Until We Burn | Dr Who

Chapter Sixty-One: A Normal Life

The woods at the edge of the school act as a perfect cover. Martha remains by my side and Art refuses my requests to walk on my own.

"Doctor!" a voice calls. We peer out from behind the trees to see Mr Clark and his scarecrows in front of the school. They stand guard around the Tardis. "Come back, Doctor! Come home. Come and claim your prize."

He is joined by the rest of the Family, their cruel eyes scanning the treeline. Baines is the next to shout his provocations, "Out you come, Doctor. There's a good boy. Come to the Family."

"Time to end it, now!" Jenny joins in.

Martha meets my anxious gaze before looking at him. "You recognise it, don't you?"

"Come out, Doctor! Come to us!"

"I've never seen it in my life."

If she is frustrated, she doesn't show it. Instead, she continues to gently push, "Do you remember its name?"

Matron's eyes close for a moment in a moment of grave understanding. "I'm sorry, John, but you wrote about it. The blue box. You dreamt of a blue box."

"I'm not—" His voice breaks, trembling with the weight of his fear. "I'm John Smith. That's all I want to be. John Smith. With his life and his job... and his love."

That word crushes me. I wince, hiding in the warmth of a trench coat that reminds me horribly of who he is meant to be.

"Why can't I be John Smith? Isn't he a good man?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, he is."

"Why can't I stay?"

He wipes away his tears, his fingers raking down his cheeks as they fall. I need to stop looking for signs of recognition. Signs of anything.

Still, Martha forces a pained smile, watching Joan rubbing his back, soothing his anguish. "But we need the Doctor."

He stops, looking pleadingly at her. "And who am I, then? Nothing? I'm just a story."

She doesn't need to answer. He already knows. And he leaves, the rest of us running to catch up with him. As we hurry along the dirt track road, Art calls the others' attention to a fork in the path. "This way."

——————

We come to a stop outside a cottage I recognise instantly. My breath stutters and I tug on Art's collar. "Not here. Please. I can't face them."

The others seem oblivious to it. Panting, the Matron beams around at us, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. "It's a long time since I've run that far. I say, Art, is this what I think it is?"

He nods solemnly. John frowns and looks between them and the house, with no lights in its windows and no smoke rising from the chimney. "But who lives here?"

"If I'm right," she remarks, "no-one." We follow her inside. The table is set for tea with their finest but nobody seems to be around. "Hello?" We receive no response. "No-one home. We should be safe here."

Art brings me over to the empty rocking chair and pulls the coat around me to stave off the unnatural coldness of the place. Then his solemn gaze lands on the Matron. "Where are they?"

"Where are who?" John huffs.

Martha recognises it better now from inside. A grieved expression takes over. "The Cartwrights."

"That little girl at the school, she's Lucy Cartwright. Or she's—" the Matron draws in a trembling breath "—taken Lucy Cartwright's form. If she came home this afternoon, and if the parents tried to stop their little girl, then..."