Dead of Winter - James Goss [29]
Then I looked up, and I saw him. The mist had cleared slightly. And there, yards ahead of me, like a hero on a little rocky outcrop stood… It was definitely him – I’d have known that silhouette anywhere.
Oh.
Like an elastic band pinging my ear, I felt a sharp stinging sensation, and realised it was my head. Someone had flicked a switch in it, and it had started working. Like a box of missing information had suddenly opened. My brain suddenly sorted itself out like a jigsaw puzzle, everything falling into place including the missing bit of sky tucked down the back of the sofa. I realised everything that had gone wrong. Everything that I had forgotten the last time I was on this beach. I knew who was standing on the rocks by the sea.
The Doctor.
I crawled towards him, crying with relief, calling his name over and over. He meant so much to me. My Doctor. The man I…
He started to turn towards me and then… something crashed out of the mist behind him, carrying both shapes into the sea. I screamed, trying to stand, but nothing. I was left crouched on the beach, crying and alone and helpless. I beat my fists in the sand, but that didn’t do anything.
When I stopped, I realised something.
Slap! Slap!
Footsteps, coming nearer.
The Doctor had come back, and something had killed him. Something dreadful that was now coming for me.
Madly, I crawled towards the sea, calling out the Doctor’s name, in case he’d survived and was somewhere out there. The waves started to rush around me, freezing cold running over my hands and legs, dragging at my clothes. The fog started to push down on me. And those footsteps were still coming, closer and closer.
I had no idea what to do next. I struggled desperately to my feet and, of course, immediately fell. As I tumbled, a cold hand gripped my wrist like steel. I cried out in pain and stared up – a man was standing over me in the mist.
It looked like the Doctor. But I knew. I knew… It wasn’t. And then, when it spoke to me with that flat, dead voice, I was certain.
‘Amy Pond,’ it said, cautiously, as though trying the name out for the first time. ‘I’ve come back for you…’
A Letter from Maria
St Christophe
6th December 1783
Dear Mother,
Things looked bad. Really bad. Just AWFUL, and I felt ever so let down. I had been hoping that my hero would rescue me like a storybook princess from a castle. Instead we were still tied to chairs. Rory wasn’t the man I’d thought him to be. He was nice, but he was no hero. And above us – that strange cloud of… No, I just can’t describe it. It’s too horrible. But it was starting to pour, very slowly down towards us.
‘Think of something,’ I hissed at him.
‘I’ve got nothing,’ Rory said with a shrug.
Dr Bloom was watching, quietly amused. His wife was pottering around, actually tidying the study. As though seeing us being eaten alive was boring her. I never liked her, Mother, and now you know why. She was fussing as she arranged Dr Bloom’s pens neatly in order.
‘Pens,’ muttered Rory.
‘Monsieur?’
‘Could you reach my left pocket?’ he asked.
I managed to twist around in my chair, my hand grabbing something pen-like sticking out of Rory’s pocket.
‘Very good,’ said Rory. He winked at me. ‘Now… point it at THAT. No. Other end, apparently.’
Well, I had no idea what it did, but I knew which end to push. I hoped it was not a gun. It had a very pretty light at one end. Maybe that would distract everyone.
Instead it pumped out a sound… a sound so horrifying I squealed.
So did the creature above us, reeling back.
‘Oh, well done, Maria,’ cried Rory over the din.
‘What are you doing?’ gasped Dr Bloom. He ran to his wife. She was doubled over in agony. It looked like whatever I’d done was really, really hurting her. Good.
Rory stood up with some difficulty, the chair still tied to him. He leaned over me and managed to pull my ropes free. Then he turned to Dr Bloom.
‘We’re escaping,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’
Chair still tied to his back, he ran with me from the room. I take it all back. Rory is just wonderful.
Your ever loving