Chapter 5: The Bishop

Naomi sat back in her chair, clicking the pen between her teeth. She was currently on the third draft and edit of the chapter, and getting ready for something to eat. She never normally had a big appetite, but found it was a good way to distract herself from the work.

Tossing the pieces of paper on the desk, she rose from her seat and strode over towards the kitchen, trying to decide on something to eat.

'Okay, fridge, fridge…' she muttered to herself, opening the object. However, she shut it again a moment later. 'Mail.'

She changed headings, moving over towards the front door. The building had the slight advantage of the mailbox in the lobby being broken for the last few months, so the postman was used to taking the lift up the inside of the building, before dropping off the letters and working his way down.

Just beside her front door was a small pile of letters, in the signature white envelopes.

'Alright, what have we got here, then…?' she asked the pile, even waiting for a reply from it before scooping them up. Quickly, relying on muscle memory, she shuffled the letters, before dealing them onto the coffee table.

Bill. Bill. Magazine. Bill. Agent.

Quickly, she dispatched of the other mail, focusing on the 'agent' letter. She dug her fingernail into the top edge and sliced the envelope open. A menagerie of papers and cuttings fell out of the letter and onto the table.

Ever since the first reviews and adverts of her book were published in her local, her agent had made a habit of sending every single mention of it they could summon to Naomi.

It was just a typical advert for it, back in circulation; an excerpt from the book column from the Tribute; some poncy magazine reviewing local novels and a write-in from the Metro.

Naomi dropped the collection onto the table, to read through it after lunch.

The apartment seemed to be getting emptier and emptier, but it was most likely just her imagination. The bookshelf, once fully stocked all of her favourite reads, from Wells to Bradbury to Tolkien to Ellison. But, as the years had gone on, and the writing process had taken its toll, Naomi found that the books were rapidly vanishing. Now, it was almost completely empty, with only a couple copies of Mark of the Bishop, by Naomi Redfern littering the top shelf.

The book, a murder mystery set in 1920s Ipswich, had been planned for years, ever since she was in the process of choosing a university, but the unemployment brought about after her graduation had been the catalyst towards writing it. It had taken her a few months to finish, but by the time it was completed, she'd managed to find an agent interested in publishing it.

It had had an ignominious release, with only a handful of bookstores stocking it and even less having any joy selling it. Even to this day, the shelves had first editions in the bargain bins and discounted areas.

But Naomi tried to ignore that. The sales brought just enough to keep her afloat – the apartment was inherited from her parents, so she could spare the rent money from her income.

But the money was grinding to a halt, just when it was most needed.

She'd made her way back to the fridge and currently sorting through the items for something pre-sell by date, which eliminated most of the items.

There was a knock at the door. Naomi stood up with a jolt, knocking her head on the shelf in the fridge. She rubbed the base of her skull, hoping to alleviate some of the throbbing, as she walked over to the door.

As she grabbed the door handle, she froze. People don't knock at the door. When they want to come in, they would have to buzz the intercom or use a key. If they had a key, they must live here – so what did they want to talk to her for?

Tentatively, Naomi slid the chain across the door, then unlocked it.

'Who is it?' she asked, getting as close to the door as she could.

'Dr Smith!' the voice replied through the door, an energetic, Scottish burr. 'I'd like to talk about your book!'

Naomi considered it for a second, before opening the door as far as the chain would allow it.

The man, about Naomi's height and dressed in a white suit, knitted pullover and crumpled white hat, poked his head through the door. After trying – and failing – to walk through the door for a few moments, he eventually surrendered and looked to Naomi for pity.

'I can't seem to get in…'

'That's because it's bolted.' Naomi replied. 'Look, Dr Smith, if you're going to come in, then I'll have to see some ID first.'

'Ah! Yes!' the man said, backing away from the door. It shut behind him.

Naomi waited for a few seconds, listening to the man's distracted mumblings through the door.

'Er…' it said through the door. 'Could you just hold these for a second, please?'

Without a reply, the letterbox clicked open. Naomi stared in bewilderment as a collection of items passed through the slot – a yo-yo, a carrot, a paperback, a slingshot. Each of the items fell to the floor with a clatter, forming a small pile by the door.

'Ah-hah!' the voice said, and the stream of objects stopped. 'This is my card, I think you'll find.'

To prove his point, a slim business card was passed through the letterbox, which Naomi plucked away like a shot. In large, cursive writing, it said:

DOCTOR JOHN SMITH, LITERARY CRITIC, A.C.E.

Naomi frowned, as she read the card. Normally, if someone professional wanted to talk about the book, they'd contact her agent first. But it was publicity, and any publicity was good, right?

'Alright.' she sighed, as she unbolted the door. 'Come on.'

The door swung open, and Dr Smith pottered inside the apartment. As the door shut behind him, he squatted down, collecting his items from the floor and stuffing them back into his pockets.

'So, how did you find my address?' Naomi asked, walking back into the kitchen. 'More importantly, how did you get in?'

'You were in the Yellow Pages…' Dr Smith replied nonchalantly, investigating the bookshelf.

'I use a pen-name.'

'So do I.' Dr Smith countered. 'That's how you learn the tricks.'

'Okay, and how did you get inside the building?'

'A rudimentary diversion of the power units.'

'Right. So you broke in?'

'In not so many words, yes.'

Naomi actually gave a laugh to the odd little man.

'Alright, then,' she said. 'Did you like my book?'

'Yes…' he replied, plucking one of the copies from the bookshelf. As Naomi finishing making her cup of tea, he flicked through the pages quickly, before replacing it back on the shelf and turning to face her. 'But the beginning was padded, the denouement rushed, the character development was sloppy and the cover was the wrong shade of blue.'

Naomi simply stared at him in bemusement, her head cocked to the side.

'One lump or two?'

'Three. Now, this book…' he said, sitting down on the coffee table. 'How did it come about?'

'Er…' Naomi replied uncertainly, depositing the sugar into the mug. 'Just reading a lot, I suppose. Agatha Christie, stuff like that.'

'And any book in particular?'

'I, er…I don't think so. Just a general sort of…style.'

'How did you feel, when you got your first review?'

'Well, I was, erm…I was…'

'Alright, how did you feel when you finished the book?'

'I, I can't-'

'When it was published, when you got a copy, when the agent said 'yes'?!' Dr Smith fired, standing up to walk over to her.

'I can't remember!' Naomi shouted back, her face twisted with frustration and worry. Then it sank in: 'Why can't I remember?'

Dr Smith froze for a second, then his face morphed, shedding the fierceness and growing softer, warmer. He broke a smile.

'Not so omnipotent, it would seem…' he muttered to himself, letting slip a small laugh.

'What?'

'I'm the Doctor.' He said, doffing his hat at Naomi. 'Nice to meet you.'

'Yes. The Doctor. Doctor John Smith.' Naomi replied simply, nodding her head with every word.

'Like I said…a pen-name.'

'Sorry, no, confused now. Long day.'

'Ah, working on the sequel?'

'Spinoff. Are you actually a Doctor?'

'Yes.'

'Right. Doctor…John Smith?'

'No.'

'Okay. Good. So, er…what's your real name?'

'Just the Doctor.'

'Just the Doctor.' Naomi echoed. 'That's not suspicious at all, is it?'

'I'm here to help. With the memory loss.' The Doctor told her, taking a sip from the cup of tea. 'Your agent told me it seemed to be happening more frequently, that they were worried about you.'

'I've had frequent memory loss?'

'You tell me.'

'Well, I can't remember if I've forgotten anything.'

'There you are then.'

'So what are we going to do about it?' Naomi asked, sitting herself down on the armchair.

'I was thinking a short-range tactile parapsychological experiment.'

'Psychological? Like…therapy?'

'Parapsychological.'

'…You're going to put me in a wheelchair?'

'It's a rather limited form of telepathy, only available to certain individuals.'

'Telepathy? You're going to read my mind?'

'In a manner of speaking, yes. But it's less like reading a mind, and more like glancing at it. Just to see how everything's ticking over.'

'Will it hurt?'

'Depends on what you're thinking about.' The Doctor muttered, raising his hands into the air and giving then a magician-like flourish. 'Make sure that you're sitting comfortably. This could take a while.'

He dug around in his pocket for a moment, before producing his reward. The yo-yo. Naomi watched as he inserted his finger into the loop, and released the wooden spool. It trailed downwards, leaving a line of white string in the air behind it, before reaching the end of the trail. It span in the air, as the Doctor raised it up and positioned it directly in front of Naomi's face.

'Sorry about this.' He said sheepishly. 'Couldn't find a watch. Now, watch the yo-yo, here…watch it rocking, back and forth, back and forth…'

As he said this, he started to swing the yo-yo from side to side, letting it hang from his finger like a pendulum.

Naomi found herself entranced by the toy, the bright colours instantly drawing her view. Its arc began to decrease slightly, the yo-yo slowing down a little.

'That's it, just focus on the colours…' she heard the Doctor say, his voice seeming to come from everywhere in the room and nowhere at the same time, echoing around the inside of her head.

She started to blink, just a little, but then much more frequently, her eyelids opening and closing like the shutter on a camera. Her head started to sway, feeling like it was three times its normal weight and her neck was suddenly as thin as a pencil.

As the red, yellow and blue of the yo-yo started to blur into one, Naomi urged herself to stay awake, avoid falling asleep in front of this strange man.

'From five, four…'

Her eyelids drooped shut, clamping out the rest of the world.

'Three…'

Her limbs lost all sign of life, her hand sliding off of the arm on the chair and falling to rest beside her.

'Two…'

Her head started to rock back and forth, as she lost any semblance of energy.

'One…'

Her ears meshed all sound into one long garble, with no want to communicate any longer.

'Now.'

The Doctor clicked his fingers once. She was out cold.

She was swirling, rushing through the air around her like a stick on a rapid river. Lights, sounds, things all rushed by her, none of them taking the time to sink in and leave an impression on her.

The world around her wasn't a colour – it was devoid of anything, black, white, grey, none of it was there, save for the flitting explosions that she passed. But was she passing them, or was she still and they moved passed her?

Naomi had the sneaking suspicion that if she were to look down, presuming that she could, then she wouldn't have a body to look at. It felt as if her body had been eaten away by acid, completely numb from tip to stern.

A light appeared in the distance, a brilliant speck of white that seemed to be so bright, it illuminated the entire space. It zoomed towards, growing larger and larger with every passing moment.

It moved up to her, spreading a field of white as far as she could see in every direction. Yet it still seemed to be approaching her, still a million miles away.

She thought of screaming for help, but the thought didn't register. The wonder clogged up any rational thought, cut off her of any familiarity or safety.

At last, the white light hit her, smacking into her like a brick wall and consuming her completely.

She was stood on a balcony.

No, hang on, it was her balcony, from the apartment.

Everything seemed delirious, out-of-focus, hazy. Like she watching it happen through a bad film recording.

Naomi watched herself drop the torn shreds of a letter from the balcony, and let the wind scatter them around.

Then she looked up.

A plane was going overhead, roaring in its wake. But there was something else, something very important she could remember that was about to happen, like déjà vu in reverse.

There it was. A flash of green, in the night sky. It was bright, like a headlight shining down on her. She recoiled as the light flooded her eyes, totally blinding her.

Suddenly, she felt a jolt, like an electric shock, all over her body. It sprang her awake in a second, back in the armchair, in the apartment, with the Doctor in front of her.

As she regained her feelings, she noticed that she happened to be trembling. She also noticed that the Doctor had just had his fingertips pressed against the sides of her temple.

He looked at her almost in horror, the cheery smile eliminated by a grave, sombre expression.

'So it is them…' he mumbled, like he'd just been told his favourite pub was being demolished.

'Doctor, what was that?'

'Hmm? Oh, just a recent memory check.'

'Have I forgotten anything, then?'

'Not that I can see. This is bad, this is very bad!' he grumbled frantically, as he rose to a standing position and paced around the table.

'Why is it bad?'

'No, no, not that!' he snapped suddenly. 'The green flash, from the dream.'

'What does it mean? Does it mean I'm going to…meet a tall, dark stranger who'll alter my fortunes, or that I lack responsibility, or something?'

'No.' he replied solemnly. 'It means that unless we do something about it very quickly, we're all going to die…'