Chapter Six
PREV. PAGE PAGE THREE OF FIVE
Doctor Alan repeats this process four more times - five numbers in all. Five times watching the dial spin and tick like a gaming device of some kind, a gamble of lives: Marie's life, the Robert's lives, his own... The dial completes it's final spin. Now he waits as the receiver sends a dull pulsing tone quite unlike anything he's ever heard from any other phone, because of course only this phone can make the connection represented by these five secret numbers. After a few seconds there is a loud click that makes the Doctor jump a little, and then a voice, thin and metallic and vaguely feminine, speaks into his ear, prompting him, from the other end of the line.
The Doctor has to clear his throat before replying. "Um, Saturn twelve oh eight six."
Silence from the other end. James sits back in his chair and tries to keep his breathing steady. Just try to focus-
Another, lower voice comes on the line. The voice speaks softly but with a calm, forceful manner, like a tide coming in. Alan tips his chair forward, setting his elbows on the desk as he listens.
"Well," the Doctor says, trying not to stammer, "um, I guess a level three probability. I’m not really certain if uh, probability even applies just yet. It’s really just-
The voice responds. Alan twirls the cord of his phone around a finger.
"Yes... Yes. Okay. I’ll file a report to you by the end of the day."
A dial tone abruptly sounds at the other end. Alan looks at the receiver. The cord unwinds slowly from his finger. He replaces the receiver in the phone’s cradle. He looks around the office, feeling very small behind his desk.
Gradually the light dies as the day slips to an end, but the Doctor doesn't even notice this, until he can barely see the phone in front of him.
1956
“Do you know why I married you?”
Desmond is still chiseling away as he asks her the question, so it takes Wendy a moment to respond, looking up from the geraniums she is tending to. The back yard is cool and still in the early Autumn morning. Desmond sits at the edge of the deck, crouched before a large stone disk that is held in a wooden brace. He makes one more mark in the stone, then lowers his hammer and chisel and looks over at her.
She watches him a bit warily. Things have gotten somewhat better in recent months, but then the fact that she'd gotten used to measuring his mood in months was reason enough for apprehension. ruth is, she's been wondering this same question herself, for quite some time now. Why did he marry her?
She decides not to answer him. If he wants to play this game, let him provide the answer. And now he is smiling at her, as though approving her silent response.
Still smiling, he looks down at the stone disc, runs a smoothing hand over it's surface. “Well, I think that the main reason I married you is because you make so few demands upon me.” He looks up at her now. “And I know that it's rare to find someone who understands what I'm trying to do – that I need time to myself, and the space to do what I need to do...”
Wendy watches Desmond, as he pauses with his hand still on the stone disc. What was he saying here? Was he trying to apologize?
“But just because I need to do things, does that mean that I'm meant to have no one to share my life with? I've always known that for many people, having a calling has amounted to a life of solitude, a life spent alone...” Now he looks up at her, the smile gone, replaced by an expression that almost shocks her. His eyes are large and quivering with pure frank openness, a look of total vulnerability and exposure. “And I just want to you to know that I realize that with you, I am luckier than I could ever had expected. And that I appreciate our patience with me, for putting up with me... I know that you're more than I deserve.”
It's so heartfelt, so sincere, that she wants to respond in some sort of affirmative. But all she can think is: So, no apology, then. Gratitude, instead. And something in that makes her feel a piercing rage that runs up the back of her spine to form a sudden clamp like a pair of jaws around her skull and she has to look down herself, to avoid screaming at him. She looks down at her geraniums and begins to dig with her hand trowel in the soil. She has to do things, as well. The garden needs tending to, and that is something she does. And she isn't going to be... grateful to him for that, either. No sir, Mister Lonely Man.
Then a shadow falls across the lawn beside her. She looks up and sees him standing next to her, his hand outstretched. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
And, as always, she does as he asks. She drops her trowel in the soil, she takes his hand and rises to her feet, dusts herself off as he leads her across the lawn and through the back door and into the house. Towards the bedroom? Everything's just fine now, time to make up?
The Doctor has to clear his throat before replying. "Um, Saturn twelve oh eight six."
Silence from the other end. James sits back in his chair and tries to keep his breathing steady. Just try to focus-
Another, lower voice comes on the line. The voice speaks softly but with a calm, forceful manner, like a tide coming in. Alan tips his chair forward, setting his elbows on the desk as he listens.
"Well," the Doctor says, trying not to stammer, "um, I guess a level three probability. I’m not really certain if uh, probability even applies just yet. It’s really just-
The voice responds. Alan twirls the cord of his phone around a finger.
"Yes... Yes. Okay. I’ll file a report to you by the end of the day."
A dial tone abruptly sounds at the other end. Alan looks at the receiver. The cord unwinds slowly from his finger. He replaces the receiver in the phone’s cradle. He looks around the office, feeling very small behind his desk.
Gradually the light dies as the day slips to an end, but the Doctor doesn't even notice this, until he can barely see the phone in front of him.
1956
“Do you know why I married you?”
Desmond is still chiseling away as he asks her the question, so it takes Wendy a moment to respond, looking up from the geraniums she is tending to. The back yard is cool and still in the early Autumn morning. Desmond sits at the edge of the deck, crouched before a large stone disk that is held in a wooden brace. He makes one more mark in the stone, then lowers his hammer and chisel and looks over at her.
She watches him a bit warily. Things have gotten somewhat better in recent months, but then the fact that she'd gotten used to measuring his mood in months was reason enough for apprehension. ruth is, she's been wondering this same question herself, for quite some time now. Why did he marry her?
She decides not to answer him. If he wants to play this game, let him provide the answer. And now he is smiling at her, as though approving her silent response.
Still smiling, he looks down at the stone disc, runs a smoothing hand over it's surface. “Well, I think that the main reason I married you is because you make so few demands upon me.” He looks up at her now. “And I know that it's rare to find someone who understands what I'm trying to do – that I need time to myself, and the space to do what I need to do...”
Wendy watches Desmond, as he pauses with his hand still on the stone disc. What was he saying here? Was he trying to apologize?
“But just because I need to do things, does that mean that I'm meant to have no one to share my life with? I've always known that for many people, having a calling has amounted to a life of solitude, a life spent alone...” Now he looks up at her, the smile gone, replaced by an expression that almost shocks her. His eyes are large and quivering with pure frank openness, a look of total vulnerability and exposure. “And I just want to you to know that I realize that with you, I am luckier than I could ever had expected. And that I appreciate our patience with me, for putting up with me... I know that you're more than I deserve.”
It's so heartfelt, so sincere, that she wants to respond in some sort of affirmative. But all she can think is: So, no apology, then. Gratitude, instead. And something in that makes her feel a piercing rage that runs up the back of her spine to form a sudden clamp like a pair of jaws around her skull and she has to look down herself, to avoid screaming at him. She looks down at her geraniums and begins to dig with her hand trowel in the soil. She has to do things, as well. The garden needs tending to, and that is something she does. And she isn't going to be... grateful to him for that, either. No sir, Mister Lonely Man.
Then a shadow falls across the lawn beside her. She looks up and sees him standing next to her, his hand outstretched. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
And, as always, she does as he asks. She drops her trowel in the soil, she takes his hand and rises to her feet, dusts herself off as he leads her across the lawn and through the back door and into the house. Towards the bedroom? Everything's just fine now, time to make up?
DESMOND CHAPTER SIX