Who's Afraid of Rose Tyler?

1

Nuevo Dorado, an idyllic jungle resort made up of luxury treehouses built into towering trunks; rustic casinos glowing with neon; infinity pools the size of natural lakes; hot springs, boutique cocktails, five-star restaurants, an underground metro taking guests from one once-in-a-lifetime activity to another. The romantic heart of Mutter's Spiral and the crown jewel in a galactic arm infested with leisure destinations.

A weekend away, just Rose and the Doctor; that was what he'd promised, but the older he got, the worse at keeping such promises he grew.

Predictably, the Doctor had overshot. There were no tree house cities, cave casinos, spaceports, or legions of tourists descending from the cross-galactic pleasure cruises orbiting above.

Instead of care-free fun and maybe, just maybe, a chance to get their marriage on steadier ground, they landed in the midst of an early expedition, a century before the resorts would rise. Originally a motley crew of scouts and geologists working for a mining company (as always), their ship had crash-landed following what the Doctor deduced to be a deeply unfortunate error in its autopilot system. Rather than a proper navigator, the company had skimped out, leaving them at the mercy of a glitchy supercomputer that had decided to crash the ship precariously at the precipice of a waterfall. Flooding ruined the electronics and apparently, nobody ever came to investigate.

There were three of them left when the TARDIS arrived, and they'd long ago descended into total madness. Nuevo Dorado was past an invisible boundary between one universe and another, leaving Rose cut off from the time vortex from the moment she left the TARDIS. They'd been held at gunpoint and dragged forcibly away. Rose might be strong, but without the time vortex, she was slow; somebody would shoot them if she tried to fight off just one.

"It's not a good idea to linger here," she whispered to the Doctor while they were both tied up, captive. "I don't have the time vortex."

"Is that so bad? Most people don't," he told her.

She might not have minded all that, though. Might not have minded being captured by a bunch of wannabe conquistadors, venerated as 'prophets from beyond' because they'd emerged from a strange, blue box, and then forced – on pain of being tied up and cooked alive if they weren't shot first – to 'guide' them to a treasure hoard they believed was stashed below a particularly ominous mountain. That was all run-of-the-mill, business-as-usual stuff, a dicey situation but not one they couldn't surmount.

What Rose did mind – what she really bloody minded – was that the Doctor had seen fit to let Donna tag along. Like it wasn't enough to have her there the rest of the time, to have her company at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and on any other whim he decided to indulge, like there was any reason for her to be there when they were supposed to be on a couples mini-break alone. Never in her life had Rose felt more like the archetypal sitcom wife, stuck third-wheeling her husband and his co-dependent best friend.

Worse yet, Rose couldn't leave. Not just because leaving would entail her trekking back, alone, through a dense jungle she had no idea how to properly navigate, and not just because they were in a parallel universe she didn't have dominion over. But because Donna refused to open a portal and let Rose go back to the TARDIS without them. She did this on the grounds that the novel situation was fun. That Rose only needed to see the bright side of things.

"It's not so bad," Donna insisted as they walked towards the mountain, guns jabbed into their backs every so often to keep them moving quickly, maybe two days into the ordeal. "I've always wanted to be a treasure hunter."

"Have you?" She beamed. Rose dropped the subject.

They walked and walked and walked, camped at night while the miners roasted what lizards they'd managed to kill. There were plenty of bright yellow reptiles, the same size as rats and just as abundant. They'd stab them with sharp, wooden sticks and then use the same sticks to roast them over an open fire and tear them apart. Rose saw plenty of things she thought could be fruits or vegetables, but every time she pointed them out, she was warned that everything was poison.

"People started going mad when they ate the fruit here," warned one of the miners, Karlsson, the ship's quartermaster.

"Well, as long as you all stopped going mad before it went too far…"

She didn't know for how long they walked because the nights were very long there. The mountain had looked close initially, but its size had been deceptive. It was the tallest mountain she'd ever seen, and she was thankful they didn't intend to surmount it, because her feet were on fire. Expecting they were going to be lounging around spas and pools, she hadn't worn her walking boots. She was in an old pair of trainers that had been on their last legs already – though, even that was a step above the flip-flops she'd first considered bringing.

"My feet are killing," she told the Doctor for the hundredth time.

"Oh, you'll be alright. It's good for them."

"I don't think so."

"It's good exercise."

"Not if they fall off."

"That can't happen," he assured her. She knew it couldn't happen, but that didn't stop it from feeling like it was about to happen at any moment. They were white hot by the time they reached the cave, days into the journey, descending through an underground system into the bowls of the mountain. There were narrow spaces, crevices, lots of crawling; it turned out she was the smallest of all of them, so was pushed forwards to scout ahead. More than once she was made to climb through what turned out to be dead-ends and then awkwardly scramble out again. The soles of her trainers were coming off at the bottom and she was filthy, covered in muck and glowing grime from the bioluminescent fungi that covered the rocks.

Eventually, they got to a cave. It was finally daylight outside, and sunbeams came through gaps in the cavern's roof, along with a dozen waterfalls. It was beautiful in its own way, but there wasn't any treasure. There was a skeleton of some long-dead animal that looked, to Rose, like a dinosaur fossil. It was curled up in the middle of the cave like it had died while asleep.

The self-proclaimed leader of the miners, Donohue, wouldn't take such disappointment. He hacked his way through the skeleton with a blunt axe.

"It must have been guarding it, the treasure," he insisted.

"A dragon, then," said Rose quietly.

Donohue was furious. When shattering the skeleton yielded exactly nothing, he turned on Karlsson, pouncing on him and nearly beating him to death with the axe in a mad rage.

It was down to Rose to pull him off and keep him restrained, while Karlsson lay bleeding on the floor. The final crew member, Conejero, the second engineer, tried to shoot at Donohue while Rose was keeping his arms behind his back, and had to have the gun wrestled from her by Donna and the Doctor.

"You bastard!" shouted Karlsson, covered in blood, "After everything I gave you!"

"You read the signs! You heard about the giants' treasure first!" Donohue raved. "You negotiated with the prophets!"

"I've told you about fifty times, mate, none of us is a prophet," said Rose, wrangling him. "If you would calm down, we can take you all back home, take you far away from here. Back to wherever you-"

Donna had the gun. In a moment of distraction, watching Rose try to talk Donohue out of his fury, Conejero grabbed it from her again. There wasn't time for anybody to react; Conejero shot herself in the head, through the chin, and went tumbling to the ground. The red mist hung in the air behind her head for what felt like an age.

"Christ!" shouted Rose, "Why weren't you watching her, the two of you!?" Donohue calmed down. Karlsson could see through the blood enough to know what had happened. "You should have stopped her!"

"It was too quick!" said Donna.

"Why are you even here!? Just following us around and then letting someone kill themselves – you should've chucked the gun over the edge!"

"I didn't see you freezing time and stopping her."

"Because we're in a parallel universe! How many times! You think I'd still be here at all if I didn't have to be?" Rose argued. "Do you know what, that's it, that's it." She let Donohue go. "You open a portal back to the TARDIS right now or I'll break your arm."

"You what?" said Donna.

"Portal, now. You've had your fun, you've had your treasure hunt, it's ended in a person's death. It's like everything's a game to you two, isn't it?" she looked between them.

The Doctor spoke up, "Now, Rose, Donna couldn't have known she was going to-"

"Right, so, Donna should've just let her have the gun, then, because how could Donna have known she was going to shoot herself and not shoot anybody else in this room with a gun that has no other purpose. Portal," said Rose to Donna, firmly, "Now. We're leaving. There's nothing more to be done here. There's no treasure, he needs medical attention, and someone needs to take her body back home; I'm betting it won't be you."

Eventually, it dawned on them. They hadn't been having a fun adventure for days with mad, space treasure hunters. It was real people's lives, and their refusal to listen to Rose about rescuing them immediately had gotten someone killed. There was a long silence. Donohue helped Karlsson to his feet.

"You," Rose said to him, "Do you know who her family is? How to get her back home?"

"There's no way off this planet," he said, yet again.

"There is," said Donna. She did the thing Rose had been begging her to do for days. A shimmering portal opened between them all when she waved her hand. Through it, Rose saw the fuzzy image of the console room.

"Thank you," she said.

As soon as they were back on the TARDIS, the time vortex swam up to meet her. She was ensconced in spacetime; futures, pasts, presents, real and potential, all right there where she had left it.

The Doctor, with help of Donohue, carried Conejero's body aboard. Rose fetched Karlsson a roll of kitchen paper to wipe the blood off his face. The jagged cuts were swelling up already.

"Do you have a planet, anything?" Rose asked, at the controls.

"We'll go back to the company," Donohue said, "This is really a ship?"

"Yes. That blue box you dragged us away from, this is what's inside," she said. He gave her the name of the company, the station it was based on, the date they'd left. Ten years into the future they went, Conejero's head bleeding out onto the metal floor.

"You had a ship here this whole time?" mumbled Karlsson, tending his wounds.

"Don't blame me, blame them, taking pleasure in you lot looking for pretend treasure," said Rose, "She could've made that portal at any time, like I kept asking."

"Ines wouldn't have died," said Donohue.

"I couldn't have known what would happen," said Donna.

"How is that an excuse?" Rose began "You should have listened to me, the whole time we were there, I was saying-"

"Rose, hindsight is twenty-twenty," the Doctor interjected.

"Right. You're on her side. A woman's dead, and you're on Donna's side. Why's that? So she doesn't have to live with the guilt? Great. The two of you want to look at yourselves in the mirror one of these days."

Donohue told her where to go. The Doctor-Donna stayed away while she navigated the ship, which she barely had to do; Rose and the TARDIS were always attuned, so attuned that the ship sometimes flew itself without stronger direction than her impulses.

"What will the company do?" Rose asked, "Cover everything up?"

"Probably," said Donohue, "After so long on there, I don't know how…"

"Whatever they tell you to say, whatever company line," Rose began, "Stick to it. It's not worth giving up a second chance at life over trying to expose that crash."

"You can't tell them not to speak out," said Donna, "That company needs to be held accountable-"

"No, you need to be held accountable. Could have saved three people today, and we didn't. So shut up." Rose turned back to Donohue, "Make sure you talk to everybody's family, everyone else who died there. They deserve some closure. Let those bastards build their resorts on all those bones – you lot take whatever money they offer you to stay quiet and run with it." She'd be checking in on them. Kian Donohue and Ivar Karlsson, and the recently departed Ines Conejero.

It was down to her that they were dropped off not at the headquarters of the mining company that might try to bury them, but back home on Earth. An understated return. They trudged out into the sunlight, after days upon days of claustrophobic nights, wounded, dirty, and having gone years without a proper meal.

"You two should keep an eye on them," Rose told the Doctor-Donna.

"What do you mean?" asked Donna.

"Stay here for a bit, don't just clear off when it's convenient."

"And why not you?"

"I'm leaving," she said, shaking her head, stepping away from the console, "I need to clear my head. Get some space."

"Oh, right, so for all your talk of us taking some responsibility, you're the one who's going to 'clear off when it's convenient'?" said Donna.

"I didn't get one of them murdered," said Rose, "Go help them with her body." Karlsson and Donohue were carrying Conejero's corpse together, despite their injuries. "But whatever you do, I'm going. Now."

"No, Rose, I think we all need to have a conversation," said the Doctor, walking around the console to block her path further into the ship. She had it in her mind that she was going to storm into their bedroom and pack a bag, but there he was. Dare she shove him out of the way?

"No. Not right now. You don't want to talk to me right now, because I'm not gonna say anything nice to you, either of you – can't think of a single good thing. You drag me out there for days, giving me no opportunity to leave, against my will – I mean, who was really keeping me captive? Them, or you two? Do you know, they're real people, they have real lives to be getting back to, they're not just side-show attractions for you to gawk at or poke with sticks. 'Oh, look at these circus freaks, how strange it must be to have to live an ordinary life and not parade through time and space never facing up to the consequences of their actions'."

"It isn't like that, Rose," said the Doctor, very serious.

"You can't stop me from leaving."

"Let's all go out with them, meet their families, see if we can have a cup of tea, maybe," he began, trying to salvage something.

"No, you meet their families. You go out there and look her parents in the eye, her kids if she had any, and tell them, say you could have saved their little girl if you'd only stopped showing off, if you'd only paid attention, only dumped that gun in a parallel universe, done any of a million things I know you – she," she pointed at Donna, "could have done. What are you, the pair of you? The 'Doctor-Donna'? That's a joke. Don't come and find me, I'll find you if I need anything."

"And where will you be?" the Doctor challenged, "Brighton? Again?"

"Yes! I'll be in Brighton!"

"And what's in Brighton that's so important?"

"What, apart from my goddaughter? You've already forgotten she's family – the only thing close to a real family I have any more? God, they haven't even been dead a year."

"It's not about Matilda."

"Right, I see, you're jealous because I'd rather be around Clara Oswald than either of you. Maybe that says more about you than it does about me or her."

She left them on that. It was an old argument, Conejero's death aside. Round and round in circles they all went, on an almost daily basis now. In the ten years since Shaun Temple had died of an aneurysm, the Doctor-Donna had merged more thoroughly than when their alliance had produced Tentoo. They were barely distinguishable, both of them hopped up on Time Lord rubbish. Rose couldn't stand it. Sometimes, she thought that the Astroverse was the one that had it right; Ten and Rose, separate. Ten and Donna, separate, and Donna with no real memory of her foray into temporal omniscience. Here, they were all stuck together, slowly putrefying.

She didn't bother to go into the bedroom and pack a bag. Didn't want to risk him rushing down there to try and find her, as she knew he would. She disappeared, the TARDIS disintegrating, and then every atom in the universe reformulated itself to take Rose Tyler where she wanted to be.

Except, not quite.

Monday

She wasn't outside the detached house in suburban Brighton, where she'd wanted to go. It was a freezing, wintry night, and there she was, alone in a graveyard. A familiar graveyard, but still. Graveyard. Not ideal.

She recognised it from investigating Dexter Willard's murder in September, when he'd risen from the grave and been reported to Brighton plod as a real-life zombie. Vaguely, she thought she could find her way back to the house, but she didn't know Brighton very well. And it was strange for the time vortex to put her somewhere she hadn't intended to go. It almost never happened, unless the vortex was trying to communicate in its usual, opaque way.

"Why am I here?" she said, "What are you up to?"

In the cold, her aching bones became more pronounced. She only had on an old hoodie, jeans, and trainers, all filthy and coming apart after her jungle ordeal. She wouldn't be surprised if people thought she'd just risen from the grave, the state she was in. She took out her mobile, forgetting the battery had died on her days ago. Useless until she could get a charger. But she didn't chance another teleportation, getting the feeling that there was something for her in that lonely graveyard.

If she walked for long enough in any direction, she'd find a gate or a wall to vault over. So, she chose a direction and followed it, heading towards a star just barely visible overhead through the light pollution. Eventually, she went through enough rows of overgrown headstones to find a path to follow instead. She'd rather stop walking completely and let herself collapse, but there was something relaxing about the cold and nighttime on Earth, as opposed to on Nuevo Dorado.

It wasn't enough for Rose to see one dead body that day, though. While she traipsed through the graves and grass, something white and pale caught her eye. It shone in what little moonlight there was. A leg, two bare legs, sticking out from behind a headstone. She stopped. The legs didn't move, and going by the colour, she doubted there was much life left in them. On the headstone, the phrase 'Bad Wolf' had been carved, years ago now.

Hoping beyond hope that there was something she could do after being so useless in the room with Conejero earlier, Rose hurried over to look behind the headstone. She was too late, though, much too late by the looks of things. It was a naked woman, clearly dead, eyes closed, thrown there in the long grass. She was covered with nasty-looking wounds, but unpleasant as they were, they'd all been carefully sewn up. Half a dozen deep incisions decorated her torso. She had old track marks up and down her arms and thighs.

Again, Rose went for her phone, intending to immediately call the police, but of course, it was still dead. She tried the power button anyway, even slapped the phone against her hand a few times as if that would spark something in it, but no. So what could she do? Leave, and get to either the nearest phone box or the Oswalds' house. Considering she didn't know the last time she'd seen a public phone box in the 2060s, she decided she'd better go for the latter.

But when she turned around to leave the woman, two torches were shining on her.

"Stay right where you are," she was ordered. She squinted in the bright lights. Two people, both outfitted in fluorescent yellow. "Sussex Police. Put your hands up." Rose did as asked, still holding her phone. "What's that you've got?"

"Just my phone, I was going to call you lot, but there's no battery," she said, keeping her hands up.

"What's that behind you?" the left copper asked.

"Dead woman, I just found her," said Rose, "Like I said, I was going to call you."

"Likely story. We've been patrolling here all night, and you're the only person we've seen, and we ran into you right when that corpse appears. Wasn't there even ten minutes ago."

"So what? You can't be that hard for someone to avoid, looking like that."

"Think you're funny?"

"No, but – are you accusing me of something?"

"We're taking you in for questioning," said the right copper, "What's your name?"

"Rose. Rose Tyler."

"Do I need the handcuffs, or will you come quietly?"

"Excuse me?"

"Turn around," she was ordered. Rolling her eyes, she did, putting her phone in her back pocket. The copper marched over and slapped a pair of fancy, futuristic handcuffs around Rose's wrists. They would be easy enough to break, but she didn't bother. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder."

"You what!?"

"You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you say may be given in evidence."

"I haven't killed anyone! I hope you two know that while you're dicking around arresting me, whoever did leave that woman there is getting away with it." The first officer was saying something on his radio, asking for an ambulance, backup, and the CSIs down there.

"The Borough Cemetery, yeah," he said, while Rose was pulled away by his partner. "Yes, another one." A pause, "Yes, we were patrolling, we've made an arrest. Presley's bringing her in now, I'll stay here to secure the scene."

"Just you and me then?" said Rose, trying to pull away from Presley, who was keeping a grip on the cuffs. Yet again, Rose was a prisoner. "I should warn you, I'm a manifest. Those handcuffs won't do much if you piss me off."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm not threatening you. I'm just saying."

"Because in accordance with the Manifest Order Act of 2029, that could be construed as a threat on a police officer from an infected party, which is a criminal offence, do you understand?"

"And what are you gonna do about it, really? No manifest coppers, are they?" said Rose.

"Get over there, and be lucky if I don't refer you to Special Branch. If you go down for murder, any judge is going to order you're given the cure."

"It's a good thing I haven't murdered anybody, then." Presley forced her all the way through the cemetery and out the front gates, where a bright yellow and blue police car was waiting for her. "Is that a CyTech car? I'm friends with Adam Mitchell, you know. Maybe he can get you a restock at a discount – pig rates, and all."

"Get in there," Presley shoved her in the backseat. "Claiming you know Adam Mitchell? Are you trying to get sectioned? 'Not guilty by reason of insanity' won't fly." She slammed the door shut.

"Think I'd rather talk to my solicitor about what defence I use in court!" Rose shouted through the window. Presley got in the front seat and started the car. "Smells like bacon in here."

"Keep it coming, I've heard it all. Everyone's a comedian."

"Get the headlights on, I bet you'll see the real killer running away down here," she said. "What you doing around that graveyard, anyway? Plod's got nothing better to do?"

"Keep your mouth shut, you'll only incriminate yourself."

"Wouldn't it be good for you if I did?"

"More paperwork. I'll let the DS take your statement." The radio crackled. They were talking about the CSIs and ambulance being en route.

Rose didn't say anything for the rest of the journey. She was dragged into Brighton Police Station, an awful, grey building that was now crawling with rainwater stains, and straight into custody. They made her take off her clothes, for evidence, and then provided her with a paper jumpsuit. Nobody watched her change, at least, and the clothes were filthy and ruined anyway. She wondered if their forensics would find any blood residue from Conejero or Karlsson, or even skin scrapings from Donohue when she'd grabbed him. But regardless, none of them was the dead woman in the graveyard.

Held on a tentative murder charge, it didn't take long for them to drag her out of the ice-cold cell and through the station, thrown down in an evidence room and placed back in handcuffs. She waited in there for ten minutes, Presley lurking outside the door, before the DS arrived. A man in his thirties, unkempt and unshaven, who looked as if he hadn't slept for days. He talked to Presley only for a moment before brushing past her. Then he was all business, getting out a tablet the size of a notepad and a stylus.

"Alright then, let's see if we can't get this over with," he sighed and pulled out the chair opposite her, "I'm Detective Sergeant Speyer, I understand that you're…" He looked up, stopped talking, then shouted, "Get in here, Presley," through the door. Presley did.

"Sir?"

"Why is she handcuffed?"

"She was violent earlier," said Presley.

"Only as violent as you'd expect someone to be when they're arrested for something they haven't done," said Rose.

"Sir, she threatened me, and under the Manifest Order Act-"

"You're a manifest?" Speyer asked Rose.

"Yeah. I'll show you a trick." Effortlessly, she pulled at the handcuffs, splitting them in half.

"I'll get another pair – don't think you won't get a bill for damages," said Presley.

"You won't get another pair," said Speyer, "Why doesn't she have a brief?"

"Said she didn't want one," said Presley.

"Is that true?" he asked Rose.

"I don't have one I can call, and I couldn't afford them regardless."

"Would you like me to postpone this interview and get a duty solicitor down here?" he asked.

"No. I'll talk to you without a brief, because I'm not guilty."

"I did ask her that, too," said Presley, defensive. Speyer turned to her.

"How long's left on your shift?"

"I'm on overtime."

"Are you? Go home, then."

"Who'll guard the door?"

"I think I'll manage. Go sign out, now," he ordered. She was not happy about taking orders from him, but left regardless.

"I'll see you around, Cuntstable Presley," Rose shouted after her. She glared through the little glass window in the door as she shut it. Rose pried the handcuffs open, freeing herself completely, and set their remains down on the desk in front of her. "She's a piece of work, isn't she?"

"…As I was saying," he moved on, unamused, "I'm Detective Sergeant Speyer." He went about starting a tape, using a touchscreen interface set into the wall next to him, reading out the date and time. It was just after eight o'clock in the evening, Monday the sixteenth of February.

"It's my birthday on Saturday," said Rose, "The twenty-first."

"Yes, I see here on Presley's arrest report, you gave your name as Rose Tyler, and date of birth as February twenty-first."

"That's right."

"February 1986."

"Yep."

"That would make you almost seventy-nine."

"Yeah. Thereabouts."

"There is a person on record with that name and that date of birth, but no picture, and listed as being dead since 2006."

"That's me. I'm not dead, though."

"You faked your death?"

"No. Just an admin error."

"And you didn't correct it?" Rose shrugged. "While faking your death in itself isn't a crime, Mrs Tyler, we could open an investigation into potential fraud."

"Fraud how?"

"Tax fraud. Have you been paying taxes in these years you've been dead?"

"No, but I haven't had an income to pay tax on, haven't had a job."

"What about life insurance?"

She laughed, "You're kidding? A jobless teenager from south London living on a council estate goes missing sixty years ago, and you think she's committed insurance fraud?"

"You'd be surprised. Do you only have one superpower, for the record?" he asked.

"No. I can teleport, through time and space. And, uh, eternal youth." The 'eternal youth' and her dominion over time and space were all part of the same ability, but she didn't think it was worth it to have to explain what the time vortex was and how it flowed through her. Even the Doctor still didn't understand exactly how that felt.

"Through time and space? So, time travel?"

"Yes."

"And yet, here you are in police custody. In Brighton. Couldn't you teleport away?"

"Course I could. But then I'd be a fugitive, wouldn't I? I didn't kill that woman. I have to clear my name so I can walk through Brighton without worrying about getting arrested by PC Plod out there again. And wouldn't it be weirder yet for me to have not teleported away before they got a look at my face, or my name, or a picture?"

"That's up to me, not you. Tell me, why were you in the Borough Cemetery?"

"Didn't mean to be. I was aiming for someone's house."

"Not a very good teleporter, then?"

"It's complicated. I was trying to find the way out when I saw that body, walked over, realised she was dead, and then I took my phone out to ring 999 but the battery was gone. Then your woman out there arrested me."

"While you hurled abuse at her."

"She deserved the abuse, that's wrongful arrest. Your forensics will come back and find nothing connecting me to that woman – I didn't even touch her."

"How did you know she was dead? You didn't check for a pulse?"

"I didn't need to," said Rose, serious, "I only needed to look at her, cut up like that. And pale. I've never seen anyone that pale and still kicking." Except, maybe, for the vampires.

"So, you were walking through a graveyard alone just before midnight, and you found a body that was only dumped there very recently? You don't find that coincidence hard to believe?"

"Isn't it a coincidence when anybody finds a body?" said Rose, "They were 'coincidentally' near the scene of a crime?"

"Is that everything you can tell me about how you found it?" he asked.

"Yes. And they took my phone as evidence, so you can go check that the battery's dead. I would have called if it had charge."

"And where were you before you 'teleported' into this cemetery?" asked Speyer.

"On an alien planet, in a jungle, for a few days. That's why I look like this."

"So, you say you were on an alien planet at the time the body was left, and likely at the time she was killed?"

"Yes. So I couldn't have killed her, obviously."

"It's not the strongest alibi, is it?"

"Being on a different planet?"

"If I believe you." Rose said nothing. "Tell me some more specifics, then. Where were you going to go, had you not found a body?"

"Friend's house, to stay for a while."

"Does this friend have a name?"

"Clara Oswald." He'd been writing on his tablet the whole time, but now he stopped.

"The teacher?" he asked.

"Is she well known to the police? What have you done, picked her up for soliciting? I'll bet."

"You didn't answer."

"Yes, the bloody teacher. She and her wife, they're my in-laws. Her wife's brother – sort of – he's my husband. We're going through a rough patch and I left, to stay with them and clear my head. But I landed in your graveyard."

"This husband, he was on this alien planet with you?"

"Yes." His tablet dinged and he stopped to read something.

"Does the name Veronica Lowell mean anything to you?"

"No. Is that the woman?"

"Yes, she's just been identified by her fingerprints. I'm going to read you some other names now, alright?"

"Fine."

"Lucas Seward."

"Never heard of him."

"Adrian Robinson, Ade."

"Don't know him, either."

"Mina Highgrove."

"Still not ringing a bell."

"I'm going to show you a list of dates, if you could tell me where you were on those dates, to the best of your knowledge."

"I'll give it ago, but I'm awful with dates these days," she said. He showed her the screen of his tablet. October 27th, November 4th, November 28th, December 3rd, December 30th, January 5th, February 10th. "Erm… well, I don't know. I don't have a diary I can check. Except for December 30th, I was with the Oswalds all day. I stayed with them through Christmas Day to the beginning of January, barely left the house. Like I said, rough patch."

"And that's the only one of these days you can provide your whereabouts for?"

"I'd have to ask Clara. She'll know when I was over and when I wasn't," said Rose, "Speaking of which, don't I get a phone call to tell someone where I am?"

"You have a right to notify somebody and a solicitor, but not through a phone call if I don't allow it. This isn't America."

"If she can help give me an alibi, I should be able to talk to her."

"You said she's your sister-in-law? Might she not provide you with a fake alibi?"

"That's a crime, she'd lose her job. She won't risk losing her job over someone who can teleport out of prison if it comes down to it. All I've done is found a body and talked some shite to a copper. Your forensics will tell you as much."

"Preliminary forensics have found traces of blood on your clothes."

"But I bet that blood doesn't match any of those people whose names you've given me. Because it's not any of theirs."

"You've had a barney with your husband, then?"

"Something like that. That's what the blood will be from. Besides, from what I saw of that body, there wasn't any blood left in her."

"How did that make you feel?"

"Excuse me? What kind of sick question is that?"

"Seeing her there, a dead woman, naked, exposed, public. How did you feel?"

"Veronica Lowell, you mean?" He didn't speak. "Awful. All the life drained from her, butchered, left there without any clothes. It's disgusting. Nobody has the right to do that, to play god. I hope you catch the bastard because you're wasting your time with me." He scrutinised her, trying to decide if she was genuine or hiding some latent psychopathy. Then he moved on.

"And before tonight, had you ever been to Brighton Borough Cemetery before?"

"Once, in September. I don't know the exact date, but Clara would if you'd let me talk to her."

"Were you with anyone?"

"The Doctor, Dr Oswald. And two others – Ryan and Graham, I don't know their surnames. We only met that one day. It's complicated."

"The four of you took a trip to the cemetery? You, Dr Oswald, and two people whose full names you conveniently don't remember?"

"Yes."

"Were you visiting anybody?"

"Dexter Willard. He'd been butchered, too. But you didn't solve that murder, did you? Then again – is it murder if the body gets up and starts talking?"

"The, um," he faltered, "The attempted murder of Dexter Willard was connected to William Smiles, the CEO of-"

"Prometheus. I know. I was there. Who connected it? Your lot, or UNIT? Swanning in and taking all the evidence and the glory?"

"You admit to being at the cemetery just weeks before the twenty-seventh of October?"

"D'you know what you should do?" Rose leant forwards and talked slowly, "You should take in for questioning every single person who's ever visited that public cemetery. Maybe then you'll find your serial killer."

"Serial killer? That's quite the assumption, Mrs Tyler."

"You gave me seven dates, eight including today, and four names. That's a date of disappearance for each of them, plus the dates the bodies were found. I'm not stupid. You can keep me in custody all you want, but when those forensics come back, I'll be exonerated, because I've got nothing to do with any of this."

"Alright. Do you have any medical experience, Mrs Tyler?"

"How do you mean? Medical?"

"Medical education, working in a hospital in any capacity?"

"I got a B in GCSE Biology," she said, "Other than that, no. I've barely even been to hospital as a patient. Never worked in one."

"Can you give me an employment history? I understand it seems to have been a long time since you were last in the workforce-"

"I worked in a shop, for about a year from when I was eighteen. A department store in the Strand, near Trafalgar Square," she said, "Building exploded in 2005. Gas leak."

"Do you know anyone who works in the medical field currently? Hospitals, laboratories, research universities? Anything like that?"

"No."

"If you had to acquire anaesthetic, for example, how would you do it?" he asked. She paused, thinking. She'd probably ask Oswin, who probably had an array of anaesthetics on the TARDIS.

"I don't know. Why would I need it?" she asked him.

"It's just a question."

"They've been anaesthetised, then? Your four victims?" she made a guess, "Some freak cuts them up like that, but it's alright because they've been drugged?"

"What grade did you get in Chemistry, out of interest?"

"Dunno. Don't think I passed. Too much maths in Chemistry."

"Do you have any links to criminal organisations?"

"Why would I tell you, if I did?"

"Do you have a driver's license?"

"No." She'd had to get Mickey to drive her around when necessary.

"The cuts you're referring to, they're incisions to remove organs." So, he was looking for an organ thief. His tablet dinged again. He stopped to read. "Mrs Tyler, I've just been informed by the CSIs that your clothes contain traces of various unknown, unidentifiable compounds."

"I've told you, I was on another planet," she insisted, "There were all these alien mushrooms, plants, alien rain, lizards – all sorts. I was there for days, look at me." She was still a mess, even without her torn clothes.

"The anaesthetic compound we're investigating has also proven itself to be unidentifiable, subject to rigorous analysis so far."

"Alright? Then maybe your killer's an alien, and it's from another planet. There's a lot of them out there, they're always invading Earth."

He stopped, thinking. Then he terminated the interview, giving the time to the tape and turning off the recording on the touchscreen in the wall. He turned off his tablet, set it face-down on the table, and crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair.

"You're suggesting that an alien is stealing people's organs? In Brighton?" he asked her outright. Didn't want his alien theories on the record.

"You're Benji, aren't you? Clara's tame copper?

"I wouldn't characterise it that way," he said, "It's a mutual arrangement."

"…I really don't know if it would be an alien," she said, answering his question after a pause. "Odd, though, with your anaesthetic."

"They were also all drained of blood, on top of the organs."

"You checked for bite marks?"

"Excuse me?"

"Bite marks," she repeated. "You never know when there might be vampires around." Aliens were one thing, but Benji obviously didn't believe her about the vampires.

"No. No bite marks. Homeless people disappearing around Brighton and then turning up in the very same graveyard, and nobody's been able to catch the killer in the act. Unless you're the killer, of course."

"Anybody sensible would leave the bodies in different places," said Rose. "Couldn't have been me, see."

"How do you really know the Oswalds?"

"I told you, I'm their sister-in-law. And their ward, Mattie, I'm her godmother."

"But you don't have custody of her?"

"No. Her parents changed their will, a bit before they died last year, to name Clara. I don't have a stable home. Move around a lot."

"The last time there was a serial killer investigation in Brighton, the target was the Doctor," he said, "That was in October."

"Your Halloween killer, eh? I heard about that. But this won't be about the Doctor, if it was, she'd know about it," said Rose.

"Maybe she has some insights."

"She has a few insights into thinking you're a twat, if that's what you mean? Spits every time your name comes up. And Clara won't want her involved in all this," said Rose, "Me, though? Maybe I can do something."

"Like what?"

"Ask around. Anything to clear my name, before you try to connect me to those 'unknown compounds' of yours."

"Mm…" She didn't think he believed she'd be useful. He cleared his throat. "Well, unfortunately, Mrs Tyler, while I do think PC Presley jumped the gun and shouldn't have arrested you, I'm still going to have to keep you here until those forensics come back. Because of the serious nature of the offence, you understand."

"How long will that take?"

"Hopefully not long. I'll see if I can fast-track it. And then I'll notify Mrs Oswald that we have you in custody and she can help alibi you."

"Can't I talk to her?"

"I'd rather you didn't, until I get those alibis," he said, standing up. Rose did the same. He made no move to cuff her again. "And are you absolutely sure you don't want me to call a solicitor?"

"I'm innocent. I don't need one. Have fun talking to Clara."

"Come on. I'll bring you something to eat and drink."

"Maybe then I won't try to get you done for wrongful arrest."

It was strange. She didn't even mind being in a jail cell with Brighton's best and bluest on the outside, or in a paper jumpsuit. It was quiet, and the disposable jumpsuit was clean. Best of all, Benji did bring her something to eat, a ham salad sandwich with some crisps and a hot chocolate, from the station canteen. None of it contained any dead, partially barbecued lizards. She sipped hot chocolate, sipped some water, and lay down on the rather brutal bed covered in soft plastic to give her feet a break. It was almost relaxing.

Nearly two hours later, Rose spending most of that time doing breathing exercises to clear her mind and keep herself calm while her mind raced, Benji came back.

"Good news," he pushed open the creaking, heavy door. He was carrying a shopping bag. "We have no forensic evidence linking you to any of the murders or crime scenes. And Mrs Oswald has provided you with alibis for three more of those dates. She's waiting for you now, and she brought a change of clothes," he held the bag towards Rose.

"Thanks."

"I'll wait for you in the hall, knock on the door when you're done." She got dressed in a somewhat mismatched outfit, the best Clara could do with the dregs Rose had left behind at the house over the months.

Benji led her away from the cells to process her release from custody, which didn't take long. She was given her phone back, but Benji said they'd need to keep the clothes so the 'compounds' could be looked at in greater detail. She didn't care. He apologised again for Presley arresting her when she should have really just had a statement taken as a potential witness. Eventually, when it was getting on for midnight, she was delivered unto Clara, who was waiting alone on a metal bench near the entrance.

"I'm sorry about all this, Clara," said Benji, "I had to process everything formally, you understand."

"Lucky you were here, and she didn't get held for days," said Clara dryly. "For the record, my sister-in-law isn't a murderer."

"I'll be in touch if we have any further enquiries, Mrs Tyler," said Benji, then they left him. In the time since her arrest, it had started raining. Not the tropical, foggy rain of the jungle that made everything sticky; the heavy, cold, torrential rain of the UK. She always missed it.

"Are you okay? Do you want to make a complaint?" Clara asked once they were outside. They rushed towards the blue camper van, Clara not bothering to open an umbrella.

"No, it's fine," said Rose, loudly, over the weather. The van was cold, and then rain pattered on the roof loudly. "That's four of these murders now, he told me," she said when they were both inside. "Four homeless people, they all disappeared then turned up a week later in that graveyard with their organs cut out, stripped of clothes."

"Jesus," said Clara, "I haven't heard anything on the news about a serial killer."

"Yeah, well… could just be organs."

"I think organ thieves would know how to dispose of bodies properly, instead of leaving them in the same place every time," Clara pointed out, starting the engine. She was right, that was weird. "Why were you in the graveyard in the first place?" She leant forwards to squint through the rainy window as she drove them out of the car park.

"I was trying to get to yours. The time vortex had other ideas. I think it was trying to show me that woman, Veronica. Maybe I can stop him from killing anybody else."

"But the time vortex won't just tell you who the killer is?"

"It's not up to me how it works."

"So…" Clara began a minute later, "What's going on? You look like you've been through hell." Quickly as she could, Rose explained her jungle 'adventure'; the trekking, the lizards, the attempted axe murder, the suicide.

"They took my socks, for the forensics. Blood all over the place," she said.

"Christ. What a bastard." Rose said nothing. "Sorry, I mean, he's your husband."

"Yeah," Rose sighed. "Sorry you had to come out on a school night to deal with all this."

"Oh, don't worry about that, I'm happy to," said Clara, "I've stayed up later than this on a weeknight for far less important things before."

"Sex, you mean?"

"That or a good book. But, really, I was still up anyway doing prep for parent's evening this week."

"Can I stay with you? I don't know how long for."

"Of course you can, you don't need to ask," said Clara.

"I don't want to intrude," said Rose.

"You're not intruding, we like having people in the house," said Clara.

"I don't think your wife likes having me in the house."

"Well, it's just very hard for her when you and I have such intense sexual tension whenever we're in a room together, isn't it?" said Clara.

"I'd kick you for that if I wasn't afraid of rupturing another blister."

"I'm serious – why don't we just take the van out and drive all the way into the countryside? Go live in the woods together?" said Clara, "It might be romantic."

Rose laughed a little, "You could never live in the woods. Where would you have your wanking baths?"

"We'd just find a lake, wouldn't we? Cold water swimming is supposed to be good for you."

"Maybe that's an idea…" she said, thinking. Then, quickly, "Not us running away together, that would be awful, but the swimming."

"I dunno," said Clara, "It could be sexy."

"You think everything's sexy. Is there anywhere to swim around here?"

"In Brighton…?" asked Clara slowly, "There's the sea?"

"It's filthy in there."

"Well, as long as you have a wash when you're done. Maybe wait for your wounds to heal, though." Rose dwelled on this, the swimming, for the rest of the drive. It wasn't far. Nothing was ever far in Brighton.

She shuffled into the house in her mismatched clothes, wearing a dirt-cheap pair of white, disposable pumps provided by the police that were a little too small; that didn't help her injuries. The Doctor was up, in the kitchen, cooking something. Rose followed Clara through under the promise of something to eat and drink, something nicer than a sandwich. Now, it was Clara who told the story of the jungle. Rose didn't want to go through it all again, and searched through the fridge for something nutritional to eat; she settled on their last apple.

"Blisters? Really?" said the Doctor, then she ordered Rose, "Show me." Rose bit into her apple and then carefully shook off one of the pumps. A drop of blood landed on the floor, and her foot was riddled with blisters, sores, tiny little cuts, dirt and red stains.

"Bloody hell," said Clara, "You need some antiseptic, I'll-"

"No, no," the Doctor stopped what she'd been doing and put her hands on Clara's shoulders, "You go to bed. You need some sleep. I can take care of all this."

"No, but-"

"Coo-Bear," she said, serious. She didn't need to say anything else. They communicated wordlessly and Rose continued munching on her apple, sitting down at the kitchen table. The wounds were very nasty.

"Alright," Clara agreed. "But if you need anything-"

"Just go to bed, it'll be fine, go on. I'll see you in the morning." Clara kissed her goodnight and disappeared. The Doctor listened to her go all the way upstairs. "She's right about the antiseptic, these cuts could turn very nasty."

"I have a million things," said Rose, "I need to eat real food, I need a wash, I need to sleep, I need to sort out these cuts, it's-"

"Hey, hey," the Doctor interrupted her and pulled out another chair at the kitchen table. It was overwhelming; Rose had so many things she had to do to calm down. "Sleeping comes last. You'll feel far worse if you wake up and you're still bleeding. Finish your apple, then you can go shower and I'll make you something to eat."

"I don't think I can stand for that long."

"There's a stool, under the spare bed," said the Doctor, "It's for Oswin, if she ever needs to use the shower. You can use that to sit down. Just get in, get out, and I'll have some food for you."

She found herself crying in the shower. Half because of the pain, half because of the stress finally taking its toll. She put the water as hot as possible, washed her hair and body twice each, used as much conditioner as she could, and settled down to slowly work the dirt off her feet. Blood circled the shower drain until she was done, and then she stayed in there for a while with the water off, gently padding them dry in the hope the bleeding would stop.

The Doctor kept her promise. When Rose, sometime later, came shuffling carefully back downstairs, she was just bringing food out of the oven.

"I've got you a whole head of roast broccoli here," she said, "And cheesy chips. I know, you said real food, but you'll feel better with the additional carb bomb. And broccoli's real food, of course. Oh, and – there's the first aid kit, with the antiseptic gel and the dressing," she pointed it out on the kitchen table.

"You're a proper housewife these days, aren't you?" said Rose, sitting down, picking up a broccoli floret and eating it all at once. After a canteen sandwich and dead lizards, roast broccoli was a delicacy. She's always liked it.

"I resent that," said the Doctor, going back to what she'd been cooking earlier. Granola bars. "Clara does her fair share of the housework. But she does everything mindless; the washing up, the laundry – cooking's more absorbing."

"Thanks for the food," said Rose, peeling a pair of chips off the stack, stuck together with melted cheese. Delicious.

"Did he not offer to make you anything?"

"I left before he had the chance. And he doesn't actually know where you two live."

"Didn't they get hurt, too?" asked the Doctor, nodding at Rose's wounds. Finally, the cuts were clotting.

"I don't know. Maybe they thought it was worth it. Marathon runners think it's worth it, don't they? Even when they shit themselves and their nipples fall off. They wanted to be there, I wanted to be anywhere else. Even in a prison cell." She stopped talking for a while, getting through her broccoli. "You know something, though?"

"What?"

"Sometimes, I think that all the good parts of them went into Tentoo, and it's just shadows left. He doesn't change. You've changed."

"Well, I've got three hundred years on him, and a lot happened in that time."

"Meeting Clara, you mean."

She laughed a little, "No. I had another family, didn't I? Me, Amy, Rory, River. And then I was ready, when I did meet Clara, after she'd been watching over me for a thousand years."

"Your perfect woman."

"Clara didn't replace you, Rose. You're different people, and we have different relationships."

"That's clear, considering that you two are happy together and I'm not." She didn't mean that to sound bitter, but it came out badly. "Sorry."

"You've been through a lot, I won't hold it against you," said the Doctor.

"It can just be hard to see my relationship as worthwhile when there you are with your soulmate. And you seem to get on with it a lot more easily." Rose put the food down, wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen roll, and then picked up the antiseptic bottle.

"Is that what you think? We have an easy time of it?"

"I don't know. I haven't really been in your lives at all until six months ago."

"I can't say I'm not glad it looks like way from the outside. But we almost split up before we moved here – I'd've lost my wife if I didn't follow her to Earth." The Doctor flattened her granola on the tray. She finally put it in the oven, still hot enough from the chips and broccoli. Rose winced, dabbing at her injuries with antiseptic. "A few weeks ago, I was the one with the injured feet."

"What did you do?"

"Walked through some snow in a pair of sneakers, got mild frost-nip. But she was all over me, trying to get me to use that spare wheelchair. I can get that out for you, if you want?"

"I don't know. I'll probably be fine with some paracetamol and rest."

"Can you not heal? Perceive yourself from a point in your timeline when you're not hurt?"

"Yes, probably. But sometimes it's easier to keep things… chronological. And besides," she winced again, then went on, "You can't stop yourself from ever feeling pain. You won't know what's real and what's not if you do that."

"…What's the story with the police, then? Did she have to bail you out?" asked the Doctor.

"No, they just dropped the charges."

"A murder charge."

"Could've been four murder charges." She put down the antiseptic and picked up another chip. "All I did was find a body," she said, chewing with her mouth open. "Veronica Lowell, her name is. Awful thing to do to a person."

"A serial killer on the loose and the feds are keeping schtum, that's typical," said the Doctor.

"Mm, well, you have Benji to thank for them not charging me."

"I bet he has a crush on you."

"You're obsessed. I reckon you've got a crush on him, the way you carry on. He's alright – for a copper, and he wants your help. Tried to get me to pass on a message."

"A message? About what?"

"If you know whether there's anything spooky going on, with these murders. He said, they've all been given this anaesthetic before they get killed, and nobody's been able to identify it. Kept calling it an 'unknown compound'."

"Well, that's vague," said the Doctor, "Unless I have a sample, I don't know what I can tell him. Did you get a sample?"

"Yeah, I said, I know you've just let me off for these murders, but do you mind giving me a few pieces of your important evidence to take home with me?" The Doctor scowled at her. "What do you want me to do, break into their evidence lock-up?"

"Maybe. If that's a way to get a sample."

"I don't think Clara would be happy about that. But I'm going to look into it, I told him. He wants the Doctor's help, but you don't mind, do you?"

"Mind? No. For all your flaws, I'll always trust you unconditionally. But what's your plan, without the sample?"

"I'm going to go talk to Sally Sparrow. She might know something."

"I suppose the whole thing does stink of vampire theatrics. Hard to imagine a vampire stupid enough to start killing people in Brighton, though. They know I'm here."

"Still. Sally Sparrow. I'll talk to her, first thing tomorrow. See if she can shed a light on it all."