Jeanne's, where I'd always be given a dinner, usually of soup and crusty bread, but sometimes two boiled eggs (always hard boiled) with "soldiers" (toast cut into narrow strips). Jeanne ate only plain food, on account of her poor digestive system, but it had always seemed delicious to me, a child who's diet at home consisted of takeaways or microwave meals if I were lucky, nothing at all if I wasn't. My mum was unpredictable, as I've said. Loving one minute, abusive the next. Same with food. Some nights she'd get a big greasy banquet in from the chip shop, other times she'd spend her entire housing benefit on alcohol. I don't think she even knew I went to Jeanne's for food, nor would she have cared. As long as I was out of the flat, I was somebody else's problem. That, she had told me several times as a child.

And it was for her that I went home that day. I hadn't seen her in a long time, though I always sent her a Christmas card and a birthday card, and she me. The mysterious P.C. Plodd, whom I never met, loved his mother well enough, and sent her money every four months, though she insisted he didn't need to. He came home to see her at least three times each year, sometimes four. But at the end of the day, he was on the other side of the world. If trouble ever arose for her, there wasn't always much he could do. He worked as a lawyer in Australia, and his second son, Jeanne's grandson, had severe non-verbal autism. He needed his dad, and trips back home to see Jeanne usually needed to be planned months in advance.

So when something like this arose, although it never had before, I was glad to be of service for Jeanne. I was irritated. Yes. I was blinking irritated, to put it in the politest terms. The woman was ancient! Weak, and alone. And my idiot of a mum thought it appropriate to keep her up half the night with her raves? Well no - not on my watch, mummy dearest. Not a bit of it.

As I approached the block of flats in which I'd used to live (six floors high, four flats to a floor), which was flanked either side by two other, identical blocks, a sure and certain thought began to emerge in my head, a thought which had been sitting in there, tucked away, ever since I'd gotten the call from Jeanne, exhausted and tearful, to plead with me to sort mum out.

That thought got only stronger as I approached the door to the block. As I pulled it open (there was an intercom system, but as usual, the door wasn't locked), it positively exploded in my head, overpowering me, and causing me to stop, stock still, in the entrance of the block. I looked around; there it all was. The graffiti-adorned beige stone walls, the plastic carpet, the two, terrifying lifts and the smell of urine, cig-smoke and booze. It was a thought which I felt horrible for having, but one of which I could no more dismiss than I could detach my own limbs. One should never feel that way about their mother, but I just couldn't help it.

I don't want to see her. I hate her. I love her too, and I always will. But I still hate her.

But I loved Jeanne as a child, and I loved her now as an adult. I wouldn't have come if I hadn't. So up I went, to the fourth floor. I took the stairs, not the lift. The lifts scared me when and scare me now. They always, I remember, sank a little when you stepped into them. They creaked and rattled when they moved, and they were just that bit too small. They didn't have double doors like most lifts, but solid sliding doors that would always slam shut rather hard. Often, those lifts would either stop short of the floor, or overshoot. You'd have to step up or step down when the doors opened, as the floor of the lift car was rarely even with the floor outside. Sometimes, the doors would open before the bloody things had even stopped moving.

So I took the stairs, my knees aching slightly by the time I'd reached the right floor. I'm not going to waste anyone's time describing the state of the place. Neglected, dirty and dank. That sums it up. When Jeanne had moved here, so long ago, it had been a good place. Now it wasn't, but still she was stuck here. When I was a teen, I once asked her why she didn't get the heck out of the place, maybe to Australia with Plodd Junior and her grandkids. She wouldn't hear of it. She was all about Britain. She'd been born here to two French parents, and had lived in Britain ever since. She was very patriotic about the country, and often voiced her dismay that fewer people seemed proud to be British these days. As far as she was concerned, Britain was where she was born and absolutely where she was going to die. I admired her principles, I guess. But I still didn't think it wise for an old lady to be living alone in a cesspit like this. The estate, I mean. Not the country. The good ole' UK ain't half bad really...certainly I wouldn't have been able to pull my life back but for the help I got from the powers that be.

And there it was - 4B. My old home. More than ever I wanted to turn around and flee, to leave and not to look back, to message my mother only occasionally and to see her even less. And certainly to never come back here. I stood outside the door.

I won't knock I thought to myself, I'll just leave.

I knocked.

As I stood there, rooted to the spot, furious with myself for knocking, I heard someone scuffing around just behind the door. There was a peephole, and I knew I was almost certainly being watched. I smiled reluctantly at it, hoping that perhaps she wouldn't want to see me, wouldn't let me in. How easy would that make things? I could even say I tried that way...

But of course it didn't happen that way. The door flew open, and I was greeted by a ghastly sight; my old mum, large as life and twice as ugly! She wore a scraggy dress and heels, her frame stick-thin and wispy, her skin prematurely old and her hair, brown like mine, wild. One look, heck, one smell, told me all I needed to know - she was quite drunk.

"My Lynsey! Come home to see her ole' mummy!" She slurred, wrapping her arms around me. I patted her gently on the arm.

"Yeah, right," I said, "mind if I come in?"

"Why would I mind?" She warbled, half-pulling me through the door. "Come right in!"

Said the spider to the fly.

I walked in and felt dizzy. It was all the same! Messy, dirty, cramped...the hallway was full of dirty laundry and cigarette ends, as was the living room. My old bedroom was also a mess - I guess that she'd had guests stay over after a party or something like that. Hadn't bothered clearing up, of course. The living room and kitchen was the worse - a duvet was sprawled over the low, sagging couch, and the television was at a funny angle, facing the window. The kitchen, I cannot begin to describe. The floor was splattered with old food, the sink piled high with plates. A kebab lay on the side, half-eaten and cold, the sauce congealed and the meat dry and plastic-like. Bottles of whiskey sat about the room, with four two-litre bottles of Pepsi on the floor, resting against the wall. Mixers. Mother's bedroom door and the box-room's door was shut, as was the bathroom door (thank goodness). The living room door didn't close. In fact, it wasn't so much as door these days as a loose piece of broken wood which hung from two rusted hinges in the wall. One of mum's boyfriends (who, for six months, I was forced to call dad) had gotten angry one night, smashed the door and stormed out of the flat, never to be seen again.

"I ain't got nout in food-wise," mum barked, "want a tipple?"

"Rather some tea." I said distantly, sitting down uncomfortably on the arm of the sofa. All this dirt! How had I ever lived like this? Mine and Steph's flat hadn't been the cleanest, but it was spotless compared to this pigsty.

"Ain't got none." Mum snapped. "Brandy?"

"Water?"

"Sure, sure." Mother said, slightly crestfallen. She wiped a dirty mug on her dress and filled it from the tap, nearly knocking over the pile of plates as she did so. She swayed awfully when she stood, bladdered beyond belief at ten in the morning. I took it, murmuring thanks. I didn't drink from it.

"What I owe the pleasure?" She drawled, sniffing loudly and wiping her nose with a crumbly tissue.

"Cold, mummy?" I asked quietly.

"Nah, love." She replied, blowing her nose loudly. I knew it wasn't. I knew why she was sniffling, and it wasn't a cold. She certainly wasn't crying either.

"Look, ma," I began, "'ave you been hosting parties late at night recently?"

Mother, sensing that I was about to scold her, changed at once. Gone was the cheeriness, gone was the kindly, gentle woman who I used to love. "Whass it to you? You ain't livin' here any more, is ya?"

"I'm not, no," I said, "true that. But I've been 'earing that you been...well, for want o' a better word, partying hard, right?"

"Wondering where your invite was?" She said, sneering at me. "Thought you was on the straight and narrow you, livin' with Little Miss Priss down in that nice town."

"Steph," I replied, "ain't prissy. She's a normal girl from a normal family."

"She looks down on ya," mum retorted, sniffing again, her voice wobbly, "always people like 'er what look down on us, innit? Why'd you let 'er get away with it?"

"Look, ma. I got a call from someone who lives round here, right. Someone who ain't so well. You kept him up all night." I said him to throw her off the scent - if I'd said "her", mother might have guessed it was Jeanne, and just like that, I'd have made life ten times harder for the kind old woman who made sure I never went hungry, out of the kindness of her heart. I just hoped I hadn't gone and sodded up life for some poor innocent guy who lived around here. I thought not; so far as I knew, all the blokes on this estate were cut from the same cloth as mum.

She swore at me. "Ain't your business, is it? You live away. Who's been sayin' this anyhow?"

"Mind your own." I said at once. "I just wanted to come and tell you. I don't want things gettin' out of hand for you." I knew only too well how badly wrong her house parties could go.

Mother - her bloodshot brown eyes full of fury and confusion - took two steps towards me and slapped me across the face. It hurt. I screeched in pain and clapped my hand to my cheek, my eyes watering. In that moment, I was small again, and she large. I forgot I was an adult. I forgot I was larger now than she was, stronger too. All at once, the terror which I hadn't known for ages was back.

"Don't ya talk to me like tha'!" She slurred, "stuck up cow! Who'd ya think ya're? So what? Gotta nice 'ouse now, livin' with some posh tart? Ya're trash an' always will be. Git out." Her voice was barely comprehensible.

"You're making life miserable for people," I said quietly, "don't you care?"

Mother again drew her hand back to slap me again, but this time I was ready. At the last moment, I grabbed her around the wrist and wrenched her arm aside. With a crack, I felt it loosen in my hand, and mother screamed. I leapt from the sofa and raced to the door, dodging past the assorted litter that lay about the flat. But I ran too fast; I felt a sharp pain at my shin and I was sent flying, sprawling to the filthy floor. I had tripped over a long empty beer keg, and mummy dearest wasted no time taking advantage of that. I screamed in agony as she trampled right over me, screaming herself and clutching her broken wrist. She raced past me and kicked open the bathroom door.

I sensed danger - she was going in there for something to hurt me with, I felt sure. Aerosols to squirt in my eyes, scissors with which to stab me, heck, I wouldn't put it past the witch to throw bleach over me. She could do all of those things, and more. She was drunk. Anything was possible. So I scrambled to my feet and rushed in there after her, determined to overpower her, to wrestle her to the floor and call her an ambulance, to prevent her hurting me, or more importantly, hurting herself further. I loved her dearly, after all.

The bathroom was a revolting specimen, full of mould and damp, stray clothing on the floor and ancient, grey-brown water in the bath. And - I almost laughed when I saw this - there was a bottle of gin on the windowsill. Course there was. But I didn't laugh, because I saw then what she was about to do with it. She seized the big bottle by the neck and, turning back to me, swung it with her good arm, swinging viciously at my face.

Again, I knocked her arm away. She was weakened by age and more so by years of addiction, disorientated by her current drunkenness. The bottle flew from her hand and landed on the floor by her feet, shattering. She wore slippers, but her legs were bare to the knees. Shards of glass flew upwards as the bottle smashed, cutting her ankles and shins, soaking her slippered feet with value supermarket gin. She fell to the floor, crying.

I stood above her, panting, my cheek still smarting. That whole side of my face had turned hot, and I felt dizzy. I reached for my mobile phone, and held it thoughtfully in my hand.

"I hate you," I told her, "but I ain't scared. Not anymore. Now you are, I know - because you're gonna die in some ditch someday soon, and we both know that when it happens, you'll be alone. Just like you are now."

I called her an ambulance. Then, ignoring her screams and vile insults, I walked out. Never did I return.

On my way out, I stopped outside Jeanne's flat...I could so easily go in and see the old girl again! Oh, how I wanted that! How I wanted to see her, and cuddle her, and reminisce about times gone by. Maybe, above all else, to finally thank her properly for all that she did for me. I stood there, and raised my hand to knock...

But...no. Sorry, Jeanne. Just...no. I lowered my hand again. I didn't belong here anymore. This chapter in my life, the first chapter, my childhood, was closing now.

"Thanks," I whispered softly to the door. Then I walked away. Down the stairs, outside and onto a bus, taking me back home. Home, to a good friend, a reasonable flat and, above all else, sensible, normal life...

I never saw mother or Jeanne again, and never heard from them. But I don't hate mother. I never wish to see her again, I don't care what becomes of her...but I'll always love her, because somewhere deep inside, I know she'll always love me.

You see, I fully expected to have the police come calling after that encounter. I fully expected her to tell the police that it had been me who's broken her arm and wounded her with the gin bottle, even if it had been in self-defence. But I never got any such call. If they asked, and probably they did, she didn't tell them what had happened. She could have ruined my newly on-track life for me quite easily after that day. And she didn't.

For that, though I will never like her, I will always love her.

The Doctor's Diary, Entry 1968

I'm making something.

Special glasses for my little human chum - the fact she can't look at it in it's natural form has so far given it the upper hand, I think. An advantage, anyway. Well no more. What they'll do, in effect, is protect her diddy little human brain whenever she looks at it, by blocking out the true form and replacing it with something her mind can comprehend, something as close to the true form as possible, but not the true form really.

I might wear the spare pair I've made - maybe I, with my magnificent brain, will actually be able to see the real thing that way...or maybe not. It's very powerful. I think...and I might be wrong, but I think...that it comes from a reality in which only sound exists. That's my personal opinion. I think it's a creature of sound, a creature with no physical self when it's residing in it's own universe. A sonic creature, you might say. But a creature which adapted to three dimensions, creating a physical form for itself, when it arrived here.

If we capture (and kill) the physical form, which exists here in our universe, do we kill the creature itself? Or is the physical being which exists here simply a limb? An arm, reaching out into our reality for food, whilst the creature itself remains tucked away in it's universe of sound, getting fat off the food which the physical arm brings back? As to that, I don't know. I kind of hope that killing the physical creature won't kill the entity itself. I think maybe not. I'd like to think we're on a mission to banish it, as opposed to a mission to kill it.

But even if killing the physical arm will send a shock wave through the dimensions which kills the monster beyond, I'll not lose too much sleep. This has to be done. It's not pleasant, it's not nice. It's about standing up and making a decision. Because, as ever, nobody else will.

We have one objective, and one objective only - to catch it. Once it's in the Dimension Trap, it's game over. It can't ever escape from one of those beauties. It's a scientific impossibility.

And I'm terrified of what we'll find when we get to Locus Heights. I'm not scared of the Whispering, and never have been. It has no hold over me. I'm scared of what it will have done, what we'll find when we get to that big, busy city.