Doctor Who - 01 - Past Future Continuous

05. Wrong Colour

When they left the Westminster station, Donna grabbed Wilf's arm. They rarely went to the City together, but the weather being outstanding (especially after five weeks of rain) there were feasts and events on the South Bank, still celebrating the Earth's miraculous return to the bosom of the Solar System, and besides that... it was not like Donna had anything else to do. She still couldn't find a job, or more accurately, she wouldn't stay in any job for too long. Temp for the rest of her life – a pretty poor retirement plan, but somehow it seemed to be her destiny. Even Sylvia – her mother – stopped moaning. Donna didn't feel comfortable staying under one roof with Sylvia who didn't moan. Sometimes she thought that her mother must have been seriously ill.

The crowd on the bridge was so dense, that Donna had to hold on to Wilf with all her strength, not to be separated from him by other pedestrians. On her left, out of the Thames protruded a mess of twisted metal rods and beams, decorated by skeletons of viewing capsules, devoid of glass and bulging out of the water like Easter eggs – pitiful remains of the famous tourist attraction, the London Eye.

Blind London... Hmmm?

Wilfred followed her gaze and squeezed her hand even tighter.

"You know what, we could go the other way," he suggested uncertainly. "These tourists make me nervous."

They stopped on the bridge in the shadow of Big Ben.

"Gramps..."

"Well, all right," he admitted. "All right. It just looks horrible. When will they get rid of it?"

"When they've finished with the clock, I s'pose." Donna looked at the tower looming over the Palace of Westminster; the golden-green face of Big Ben was still covered by scaffoldings and sheets of white plastic. "Bloody terrorists!"

"Yeah, but it..." Wilf cleared his throat and fell into a quick walk, dragging Donna along. "Yeah, bloody terrorists, and don't you swear, young lady."

"Gramps," Donna clung to his shoulder. "It wasn't a swear-word."

"In my times it bloody was."

"Not anymore."

For a while they could not talk, their voices drowned out completely by the tune of the bagpiper surrounded by a tight circle of tourists, snapping pictures so as to capture him together with the twisted ruin of the Eye. Donna, using mostly sign language, bought a packet of honey roasted nuts. Double-decker buses and heavy lorries laden with rubble were crossing the bridge.

On the other side they took a wide stairs to reach the embankment, passing by a spindly-legged elephant advertising Salvatore Dali's exhibition. Their way was blocked by a sort of a barricade separating the walkway from the place where people used to queue, to admire London from the heights of cosy, oval cabins. Donna thought that she had never got on the Eye's ride. Now it was too late.

They had to return to the stairs and onto the street, and then turn left, going around the County Hall, to reach the walkway again.

"Fancy an ice cream?" Wilf queued up next to the white trailer coated with Walls' adverts. Donna nibbled at roasted nuts letting the crowd wash over her like waves. She looked at stalls with souvenirs and at a live sculpture dressed in clothes from Shakespeare's times.

And then, unexpectedly, her eyes rested upon the telephone booth; on the red telephone booth, so typical for London; on this postcard image defining the city, appearing almost everywhere on stalls surrounding her, next to guard members in their tall hats, Paddington teddies dressed as a constables, shortbread cookies in their metal tins, double-deckers, images of the Queen and Princess Diana, and red and white underground signs. Donna froze, with her eyes fixed on the booth, oblivious of roasted nuts she was scattering from the bag held in a lowered hand. She frowned, screwing her eyes. Her body tensed as if waiting for something to happen.

"Donna? Donna?!"

Wilfred pushed his way through the crowd, strawberry cornetto in his hand.

"Donna, is something wrong?"

She blinked when he grabbed her arm and turned her towards him.

"DONNA?!"

"It's all right, Gramps," she said hesitantly. "Everything's fine."

She brushed aside her hair and gave him a warm smile, noticing his concern.

"Nothing, really."

And yet, she had to tell him.

"Only... Sometimes... sometimes I fell as if... As if I had left an iron plugged in, or a gas tap opened... you know, as if I was supposed to do something... something really important, but I can't remember what and why." Her face grew sad. "Sometimes I look at something familiar and I know that it reminds me about something else, but I can't remember what it was."

She shrugged her shoulders slowly, feeling her eyes getting wet.

"Oh, Gramps, sometimes I think, that there's something wrong with me. The girls laugh at me, they say that I slept all last year, or that I was drunk, but I didn't sleep or drink..." She sighed. "And mum... She acts so strange when we're together..."

She leaned towards Wilf, whispering nervously.

"And... and I dream about... I dream about this man..."

She moved her head as if she tried to shake something out of her hair.

"A wonderful man. An impossible man. I dream that we run somewhere together, I don't know where... and... and I trust him completely... and I would do anything for him... and... I just thought that that phone booth's colour is wrong; why would it be wrong?... but I know it should look different... and... and I almost saw him now, his image... that man from my dreams... and it's not good, right?"

Her chin trembled, tears appeared in her eyes.

"How can I care for somebody I've never met? How the phone booth's colour can be wrong? Am I getting crazy, Gramps? Did I get crazy and that's why I can't remember the last year, and why mum... and why you... why everybody's been acting so weird... as if I were about to shatter into million pieces...?"

"Oh, Donna," whispered Wilf. "Oh, Donna, my child. Oh, come 'ere."

He hugged her clumsily and let her cry. He hadn't the faintest idea what else he could do. He could not tell her she was not crazy, was not dreaming, but remembering... no, not even that... that she was noticing faint, distant echoes of memories removed from her head by the Doctor, in order to let her beDonna, to simply let her live. He was so afraid, and it was so hard to hide her from the world, and to hide the world from her; the world where the Doctor had left so many traces. Donna's words petrified him. Memories could kill her. Anytime Donna could remember... and die.

"They're just dreams, baby. Just dreams."

"But who is he?" whispered Donna. "Who is he?"