CHAPTER 1
HERTFORDSHIRE POLICE STATION
Kevin was slumped in a chair like a bloated beanbag as he nursed a swollen black eye over his freckled skin, an injury only subtly obscured by an eclipsing shadow of his peak cap. Its sharpening sting worsened with each passing minute. It had darkened since he had been left alone in the room. Despite what his lumberjack physique boasted, Kevin was not in charge. The room was dominated by a square table where Kevin sat, facing two empty chairs. A musty smell of sweat, cheap coffee, and an aged punch mark on the nearby wall dispelled any misconception that the interrogation room was one of hospitality. Kevin gazed at a wall covered in posters warning about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. He clamped his eyes shut and slowed his breathing to soothe his facial throbbing.
Kevin opened his eyes and stared at the one-way glass, calling, 'Anybody there? It's been nearly an hour and a half!"
Sounds from outside were muted by Kevin's creaking collarbone as he tilted his head up toward the ceiling, his gaze fixed on a flickering light that caused annoyance. Minutes later, a click sounded from the door. Two officers, one male and one female, entered the room. The man, aged somewhere in his early forties, had a crew cut of grey hair and was dressed in a creased grey suit paired with a navy open-collar shirt. His black shoes clacked as his slim frame approached the table. He was accompanied by a younger woman of Asian descent who was dressed in a navy-blue police uniform. A uniform cap sat atop her head, and her brunette hair was styled into a bun. Both took their seats, and the man opened a folder.
"Thank you for confirming your identity, Mr. Deacon. It didn't take us long to find your file," the male officer's Scottish accent dryly opened. plus, or convictions of breaking and entering, plus you previously served community service on a good behaviour bond." His finger traced along the document text, "All of seven years ago." He looked at Kevin, "What happened, mate?"
The younger female officer folded her arms and crossed her right leg over her left, the pointed toes of her black, block-heeled ankle boots aiming at Kevin from beneath the neat hem of her trousers under the table.
Kevin divided his eye contact between the officers, extremely familiar with the (usually) much exaggerated good cop-bad cop routine seen in cinema. "It's not that simple."
"Then it might help to start at the beginning," the male officer suggested with unflinching eye contact.
"We've been through this!" Kevin shouted in protest.
The younger woman nonchalantly spoke in a London accent, ceasing her silence. "My shift has only started. I have all night," she assured.
Kevin huffed, "I made my evening delivery as part of my shift. I was alone, she closed the door, I turned around, then there's this zombie staring at me."
Deathly silence. Again.
Kevin shook his arms like a sulking infant, "Oh, come on! Is that all you're going to do?!"
The woman sat forward and pressed her hands onto the table, "it's all we can do because that's all you are saying."
"I know I've got priors! You think I'm going to bury myself with some cock and bull story about the walking dead? I'm not mentally ill, I'm not drunk, I'm not stoned. I know what I saw!"
"The occupants saw nothing matching what you described." The male officer closed the folder, looked to his co-officer, and then back to Kevin before continuing.
"We cordoned off two entire surrounding suburban blocks, questioned locals, neighbours, and even the local bus driver on duty. There was no sighting of a woman in a hospital nightie."
"I want a lawyer!" Kevin demanded.
"We're happy to provide that, Mr. Deacon. But you've been in the court system enough times to know that nothing in this story has merit. You stormed into a house, damaged their property, injured a defenceless woman, and caused distress," the female officer answered.
Her persisting silence commanded Kevin's focus on her.
His eyes glazed over her name badge:
Madison Lu
Constable
"I know what I saw, Constable Lu. My lawyer, please."
Madison rotated her right foot in circular motions as her indignant eyes further intruded into Kevin's pupils. Parting her lips, Madison nodded before excusing herself. Standing in the corridor, she took out her phone and dialled a contact, 'Doyle.' The block heel of her boots echoed through the vacant corridor as she waited for an answer, knowing that she was likely about to give Doyle an unsolicited wake-up call.
"Doyle here," a stern male voice answered, underscored by a slight lisp.
"It's Lu."
"I told you not to call my personal number. UNIT has assigned you a phone. Don't tell me you lost it again," Doyle chastised.
"Its battery is dead, and I'll be quick. It concerns the immortals."
A passage of silence persisted while Madison turned the corner. She stopped and pressed her back against the wall. Doyle answered, "What is it?"
"We arrested a man tonight who vividly described the appearance of a woman with a deathly appearance, fowl stench, and dressed in a hospital gown," Madison whispered. She sheepishly filled the void of silence, "Since it's your personal number, if you give me your address, I can drop over some of those homemade cookies you enjoyed." She bit her bottom lip.
Doyle laughed gently, "Sweetness does kill. Alright, I'll come down. But we need to talk about protocol. Understood? Trust me, it's not a conversation you want to have with Kate."
"Understood," Madison swallowed and nodded, clenching her fingers in the opposite hand while her right boot heel tapped up and down.
LONDON
Martha Jones exited her bedroom into the hallway. She shut her door while slipping into a black hoodie over a white t-shirt. Yawning after catching up on sleep that day, Martha sat on a stool outside her bedroom, tugging her Adidas track pants hems over her weathered, as evident by their decolourisation to beige, chunky white Air Jordan sneakers that stopped above her ankle. She pushed herself up once she tied her lace, walking down the aged, carpeted hallway toward the bathroom. Examining herself in the mirror, Martha brushed several loose strands of her black hair back into a ponytail. Her slim facial features scolded the mirror reflection, "Could do with a trim, but I'll make it work," she muttered. Martha exited the bathroom and approached the apartment's front door. She hesitated to leave, at first, having heard a male moaning from behind the door closest to her in the hallway. She then heard a second male sighing with a slight falsetto.
The other male's moan grew deeper, punctuated by something that sounded like a pet name. Martha narrowed her eyes, knocking on the door. 'Sam?'
Hushed muttering from the two males could be heard faintly through the door, but Martha couldn't understand the actual words.
Martha shouted louder, "Sam!"
She pushed the door ajar to see Sam sweating in bed, lying on his side, and lunging horizontally across the bed coverings, which concealed a thicker mass beneath.
"What are you doing- "Martha and Sam asked simultaneously.
Martha folded her arms across her chest, "You said that you had work."
"I felt sick," Sam responded.
Martha was distracted by a movement at the bed's foot. She kicked aside a pair of sneakers, narrowly avoiding crushing a closed laptop on the floor as she neared the bed. Gripping the duvet cover, Martha pulled it toward her. A skinny male in his late twenties with blonde, Tarzan-styled hair sat up, his legs pressed together as he tugged a pair of red underpants along his slender, waxed thighs.
Ire filled Martha's eyes as Sam's slim figure jumped out of the bed, wearing only his blue underpants and waving apologetically. "Please just- "
Martha pursed her lips, tossing the doona toward Sam's near-naked body, and looked back to the blonde male. She uttered, "Chris Tanner." Looking back to Sam, Martha continued. "I was saddened when Chris needed to move out due to expenses. I know how tough the rent market is – we all do, don't we, Sam?"
Sam assured, "It's a one-off."
Chris sat up, tying his hair back into a ponytail, "This hasn't been going on long."
"Despite there being, for the last four weeks, fresh bottles of apricot juice at the back of the fridge. The very brand which neither Sam nor I can stand. Then, our water bill has magically crept up, like Sam or me are doubling up on showers and washing."
Martha then looked to Sam, "I suppose the strands of blonde hair extensions in the bathroom last week were yours? Going through a glam phase?"
"I mean, it's possible. I have been listening to Motley- "Sam began.
"Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot! I know what's going on. He's living here rent-free while we struggle to keep up with rent!" Martha's frustration was almost maternal.
Sam answered, "Martha, he's got nowhere to go."
Martha scoffed, "Rubbish! He's living at home. In his own granny flat, may I add."
Chris hugged his legs and reached for a red nail polish bottle on the bedside table, "I just really miss being here."
Martha sympathised, "We miss you too, Chris. But neither Sam nor I live here rent-free. We're desperately trying to find a third flatmate during this tenant shortage. Otherwise, we're both out. We're already three weeks behind, and we've only avoided a phone call because Mister Colter is on holiday for the New Year break."
"Give me a couple of days to work something out," a crunching sound could be heard from beneath Sam's barefoot as he stepped forward and winced. "Chris may have something lined up."
Martha breathed, "two days. TWO."
"You got it. We can make this work," Sam assured and looked to Chris as he ran his right hand through his messy, black, curly hair, "Hun?"
"Hun?" He began to unscrew a nail polish bottle, wagging with his opposite finger. "This is just sex- "
Sam clamped his hands over his eyes, "Your job hunting?"
"Yes!" Chris looked to Martha while he waved the moist brush casually, "I swear it's almost a thing." A dot of red nail polish spat onto Sam's mattress.
"Hey!" Sam hissed.
"I'll believe it when I see it. I have nightshift," Martha turned to leave, slamming Sam's bedroom door behind her.
Martha exited the changeroom dressed in her scrubs, muttering to herself, hearing a series of shouts from a nearby ward. "Here we go."
A hysterical woman stood outside Martha's assigned ward, wearing a thick buttoned-up black coat, slim navy-blue jeans, and white Converse trainers. She was surrounded by a small circle of nurses. "I just said my name! Tina James! My deceased daughter was on our doorstep!" Her woman's hair bob was in an unruly mess as she shook her head in rage.
Martha looked at the six ward beds to address them, "Everyone, calm down, please." She nodded apologetically at the two patients sitting up in their beds.
Martha stood toward Tina, "I'm this evening's duty supervisor. Just talk me through it."
Tina glared at Martha, "I have just been through it, and I refuse to be treated like some mental patient! I don't want an intermediary!"
Martha raised her voice, "I am not an intermediary!"
Martha was interrupted by a smaller bald man in his fifties who emerged from behind her.
He was dressed in a navy-blue pinstripe suit with a red tie and white shirt, "what's all the ruckus?"
Martha sighed, "Thank goodness, Regis- "
The man interrupted Martha, "Where are your manners, Miss Jones? It's Doctor Jensen."
Regis looked to Tina, "I am assistant to the hospital administrator here at Lister. I humbly apologise that our performance this evening has been less than satisfactory. Would you like somewhere quiet to talk?"
Tina fumed, "Thank you." Accompanying Regis, she scorned the staff through a seething stare, Martha taking her aim.
The Doctor, meanwhile, sat up in her hospital bed in a patient gown, looking at the grief-stricken woman. "Maybe she returned to apply for a refund for shoddy surgery?" He murmured to himself.
Lifting his glass, the Doctor sipped it until it was empty. He climbed out of bed and walked toward the bathroom adjoining his ward. Filling the glass at the basin and unclasping his fingers, the Doctor's obliviousness to his surroundings was evident. This included being too distracted by whom he saw in the mirror to care about the glass shattering on the tiled floor after dropping it in shock. He gasped, standing back, and shook his head, narrowly avoiding stepping on any glass fragments.
Raising his hands, he pressed his back against the wall and sunk into the floor with gritted teeth, shouting, "What is happening to me?!"