Two statues blocked his way. Two statues of angels, standing solemnly in front of the church, their hands cupped beneath their faces, their eyes as blank as stone.
‘The Angels,’ gasped Amy. ‘They were here all the time!’
‘Attracted by the wibbliness,’ explained Rory, for his own benefit if no one else’s.
‘Mark!’ shouted the Doctor. Mark was frozen to the
spot in terror. Amy glanced away from him - to see four more statues in the graveyard, one crouched by a tomb, lowering its hands, one emerging from behind a grave, the other two rising from either side of a war memorial.
The Angels were too spread out for Amy to see them all at once. Trying her best not to blink, Amy turned to face the Angels by the church. They had moved closer to Mark, paused as they stalked towards him, hands raised above their heads, their fingers extended like claws.
Mark staggered backwards, tripping over his own feet.
Amy dragged her eyes away from him to check on the other four Angels. They had advanced towards Mark as though to cut off any lines of escape, forcing him to retreat down the path towards the road.
‘They’re trying to stop him getting into the church,’ said Amy. ‘Why are they doing that, if they want him to cause a paradox?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rory sarcastically. ‘That was my major concern too.’
The Doctor dashed up to Mark and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Quick!’ he said, dragging Mark away from the Angels. ‘Amy, Rory, keep looking at them, try not to blink!’ he shouted as he guided Mark back to the lychgate.
Mark’s eyes were wide with fear. He’d been scared out of his wits.
And then Amy realised she wasn’t looking at the Angels. And nor was Rory. She spun back to see that four of the Angels had continued down the path towards them, their bodies contorted with anger, their mouths caught in silent screams. But if she could only see four of them, that
meant there were two she couldn’t see…
‘Into the TARDIS!’ ordered the Doctor. ‘Fast as you can.’ Amy didn’t need telling twice. She sprinted through the lychgate, paused to check there was no traffic in the road, then splashed through the puddles to the TARDIS.
Thankfully the Doctor had left the doors unlocked.
Rory, the Doctor and Mark hurried in after her. The Doctor bolted the door shut and darted over to the console. In seconds, the arduous groaning of the TARDIS
take-off filled the air.
‘They were waiting for us,’ said Amy, her voice hoarse with fear. ‘They were expecting us to be there…’
Gareth tapped his spoon on his glass. ‘Groom’s speech!’
Mark took one last sip of his water and stood up in front of everyone he knew.
The function room of the Grand Hotel fell silent. All of Mark’s friends were there: Emma and Lucy, actually wearing dresses; Rajeev, flown over specially; Gareth, who had turned out to have unexpected depths; Siobhan from work, at a table with Mr Pollard and Mr Boyce, the two solicitors trying to outdo each other with the size of their buttonholes; Rebecca’s parents, giving him approving, encouraging looks. And to his left, his mother, smiling for the first time in ages. And finally, to his right, Rebecca. His wife. Looking more elegant and glamorous than he’d ever dreamed possible.
Mark’s hand trembled so much he could barely hold onto his speech. On top of that, his hand had started tingling again, like he was holding a battery. The feeling
had been coming and going all day.
‘Hello,’ said Mark nervously. ‘I’ve just got married. I’m a happily married man.’
There was a ripple of encouraging laughter.
‘This’ll be a short speech, you’ll be glad to hear, because I’m sure we’re all dying to find out why Gareth has set up a slide projector. But, as is traditional, I have to thank a few people.
‘Firstly, I should thank my best man, Gareth, for his unwavering support and for his generous offer of a one-way ticket to New Zealand ten minutes before the wedding. I think he was joking. I hope he was joking. I’d also like to thank him for organising such a magnificent stag do, because unfortunately I didn’t get a chance to thank him at the time due to an unexpected bout of food poisoning.
‘I’d also like to thank the bridesmaids, Emma and Lucy, for making sure that Rebecca turned up, for which I will be eternally both surprised and grateful. And I’d like to thank Rebecca’s parents, Olivia and Rodney, and my mother, Emily, for all their help. This day is a tribute to their kindness and generosity.
‘Before I go any further, there’s one more person I should mention. The person who sadly couldn’t be here, who I wish was here more than anything else in the world, but who I know who is here in spirit, and that’s my father, Patrick. I miss you, Dad.’
Mark paused. He could feel tears forming in his eyes.
Because as he’d said those last words, it was like hearing the news of his father’s death all over again, thinking of all
the things he’d never get to tell him.
Looking across the room, at all the familiar faces lit up in the glow of the chandeliers, something drew Mark’ gaze to the far end of the function room where a set of double doors opened onto a stairway. The doors should’ve been closed for his speech, but instead they were open. There was a man in the doorway, watching him. A man who looked just like his dad.
Mark glanced at his speech, then looked up. The man had gone and the doors at the far end of the function room were closed.
Mark cleared his throat. ‘And finally I’d like to thank Rebecca, for everything, basically. For being my best friend, ever since I’ve known her. For always being there for me. For being a constant source of warmth, of inspiration, of laughter. And for doing me the very great honour of agreeing to be my wife.’ He lifted his glass. ‘To Rebecca.’
The night had turned cold, so they weren’t likely to be disturbed in the hotel garden. The picnic tables were still wet from the rain, as Rory had discovered when he’d tried sitting on one. They were also unlikely to be seen, as the only light came from the windows of the TARDIS, parked unobtrusively in the corner, and the windows of the hotel as they flashed in time to the muffled strains of ‘Dancin’ In The Moonlight’.
Rory couldn’t help searching the darkness for signs of a Weeping Angel. The Doctor had assured him that the moment of crisis had passed, and the Angels would now
be in hiding, conserving their strength. That’s why the Doctor had permitted Mark to watch his younger self delivering his wedding speech.
The Doctor gazed into the night, hands in his pockets, looking like he had all the troubles of the universe of his shoulders. ‘Everything I’ve told you so far has been wrong.’
‘What?’ said Rory.
‘The Angels. They haven’t been following Mark in the hope of him creating a time paradox.’
‘What?’ said Amy. ‘But they’re attracted by the wibbliness, you said, like moths to a flame.’
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘But not because they wanted him to change his past, but because they wanted to ensure that he didn’t.’
‘Eh?’ said Rory. ‘But I thought you said—’
‘Think about it. When we met them at the students’
union, they were trying to keep the two Marks apart. The same when we encountered them again in Rome. The same again today.’
‘But why?’ said Amy. ‘Why do that?’
‘Because they’re working to a plan. Something big.
Something much, much bigger than Mark just bumping into his younger self.’
‘Like what?’ said Mark.
The Doctor didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at Mark with all the sadness of his nine hundred years. ‘You tell me, Mark Whitaker. You tell me.’
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’
‘I let you see your wedding speech,’ said the Doctor.
‘But that has to be the last time. From now on, steer clear of your past.’
‘Don’t worry,�
�� said Mark. ‘After what happened today, if you think I’m going anywhere near my younger self again, you’re very much mistaken.’
‘Good,’ said the Doctor, opening the TARDIS doors.
‘Because if you do try anything, the Angels will be waiting for you.’
Chapter
13
5 June 2001
Mark went to the bookcase, slid aside the Harry Potter first editions and unlocked the small wall-safe behind them. He slid out the battered envelope with MARK
WHITAKER. 7/10/2011 written on the front. Crossing to his desk, he took out the letter from his future self, with its list of occasions where he must intervene in his own past.
A list which he’d now completed.
Mark took a sip of freshly brewed coffee, tore a sheet of paper from a pad, placed it beside the letter from his future self, and began to copy it out, word for word, line by line.
This wasn’t the first copy he’d made of the letter. He’d made a copy back in 1998, the copy he’d shown to the Doctor in Rome, which he’d shredded on his return. The one where he’d deliberately not included the final part of the message:
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.
How many times had he read those words? Even reading them now for the hundredth time, Mark felt an ache in his heart. Rebecca need not die. It was written there in black and white, in his own handwriting.
He’d give anything just to speak to her again. Oh, he’d spoken to her at the wedding, but then he’d been pretending to be someone else. He wanted to talk to her as himself, to tell her how he felt. He longed to be with her, to hear her laugh, to hear what she thought of all the things she’d missed out on; all the films that had come out after her death, all the Christmases, Lucy and Emma’s civil ceremony and their baby daughter. They had always said they’d go back to Rome for their tenth wedding anniversary. Now they could do that and so much more.
Slowly and meticulously, Mark copied out the letter.
With each line, he’d pause to check that he’d reproduced the details exactly. Glancing back at the original letter, he found that the handwriting matched. There was no way of telling the two letters apart; because, of course, they were the same letter.
Mark was about to copy out Because if you do when he paused to glance out of the window. His reflection gazed back, a ghost suspended over a panorama of London. He could see the skyscrapers of the city, shimmering like the towers of a magical kingdom under the wine-red sunset.
He could even make out the London Eye on the horizon, shining electric blue.
By now Mark was, more or less, a multi-millionaire.
This flat had been his only indulgence; a penthouse at the top of an exclusive development. All the furnishings were modern and sleek, and one entire side of the lounge consisted of a window looking out across Parliament Hill.
But spectacular views and luxury flats didn’t take away the pain. Mark returned to his work, and the words YOU
CAN SAVE HER.
Everything else in the letter had come true, so why did he doubt this part? Maybe it was because it was too good to be true. But also because the Doctor had warned him that he must not change history, no matter what. Saving Rebecca would certainly count as changing history. But if he was destined to save her, as the letter claimed, then surely if he didn’t save her, that would count as changing history too.
Mark put down his pen. He would leave the rest of the letter blank until after he had saved Rebecca. Then, and only then, would he fill in the rest. That way he could be sure the message was true. And if it meant he was changing history then so be it.
Mark looked out across London. His younger self would be somewhere out there. Mark wondered what he was doing right now.
Mark’s younger self was working late in his office.
Everyone else had left hours ago, while Mark remained behind to prepare for a case that had unexpectedly been
brought forward.
He rubbed his eyes and thought of home. Rebecca would be home by now. Mark was rarely home before ten o’clock these days. They only saw each other for half an hour before bed, when they were both too exhausted to do anything but watch television, and for half an hour in the morning when they were in too much of a hurry to talk.
But it would all be worth it. He’d been promoted to senior assistant, and in a few years he’d be in line for junior partner. Then they’d be able to afford a place of their own and could start thinking about children. But in the meantime he had to make himself invaluable, which meant volunteering to step in whenever there was a crisis.
Like tonight.
Mark sifted through the case notes. The case was similar to one they’d handled the previous year, Jones versus Maxwell, and it would be quicker to see what precedents they’d used then than to start from scratch.
Mark finished his instant coffee and headed into Mr Pollard’s office, the neon light flickering as he switched it on.
Mark opened the filing cabinet, slid out the Jones folder and returned with it to his desk. Then he opened it, expecting to find a sheaf of notes. Instead there was a second, slimmer folder upon which was written: IMPORTANT: NOT FOR THE ATTENTION OF MARK
WHITAKER.
Mark checked the name on the folder. It read Harold Jones. Someone had accidentally misfiled the wrong folder. But who was Harold Jones? And why would his
folder contain something that he was forbidden to see?
He’d never even heard the guy’s name before. Which was odd, because Mark thought he knew the names of all of their regular clients, and going by the thickness of this folder, Harold Jones was a regular client.
Mark considered putting the folder back in the cabinet.
That would be the right thing to do. If he was forbidden from reading this file, there had to be a very good reason for it. But for the life of him, Mark couldn’t think what it might be.
There was only one way to find out. If there was something Pollard or Boyce didn’t want him to see, Mark wanted to know what it was. He opened the folder. The first thing he saw was a copy of the CV he’d sent in when applying for the position of junior assistant. Then there was a page of notes in Pollard’s handwriting under the heading PROJECT MAGWITCH.
Mark read the notes, at first intrigued, then with a growing sense of indignation. It turned out that this Harold Jones person was one of the firm’s most lucrative clients, who had personally intervened to make sure Mark had been given the job of junior assistant back in 1999. In return, Jones would continue to use Pollard & Boyce to handle his business. It seemed that Jones’s interests ranged from property development to TV production companies.
Always as a sleeping partner, investing money through third parties in order to retain his anonymity, reaping the rewards by selling the shares at a profit or by receiving dividends and royalties.
Mark leafed through all the pages but could find no
explanation as to why Harold Jones had intervened to get him the junior assistant job. Except for one note that Pollard had scrawled in the margin of one page: Estranged relative?
Whoever this Harold Jones was, Mark had to speak to him. There was an address included in the folder, a block of flats in Highgate. Mark returned the folder to the filing cabinet, grabbed his jacket and ran downstairs, not bothering to say goodbye to Ron on reception. After climbing into his car, he rang Rebecca on his mobile.
‘Hiya husband,’ she answered, her voice distant but cheerful.
‘Hi. Look, just to say—’
‘There was a crisis at work and you’re going to be late?’
‘Something like that, yeah. Sorry.’
‘No, don’t apologise. I’ll just order in a curry and watch Big Brother on my own.’
‘Can you leave me some? I had to work throug
h lunch.’
‘Was there anything else? Only I’m in the bath and I’m making the phone all foamy.’
‘No, that’s all. I don’t know how long this will take, so don’t wait up or anything.’
‘I’ll do my best. Bye then. Love you.’
‘Love you. Bye.’
Mark tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, twisted the ignition and drove across London to Highgate, his mind racing with unanswered questions. After an hour’s drive, he pulled up outside the apartment block. He was surprised by how impressive the building was; a smooth edifice of steel and glass, lit by ground-level spotlights. It
looked more like a modern art gallery than somewhere where people might actually live.
Mark checked the address one last time. Flat 4-A. He headed over to the entrance and buzzed the intercom.
After about ten seconds, a voice answered ‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Harold Jones?’
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
‘I’m from Pollard & Boyce. Urgent business.’
‘Come up.’ The security door buzzed. Mark swung it opened and stepped into the brightly lit reception area.
The lift took him to the fifth floor, where a short corridor led to the panelled door for apartment 4-A. As he approached it, the door swung open.
‘Hello?’
The man standing in the doorway looked oddly familiar. For a moment, Mark thought he was looking at his own father; the man had the same watery eyes, the same thinning hairline. But this man wasn’t his father, he was only in his mid-forties at most. It was the weirdest thing. It was like he was looking into a mirror and seeing his future self staring back.
‘More wibbliness?’ prompted Rory.
The Doctor nodded. ‘A build-up of potential time energy, the biggest one yet.’ He strained his eyes at the surrounding parkland. In the distance, the lights of London twinkled in the twilight. ‘Mark must be interfering with his own past… irresponsible idiot!’
Amy emerged from the TARDIS, pulling on her jacket and handing Rory his. ‘Any luck?’
Rory shook his head. They’d only left Mark outside the hotel about ten minutes earlier. Then the TARDIS had started wheezing like a steam engine giving birth, and the Doctor had gone into madman-in-charge-of-a-mixing-desk mode, all wild eyes and twitching fingers.
Dr. Who - BBC New Series 47 Page 12
