Fic: The Diplomat's Wife
I entered this in the Big Finish Story competition.
Didn't win, though.
I would love to know what you think of it, so please do comment! :)
Title: The Diplomat’s Wife
Author: eryaforsthye
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2498
Characters: Seven, Eight
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
Summary:
What use can a doctor be to a grieving widow?
We’ve got a new doctor. I watch as he strolls around the main room chatting to my fellow inmates. This one’s different to the others. He’s friendly. He catches my gaze and ambles over to me.
“So you’re the new doctor. Welcome to Eiderdown Mental Clinic!”
I greet ironically.
He smiles and thanks me. I appraise him. Tall, dark and handsome. Long hair for a psychiatrist, and with those clothes I’m surprised he’s not a patient. His badge reads ‘Dr. Smith’.
I knew a Dr. Smith once. Years ago.
“Why don’t you tell me about him?”
I realise I must have thought aloud. I am about to refuse, when I see his eyes. Gentle, blue, and terribly old. They remind me of his eyes.
“I’ve been here for eight years. My son-in-law, Martin, had me admitted. He says I’m delusional.”
I hesitate.
He tells me to continue. And maybe because I see something in him, or maybe because I just want someone to listen, I do.
My husband’s name was Lawrence. Sir Lawrence Fitzpatrick Harricote, KCB, former captain of the HMS Infinity. Dead eight years now. That’s when I met the Doctor.
He was a rather odd man. Scottish. Rolled his Rs outrageously.
Dressed outrageously too.
White Panama hat, brown jacket, paisley scarf, and a brightly patterned pullover. And an umbrella, I remember because its handle was fashioned into a question mark to match those on the pullover.
We were introduced by one of Lawrence’s friends. Gilmore, I think it was.
Lawrence was at home the night he...passed away. I never saw his body.
It was a quick funeral; his colleagues had wanted to avoid a scandal.
I didn’t have the strength to argue.
I don’t think I realised he was actually gone until they lowered the casket.
I felt I had lost my identity. Lawrence dead. I was a widow.
A few days after the service, Gilmore came to the house with a Dr. Smith.
He said the Doctor could help me.
Nobody ever called him Dr. Smith or John. It seemed somehow wrong to do so. Those names were too small for him, too confining.
It was always the Doctor. Maybe it’s because of my state of mind at the time, but he really did seem so much more real than everyone else. He was a very short man, quite physically unimposing. But his eye...
Anyway, I couldn’t see how he could help. Lawrence was dead and buried. How could anybody help?
But what did I have to lose?
He was very kind. I expected him to get straight to business, but he led me to a seat and, most unexpectedly, asked how I was.
Not just a pleasantry. He actually meant it.
I confess I made a right fool of myself.
Burst into tears like some callow girl and thoroughly soaked through several of his multicoloured handkerchiefs.
He didn’t mind.
After I had composed myself, he called for some tea and we chatted. I had studied history at university, and the Doctor was surprisingly well read. I don’t think I’d had such scintillating conversation since my student days.
When we’d finished with the tea, he asked if I could take him to Lawrence’s office.
I agreed.
I hadn’t been inside that room since they found him there. Irrationally, I was afraid. But I also felt that I would be safe with this man. I barely knew him, but I already trusted him unreservedly. Perhaps his oddness was rubbing off on me.
I didn’t know what I expected to see. Blood-splattered walls, or maybe the furniture broken and strewn about the place.
The room looked exactly as it always had. There wasn’t even a stain. I felt almost disappointed. I wondered what sort of person that made me.
The Doctor didn’t seem surprised. He led me to a small settee facing the fireplace. Someone had already lit the grate. I could hear the Doctor going through Lawrence’s papers. Lawrence had always forbidden me to do so. He never discussed his work with me. Sometimes I wondered whether this was because it was confidential, or because he thought I was too simple-minded to comprehend it. It occurred to me I resented this.
The pictures on the walls seemed to be staring at me with vengeful hatred, as if they knew what I was thinking and loathed me for it.
Ridiculous.
There was something wrong with the room. The atmosphere - it felt...malevolent.
In spite of the fire, I was cold.
I moved closer to the Doctor. He started, then beamed at me.
I told him about the pictures.
I waited for him to gaze at me with concern and give me the usual, condescending metaphorical pat on the head. Instead, he moved over to the wall and began to inspect the offending portraits.
I felt vindicated.
The image of his diminutive figure peering up at those foreboding frames is something that remains with me.
He asked whether my husband had been acting strangely prior to his death.
I wouldn’t know. We had barely seen each other for months because of his work.
But....there was one thing.
He’d seemed paranoid recently. In the last week or so before his death. He’d always been secretive, but towards the end he’d been downright jumpy. Even Mrs. Rosier, the housekeeper, had noticed. Almost as though he’d expected to die.
I mentioned this to the Doctor.
On impulse, I asked how Lawrence had died.
He was silent for a moment. Then he told me.
I wondered if an exploded heart constituted a heart attack or a broken heart.
It struck me that this was a very callous reaction for a grieving widow.
Shock, I suppose.
I asked the Doctor if he’d learnt anything from Lawrence’s papers.
He had. Lawrence had been attempting to broker peace between the US and the USSR. No wonder he’d been so secretive.
I asked if he’d been successful.
The Doctor shocked me by stating it wasn’t important.
Something of my thoughts must have shown upon my face, for the Doctor immediately clarified his statement. He had meant that it wasn’t my husband’s work, per se, that had caused his death.
I didn’t understand.
He told me humans hadn’t killed Lawrence.
So, he’d died of natural causes? Just an inconvenient heart attack?
Apparently, I’d missed the point. Humans might not have killed Lawrence, I was informed, but someone else, something else, had.
Who?
“Something that loves hate and lives for death.”
I stared at him.
The sudden chime startled me. It was midnight. No doubt Laura and Mrs. Rosier had long since gone to bed and home respectively. Time we did the same.
As we left the office, I thought I saw something move in the hallway out of the corner of my eye.
A trick of the light.
However, when I went to the front door to see him out, a most peculiar thing happened.
I couldn’t open the door. It wasn’t stuck. It was immoveable, as if it were part of the brick and mortar walls.
The Doctor seemed only mildly surprised by this turn of events.
Perfectly calm, he suggested we adjoin to the drawing room.
I agreed.
I wasn’t frightened. If I’d been alone, I’ve no doubt I would have been terrified out of my wits. But...he made me feel safe, as though he’d protect me. Like Lawrence would have. Despite myself, I felt more alive than I had in years.
Once we were seated, I, nursing a therapeutic shot of brandy, asked him what was happening.
He muttered something about negative psionics, whatever that was.
I gave him a look.
He relented. He said that something didn’t want him to leave the house and was using a great deal of psychic energy to prevent him from doing so.
I asked why.
He answered by asking me what I thought of the Cold War.
I admit I didn’t react at all kindly to what I perceived to be an untimely foray into the intricacies of the global political situation.
He told me, stubbornly, that it was of the utmost relevance.
I gave up.
I chronicled the events, the espionage and counter-espionage that were swiftly escalating this conflict into a nuclear standoff. I had been a diplomat’s wife, certainly, but I could think for myself.
The Doctor listened attentively.
Then he asked me how I would describe the political atmosphere.
I answered.
Tense. Terrifyingly so.
He smiled as though I’d just solved the meaning of existence.
Then he told me what he’d seen in my husband’s journals.
Lawrence was an intelligent man. He’d spent enough time studying the two main players in this new war to know when something was wrong. Suspicion was one thing, but constant unreasoning paranoia internationally?
Too many plots uncovered. Too many coincidences.
Something was very wrong.
Lawrence began to take his fears to high-ranking government officials worldwide. He wanted to prevent a global catastrophe. That’s when he began to notice it. The flashes of movement out of the corner of his eye. The feeling of being watched. Of being isolated. He withdrew from his family and friends, seeing treachery everywhere he looked. He realised even then that this wasn’t natural. He tried to leave the house.
He died.
I listened, horrified.
I stared at the man who expounded this history to me.
I couldn’t believe it.
But it made sense - his secrecy, his refusal to interact with us, to trust me.
Oh God.
I knew then what I had to do. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t just a diplomat’s wife.
I was going to avenge my husband. My Lawrence.
So, we went monster hunting.
He wanted to check the exits. As I showed him, he requested I talk about Laura. To take my mind off the situation.
I complied.
He asked if she was adopted.
She wasn’t.
He inquired about her childhood.
Lonely. She was very intelligent and didn’t mingle well with others.
He wanted to know if she had had an imaginary friend.
I took this as idle curiosity, until I caught a glimpse of his face in the shifting darkness.
Sharp, intent.
I hesitated. Then remembered I trusted him.
Yes, she had. She used to call it Demens.
He queried when she had ‘met’ him.
She was four. I remembered because she had tried to introduce us.
He asked whether she still lived with me.
Yes, she did. Martin worked a great deal abroad, and we kept each other company.
As I said this, I thought I saw a look of satisfaction cross my companion’s features.
I wondered aloud at the cross-examination.
He apologised for prying, but didn’t offer an explanation.
Abruptly, he suggested we go wake Laura.
Her room was empty, the bed not slept in.
Panic constricted me.
The Doctor absently patted my arm.
He suggested we return to Lawrence’s office.
His face was inscrutable as he told me that things were coming to a head.
Silently, I followed him.
The room was dark as we entered. The light toying with the shadows such that they appeared alive.
I jumped as a voice spoke from behind the desk.
“So, you’ve found me at last, Time Lord.”
The Scotsman at my shoulder stirred.
“So I have. Tell me, don’t you tire of that form?”
A soft laugh.
“Why would I? I have acclimatised myself to her over decades.”
Suddenly, I recognised that voice.
“Laura?”
My voice shook.
“Hello, Mother.”
Laura moved forward and the little light from the doorway illuminated her features.
Her face was mocking, her eyes like fire.
“You’re not Laura. What are you?”
It was the Doctor who answered.
“Demens.”
A kaleidoscope of memories spiralled before my mind’s eye.
The petty fights that occurred whenever we introduced Laura to other children.
The tension between her and Lawrence.
Her failing marriage to Martin.
That alien look flashing across her eyes during arguments.
That of exhilaration. Insane pleasure.
I gasped.
“You! You killed Lawrence! You’re the one that’s been doing this!”
The creature, Demens, tilted Laura’s head in acquiescence.
Abruptly, I felt cold.
“Laura”, I croaked. “Is she...?”
“I’m afraid so, Mother dear. She began to fight me, and I wanted this body on a more...permanent basis.”
“You...”
Then I did something terribly stupid. I lunged at her.
I felt her wrists grip mine and hold me fast.
A wave of sudden terror overwhelmed me.
I gasped and felt my legs turn to water.
Red light burnt my eyelids and it occurred to me that the last thing I saw would be the face of my daughter illuminated by the very pits of hell.
Unexpectedly, a voice boomed, “Leave her!”
I fell to the floor.
“You dare to interfere? What business of yours are my diversions?”
“Yes, I dare. You toy with these people simply for your own satisfaction. You stoke their fires and inflame them to warfare, for what? For a few seconds of gratification? Do their lives, their loves deserve so little consideration?”
“They mean nothing.”
The verdict was uttered with supreme conviction.
I knew then. Laura was gone.
“I weary of your moralising, Doctor. I think, I will kill you now.”
I managed to pull myself to my knees. I was next to the now icy grate. Grate. Fireplace. The poker! I inched towards it.
“I doubt you could kill me, Demens.”
I appreciated that my friend was keeping our enemy occupied. I had to do this. For Lawrence. For Laura.
“You’re stretched too far. It can’t be easy managing a psychic hold over so many around this world. Especially with all that energy focused on maintaining a new body. Why, one good physical blow to the head would be enough to destroy you.”
Thank you, Doctor.
The poker was cold in my hand.
It wasn’t her. This wasn’t Laura.
“Thank you for your concern, Doctor. But, amusing as this conversation is, I think I’d like to leave it there.”
“So would I. Now, Marie!”
She - no, Demens - whirled around to face me.
I hit her.
The next thing I remember was waking in my bedroom, Martin handing me a cup of tea. Telling me Laura was dead. I tried to tell Martin what had happened, but he didn’t believe me. That’s why I’m here.
“And you’ve been here ever since?”
I come out my reverie to find the young doctor staring at me, tears in his eyes.
I stare back bewildered.
“I’m sorry, Marie”
I frown, “Whatever for?”
“For leaving you like that. I only just remembered. The regeneration, you see. I...”
I don’t understand what he is saying. But...It can’t be!
“Doctor?”
I see the guilt in his eyes. His eyes.
They look at me with so much guilt and pain.
I must ease it.
I say gently, “I never regretted meeting him. I mean, you. You gave me my identity.
Before I was just a weak-willed diplomat’s wife. Now I am Marie.
Thank you, Doctor.”
Didn't win, though.
I would love to know what you think of it, so please do comment! :)
Title: The Diplomat’s Wife
Author: eryaforsthye
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2498
Characters: Seven, Eight
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who.
Summary:
What use can a doctor be to a grieving widow?
We’ve got a new doctor. I watch as he strolls around the main room chatting to my fellow inmates. This one’s different to the others. He’s friendly. He catches my gaze and ambles over to me.
“So you’re the new doctor. Welcome to Eiderdown Mental Clinic!”
I greet ironically.
He smiles and thanks me. I appraise him. Tall, dark and handsome. Long hair for a psychiatrist, and with those clothes I’m surprised he’s not a patient. His badge reads ‘Dr. Smith’.
I knew a Dr. Smith once. Years ago.
“Why don’t you tell me about him?”
I realise I must have thought aloud. I am about to refuse, when I see his eyes. Gentle, blue, and terribly old. They remind me of his eyes.
“I’ve been here for eight years. My son-in-law, Martin, had me admitted. He says I’m delusional.”
I hesitate.
He tells me to continue. And maybe because I see something in him, or maybe because I just want someone to listen, I do.
My husband’s name was Lawrence. Sir Lawrence Fitzpatrick Harricote, KCB, former captain of the HMS Infinity. Dead eight years now. That’s when I met the Doctor.
He was a rather odd man. Scottish. Rolled his Rs outrageously.
Dressed outrageously too.
White Panama hat, brown jacket, paisley scarf, and a brightly patterned pullover. And an umbrella, I remember because its handle was fashioned into a question mark to match those on the pullover.
We were introduced by one of Lawrence’s friends. Gilmore, I think it was.
Lawrence was at home the night he...passed away. I never saw his body.
It was a quick funeral; his colleagues had wanted to avoid a scandal.
I didn’t have the strength to argue.
I don’t think I realised he was actually gone until they lowered the casket.
I felt I had lost my identity. Lawrence dead. I was a widow.
A few days after the service, Gilmore came to the house with a Dr. Smith.
He said the Doctor could help me.
Nobody ever called him Dr. Smith or John. It seemed somehow wrong to do so. Those names were too small for him, too confining.
It was always the Doctor. Maybe it’s because of my state of mind at the time, but he really did seem so much more real than everyone else. He was a very short man, quite physically unimposing. But his eye...
Anyway, I couldn’t see how he could help. Lawrence was dead and buried. How could anybody help?
But what did I have to lose?
He was very kind. I expected him to get straight to business, but he led me to a seat and, most unexpectedly, asked how I was.
Not just a pleasantry. He actually meant it.
I confess I made a right fool of myself.
Burst into tears like some callow girl and thoroughly soaked through several of his multicoloured handkerchiefs.
He didn’t mind.
After I had composed myself, he called for some tea and we chatted. I had studied history at university, and the Doctor was surprisingly well read. I don’t think I’d had such scintillating conversation since my student days.
When we’d finished with the tea, he asked if I could take him to Lawrence’s office.
I agreed.
I hadn’t been inside that room since they found him there. Irrationally, I was afraid. But I also felt that I would be safe with this man. I barely knew him, but I already trusted him unreservedly. Perhaps his oddness was rubbing off on me.
I didn’t know what I expected to see. Blood-splattered walls, or maybe the furniture broken and strewn about the place.
The room looked exactly as it always had. There wasn’t even a stain. I felt almost disappointed. I wondered what sort of person that made me.
The Doctor didn’t seem surprised. He led me to a small settee facing the fireplace. Someone had already lit the grate. I could hear the Doctor going through Lawrence’s papers. Lawrence had always forbidden me to do so. He never discussed his work with me. Sometimes I wondered whether this was because it was confidential, or because he thought I was too simple-minded to comprehend it. It occurred to me I resented this.
The pictures on the walls seemed to be staring at me with vengeful hatred, as if they knew what I was thinking and loathed me for it.
Ridiculous.
There was something wrong with the room. The atmosphere - it felt...malevolent.
In spite of the fire, I was cold.
I moved closer to the Doctor. He started, then beamed at me.
I told him about the pictures.
I waited for him to gaze at me with concern and give me the usual, condescending metaphorical pat on the head. Instead, he moved over to the wall and began to inspect the offending portraits.
I felt vindicated.
The image of his diminutive figure peering up at those foreboding frames is something that remains with me.
He asked whether my husband had been acting strangely prior to his death.
I wouldn’t know. We had barely seen each other for months because of his work.
But....there was one thing.
He’d seemed paranoid recently. In the last week or so before his death. He’d always been secretive, but towards the end he’d been downright jumpy. Even Mrs. Rosier, the housekeeper, had noticed. Almost as though he’d expected to die.
I mentioned this to the Doctor.
On impulse, I asked how Lawrence had died.
He was silent for a moment. Then he told me.
I wondered if an exploded heart constituted a heart attack or a broken heart.
It struck me that this was a very callous reaction for a grieving widow.
Shock, I suppose.
I asked the Doctor if he’d learnt anything from Lawrence’s papers.
He had. Lawrence had been attempting to broker peace between the US and the USSR. No wonder he’d been so secretive.
I asked if he’d been successful.
The Doctor shocked me by stating it wasn’t important.
Something of my thoughts must have shown upon my face, for the Doctor immediately clarified his statement. He had meant that it wasn’t my husband’s work, per se, that had caused his death.
I didn’t understand.
He told me humans hadn’t killed Lawrence.
So, he’d died of natural causes? Just an inconvenient heart attack?
Apparently, I’d missed the point. Humans might not have killed Lawrence, I was informed, but someone else, something else, had.
Who?
“Something that loves hate and lives for death.”
I stared at him.
The sudden chime startled me. It was midnight. No doubt Laura and Mrs. Rosier had long since gone to bed and home respectively. Time we did the same.
As we left the office, I thought I saw something move in the hallway out of the corner of my eye.
A trick of the light.
However, when I went to the front door to see him out, a most peculiar thing happened.
I couldn’t open the door. It wasn’t stuck. It was immoveable, as if it were part of the brick and mortar walls.
The Doctor seemed only mildly surprised by this turn of events.
Perfectly calm, he suggested we adjoin to the drawing room.
I agreed.
I wasn’t frightened. If I’d been alone, I’ve no doubt I would have been terrified out of my wits. But...he made me feel safe, as though he’d protect me. Like Lawrence would have. Despite myself, I felt more alive than I had in years.
Once we were seated, I, nursing a therapeutic shot of brandy, asked him what was happening.
He muttered something about negative psionics, whatever that was.
I gave him a look.
He relented. He said that something didn’t want him to leave the house and was using a great deal of psychic energy to prevent him from doing so.
I asked why.
He answered by asking me what I thought of the Cold War.
I admit I didn’t react at all kindly to what I perceived to be an untimely foray into the intricacies of the global political situation.
He told me, stubbornly, that it was of the utmost relevance.
I gave up.
I chronicled the events, the espionage and counter-espionage that were swiftly escalating this conflict into a nuclear standoff. I had been a diplomat’s wife, certainly, but I could think for myself.
The Doctor listened attentively.
Then he asked me how I would describe the political atmosphere.
I answered.
Tense. Terrifyingly so.
He smiled as though I’d just solved the meaning of existence.
Then he told me what he’d seen in my husband’s journals.
Lawrence was an intelligent man. He’d spent enough time studying the two main players in this new war to know when something was wrong. Suspicion was one thing, but constant unreasoning paranoia internationally?
Too many plots uncovered. Too many coincidences.
Something was very wrong.
Lawrence began to take his fears to high-ranking government officials worldwide. He wanted to prevent a global catastrophe. That’s when he began to notice it. The flashes of movement out of the corner of his eye. The feeling of being watched. Of being isolated. He withdrew from his family and friends, seeing treachery everywhere he looked. He realised even then that this wasn’t natural. He tried to leave the house.
He died.
I listened, horrified.
I stared at the man who expounded this history to me.
I couldn’t believe it.
But it made sense - his secrecy, his refusal to interact with us, to trust me.
Oh God.
I knew then what I had to do. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t just a diplomat’s wife.
I was going to avenge my husband. My Lawrence.
So, we went monster hunting.
He wanted to check the exits. As I showed him, he requested I talk about Laura. To take my mind off the situation.
I complied.
He asked if she was adopted.
She wasn’t.
He inquired about her childhood.
Lonely. She was very intelligent and didn’t mingle well with others.
He wanted to know if she had had an imaginary friend.
I took this as idle curiosity, until I caught a glimpse of his face in the shifting darkness.
Sharp, intent.
I hesitated. Then remembered I trusted him.
Yes, she had. She used to call it Demens.
He queried when she had ‘met’ him.
She was four. I remembered because she had tried to introduce us.
He asked whether she still lived with me.
Yes, she did. Martin worked a great deal abroad, and we kept each other company.
As I said this, I thought I saw a look of satisfaction cross my companion’s features.
I wondered aloud at the cross-examination.
He apologised for prying, but didn’t offer an explanation.
Abruptly, he suggested we go wake Laura.
Her room was empty, the bed not slept in.
Panic constricted me.
The Doctor absently patted my arm.
He suggested we return to Lawrence’s office.
His face was inscrutable as he told me that things were coming to a head.
Silently, I followed him.
The room was dark as we entered. The light toying with the shadows such that they appeared alive.
I jumped as a voice spoke from behind the desk.
“So, you’ve found me at last, Time Lord.”
The Scotsman at my shoulder stirred.
“So I have. Tell me, don’t you tire of that form?”
A soft laugh.
“Why would I? I have acclimatised myself to her over decades.”
Suddenly, I recognised that voice.
“Laura?”
My voice shook.
“Hello, Mother.”
Laura moved forward and the little light from the doorway illuminated her features.
Her face was mocking, her eyes like fire.
“You’re not Laura. What are you?”
It was the Doctor who answered.
“Demens.”
A kaleidoscope of memories spiralled before my mind’s eye.
The petty fights that occurred whenever we introduced Laura to other children.
The tension between her and Lawrence.
Her failing marriage to Martin.
That alien look flashing across her eyes during arguments.
That of exhilaration. Insane pleasure.
I gasped.
“You! You killed Lawrence! You’re the one that’s been doing this!”
The creature, Demens, tilted Laura’s head in acquiescence.
Abruptly, I felt cold.
“Laura”, I croaked. “Is she...?”
“I’m afraid so, Mother dear. She began to fight me, and I wanted this body on a more...permanent basis.”
“You...”
Then I did something terribly stupid. I lunged at her.
I felt her wrists grip mine and hold me fast.
A wave of sudden terror overwhelmed me.
I gasped and felt my legs turn to water.
Red light burnt my eyelids and it occurred to me that the last thing I saw would be the face of my daughter illuminated by the very pits of hell.
Unexpectedly, a voice boomed, “Leave her!”
I fell to the floor.
“You dare to interfere? What business of yours are my diversions?”
“Yes, I dare. You toy with these people simply for your own satisfaction. You stoke their fires and inflame them to warfare, for what? For a few seconds of gratification? Do their lives, their loves deserve so little consideration?”
“They mean nothing.”
The verdict was uttered with supreme conviction.
I knew then. Laura was gone.
“I weary of your moralising, Doctor. I think, I will kill you now.”
I managed to pull myself to my knees. I was next to the now icy grate. Grate. Fireplace. The poker! I inched towards it.
“I doubt you could kill me, Demens.”
I appreciated that my friend was keeping our enemy occupied. I had to do this. For Lawrence. For Laura.
“You’re stretched too far. It can’t be easy managing a psychic hold over so many around this world. Especially with all that energy focused on maintaining a new body. Why, one good physical blow to the head would be enough to destroy you.”
Thank you, Doctor.
The poker was cold in my hand.
It wasn’t her. This wasn’t Laura.
“Thank you for your concern, Doctor. But, amusing as this conversation is, I think I’d like to leave it there.”
“So would I. Now, Marie!”
She - no, Demens - whirled around to face me.
I hit her.
The next thing I remember was waking in my bedroom, Martin handing me a cup of tea. Telling me Laura was dead. I tried to tell Martin what had happened, but he didn’t believe me. That’s why I’m here.
“And you’ve been here ever since?”
I come out my reverie to find the young doctor staring at me, tears in his eyes.
I stare back bewildered.
“I’m sorry, Marie”
I frown, “Whatever for?”
“For leaving you like that. I only just remembered. The regeneration, you see. I...”
I don’t understand what he is saying. But...It can’t be!
“Doctor?”
I see the guilt in his eyes. His eyes.
They look at me with so much guilt and pain.
I must ease it.
I say gently, “I never regretted meeting him. I mean, you. You gave me my identity.
Before I was just a weak-willed diplomat’s wife. Now I am Marie.
Thank you, Doctor.”