A/N: I do not own Touched by an Angel by Jonathan Morris. Those belong to the BBC and BBC Books respectively.
Alex's outfit for this chapter can be viewed on my Tumblr, under the name 'darksideofparis'.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
April 10th, 2003
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
The rain splattered against the windshield before the wipers swiped the glass clean, patting the water down into a splashy trough above the dashboard. Beyond, the car headlights picked out the narrow country lane rolling out of the darkness, the high hedges on either side giving it the feel of driving through a tunnel.
Rebecca rubbed her forehead. Another headache. Probably due to the idiot who had spent the last five miles behind her, his headlights blazing away in her rear-view mirror. Or exhaustion from driving non-stop from London. There was definitely no other reason for her headache. Okay, so she'd been having them almost daily since the accident, but that was no reason to go and see a doctor, no matter what Mark said.
Rebecca felt a flush of anger. Mark should be with her now, paying the traditional bi-monthly visit to her parents in Chilbury. He had an excuse, of course; he always had an excuse. There was a crisis at work, and he had volunteered to work late to sort it out, as usual.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
The radio hissed as it lost the signal for The World Tonight. It didn't really matter though. Rebecca already knew what the news would be. Everyone did. It would be all about the invasion of Iraq. The television news had been full of nothing else for weeks; journalists in flak jackets reporting live from hotel rooms, interspersed with infra-red footage of green blobs flashing back and forth over a burning city. It was like watching someone commentating on a computer game.
Today's big story had been about American soldiers pulling down a statue of Saddam Hussein in some dusty town square while the reporter burbled excitedly about it being a momentous event in history. Seeing the footage of the conquering heroes draping their flag over the fallen statue made Rebecca feel sick and ashamed. They'd be handing out chocolate bars next.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
Rebecca twisted the dial for Radio 1. A plaintive piano riff emerged from the speakers, introducing Beautiful by Christina Aguilera. Rebecca left the song playing; it suited her mood and wouldn't distract her from driving.
Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack! Slosh-thwack!
Approaching a sharp left turn, Rebecca changed down to second gear. She turned the corner, only to be suddenly confronted by two brilliant shining lights bearing down upon her.
A horn blared out like a monster's roar. Instinctively, Rebecca wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid the oncoming heavy goods lorry. The left-hand side of her car went into the hedges, leaves and brambles scraping along the side. Her heart pounding, Rebecca remembered, too late, to apply the brakes.
The front of her car smashed into the grille of the lorry and the windshield shattered into a million beads of glass. The impact threw Rebecca forward, her seatbelt tightening so much it crushed the wind out of her lungs. Barely a second later, Rebecca found herself being thrown to the side as her car rolled over. Rebecca had a brief sense memory of being on a theme park roller-coaster ride. She had never liked roller-coaster rides.
Her only other thought was to observe with wry amusement that this was like something out of Casualty.
The next thing she knew, she was lying in her seat, gazing across a muddy field. Lying in her seat? Further observation revealed that her seat had been upturned and that her weight currently rested on her back. But if she was still inside the car, why could she feel the rain upon her face? She couldn't feel any pain though, which was a relief.
Rebecca cursed herself. How many times had her mother moaned on the telephone about lorries using the village as a shortcut, even though the council had installed speed cameras? It was an accident waiting to happen, she'd said. Turned out she'd been right.
Rebecca wondered why everything in the field had an orange hue, as though lit by a streetlamp. A second later, everything went dark, before lighting up again with the same orange hue. The lorry must have activated its warning lights. What had happened to the lorry driver? For a moment, Rebecca hoped that he'd been hurt, it would serve him right, before banishing the thought. She'd been very lucky not to be injured.
But if she was okay, why couldn't she move? Rebecca tried wriggling in her seat; her seatbelt was so tight she could hardly breathe. But nothing happened. She wanted to wipe the rain out of her eyes, but for some reason her hands didn't respond. She began to wonder whether she might have been hurt after all.
Outside the car, the orange light blinked back on.
Now that was weird. About six meters away, in the field, stood a statue, like might be found in a graveyard or a Roman museum. The statue was of a young woman with coiled hair wearing a flowing robe. It had two wings. An angel. The statue stood hunched, burying its head in its hands as though crying. To add to the effect, rain trickled from between its fingers.
The light blinked off, returning Rebecca to blackness. She thought briefly of bonfires, of Guy Fawkes Night and toffee apples. Why was she thinking about bonfires? And then she realized she could smell something burning.
The orange light blinked on again. Rebecca couldn't be sure, but hadn't the statue been holding its head in its hands? Because now it was looking towards her with black, pupil-less eyes.
There was darkness again. Then orange light.
The statue had moved closer now. Still staring at her with its impassive, stony eyes. Its mouth was now slightly open, as though drawing in breath to speak.
Darkness. Orange light.
It now stood only two meters away. It filled her view, looming over her.
Caught in the flickering glow of a fire, thick black smoke billowing around it, its expression had changed to a snarl of hunger. Its lips had drawn back to reveal rows of sharp fangs, like those of a bat. It reached towards her with outstretched hands, its long fingernails like talons.
But this was impossible, Rebecca thought. It wasn't moving. It wasn't moving.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
October 7th, 2011
Toby Murray was a difficult man to like, at least in Mark's opinion. Well, to be honest, this was an opinion held by pretty much everyone who had met Toby. He had a pudgy, red face, he was flabby and sweaty, and he affected a very bad East End accent.
"We wanna win this one, Mark. We wanna take 'em dahn."
Mark sighed. This wasn't Law and Order, this was a routine piece of contract law. He'd only taken it on because Toby's employers were one of Pollard, Boyce & Whitaker's most prestigious clients, and because Toby had, rather pathetically, insisted on dealing with a senior partner. But if Toby wanted to be fed a load of high-powered gibberish, Mark would be only too happy to provide.
"Nevertheless, I recommend we pick our battles carefully," Mark said. "Find as many areas of common ground as we can, because at the moment our position is about as solid as a soufflé."
"So, what are you saying? What's our next move?"
"Make an audit of every contract, all the ones that have been fulfilled, all the ones that haven't. I need points of contact, dates, emails, and paper trails, everything you can give me."
Toby nodded and stood up. "You'll have it next Monday," he promised.
Mark pressed the button to summon his personal assistant. "Take as long as it takes."
Toby glanced around the room, his eyes resting on the photograph that Mark kept on the shelf opposite his desk. Toby whistled as he picked it up. "Who's the babe?"
The photograph in question showed Rebecca perched on the balcony of their hotel room in Rome. The morning sun shone in her hair like a halo and gave her skin a golden glow. Her eyes were wide and impossibly blue, a contented smile curled across her lips.
"My, ah, wife," Mark replied, feeling a sudden flush of anger. "If you could just put that back. . ."
"The missus? Bit young, ain't she? Well done!"
"It was taken a while ago, if you could just put it back—"
"Oh, got you." Toby returned the photograph to the shelf. "Former glories. Mine's the same. Second you stick a ring on their finger, they start to inflate. It's like there's a valve."
Thankfully, at that moment, Siobhan appeared in the doorway. "All done, Mr. Whitaker?"
"I think so," Mark curtly answered. "Mr. Murray has important business to attend to, no doubt."
Mark offered his hand to Toby. Toby clasped it and attempted to crush Mark's fingers. Toby was one of those men who felt it important to establish he was the Alpha Male.
"Laters, mate," Toby said, releasing him.
Siobhan guided Toby out of the office before returning and closing the door so they wouldn't be disturbed. "Are you all right?"
"What?" Mark said, rubbing some feeling back into his fingers.
"Only I heard you mention your wife."
"Oh. Toby was just checking out the photo of her, that's all."
"I see." Siobhan was an attractive, dark-skinned woman in her forties, a lethal combination of a gentle smile and a no-nonsense attitude. She studied the photograph of Rebecca. "She looks very happy."
"She was," Mark confirmed proudly. "That was taken the morning after we first got together."
Siobhan turned to give Mark a concerned look. "How long has it been now, since the accident? Eight years?"
"Yes," Mark answered, avoiding her gaze by glancing out of his window at the rush-hour traffic on the Croydon flyover. Gray clouds filled the gloomy sky. It got dark so quickly these days.
"Eight years. That's a long time for you to still be torturing herself. Rebecca wouldn't want that."
"You don't know what Rebecca would want."
"She'd want you to be happy. Rather than using what happened as an excuse to be miserable."
"An excuse?"
"You should get out more. Meet new people. Women. Single, alive women."
"Is this about Charlotte?" Two weeks ago, Mark had gone on a date with Siobhan's friend Charlotte, an attractive, friendly woman whose idea of a good night out sadly did not extend to spending three hours in a wine bar listening to her date talk about his dead wife.
"Not necessarily," Siobhan answered. "I have other friends. There's Susannah, Joanne—"
"Thanks, but no thanks. Was there anything else?"
"Only this." Siobhan slid a battered, padded envelope about the size of a paperback across his desk. Mark picked it up. His name and today's date were scrawled on the front: MARK WHITAKER. 7/10/2011.
"Has this just come in?" Mark asked, turning over the envelope.
"No. Bit weird, actually. Apparently, it's been gathering dust in the archive for the last eight years with strict instructions that it should be delivered to you on this date."
"Eight years?"
"A mystery package, eh? Well, are you gonna open it?"
Mark ran a finger over the flap where the envelope had been stapled shut. Something about this envelope made him uneasy. His back suddenly felt as cold as a gravestone. "No," he said. "If it's waited eight years, a few more hours won't hurt."
Then he realized what was odd about the envelope. The name on the front was written in his own handwriting.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
It had gone eight by the time he made his way down to reception. If anybody else had stayed behind in the office, they'd have thought he was working late, when in fact he'd spent the last hour playing Killer Sudoku's on the computer. Putting off the moment when he'd have to step out into the wind and the rain and begin the drive back to his cold, empty flat.
"Night, Mr. Whitaker, sir," said Ron, the overnight security guard.
Mark nodded to avoid engaging Ron in conversation, because then he would have to ask about Ron's children, and he couldn't for the life of him remember their names.
"Lovely weather, eh?" Ron commented, indicating the street outside. The windows and glass doors had misted up, making the streetlights look like smudges in the darkness.
"Yeah, well, goodnight, Ron," Mark called quickly. But before he turned to go, he glanced at the closed-circuit television on Ron's desk. Something had caught his eye. The black-and-white screen showed the reception area, facing out towards the street. Where someone stood peering in through one of the doors, their face almost touching the glass. As though waiting to come in. Mark turned to look at the door, but there was nobody there. He turned back to the monitor on Ron's desk, but it had flicked over to show a view of one of the office stairwells. When it flicked back to the view of the reception area, there was no longer a face at the door.
Ron paused as he turned the page of his Daily Mirror. "Was there something, sir?"
"No, no, nothing." Mark buttoned up his coat and headed out into the night, taking care to use a different door from the one in which he had seen the marble-white, staring face.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
The rain eased off to a drizzle as Mark pulled into the gas station. Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stepped into the freezing night and glugged thirty pounds of unleaded into the tank. He started to walk towards the shop to pay when he remembered the envelope, which he'd placed on the passenger seat. For all he knew, it might contain confidential legal documents and was not the sort of thing he should leave unattended.
Mark returned to his car and studied the envelope under the forecourt light. The name on the front definitely looked like his handwriting, but that didn't mean anything; someone else could have similar handwriting to him. But he was intrigued as to why anyone would leave an envelope with instructions for it to only be delivered eight years later. And why 7/10/2011? What was so important about that date? Mark poked a finger under the flap and tore it open, just enough to see inside.
The envelope contained at least a hundred neatly folded fifty-pound notes, with several sheets of paper wrapped around them.
Siobhan had been right, it was a real mystery. But it would have to wait. Mark stowed the envelope into his coat pocket, locked his car, and made his way into the shop.
It was one of those gas station shops that was like a small supermarket, selling newspapers, magazines, and microwaved sausage rolls. There were no other customers. Mark hurried to the counter to be served by a young Asian who didn't look up from his smartphone. "Thirty quid."
Mark slotted his card into the chip-and-pin and typed in his number. As he waited for the machine to respond, he glanced over the attendant's shoulder at a monitor showing the output of the gas station's closed-circuit cameras. The screen showed a view from a point above the counter, looking down into the shop. Mark could see the attendant and himself at the counter in grainy, flickering black-and-white. And behind him, at the end of the aisle near the door, stood a statue of an angel.
That was ridiculous. If there'd been a statue by the door, he'd have noticed it on his way in. Mark frowned at the picture on the screen. It was an old statue, its surface crumbling and pitted. It stood hunched, holding its face in its hands.
Mark turned to look back down the aisle. It was empty. Where the statue had stood – where the statue should have been standing – there was just shiny, wet floor.
Mark returned his gaze to the monitor and shuddered. The statue was still there, at the end of the aisle. But hadn't it been standing further away? And hadn't it been holding its head in its hands? Because now it seemed to have moved a meter or so towards him, and had lowered its hands, cupping them as though in prayer.
He turned to look back down the aisle once more. It was still empty. No statue, nothing.
He looked back at the monitor. The statue had moved again. It was looking up, directly into the camera lens. Looking at him. With staring, black eyes and a slightly parted mouth. And a couple of meters in front of it, he could see himself, standing at the counter, looking up at the monitor, and the attendant, still tapping away on his smartphone, oblivious to the strange goings-on happening just behind him.
The PIN machine beeped, and the attendant tore off Mark's receipt. Mark mumbled some thanks and turned to go. Thankfully, the shop was still empty. His heart thudding, Mark hurried out of the shop, taking care to avoid the aisle where the statue had been standing.
He sprinted back to the safety of his car and slammed the door shut. He was just overtired, that was it. That was the only possible explanation.
It was with some apprehension that Mark checked the car's rear-view mirror. But there was nothing there, nothing sitting on the passenger seat behind him, nothing standing in the forecourt. He was alone.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
After parking near his flat in Bromley, Mark headed to the high street to get some dinner. Huddling himself into his coat, he trudged down the road, his eyes fixed on the pavement to avoid the puddles. An ambulance siren whined in the distance, but apart from that, he could have been the only man alive on the planet.
Mark hurried on to the Taste Of The Orient. Inside, it was dry and warm and smelt of sizzled rice. A couple of kids sat by the window, chatting. A petite Chinese girl emerged from the kitchen and took Mark's order: sweet-and-sour pork, egg-fried rice. Mark paid her with the last ten-pound note in his wallet.
Mark glanced around for something to occupy his attention. Mounted on the wall behind the counter, a monitor showed the output on a closed-circuit camera. It showed the entrance of the Chinese restaurant, the couple by the window, and Mark.
And standing right behind him, there was the statue of the angel, the same one from the gas station. But now it was reaching towards Mark's back with an outstretched bare arm.
Mark felt an icy shiver and, holding his breath, turned to look behind him. There was nothing there, just the rain-streaked window of the takeaway.
He turned to look back up at the monitor. The statue had taken another step closer. It was still reaching towards him. On the screen, Mark could see the coils carved for the angel's hair, the feathers in its wings, and its unseeing, blank eyes. And he could see himself at the counter, looking up at the monitor. The statue's fingers were almost brushing the back of his neck.
Choking with terror, Mark lunged towards the door of the Chinese takeaway, shoved it open, and stumbled into the darkness, the icy wind biting his face. Not daring to look back, he ran down the high street, running so fast his stomach ached.
He had to get home. He would be safe there, safe from . . . safe from whatever this thing was.
Mark slowed to a jog, his heart thumping in protest, and continued down the high street. Past the bookmaker's. Past the Halal butchers. Past the hi-fi shop—
Suddenly all the televisions in the shop window flickered into life. It had a video camera as part of the window display, a camera that was now pointing at Mark. He could see himself on the screens; the same image repeated, over and over again, of him staring into the window.
The statue was right behind him, reaching for his neck, its mouth open to reveal hideous jagged teeth.
"Don't look back. Don't turn around, don't close your eyes, and whatever you do, don't look back!"
The voice came from behind Mark. It sounded like the voice of a young man but with the authority of someone much older.
"What?" Mark blurted, frozen to the spot.
"Keep your eyes on the screen! It's vitally important you don't let it touch you."
"And how do I do that?"
"It's quantum-locked," a new voice explained. This one was female, young, and had an American accent. Southern by the sound of it. "It can only move if somebody isn't looking at it."
"Quantum-locked?" Mark repeated.
"You know, the Heisenberg uncertainty principle," the first voice elaborated. "The very act of observation affects the nature of the object being observed. Amy, Rory. Keep watching the screens. Take turns blinking."
"Righty-ho," a girl with a Scottish accent said from behind Mark's left ear.
"Watch the televisions, got you, no problem," a young man nervously babbled.
"And try not to blink at the same time," the American girl advised. "I really don't want a repeat of what happened last time."
"Neither do I," the Scottish girl agreed, the tremble in her voice suggesting that she was shuddering.
"Good point, Ally," the voice of authority complimented. "That would be utterly disastrous. Good."
"Thank you, Doc," the girl now identified as Ally giggled.
"Oi!" the Scottish girl snapped. "No flirting! At least, not right now."
"Sorry."
"Now," the voice of authority hastily jumped back in, "bloke-watching-himself-on-the-television, move forward. Very slowly."
Mark swallowed and stepped forward until his nose was nearly touching the shop window.
"Good. Now take two steps to your right. Slowly!"
Mark took two steps to the right, watching himself on the television screens as he edged out of reach of the angel. "What is that thing?" he asked.
"It's a kind of . . . temporal scavenger. Or a predator. One of the two."
"Or both," Ally suggested, sounding pretty firm about this.
"Rory, I'm going to blink . . . now!" the Scottish girl cried.
"But it's made of stone," Mark argued.
"Defense mechanism," said the voice of authority. "You see, you can't kill a stone."
"Can't you?"
"Well, nobody's attempted it and lived."
"Frankly, I've never understood why you couldn't just take a sledgehammer to it," Ally admitted. "Seems to me that would work pretty effectively."
The voice of authority sighed in what sounded like patient exasperation. "No, Ally, that wouldn't work. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't react well to getting bits of it chopped off."
"Amy, I'm gonna blink . . . now!"
"Okay, it's safe to look back now," the voice of authority said reassuringly.
Taking a deep breath, Mark turned around to see a tall, pretty girl with long fiery hair and a young man with a prominent nose and a woolly chullo hat, both staring attentively at the window. Beside them stood a handsome young man with angular cheekbones and thick brown hair swept up into a fringe. With his tweed jacket and bowtie, he looked like he was on his way to a costume party as Albert Einstein. Standing next to him, practically nestled into his side, was a very attractive young woman with brown-blonde hair and bright hazel eyes. She was wearing a sequined gold tank-top, skinny jeans, a black leather jacket, black kitten-heeled boots, large gold hoop earrings, a couple of cheetah-print bracelets, and a necklace with a glittery, jeweled charm in the shape of an old-fashioned police telephone box. She looked ready for a night of clubbing, not for an evening standing around, helping a man escape a weird statue that kept following him.
Speaking of which. . . There was no sign of the statue. "But there . . . there's nothing here!" Mark stammered.
"No." The man in the tweed jacket had a device like an old-fashioned tape recorder slung over one shoulder and he twirled a stubby, torch-like device in his hand like a pop star performing a trick with a microphone. He leveled the device at the window, and it emitted a high-pitched drone and glowed green. "No, this particular Weeping Angel has no corporeal form."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it only exists within the televisions."
"Within every television," the girl beside him – Ally – clarified.
"That which holds the image of an Angel becomes itself an Angel."
"So it can't come out of the screen and get us?" the girl with the red hair checked.
"Again?" Ally added.
"Rory, I'm going to blink . . . now!"
"No, don't think so," the first man said. "It must be very weak, running on fumes."
"But it can still touch me?" Mark asked.
"If you're being looked at by a camera, yes. It's on the screen, your image is on the screen, so it can make contact with your image, and thus . . . you."
"Amy, I'm gonna blink . . . now!"
"Who are you?" Mark questioned. "And how do you know so much about these things?"
"I'm the man who's going to save your life."
Ally sent him a sharp look. "We're going to save your life. All four of us." She smiled at Mark. "Hi, I'm Alex."
"And you can call me the Doctor."
"The Doctor?" Mark repeated. What kind of a name was that?
"And in answer to your second question, I've met the Weeping Angels before. I detected this one using this." The Doctor indicated the old-fashioned tape recorder. "Whenever the space-time continuum goes wibbly, it lights up." He tapped the recorder in frustration. "Or it would do if the bulb worked. It also boils eggs. That's not a fault, it's a feature."
"Liar," Alex accused.
"Rory, I'm going to blink . . . now!"
"Strange thing is, the Angel isn't the source of the wobbliness," the Doctor commented. "No. It's you."
"Me?"
Alex tilted her head at Mark, her eyes suddenly switching from a calm, soothing green to a dark chocolate brown. "Yes, it must've chosen you for a reason." Then, apparently seeing Mark's look of shock on her eyes changing color, she added, "And yes, my eyes do that."
"Good thought, Ally," the Doctor complimented. He peered at Mark. "I wonder why. What's so great about you?"
"Nothing," Mark remarked. "So what you're saying is, that thing's after me, and you don't know why?"
"No. Haven't the slightest idea!" The Doctor seemed oddly thrilled about that. Alex shook her head at him, though Mark noticed that she did it a little fondly.
"But if it can't be killed . . . how do I get away from it?"
Alex winced a little. "You can't."
"But if I run—"
"This whole street is covered by security cameras," the Doctor interjected. "You'd never make it."
"Rory, shouldn't you be telling me it's my turn to blink now?" Amy asked. Alex's eyes widened.
"What? Oh," Rory gulped. "Sorry, um, I thought it was my turn. . ."
And then Mark realized that Amy and Rory were looking at each-other and not the window.
Mark turned. On all the televisions, he could see himself, the Doctor, Alex, Rory, and Amy – and the Angel, frozen as it lunged towards his back, its face contorted into a grimace of rage. Another second and it would have made contact.
Panic took over. Mark stumbled backwards, turning away from the Angel, and broke into a run. He heard the Doctor and his friends shouting after him, but it was no good. He had to get away.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
He'd made it. He'd actually made it! He could see the block of flats where he lived, the front doorway bathed in the glow of an electric light.
Mark gasped for breath. He'd sprinted down the high street, feeling suddenly and terribly conscious of every security camera. They were everywhere, mounted high on walls and lamp-posts, all staring downwards with unblinking glass eyes. To avoid being caught, he'd taken a long route home to avoid garages and illuminated shops. He'd even hidden from a passing double-decker bus. They had cameras on buses now, didn't they?
But he was okay. Cold and wet, but okay. Mark hurried up the concrete steps to the entrance, past the garden and the recycling bins, until at last he reached the door. He dug out his keys from his coat, found the one for the door, and slid it in the lock. And then he realized.
There was a camera looking directly at him. The camera of the door's videophone.
Something as cold as marble touched the back of his neck.
For a split second, Mark could see his horrified reflection, and that of the Angel behind him, its hand on his neck, its jaws wide open and its tongue extended, as thought about to bite.
And then he was gone.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
Rory and Amy struggled to keep up with the Doctor as he dashed through the gloomy, rain-soaked backstreets, Alex by his side and his wibble-detector held in front of him. "This way! Hurry!"
Rory had no idea where they were. They'd been running through identical housing estates for fifteen minutes and he'd lost all sense of direction.
"Here!" The Doctor halted, circled on the spot, and indicated a block of flats set back from the road. They looked perfectly ordinary to Rory, except that by the entrance he could see the statue of an Angel, its body hunched, holding its face in its hands.
"What's happened?" he asked. "Something bad, right?"
"Quiet." The Doctor advanced on the statue like a naturalist creeping up on a lion. Alex stood behind him, warily watching as the Doctor calmly and steadily made his way up the steps towards it.
"Be careful, Doc!" she called.
The Doctor gave her a Don't-worry-Ally-I'm-a-professional look, then stooped to examine the Angel. It didn't move. He buzzed it experimentally with his sonic screwdriver and tried covering his own eyes, as though playing peek-a-boo, but nothing happened. He tapped it on the wing. A chunk of it crumbled to dust under his fingers. "It's safe, I think."
"How safe?" Amy asked.
"As safe as a doornail."
"But I thought you said these things fed on, what was it, potential time energy?" Rory said as he and Alex followed Amy to the Doctor's side. Amy had told him a little bit about the Weeping Angels from where she'd encountered them before, but not much. She had said it was an experience she really didn't want to look back on.
"All the life left unlived," the Doctor muttered. "Normally, they zap people back in time, whoosh, that's how they get their five-a-day."
"Normally?"
"Whereas in this case, this Angel used up its last reserves of energy to send its victim into the past. Sacrificing itself, like a bee dying after its sting. But not like a bee at all. No, now it's more like a garden ornament." As the Doctor spoke, one of the Angel's arms broke off, followed by both the wings, before the Angel toppled forward, smashing itself to pieces with a heavy crash.
"But why do that?" Amy wondered, regarding the debris warily. "Why kill itself rather than feed?"
"Maybe it couldn't," the Doctor guessed as he dusted off his jacket and trousers.
Alex knelt to examine the dusty debris. Very carefully, she reached out and picked up some dust, rubbing it between her fingers. "Or a new type of Weeping Angel?" she proposed.
"You mean they come in different varieties now?!" Amy shrieked. "Oh, great!"
"It must've been drawn to its prey . . . like a moth to a flame." The Doctor's eyes widened in delight. "Hang on! That analogy made sense. My analogies never make sense. I must write it down. Rory, write it down for me!"
"I'm not your secretary, Doctor," Rory said patiently.
"No? Only there is a vacancy, yours if you want it."
"Get your girlfriend to do it."
Alex jumped up and fixed the Doctor with a hard stare. "Before you open your mouth, let's get something straight right now. I don't write notes for you."
"Never said you would, Ally," the Doctor said smoothly. The Ponds exchanged a look, noticing that neither the Doctor nor Alex had taken offense to the label of 'girlfriend'.
Knowing they needed to get back on track, Rory started to say something, only to spot a set of keys hanging from the lock of the door. He took them for safekeeping. "Shouldn't we be more worried about the guy it zapped?" he asked, pulling the couple back to the situation at hand. "Find out where he is?"
"Not really a question of where," the Doctor smiled. "More a question of when." He adjusted his wibble-detector. "Yes! A residual time trace. Fading fast but we should be able to follow it. Come on!"
"Shouldn't we find out who he is first?" Rory asked. "We don't even know his name." He jangled the keys in his hand.
"What do you suggest?" the Doctor snapped in exasperation. "We try those keys in every door in the building until we find out which flat belongs to him?"
"Yes."
"There isn't time."
"I could do it, while you go off and do your time-trace thing. And then, once you know where – and when – he is, you can pop back here and pick me up."
"That's a terrible idea."
No, it's not! Alex thought. Sometimes, she was truly amazed at how ignorant the Doctor could be on some things. She was about to protest his statement, only to see that he was currently lost in thought, which could only mean one thing.
He grinned. "No, actually, that's an excellent idea!"
Alex sighed and turned to Rory. "You sure you're okay with this?"
"You know me," Rory shrugged. "Anything to help."
"We do know you," the Doctor confirmed, "that is absolutely correct, but nevertheless you remain disconcertingly full of surprises. Very good. I'll be back here in exactly one hour." He grabbed Alex's hand. "Come on, girls! We have a time trace to follow!"
Alex waved while Amy gave Rory a sympathetic smile and a squeeze, before both went off with the Doctor.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
The statue had vanished. One second it had been touching his neck. The next, it wasn't there.
Mark sighed with relief and reached down to turn the door key, only to find that had also disappeared. He checked, but his keys hadn't fallen to the ground.
Looking around, Mark noticed that it had stopped raining. In fact, the pavement and roads were completely dry. The sky, rather than dark and overcast, had become a clear, early-evening blue, with a full moon.
Mark checked his pockets. Still no keys. Oh well, he'd given a spare to Mrs. Levenson in Flat 12. Mark rang her doorbell.
"Yes?" replied a young female voice through the crackle.
"It's Mark."
"Mark?"
"I've locked myself out. Can you buzz me in please?"
"Did you say Mark?"
"Yes. From next door?"
"No Mark next door."
"Mrs. Levenson, it's me, you can see me on the video thing."
"You have wrong flat. No Mrs. Levenson here."
The intercom went dead. Mark swore under his breath and, taking care he'd got the right one, pressed the 12 button again.
"Go away please, you have wrong flat." The woman had a Spanish accent, or something close to it.
"I live in number 11. Mark Whitaker. I don't know who you are, but—"
"No Mark Whitaker in number 11. Number 11 Mr. and Mrs. Ramprakash."
"Look, can I speak to Mrs. Levenson please?"
"I told you. No Mrs. Levenson here. Go away now, please, or I will call police."
The intercom went dead. Mark considered trying another flat, but no one else would have a key. He'd have to call Mrs. Levenson on his mobile. Which he'd left in his car.
With a growing sense of unease, Mark set off for the street where he'd parked. As he walked, he heard the sound of birds chirping, like on a warm summer evening.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
Rory tried the key to the door of number 12 and gave it a jiggle. Nope. He moved quietly on as a burst of studio audience laughter came from the other side of the door.
Number 11. Jiggle. The door swung open to reveal a hallway. Some envelopes slithered on the doormat. Rory stopped to pick them up.
"Hello, can I help you?"
"Wh-what?" Rory gave a guilty gasp. An extremely short, round, elderly woman stood in the doorway of number 12. She glared at him through thick, pink-rimmed glasses.
"Hi, er, yes," Rory stuttered. 'I'm a friend of the, um, bloke who lives here."
The woman regarded him suspiciously. "A friend?"
"Yeah. From work. He asked me to pop in and get a . . . thing."
"Mr. Whitaker doesn't have friends."
"Doesn't he? Right. And you call him Mr. Whitaker." Rory glanced at the front of one of the envelopes. "Mark Whitaker." Rory straightened up. "You might be able to do me a favor, actually. Only we're a bit concerned about Mark at work. We think he might be in some kind of trouble, but you know old Mark, plays his cards close to his chest. So, if he's mentioned anything, anything at all?"
The woman only stared at Rory, sizing him up. "You're a friend from work?"
"Look, he'd hardly give me his key and ask me to pop into his flat to get him a . . . thing if we didn't know each-other, would he?" Rory gave her the same reassuring smile he reserved for elderly patients at the hospital in Leadworth. "I tell you what. Why don't you come in with me? I'll make you a nice cup of tea, we'll have a sit down, and a bit of chat. Five minutes, that's all."
The woman sucked her teeth. "I suppose that would be all right . . . I am also worried about Mr. Whitaker. He is, I think, a very lonely man." She collected her keys and locked her door.
Rory led the woman into the kitchen of number 11 and began to search the cupboards for tea.
"The name's Rory, by the way. Rory Williams. You're?"
"Mrs. Levenson."
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
His car had been stolen. Or at least, it wasn't where he'd left it.
Mark was a little shaken, but after the rest of the evening's events, he didn't have the energy to get annoyed. He considered finding a phone booth to call the police, but something made him decide against it. That Doctor, his girlfriend – for after the way they'd been acting, what else could she be? – and their two friends, they had something to do with this. Something to do with Mrs. Levenson not being in Flat 12. He'd find the Doctor and Alex, get them to explain.
He returned to the electrical goods shop where he'd met the Doctor and Alex, but there was no trace of them. Peering in the shop window, it took a while for him to register what was wrong about the television sets on display. They had all been widescreen and HD, but now they were the old, square type. And the shop sold video recorders? Who the hell sold video recorders these days? Mark looked up at the shop sign. Dixons. But there weren't any Dixons anymore.
Mark kept walking, his mind a whirl, past the video rental store – wait, hadn't that been a fried chicken restaurant? The posters in the window advertised Mrs. Doubtfire and Groundhog Day. The butchers was still there, and the bookmaker's, but instead of the Taste Of The Orient, there now stood a greasy-spoon café.
Exhausted and hungry, Mark entered the greasy-spoon and leaned on the counter. The menu chalked on the blackboard included a cup of tea for 40p and a bacon sandwich for a quid. Mark gave his order to the café owner, a tired-looking man in his sixties, then sat down at a table where somebody had left a copy of The Sun. According to the front page, Bobby Charlton had just been given a knighthood.
The date at the top of the page read 10 June 1994.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
"1994?" Amy and Alex repeated.
The Doctor darted around the console, adjusting the controls as if trying to achieve a high-score on a pinball machine. The floor juddered and swayed and Amy and Alex clung to one of the railings around the console to keep from falling to the level below. "1994," the Doctor confirmed. "Just over seventeen years into the past. Which is odd."
"Odd, in what sense?" Amy asked.
"The Angels usually send their victims forty, fifty, a hundred years into the past," the Doctor gabbled in a rush of enthusiasm.
Alex nodded along. "That makes sense. It keeps their victims somewhere safe, where any minor alterations they make will get absorbed by established history."
"Exactly, Ally!" the Doctor beamed. He was quite pleased she could keep up with him, even when they were now officially dating.
"Oh, right," Amy nodded, trying hard to sound knowledgeable. "Time can be rewritten!"
"Time can, as you say, be rewritten," the Doctor affirmed. "Insignificant details can be changed, so long as the big picture remains more or less the same. Imagine time as being a great big carpet. Or, on second thoughts, don't."
"But you two said this Angel was different," Amy reminded him, pointing at him and Alex.
"Yes," Alex said as the Doctor peered at the central rotor, tensing his fingers in preparation for a landing. "It's sent him back to a point within his own lifetime."
"Which is very, very bad news indeed," the Doctor finished.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
Mark leafed through the newspaper. There were a couple of pages on the forthcoming European elections and speculation as to whether John Prescott or Tony Blair would be the next leader of the Labor Party. As Mark read, a bass-heavy reggae track played on the radio.
Somehow, he'd traveled in time. It was impossible, utterly impossible, but there was no other explanation for it. Ever since he'd felt the touch of that statue, he'd been walking around in 1994. It felt strange, almost dreamlike. And yet so real, so mundane. If it was a dream, he would hardly be able to read advertisements for washing machines or taste the bitterness of the tea. And besides, if it was a dream, his feet wouldn't still hurt from the run to his flat.
So the next question was, what was he going to do? Would he ever get back to his own time? For all he knew, he was stuck here permanently. He'd have to get a job, find somewhere to live. First things first, he'd have to find somewhere to sleep tonight.
The café owner coughed and indicated the clock. It had gone eleven. "Closing up, mate."
Mark rummaged in his pockets for some change and dropped it in the saucer on the counter. "Cheers. Thanks." Behind the counter was a black-and-white monitor showing the output of the café's closed-circuit cameras. On the screen, Mark could see himself and the café owner, but thankfully no statue.
"What's this?" the café owner cried, inspecting the contents of the saucer. "A two-pound coin?"
"What's the problem?"
"Problem is, we don't take made-up money here. What is this, Scottish? Haven't you got anything else?"
Mark checked his wallet. He had a credit card and a debit card. For a moment he considered asking the owner if he could use it to pay, before he realized that chip-and-PIN hadn't been invented yet. Mark patted down his coat and his hand rested on the bulge of the padded envelope.
It wasn't his money. But if he replaced it as soon as he had the chance, that would hardly be stealing, would it? Mark opened the envelope and removed a fifty-pound note. "Here, sorry."
The owner held it up to check the watermark. "You're lucky we've had a good day. Give us a minute." He opened the till and dug out £48.60 in five and ten-pound notes and coins, creating a pile which he handed to Mark.
"You wouldn't know of a bed and breakfast around here, would you?" Mark asked.
"Not round here, mate. Your best bet's to head into London Bridge."
"Yeah, thanks." Mark headed to the door and paused, turning over the envelope in his hands. It was a bit of a coincidence that he'd received it on the same day as being sent back in time. An envelope containing the one thing he would need to survive in the past. It was too lucky. Too lucky to be a coincidence.
As the café owner disappeared into a back room, Mark returned to his table to study the contents of the envelope properly. Along with 120 fifty-pound notes, all dating from before 1994, there was a handwritten letter. Unfolding it, Mark saw a list of dates from 1994 to 2001 annotated with detailed notes.
It was written in his handwriting. And yet he had no memory of ever having written it.
Mark looked at the first date. 10 June 1994. Arrival.
He checked the other side of the paper. Halfway down the page, the list became a letter.
Mark.
If I remember correctly, you should be reading this in a café in Bromley in the year 1994. Earlier tonight, you were sent back in time.
How did you get sent back in time? I can't go into that here. But you should know one thing. There is no way back to 2011. You have no choice but to live the rest of your life from this day onwards. It won't be easy, but you have the advantage of knowing the future. Out of all the people in the world, you alone know what tomorrow will bring.
I've included instructions describing what I did when I found myself in the past. Follow them to the letter. And whatever you do, make sure these instructions don't fall into anyone else's hands. Guard them with your life.
Your first step is to use the money to create a new identity for yourself. I'll leave you to decide the details. You'll have to make your own way in the world, just as I did when I found myself in the past.
But make sure you follow these instructions, Mark. Because if you do, remember this:
YOU CAN SAVE HER.
Just as I did.
Yours sincerely,
Mark Whitaker, April 2003.
~The Pros and Cons of Silence~
A/N: And there's the first part of 'Touched by an Angel'! This adventure is from the book Touched by an Angel by Jonathan Morris from the Doctor Who line of New Adventures Series books by BBC Books. Lines of dialogue and description have been copied out just as they are in the book for authenticity's sake, but I took liberties with some descriptive parts and 'he said, she said' parts. There's not a lot of Dalex fluff in here, but don't worry, we'll be getting more of it as the adventure goes on. We'll also find out why Alex is so dressed up in the next chapter. :)
Also, just in case some of you are watching the news right now, I am nowhere near Marshall County, KY. Just to reassure you all. :) I'm also feeling much better but I'm back at school now so posting may be a little sporadic. :)
Notes on reviews. . .
NicoleR85 - Thank you! Hmm, you think you know what's wrong with her? Do tell. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)
ShadowTeir - Glad you enjoyed the chapter! I just love when the Doctor goes all Oncoming Storm, they are some of my favorite parts to write. :) There's no reason I mentioned that particular jewelry, it was just something I thought of. It does, however, serve to show how different some of the alien cultures are, compared to Alex's human culture. :) The 'I remember' part was referring to the final chapter of 'Cold Blood' in Living where the Doctor used the med-scanner on Alex and similarly told her to keep still while it was scanning her. Alex has yet to remember what the Silence made her forget. As for Demons Run . . . maybe, maybe not. :) Oh, God, yeah, there will definitely be a sex talk and I had so much fun writing it. :) I love delving into Alex's friends and her past. Lacey will not go to university, but we will see her in this story take on a new part of the adult world. Hope you enjoyed the chapter! :)
Loveless150050 - I'm so glad you're excited! I am too! :D We're going to get a fanfic of what would have happened if Alex met the 10th Doctor during Series 4. No idea when it will be out, but it is something I plan on doing. :)
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed and/or favorited this story, especially during my absence. Please review and see you tomorrow! :)