THE LONG WAY HOME, PART 4

One major difference in the temporary Junior Gazette quarters that everyone soon noticed was the absence of any swinging doors. When you came into the newsroom, the door squeaked. If you were mad and slammed the door, the whole room heard it and paused. Julie Craig went one better. When she slammed the door, the glass pane fell out and shattered. Frazz looked at Tiddler and held up two pictures side by side: one of Julie, and the other of Lynda.

"They do sort of look a little alike," Tiddler said. "Never noticed it before now."

"The resemblance grows a little each day," Frazz replied, heading off to the meeting room where Julie had stalked off in a huff. Tiddler followed him. Spike came ambling through the doors, carefully stepping over the glass as he entered the newsroom.

Julie had found a chair and plopped down unceremoniously in it. "Crichton isn’t letting us do the story any further than what we’ve already printed. No coverage of who died, how they died, or any comment on it."

"He can’t do that," Tiddler mused. "If we don’t say anything, then it is obvious that the government is hiding something. They have to know that it looks bad for them."

"What word do we have on Kate and Kevin?" Julie asked.

"Lynda called me this morning," Spike said, "and she’s gotten custody of them. They’ll return with her from the States in a couple days, after the funeral takes place."

"Some good news at least. Now, how do we go about getting around the Official Secrets Act?"

"No way, Julie," Frazz said in horror. "The government isn’t going to give us a moment’s peace if we do that. You may as well close the paper now if that’s your plan."

"I’m not in the least bit interested in making the Prime Minister sleep better at night. We have an obligation to say something if the citizens of this country are in danger."

"Enough melodrama already," Frazz said. "Assuming that the intended victim and the killer are aliens, that makes it a domestic dispute, not War of the Worlds."

"We don’t know how many aliens are here, or what the ones that are here are trying to do. Ditch the rose-colored glasses, Frazz. You’ll see better."

"Lynda would not be cooperating with Col. Marriner if she thought he was dangerous," Spike said. "I trust her judgment."

"Lynda Day has no soul and she’d sign up with Count Dracula if she thought it would further her career. Watch your neck, Spike."

"That’s enough, Julie," Tiddler said, seeing Spike getting very angry.

"We’re not doing this story, and that’s final." Frazz stood up and began moving away from the table."

"Sit down," Julie ordered.

Frazz gave a stare of boredom. "That’s not your call to make. With Marriner out of the country and Sarah in hospital, I’m temporary managing director. I just killed the story. Deal with it."

"The only purpose that position has is so Sarah can sit and adore Col. Marriner. It has no practical function. I could get Kenny back here filling in the black squares on the crossword again and it would achieve the same purpose."

"I think the charter drawn up at the time of sale indicates otherwise," Frazz said. "Let me put it to you this way. If I see anything in print on this story, I’ll have Brigadier Crichton in here before the ink dries."

"Idle threat," Julie said. Frazz walked out and slammed the door.

Spike had been fuming quietly for some time, and finally exploded. "You are only the acting editor of this paper!"

"My name’s on the desk plate and I’m acting very well, thank you."

"How you screwed it there is not my concern," Spike said, slamming the door on his way out. He and Frazz both looked at the door from the outside. "How is it the glass is still there?"

An ashtray flew threw the glass, shattering it. The ashtray wound up skittering across Jeff’s desk, strewing papers everywhere and knocking over Jeff’s cup of coffee in the process.

"How is it you never made editor?" Jeff asked Frazz. "You’ve got the best throwing arm here."

The skies over Cedar Rapids were clouding up rapidly and looked rather ominous as the jeep pulled into the cemetery. Marriner looked out the window and shook his head.

"Bad omen," he said. "Looks like a snowstorm for the funeral tomorrow."

"It does feel much colder," Lynda agreed. "I wish I’d have brought a warmer coat."

"This should be a quick trip," he said. "When it is summer here, and the lilacs and roses are in bloom around the grave, it is a very beautiful place."

"You enjoy lilacs, don’t you? I notice them in Sarah’s room." Lynda said, watching his expression.

"They remind me of home. When I was very small, my parents had a large corner of the yard with lilac bushes. I used to play there for hours." Lynda thought she saw a bit of uncertainty in his eyes.

He stopped the car and motioned to a large white marble monument on a grassy knoll a short distance away. "That will be it," he said. "You don’t have to come."

"May I?" she asked.

"I guess so," he replied. The two of them walked up the hill to the grave. The marker was very simple:

Jennifer Karen McKellar Marriner

(1969-1989)

What Thou art may never be destroyed.

"Emily Bronte," said Lynda, recognizing the quotation from her studies.

"She loved poetry," Paul said, dropping to his knees and laying the roses beside the grave.

"Do you want to be alone now?" she asked. Paul nodded, not saying anything. Lynda walked some distance away and found a bench along the path she sat down on. She could still hear Marriner’s voice, as he spoke, for the winds seemed to carry the voice upon its shoulders. The voice was halting and paused often.

"I never know what to say," he said sadly. "It’s not like you can hear me. Maybe you can--Heaven seems a very long way off at the moment, though. I died again. I’ve got a new face, and a new young lady whom I have to look out for. I think Sarah and I will be together soon, but I wonder. I nearly got her killed once and only just saved her. I couldn’t save you. Will I be able to save her the next time?" Real Time Lords are better off in a way, you know? They go on for centuries and never care about anything. When you care, you hurt. I’m hurting, Jen. I miss you."

As she watched, Lynda noticed Paul never cried once. He seemed on the verge more than once, but always seemed to slam down some internal shutter that allowed him to keep his composure. Eventually, Lynda walked over to him and knelt beside him on the ground.

"I went through this with Spike once, and the only way you ever get through this is to let go of the pain. Stop being Colonel Marriner and just be yourself. There’s no one here but me to see you."

"Tempting," he said sadly. "Angelus said that grief was a sign of weakness. I always had to be strong in a crisis to keep order, and there was never time to cry over anything. Now it’s too late."

"It is never too late, Paul." She embraced him warmly. "Let go, Paul. It’s the only way."

Paul closed his eyes and nestled into the warmth of Lynda’s body. She made a mental note to apologize later. She shouldn’t really be doing this quite the same way as she did with Spike. Paul belonged to someone else, after all, and so did she. Lynda waited for the tears to come.

Then Paul remembered what it was he was trying to forget, and let loose a scream just before his breathing ceased.

In Sarah’s hospital room, the lights flickered and went out.

As the afternoon passed, the hotel grew very busy. In the bar, a free-wheeling poker game had begun among some of the diplomats and soldiers in town for the funeral, while the pool table was the site of an arranged match between Sophie and Laura on one team, and Kevin and a young Japanese college student on the other. Kate arrived in the lobby just as Castellan Spandrell happened to wander down from his room to complain about his room yet again to the equally long-suffering Francis. It was at this point that a car squealed its brakes in front of the hotel and Lynda Day came running inside screaming. Spandrell rushed outside and shouted for Francis to come with him. The shouts stirred Sophie and Laura out of the bar, and seeing Lynda and not Paul, guessed something was badly wrong. They weren’t prepared for the sight of two old men dragging Paul inside and setting him down on the floor in the lobby. Francis ordered everyone back, for by now the entire hotel was beginning to gravitate toward the lobby. Lynda was weeping hysterically, and Kate could do little but hold her and let her cry.

Spandrell looked over the body "He’s still alive," the Castellan said. "He’s just shut himself down for a bit. What happened to him?"

Lynda was barely coherent, but managed to get out the words "He remembered." That was enough to get Spandrell frowning.

"Bring him back from where?" Sophie asked.

"He has retreated into his own mind. Something he remembered has traumatized him to the point where he is no longer able to cope with reality," Spandrell said.

"He’s lost his mind?" Laura asked.

"He has lost himself," Spandrell said simply, "and we must find him."

Spandrell ordered Paul be taken to his room, and several of the soldiers carried him up the stairs and laid him to rest. Everyone was ordered out except for Sophie and Laura, and Lynda and Kate.

Spandrell sat down beside the bed. For what must have been half an hour, Spandrell was silent, and the only noises in the room were the sobs of Lynda Day. Eventually, Spandrell spoke. "It is bad," he said. "I have been trying to get through to him, but he won’t answer."

"He’ll answer for Sarah," Laura said.

"If only she were here," Spandrell replied. "We may not have time to get her from England."

"She’s recuperating in the TARDIS," Sophie said. "Of course you have time."

"Then we must act now," Spandrell said, and left the room without another word.

In the hospital room, the lights were flickering, and Sarah noticed Arthur wandering about with a tool belt checking fixtures and looking puzzled.

"I assume we still don’t know what is causing the problem," she asked.

"There are still several possible solutions that need exploring," Arthur said.

Sarah looked at him crossly. "I’m a lot smarter than I used to be and I know a liar when I hear one."

"What I said was true."

"What you thought was true. I can’t stand lying machines."

"You do not know?" it asked.

"You are hiding it. Paul’s in trouble, isn’t he?"

Arthur nodded. "The lights are still on, so there is still hope. When a Time Lord dies, his TARDIS passes into an inactive state until another Time Lord can revive it."

"What about me?"

"The process is not yet complete. You do not have the ability to operate the craft."

"So what do we do?"

From somewhere in the bowels of the TARDIS, the noise of a dematerialization was now winding its way down the interior corridors. Arthur showed the faintest hint of a smile. "Someone is operating the TARDIS on remote control. I think we have reason to hope."

Spandrell waited impatiently in the hotel room. Finally, the summoned TARDIS arrived, and Spandrell retrieved a set of keys from his own luggage and picked the lock on the newly arrived clothes closet. He went inside and a short time later emerged pushing Sarah in a wheelchair into the hotel room. Everyone crowded around Sarah and Spandrell had to politely push them all back.

"Are you clear on what you have to do, Miss Jackson?"

"I have to save his life," she said with a bravery she did not at all feel.

Spandrell pushed the wheelchair up to the bed, and arranged Paul’s body so that the head was resting gently in her lap.

Sarah wiped a tear away herself and then left her friends behind.

This page created by Murray Head on the eleventh of June, 1998.