Sarah Cawkwell's Blog, page 7

Extract: ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’

‘And now, if you will excuse me,’ Giraldo de Luna said, dropping a bow before the stunned crowd like a street magician at the end of his trick, ‘I do believe my ship is leaving.’

The effect of his calm statement was somewhat spoiled by the sounds of renewed fighting outside as the guard finally arrived to break up the disturbance. Pandemonium resumed, and the Pirate King seized the opportunity to make his exit. He slipped through the mob and back out into the sunshine, where he took a moment to brush a fleck of dust from his shoulder. He walked confidently, unchallenged. Then he saw the gang of armed guards pushing toward him and, tipping his hat to them, set off at a run.

He barrelled across the market and out onto the quay, heading for the pier where the Hermione had been anchored. He could see her, sails billowing, as she pulled toward the open water. He gauged the distance. It was a long time since he had attempted anything quite this ambitious. Maybe, he thought, I’m too old for this. Maybe this will be the time that my magic fails me.

There was only one way to know.

Behind him, several of the guard were in hot pursuit. It seemed that the governor’s understanding did not stretch to civil disorder and brawling. Giraldo made a mental note not to return to Mahón for at least a year. A few bribes, a word in the right ear and everything would be all right again in time. An arrow whistled past his ear and buried itself in one of the pier posts.

Maybe two years.

Three, at the outside.

With an athletic leap, Giraldo de Luna dived from the end of the landing stage just as the first of the guards reached for him. They skidded to a stop, not quite keen enough to follow him into the water, but brought up more bows to pick him off when he surfaced.

There was no splash. There was no sound of de Luna’s body hitting the water. Instead, a few seconds later, the guards saw the lean figure of the Pirate King as he sprinted across the surface of the sea towards his departing ship.

Ripples spread out beneath his boots and marked his passage across the waves. The guards fired from the pier, but de Luna laughed and spun as he ran and their arrows plunged harmlessly into the water. Giraldo ran as hard and as fast as he could until he was jogging alongside the Hermione.

‘Permission to come aboard, Tohias?’ Giraldo hollered up to his grinning first mate, who was already leaning over the side, the rope ladder in his hands.

‘One of these days, Captain, I’m not going to let you back on board,’ he called down before dropping the ladder. Giraldo swung himself easily onto the lower rungs and clambered up with the ease of years of practice.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But not just yet.’ He raised his head to the sea air and inhaled the fresh, clean scent of freedom. There was another scent there, too; the second pressing matter of the day moved to the top of his mental list.

‘Set course for Genoa,’ he said, quietly. ‘We need to be ready to receive our guest.’

Keeping Abreast

So, there’s been this thing in the news (national and local) about a woman branded as ‘a tramp’ for breastfeeding in public. Her picture was taken and sent around social media, making her into a modern-day, one-woman Victorian-style freak show.

A local woman led a demo in support of this lady yesterday in County Durham (see this news article here: )

Read that? Great. Now, for your own amusement, read the comments as well. (I have come to the conclusion that the handful of people who comment on the Northern Echo news page – and there seem to be five or six regulars and not many others – are some of the nastiest, most unpleasant internet trolls I’ve ever seen: but that’s by the by. Let’s get back to the subject of breastfeeding).

So. Let’s say it again. Let’s break it down and analyse it.

Breastfeeding.

Breast. Feeding. Feeding from a breast. Giving your infant the nutritional support he/she requires and which you can hopefully provide. It’s not a choice for all mothers, and despite the endless banging on about it by those who decree what is right and wrong in parenting, it’s most certainly the most traditional method of feeding your hungry baby. A personal word of advice though – find what works for you and don’t ever let anybody tell you that your choice is wrong.

So. It seems that, due to the blatant over-sexualisation of the female breast in our ‘enlightened’ world, the sight of a woman engaging in probably one of the most natural, healthy things in the world is enough to cause Outrage™.

It’s an interesting debate, isn’t it?

Most of us who have been, at some point in our lives, breastfeeding mothers, can tell you that it’s the most difficult thing in the world to be ‘caught short’ with a hungry baby when you’re out with them. It’s an even more difficult thing to find somewhere discrete to go to tend to that child’s needs. Especially as a new mother, struggling with a gazillion new things in your world.

In the days before they seemed to close every shop they had, Mothercare made great provision for nursing mothers. Many local public conveniences have ‘parent/baby rooms’ where you can go to feed/change your child in a slightly less uncomfortable space that being squashed into a toilet cubicle offers. But sometimes – just sometimes – you have no choice but to get on with the process where you happen to be.

And it’s entirely possible to be discrete. If you are, say, in a restaurant, you simply turn away from the rest of the room, or you drape a shawl or whatever over your shoulder to hide your unfortunately-exposed flesh from the world. The baby doesn’t care. It just wants food. The mother, more often than not, will be far more embarrassed than the people offended by the sight.

Mind you, most people who see a mother feeding have the common decency to not gawk. To give the poor woman the privacy she needs to deal with what is already an uncomfortable situation.

As with so many other things in the world, this sort of debate will always bring up the militants on both sides of the fence: the fiercely ‘pro-public breast’ and the vehement ‘anti-public breast’ brigades. Both of these groups need a lesson in how to communicate with each other. The ‘pro’ group need to listen to and respect the concerns of the ‘anti’ group. Meanwhile, the ‘anti’ group need to learn just what problems the ‘pro’ group are facing…

Wait. I’m talking about being sensible and logical, aren’t I? My mistake.

As you can probably tell, I support breastfeeding in public for the majority of considerate mothers. The people I do NOT support are the ones, as mentioned in the comments on that news thread, who make no effort whatsoever to be discrete and who do the breastfeeding equivalent of jumping up and down waving a sign that says LOOK AT ME DEFYING SOCIAL CONVENTION, AREN’T I DARING?

No, love, you’re just making it harder for the rest of us. Now cover up. You’re putting Mr. Average Citizen in the corner off his Ploughman’s.

Bad Mirror Day

They say that nobody ever sees you the way you see yourself. The face you see in the mirror, they tell you, isn’t the face other people see. It’s your own perception. If that’s the case, is there any point to mirrors other than to put your eyeliner on straight?

Some people have ‘bad hair’ days. I have ‘bad mirror’ days. Those mornings when you wake up, drag your sorry carcass out of bed and sleepily haul on the outfit for the day. You check a look in the mirror and all the old neuroses and feelings do the equivalent of leaping out from behind a bush.

You look terrible, they whisper, as some sort of inner-voice collective. You look terrible. Why are you wearing that? You look stupid.

For a moment, you mentally steel yourself, try to bluff it out.

Because it looks fine, you argue. See?

I’m looking, says your inner voice. And I see nothing fine about that reflection. Look at you. Your hair is all over the place. Your make up looks like it was applied by a six year old. Your boobs look too big in that top. The skirt’s too short. Your LEGS are too short. People are going to LOOK at you and think WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?

By the time you have finished this uncomfortable inner dialogue, it’s too late to change into something else: you have to leave or be late for work. So you go to work, feeling self-conscious from the start. Every time you catch someone looking at you, you think ‘they’re echoing my inner voice’s sentiments’. Every time you pass a mirror, you try to resist looking. Every time you fail. Every time you chance a look hoping that you’ve somehow become some sultry, willowy blonde and every time you are disappointed.

Does this happen to you? If not, you really should count your blessings. To have confidence in your self-image must be a lovely thing. It’s not something I’ve ever had. Some mornings, I will look in the mirror and think ‘oh, I actually look quite nice!’ Then, by ten a.m., those feelings of confidence are replaced by thoughts that everyone is sneering at me.

Why am I like this? I don’t rightly know. I had a lot of trouble in school with people who were unkind to me for various reasons. Nowadays, they’d call it bullying. It wasn’t physical, not by any means, but superiority of the Skinnies and Populars (S&Ps) left me feeling like an inferior being about ninety five percent of the time. The only place I was safe was amongst the other Bullieds and Differents (B&Ds) in the drama studio at lunchtime. The S&Ps were too cool to be seen hanging out in such a place, so the B&Ds were safe there.

Amongst the B&Ds, I was OK. I was accepted. I was one of them.

I was safe.

So Bad Mirror Days. Usually, they only last for the day. Sometimes, it can be two or three days in a row and the rest of the time I’m just fine. But when they hit, they hurt, man.

There are three things I am exceptionally bad at. One of them is going clothes shopping. I walk into a shop and almost invariably, the staff would have belonged to the S&P set at school. I’m immediately 15 years old again, wearing a too-big jumper to cover up curves that were too curvy, or coming up with excuses not to go to parties because I had no ‘going out’ clothes. Then, the member of staff gives me The Look.

There’s a Look that S&Ps have and they direct it towards B&Ds whether they are aware they are doing it or not. It starts with a pleasant ‘good morning, how can I help you’ smile as they look at your face. Then the eyes travel slowly down the length of your body to your feet, then back up again. The smile is frozen in place, but the eyes. The eyes are sneering. (Sounds impossible, but believe me – eyes CAN sneer). There is nothing here for you, they are saying, Pretty Woman style. Had you thought of a Hessian sack? It may be the best option. And a paper bag for your head might be flattering, too.

Of course, it’s all so much rubbish. Chances are high that the shop S&P isn’t thinking that at all – but there is so much conditioning left over from the school bullies that you immediately mumble ‘justlookingthanks’, paw through a couple of things on a rail, then flee for the sanctuary of Starbucks, where you know you’re safe.

One of the other things that I am bad at is socialising. It’s for much the same reason. Even as a grown up, who is capable of buying my own clothes (wait… see point one…) I still don’t own ‘going out’ clothes. This is because I don’t… well, I don’t go out. Yes, Himself and I occasionally go to the cinema, or for a pizza or whatever, but we never… go out. We don’t go anywhere that requires Dressing Up. I wouldn’t know where to START Dressing Up. I would probably spend the whole time so anxious about other people’s opinions of me that I wouldn’t have fun. Best then, to stay at home where I am amongst the people who love me and aren’t giving me the S&P Stare.

The final thing is accepting compliments.

I can’t accept them. It’s all tied into the same problem, I suppose. If someone says ‘you look nice today’, I instantly assume this is S&P Speak for ‘oh my god, look what the cat dragged in’.

One of my closest friends has been undergoing therapy recently for various reasons and it’s doing her the world of good. (For the record, I went to a psychotherapist once. On our last session, he told me that I was the most well-adjusted crazy person he’d ever met). She mentioned that her therapist told her that she was bad at accepting compliments and in a weird way, that helped me by proxy. I suddenly discovered that I wasn’t the only one who’s like this.

There’s a deep sense of suspicion in me that if someone says ‘you look nice’ or ‘that’s a nice lip colour’ that they are covering up some deep sense of horror at the truth.

By dint of writing this blog, I do solemnly swear to start trying to change this. To accept compliments when they’re given. To let them slowly and gradually act as a soothing balm on the wounds left by thoughtless teenagers so very long ago. There’s a very shy inner part of me that fancies the idea of a photo makeover session. This is what I want.

I want to see a photograph of a woman I don’t recognise, only to then realise that it’s me. I want to be able to see myself as others see me. And then I want to cry about it. Because I’m weird like that.

But let’s end this little outpouring with the most positive thing in the world. I am loved by some pretty amazing people and two cats. That much I know. And that is probably the thing that stops every day being a Bad Mirror Day. For that? I’m bloody grateful.

Dust

So there I was, standing in the queue in the staff restaurant, thinking about my blog. The effortlessly lovely Nik Vincent-Abnett said to me on Twitter earlier today that she wishes I’d get round to posting something up on my blog. And she’s been so very good to me over the last couple of years, that I feel a blog entry is the very least I can do.

Nik is just one of the many friends I’ve made since the whole writing roller coaster began in 2011. One of the first people to come up to me and introduce herself and invite me into the circle of people sitting and laughing in a hotel bar somewhere in Birmingham, right before the first Games Day I ever went to. An ear when I need to offload, a voice of reason when I’m acting like a muppet, Nik has become very much a very much more stylish and classy sister figure.

So, because I love to bring forth the smiles, I am dusting off the blog and writing an entry.

You’d better duck. I’m blowing off the dust now.

OK, it’s safe to stand again.

This last few weeks have been fairly hectic. Not all with writing, although there’s certainly been enough of that. I finished the manuscript for Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising and have been working on the (thankfully minimal!) edits this week. I’ve enjoyed going back over the story and remembering what actually happens at the beginning.

As well as the writing, the house has been in utter chaos. ‘Wouldn’t it be amazing,’ I said to the Husband, ‘if we went away for the week whilst the roof is being replaced?’

Well, that didn’t work out as planned. But then, so few things in life ever do. Wouldn’t it be chronically boring if they did? Here was the plan:-

1) Scaffolders arrive Saturday 1st February. Put up scaffolding front and back.

2) We go away on Monday 3rd February when roofers come. They will be done by Thursday.

3) We come back on Friday 7th February to a completed, new roof with a deficit of holes letting water in.

4) The scaffolders take their scaffolding away.

5) Much rejoicing.

Here’s what happened.

1) Scaffolders arrive Saturday. Put up scaffolding at the back, but can’t do the front because of proximity to power cables. Email Northern Power Grid to ask them to come do shrouding on house. NPG are closed until Monday.

2) We go away on Monday when roofers come. They do the back of the house. They are done by Wednesday.

3) NPG get back to me and schedule shrouding for Thursday 13th February – the week after we come back from our holiday.

4) Wednesday 12th February – shrouding is done. Scaffolders due the coming weekend.

5) Scaffolders don’t come.

6) Tentatively ask when scaffolders will be coming. ‘Some time in the week.’

7) Front scaffold is finally put up on 19th February. House now half re-roofed and looking like is held together by Meccano.

8) Roofers finally return Tuesday 25th February and should be finished by tonight.

9) Much rejoicing.

You can imagine what it’s like having half a roof re-done with no ridge tiles and tarpaulin flapping like a manic ostrich in high winds, I’m sure.

The stress of writing is a blessed release from the real world.

Heirs will be my fourth completed novel manuscript, which by itself is something to be proud of – but there’s something more to it than that. Heirs is, in a strange sort of a way, my first novel.

But what about The Gildar Rift and Valkia the Bloody? I can hear you asking that very question and you’re right. Those two books have certainly been written, published and existed Out There in the Big Wide World since 2011 and 2012 respectively. Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising is, however, my first original, non tie-in work and that means a remarkable amount to me.

Writing a novel was on my so-called ‘bucket’ list for years. Now I’ve written four. I feel immensely proud of that fact. I don’t care one little bit that three of those four novels are written for a particular subsection of genre fiction – fans of the Warhammer and 40,000 universes – in fact, I’m delighted to be able to contribute to the ongoing development of those universes.

I am not saying a lot about Heirs at the moment, because I’m not entirely sure how much I can talk about it and I love my editor to bits. I have no desire to invoke his antipodean wrath. When he tells me I can Say Stuff, I will say more.

In the meantime, the general blurb from the publishing catalogue in order to give you a feel for what it’s all about can be seen on page 34 here.

Also, look at all the lovely things! LOOK AT THEM!

Out With the Old, In With the New

So, end of year and all that.

A lot of people on various social media are bemoaning that 2013 was the – and this is a direct quote from several people – ‘the worst year ever’. I can’t personally agree with that statement because although 2013 wasn’t the most amazing year for me, it certainly beat 2012 in places. Like Christmas, for example. Last year, the festive spirit was tainted by the dual effect of Himself breaking his leg at the end of October and me coming down with the ‘flu three days before Christmas. This year, the only thing that would have improved Christmas would have resulted from it being my year for having the Son. It was a nice break though: been off since Christmas Eve and am back at work on Thursday. Feel better for it and even more importantly, have finished the first draft of Project: Carpark. (I think I may forever call it that, despite the title now being announced).

2013 saw a couple of smaller projects see the light of day, including a fantasy novella for Fox Spirit (‘Blood Bound’, with its awesome cover by the delectable Jeff Preston – still on Amazon here). A couple of short stories for Black Library appeared variously in The Best of Hammer & Bolter v2, a 1,000 word flash-fic for the ‘Angels of Death‘ anthology edited by the wonderful Mr. Graeme Lyon and ‘Bitter End’, my Huron Blackheart short story also saw the light of day again in There is Only War. 2014 has more lined up, but the writing’s been less busy this year. Which quite frankly has come as something of a relief. When I look back at it with objective eyes, I wrote three 110,000 word novels pretty much back-to-back throughout 2011 and 2012. Combining that with the full-time job, I was pretty much burned out by the end of last year. This year has been a bit of a recuperation.

What’s coming in 2014? Well, ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’ for Abaddon Books should surface in June, I believe it is. There is also a Silver Skulls novel planned for Black Library at some point this year – details as and when! Fox Spirit have the second Gilrain story on ice ready to come out with the ‘Mouse and Minotaur’ anthology and Adele has asked me for More Of The Same Please. Oh – there’s also another short story that Fox Spirit have which should probably show up next year sometime. I have a meeting with one of my editors planned for January, to which I’ve been asked to ‘bring ideas’. This may be something he regrets…

On a personal life level, 2013 saw me finally join the gym. I did this in part for myself and my own fitness (which has increased exponentially) but also because the Son quite liked the idea as well. It’s proven to be a lovely bonding thing: he’s a great little go-getter and he encourages me to go even when I really don’t feel like it. I only purchased a three month membership at the time because that was all I felt I could commit to. Now I need to renew it and this is a good sign. Whenever I’ve joined a gym before, I’ve given up after six weeks because of the impersonal nature of it all. The guys at Active Life Coxhoe are friendly, fun and full of energy. It was a real find, that place.

I completed the first year in my new job and a lot of the stress of work has been removed as a result. The new job has a different kind of stress, but it’s nowhere near as soul destroying as my previous role.

The Son has begun his GCSE years and is already achieving planned targets, including in French which was always going to be his least successful subject – he’s ahead with a ‘B’ at his recent assessment instead of the expected ‘C’. Everything else is planned ‘A’ or ‘A*’. To say I’m proud is an understatement. He works hard (although hates revising) and plays hard and remains, at the age of Almost 15, a nice, pleasant young man. He’s going in the right direction and I am happy to share the credit for that with Himself, the Boy’s Dad and the Boy’s Stepmother. We’ve raised a nice human being amongst us. It’s only a little scary to think that in the summer of 2015 he will actually be taking those exams. And even more scary to think that in February of 2016 he will be able to start driving.

Himself has been enjoying his job and has very thoughtfully managed not to break any more limbs this year. There have been a couple of hospital visits connected with ongoing problems, but nothing that couldn’t be managed. 2014 will probably see him go back into hospital for removal of the bionics, but hopefully not at Christmas…

So all in all, 2013 has been a fairly good year. It’s had its moments, including one moment which resulted in a series of epiphanies and a slightly revamped attitude to life. Positive outcome from a negative situation. There have been one or two things that continue to perplex and baffle me and there have definitely been one or two people whose behaviour and actions have led to me feeling crushingly disappointing. But wheat/chaff, be separated. There. All done.

All is well.

To round off 2013, we will be visiting… the supermarket. I know, rock ‘n’ roll, eh?

Have a good one and I hope 2014 brings you all much happiness. Especially you.

Playtime

So, another birthday. Another year older, but certainly not another year wiser. Not STRICTLY true: there’s been a couple of situations this year that I have learned lessons from without question.

One of my favourite phrases to cite is ‘being an adult is mandatory, growing up is optional.’ I like the fact that I can be as childish and silly as the situation demands. It’s good for me.

There’s a school opposite the hospital where I work. Sometimes, at playtime before I moved offices, I would look out the window and see the kids running about without a care in the world. There was one little boy on one particularly memorable day who spent a full ten minutes running around going ‘AAHHHHHHH’ a’la Macauley Culkin in ‘Home Alone’. It was immensely entertaining and I was outstandingly jealous.

Why don’t adults like to play? I know that’s not true for all of us. There are roleplayers and LRPers amongst us. But where are OUR break times? Where is our work’s playground and opportunity to burn off steam in an outdoors area? Why is it, that when we leave school, we leave behind the world that we’ve been conditioned to for eleven years? Playing is good for you. As parents, we try to encourage our kids off the consoles or the TV and to play games of make believe. We encourage the use of imagination and the moment we take our tottering steps out of childhood into adulthood, imagination is no longer appreciated – at least in most places.

I reckon that if we were all allowed fifteen minutes in the morning and fifteen minutes in the afternoon to go outside and run around screaming, we’d all be much happier in our worlds. Of course, I also appreciate that working for the NHS means that this might not be looked upon as anything but slightly inappropriate. Still, in the confines of my head, I’m running about like a lunatic. I have a naturally playful streak that means I love excuses to be silly. Laughter is the best thing in the world.

There’s a delightful article on the BBC News website today that details companies who have tapped into that adult sense of creativity and have created environments where grown-ups can be anything but. It would be interesting to take statistical comparisons of creativity and staff morale.

So… what else can I talk? Well, Project: Loophole edits are all done and dusted and back with my editor. As I mentioned quite some time ago, Project: Loophole is a Silver Skulls novel, which should hopefully see publication sometime next year through the Black Library – watch this space, as they say!

The other big news is that I am finally able to mention Project: Carpark. This is a little thing called ‘Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising’ which I am writing for Abaddon Books and is due for publication in June of next year. It’s an alternative history/fantasy cross breed, whose alternative starting point is ‘what would have happened if Richard the Third had won at Bosworth?’ Tie that interesting concept in with an England where the practice of magic is A Thing and… yeah. It’s been a hell of a lot of fun to write, something which I hope comes across in the final read. It being my first proper, full-length non tie-in novel, I have absolute jitters over it, naturally.

There’s quite a few other things in the pipeline – more Gilrain for Fox Spirit for one. I’m looking forward to revisiting Gilrain. His utter uselessness and tongue-in-cheek adventures are a great writing release.

2013 hasn’t been as insane in terms of writing workload, which has been something of a blessing. I think that having written three novels, a novella and a bunch of short stories pretty much back-to-back from 2010-2012 almost burned me out completely.

It’s been a good year, all told. I am hugely grateful for everything in my life and all the new friends this year has brought me. Christmas is just around the corner and next year beckons with promises of more fun and games.

Because fun and games are… well, fun!

Keep playing – and a very happy holiday season to all of you.

Dear Mum – 2013

Dear Mum

Thirteen, they say, is unlucky for some. In this instance, the number corresponds to the number of years since you died. I’ve written to you every December 10th since and the Christmas tree always goes up on this day. It’s my own way of marking what, to me, is such an important day in the calendar.

You’d think after thirteen years I’d have run out of things to talk about and I suppose to a point, the healing process has ensured that I no longer wait for midnight to write this letter, or no longer get so emotional whilst writing it. For a while, that worried me. I worried that maybe I didn’t care any more. But I know that’s not true. Of course I care. Not a day goes by when I don’t miss you, that I don’t wish you were still here. I even still have those slightly mad moments when I go to pick up the phone to ring you and tell you about something, only to remember that you won’t be there.

Time is a great healer, they say (and I am still to find out who ‘they’ are) and that is true. The sting, the pain… they have lessened year on year. The ache of loss remains and the mum-shaped hole in my world that can never be filled. But I smile more when I talk about you now. I still occasionally get a little teared up because you know. Contrary to popular belief, I’m only human.

What’s new this year, then? Well, Dad and his bees for one. I can’t for the life of me wonder what you would have made of him getting his apiary. Then the next one. Then the next one. And the fourth. The fourth is made of polystyrene. Jamie calls it ‘modern city bee block as opposed to the hillbilly bees in their wooden shacks’. Because he comes out with little gems like that all the time. Within five minutes of meeting the bees, I got my first sting. Then they seemed to lose all interest in me. I have it on good authority that they chased Stephen up and down the allotment though. Jamie’s fascinated by the whole bee thing: when he stayed with Dad during the summer holidays, he was well into it all.

On the topic of Jamie, at some point this year, he grew taller than me and he’s still going upwards. He’s almost as tall as his dad and I reckon will still keep going. I know I joke that he was born at the age of 37, but he really has grown up this last year. No longer a little boy; now he’s a young man. He is fifteen in February and is still a great kid. He has his moments, sure – but when I think about how vile I was to you and Dad when I was a teenager, I count my blessings!

The first year in my new job has gone really well – it’s been good for me. So much stress has come off my shoulders. I mean, I still have stress, but it’s a different kind and entirely more manageable. The writing thing has also gone well – edits to one novel are done and I’m about 85% done on a new story that finally became public yesterday. You’d enjoy that one, I think, you were the one who gave me my love of the Plantaganets after all!

Well, I have a training session to attend this morning, so I’d better get this cup of coffee down and reply to some emails. Life, as they say, goes on. But you will be in my thoughts all day and tonight, when I decorate my tree and drink my mulled wine, I’ll light a candle and remember everything that was wonderful about having you as my mother.

You know, all of it.

Miss you. And I love you. Always.

Sarah

xxxx

Six Honest Serving Men (9th Doctor Story)

In honour of the Day of the Doctor (happy 50th Anniversary!), I’m posting up one of my stories. I may have posted this before, but I couldn’t find it on a quick search back.

No fezzes in this story. Even though fezzes are cool.

Six Honest Serving Men

Disclaimer: The Doctor, the TARDIS and the other locations referred to in this story do not belong to me. (Apart from the little bit of the Earth that I happen to be standing on). The characters and majority of places belong to all those lucky, lucky people who get to own the Doctor Who copyright and write for it all the time. I don’t. I get to write for it when inspiration strikes and in a futile effort to empty my head out of these little unseen moments. This story is an entirely non-profit making venture and is in no way meant to impinge on copyright in any way, shape or form.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I never, ever thought that I could get myself into the ‘head’ of the ninth Doctor, so I was chuffed to bits when this story came to me earlier today out of nowhere. By way of explanation, the Rudyard Kipling quote at the beginning came from my Year Seven science teacher, who told us that by applying those six questions to any situation, you could find the solution.

The other poetry credit goes to the immortal Spike Milligan.

Enjoy.

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
– Rudyard Kipling

His last, most overriding memory was of running. Running for his life. You can still make it out alive, he’d told himself. You must run!

And alone, he ran.

There had been excruciating, terrible pain, the kind of pain you only felt when you were dying. He knew the feeling. He’d died before.

Then had come the enveloping blackness, drawing him down into its soft, velvet relief.

Now, his eyes opened.

A glaring white light made him instantly regret that split-second decision and his instincts firmly encouraged him to reconsider and squeeze them tightly shut again. He obeyed his instincts and was rewarded with welcome relief from the brightness.

Memories assailed his semi-conscious senses instead – a multitude of thoughts, emotions and feelings that relentlessly battered at him as a storm batters at a helpless fishing boat lost out at sea. The memories of over nine hundred years of existence created a surprising quantity of what could only be described as ‘brain litter’. And right now, all that formerly carefully filed and neatly organised brain litter was in a state of utter, abject chaos. It was as though someone had quite literally entered his mind and thrown files stuffed with memories around with careless abandon. There was a veritable mountain of information in a huge pile in the middle of his recall, and it was presently threatening to collapse on him.

He sifted through the memories with great care and no small amount of trepidation, treating each one as gingerly and carefully as a man handling a crocodile with toothache.

Right. Get a grip. Begin from first principles. Who am I, and why am I here?

A pause.

I think that might just be a bit too existential at this early point in the proceedings. OK, back it up to REAL basics and work forwards from there.

Who am I?

A quick rifle through assorted memories dislodged a name, but he dismissed it immediately, aware on some deeper, darker level of subconscious that this particular identity was something that he had long ago chosen to leave behind.

Dig a little deeper.

You’re the Doctor.

Not so much a name, he asserted, as a title. A title he had elected to adopt when he had turned his back on his home…

…home.

The memory slammed into him with an almost relentless, cruel viciousness. Unprepared for the suddenness of such violent recall, the man known as the Doctor gasped audibly.

His home – or at least the place of his birth – was gone. After millenia of conflict, the Daleks and the Time Lords had finally found themselves in a position that could only be described as ‘stalemate’.

The bitter-sweet irony was not lost on the Doctor, despite his unease and disorientation. Peace between the Time Lords and the Daleks had come at the ultimate cost. But now, at last, the Daleks had been stopped in their pepper-potted despotic activities once and for all. They were gone. As were, unfortunately, the Time Lords.

Gone.

All gone.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he opened his eyes again. He’d dealt with the ‘who’ of the current situation. Now time to face the ‘where’, ‘why’, ‘when’ and ‘how’. But first, there was another, more pressing matter. Something that needed attention sooner rather than later.

“The what,” he said. “As in, what the hell is going on?” The Doctor spoke the words aloud and was startled immediately back into silence by the sound of his own voice. That was not the voice he remembered.

Another frantic rummage through his personal data banks turned up a familiar word.

Regeneration.

“Again? Hello? Hello? Testing, testing, I’m the Doctor. Mary had a little lamb – what they…?”

Did he have an accent? That was a novelty. He flashed a brief grin, despite himself, and recited a poem, a child’s nonsense poem he’d picked up on Earth a long time ago.

“Said the tiny ant
To the elephant:
‘Mind how you tread in this clearing!’ Crikey, I sound completely different!” He paused, then resumed.

“But alas! Cruel fate!
She was crushed by the weight… Did I just pronounce that ‘crooshed’? I did!
Of an elephant, hard of hearing.”

Silence fell once more.

“Yep. Definitely an accent.”

Oddly, he was grateful for the distraction this discovery provided. It gave him enough of a reason to deny the aching truth of what had happened, to begin forming a hard shell around the profound sense of grief and loss that was pervading every sense, the feeling that threatened to overwhelm him in a tide of abject, utter misery.

A moment of meandering distraction.

Am I even the kind of man who does misery?

If I stay on board this particular train of thought, the answer to that question is somewhere between ‘yes’ and ‘definitely’. All aboard the 5.15 express train to Complete Insanityville! Tickets, please!

Time, I think, to disembark.

The Doctor got himself back, metaphorically speaking at least, on track.

So. To recap. I am the Doctor. I am a Time Lord. I have just escaped the Time War and, I suspect, not entirely unrelated to that, I have just regenerated for the eighth time – which, all things taken into consideration and being equal and opposite and all that sort of stuff, is either very, very fortunate, or decidedly clumsy of me. I have clearly just regained consciousness after an unspecified period of time. I am, therefore, the ninth incarnation of myself. Hello, me, meet me. Fantastic. That definitely takes care of the ‘who’ and, to a lesser, but no less critical degree, the ‘what’ as well.

Now for the ‘where’.

He got himself up into a sitting position and blinked in the light that had permeated his post-regenerative haze. Looking around, he felt a sense of undeniable familiarity, of fondness – of simple belonging. A tired, but genuine smile lit his face.

“Hello, old girl.”

He was inside his beloved TARDIS. Just how he’d ended up here was almost secondary to the fact that the pair of them were no longer just renegades from Gallifrey.

They were now all that was left.

As if in response to his voice, the garish, bright white light softened to something entirely more friendly and welcoming. The TARDIS suffused with a soft, greenish tinge and through its eternal heartbeat, he felt a gentle thrum of delight at his conscious presence. He put his hands on the console and pulled himself upright. The sudden change in altitude made him a little dizzy and he gripped at the console. The constant throb of the console, which he could now feel beneath his hands, changed pitch to something almost querying.

“I’m fine,” he reassured, patting the console absently. “I’m fine. I’m…quite tall. That’s good. I like tall.” He glanced down. Yes. Definitely taller – and broader – than his previous self, anyway. At least judging from the fact that he seemed to be a good five inches taller than his trousers promised, and the fact that he seemed to be in possession of an interesting ‘gape’ effect in the shirt department.

“Add that onto the ‘who’ list,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll sort some clothing out later. Let’s deal with the ‘where’, shall we? Present company excepted, where am I?” He patted the console again and the querying tone to the TARDIS’s gentle background hum dissolved into soothing vibrations. The Doctor tapped at the video screen and examined the graceful, elegant curves of Gallifreyan script that shifted and changed under his hands. His eyes widened, his hearts pounded and the earlier nausea gave way to a sense of something entirely different.

“These galactic coordinates,” he said the TARDIS. “You brought me here all by yourself?”

A faint flare in the green tinge that the Doctor understood to be an affirmation of his question. “Primary Emergency Protocol Theta Sigma,” he said, and his voice was thick with emotion. “You couldn’t take me home, because home has…well, home has gone. So you took me to the only other place I could ever call home. You’re a clever old thing, aren’t you?”

A pink tinge to the glow made the Doctor smile with great affection.

Earth.

That wonderful, infuriating, unbelievably backward little planet known in some circles as Sol 3. The place that had given him sanctuary when the universe itself would no longer accept him. The place that he’d necessarily called ‘home’ for so long, so many years ago now.

Earth.

The place that had provided him with some of the most stimulating – and frustrating – companionship he’d ever known. The place that had given him a taste for beer and ready salted potato crisps. The place that no matter how hard he tried to leave behind always drew him back into its fond embrace. The planets old mythology often called her ‘Mother Earth’, and the analogy was fitting. There was something oddly nurturing about the place. Just think of them. Mankind. Running about on the surface of the little blue planet like a billion, billion little ants. So much life teeming away down there.

Again, that rushing sensation of terrible, dreadful loneliness. He was the last of his kind.

So much death.

The last of the Time Lords.

He could not, at this time, reconcile the enormity of those six words with the churning emotions that he was still refusing to acknowledge, so he pushed it firmly to the back of his mind. Perhaps, he thought, with great unreasonableness, if I don’t think about it, it isn’t happening.

“We have the ‘who’,” he said, firmly tapping at the console with a long finger. “And the ‘what’. Well, sort of the ‘what’. And now we have the ‘where’. So the ‘when’ is easy enough…yes, there we go.”

Three keystrokes gave him the answer to that question and also specified the ‘where’ for him a little more: Earth. Early twenty first century – 2004 to be precise. Not fully materialised yet, but with a programmed final destination point of somewhere in London. The TARDIS, demonstrating yet again that wonderful level of sentience that he’d come to love over the years, had cautiously remained within the time vortex, choosing to maintain her position, waiting to monitor and see what had happened, rather than throw herself with great gusto into the middle of a heaving city centre.

The Doctor grinned and reached up to run a hand through his hair – which he discovered was rather more close-cut than he’d ever had before. He liked London. It had that sort of raging sense of organised chaos that was so very indicative of the human psyche. He leaned back a little from the console and exhaled a breath that he’d not even realised until that moment that he was holding.

“Four down,” he said. “Two to go. ‘How’ and ‘why’.” He stared up at the ceiling of the TARDIS, impossibly far away above him and shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, “that I can deal with either of those just yet. Let’s leave those out of the equation, shall we? Especially the ‘why’.”

A flash of visions passed behind his eyelids again, causing him to swallow back a lump of raw emotion that threatened to choke him. The Time War, he thought, feeling a swelling surge of rage that burst forth from him in a moment of pure anger, culminating in him turning and slamming his fist into the wall of the TARDIS, which emitted a faint grind of indignant disapproval. I failed them all. And this is my punishment.

“Well, no more,” he muttered. “No more getting attached. From now on, I operate alone. Let’s see what’s going on down there, shall we? There’s always something happening on Earth.” He flicked a few switches, pressed a few buttons, twirled a few random knobs and pulled a lever or two for good measure. It was like conducting an orchestra and the old, familiar movements brought him a modicum of comfort.

It turned out that his generalisation about the activity that so often surrounded Earth was not wrong on this occasion, and the readings that the TARDIS duly presented to him were almost pleasurable in a faintly macabre way. An excuse to go down to the planet, to mingle with humans again. They were so primitive and yet at times, there were these amazing flashes of inspiration, these incredible displays of raw courage and genius that endeared them as a race to the Doctor’s hearts. It was why he had acquired so many companions over the years from the planet…

A flare of hope.

Perhaps…

Had he not known better, he’d have sworn that the prompt came from the TARDIS herself.

“No,” he said, firmly. “No. Just…no. Let’s go check this out. But first, clothing.”

In the past, he had always let his instincts guide him around the wardrobe room of the TARDIS, finding the outfit that best suited his personality and mood at the time of regeneration. When he emerged, after barely fifteen minutes, he was clad in black. Dark trousers, dark shirt and a black leather jacket that had definitely seen better days. He liked it. It felt right. It was, quintessentially, him.

He didn’t bother with the mirror. He didn’t want to know just yet. The memory of who he had been was still too raw. He couldn’t prod at that wound just yet. It would wait. It was good enough for now that he was alive.

Thus clad, the Doctor studied the interesting, faintly anomalous readings and set coordinates for the source.

“Let’s go save the world,” he said.

An hour later, he was on terra firma and there was a part of him that wished he’d just stayed unconscious in the time vortex. Department stores were, to his clinically ordered (and now generally re-filed) mind, almost entirely congruous with the human race. The Doctor had visited any number of planets during his extended lifetime and there had always been shops. Trade, even on the most primitive of planets, was a must, a way of life. But nowhere else in the universe had he come across a shop where you could buy cookware on one floor, and mere steps away from the latest in ceramic potware, you could select from a vast array of socks and underpants.

It was almost endearingly eccentric. Almost as amusing as twenty-four hour supermarkets. Only geniuses, idiots and drunks wanted to buy washing up liquid at four in the morning.

He felt a rush of warmth for the human race, bless them.

The signal was strong in here, no doubt about it. The sonic screwdriver had practically screamed with excitement when he’d activated it. Perfunctorily, he performed a low-level scan of the building and sucked air in over his teeth in irritation. There were, besides himself, two other life signs registering in the building, both in the basement, which was just out-and-out annoying. Why didn’t human beings just go home when they should? He tempered the moment of grouchiness by considering that a department store this size was more likely than not going to have some sort of security guard in place.

Probably two, if the readings were right.

For no readily apparent reason, it annoyed him that there were still humans in the building. Trust humans to get in the way.

Without them there, the plan was devastatingly simple. Find the signal, interrupt the signal, destroy the signal. A. B. C. As simple as it got. Of course, there was a distinct possibility that he might just destroy himself along with the signal, but what the heck. He was feeling reckless. Reckless and stupid.

It felt fantastic.

However, he felt a faint sense of responsibility nag at him and grudgingly accepted that he needed to get them out. It would be a simple enough thing to location them: it would be entirely another thing to encourage them to leave. In his experience, humans never just left. They spent far too long saying ‘why’, or ‘who are you’ or ‘what do you mean the building’s going to explode’ to just do what they were told.

It was with some surprise, therefore, when one of the two life signs winked out. Either they had just left the building by some hitherto unknown access point in the basement, or whatever was here threatening Hendricks’ Department Store, Purveyors of Inordinate Amounts of Pointless Junk was far more sinister than on first inspection. He concentrated his efforts with renewed vigour on finding the other occupant of the building.

When he did, it would set in motion a chain of events that would change his life forever.

She couldn’t have been a great deal older then eighteen, twenty at the most, and afterwards, for a very long time afterwards, he wondered just what it had been that had made him reach for her hand in the way he had. He had grinned at her terrified, bemused face and watched as she tore her attention away from the encroaching menace and instead stared directly into the eyes of the Oncoming Storm.

He wasn’t sure in that moment which was the greater threat to her. In the months to come, he was never fully sure. But that was in the time to come. This was the here, this was the now.

This was life.

“Run,” he said.

And together, they ran.

Guilty!

Guilt is a weird emotion, isn’t it? Right now, I’m feeling hugely guilty and it’s for the most remarkably stupid reason.

Due to the problems I’ve had with headaches and my eyes this past couple of weeks, I’ve forced myself off the PC at home in the evenings as much as possible to give them something of a rest. The knock-on result of this is that my writing has suffered a two week hit in productivity.

I’ve got some of it done, so it’s not a complete loss, but I’m nowhere near at the output I need to be to meet deadlines. I’ve emailed my editor for Project: Carpark to explain my pitiful little plight and he’s unsurprisingly very understanding and for that, I’m hugely grateful. However, the guilt remains. It’s a combination of setting myself targets and failing to achieve them and my pathological need to be on time, I think. I’m good at feeling guilty about stuff, I suppose.

Frequently, I’ve lamented the difficulties of juggling a full time job and a family with the pressures of writing deadlines. This last two weeks has been insane in regards to that juggling act. My eye problems, meetings at the Son’s school, arguments with the Ex Husband… I haven’t got home before 8pm any night this week and I’ve had enough now. Fortunately, the only thing on the cards tonight is an hour at the gym, so I’m looking at getting in for around 6pm. Much better.

Didn’t sleep terribly well last night due to the gale force winds. Where I live is on a street that acts like a wind tunnel in high winds and I woke up on about four separate occasions due to bumps and thumps and other noises that serve to wake you up briefly and then fail to let you squish back up to Morpheus. Stupid night time noises.

Himself is away this week, camping in the Lake District. Yes, you did hear that right. Camping. In the Lake District. In October. This is because Himself is Not Quite Right In The Head. This means that I have the entire bed to myself, but still, naturally, sleep on the very edge, taking up as little space as is humanly possible. See? Guilt. Refusing to let me take more of the bed than is absolutely necessary.

I’ve also had guilt this week in the form of worrying about the Son’s revision (as previously documented). An overload of guilt. ENOUGH!

I’m going to check the finances and contemplate treating myself to a half-decent new laptop to use for writing, in better lighting than my PC which sits in a dark and gloomy little corner. When Himself drags his carcass back from the Lake District, I’ll utilise his Man Skills to swap my desk with his as he’s right next to the window which is eminently preferable for writing during the weekend. (It’s also right next to the radiator, which makes it a more appealing place to be in the winter – last year, I was writing whilst wearing gloves and a scarf). What I wouldn’t give for a bigger house and a room I could call my study…

I have a laptop. It’s about seven bajillion years old. I don’t think I’d turned it on for something like eighteen months. I fired it up and after it had installed every update known to man, moved along with all the celerity of a slug tied to a fifteen tonne weight. The left shift key fell off years ago and whilst the shift function itself still works, it’s a bit temperament. The ‘D’ key is decidedly non-compliant to my will. It keeps freezing. Frankly, it’s a bit archaic and just a tiny bit rubbish. So I need to treat myself. The problem with this, of course, is that it comes down to a new laptop… or my possible holiday to Finland in February. I’m not convinced I can afford both at this time. We shall see. I shall shop around and consider my options.

(And before the floods of ‘buy a Mac’ come pouring in, that’s not going to happen. I’d dearly love a Mac, but it’s so far outside my price range that it’s not even remotely amusing).

Buying a new laptop means that I can write in a warmer, brighter area of the house and it means that I won’t put quite so much strain on my eyes. Good heavens, I’m doing something for myself!

Guilt assuaged.

Bonus.

Parenting 101

It’s been a difficult couple of weeks.

I’m kind of proud that I enjoy very good all-round health. But over the last two weeks, I started getting worryingly regular migraines. Then the migraines turned into just the visual disturbances bit. I was sensible and made an optician’s appointment. I haven’t had my eyes checked for about ten years anyway, so it was an all-round thing.

I had a series of eye tests, including a couple I’ve never experienced before such as the puff-in-the-eye glaucoma test. That one may not have been quite so bad if the guy administering the test had said ‘this is what will happen’ first. As it was, the scene was me sitting there innocently, followed by ‘PUFF!’, followed by me swearing very loudly and crossing perhaps half the shop.

The sight test was OK – the optician (who I think may be about twelve) said that my distance vision was beyond perfect (‘better than 20-20’, he said, although I thought demanding an exact ratio may have been too much) and he gave me the tiniest corrective prescription for reading and computer work (I kid you not: the prescription is 0.25 on each eye).

Then came the kicker.

‘I don’t want you to worry, but…’

Nobody wants to hear this. His concern was that I might have a retinal tear. He told me, without changing his expression, that he needed me to come back for an urgent dilation test. (Wait, isn’t that gynaecology?) ‘Monday, if you can manage it,’ he said. ‘You won’t be able to drive for about three hours after.’

‘Woah, woah, Doctor Eyes. It’s not that simple! I live fifteen miles out of town. The only way I can get in is to drive! The earliest I can manage is next Saturday.’

A concerned frown. ‘I’d really rather get it done quickly.’

So, no pressure.

After much flailing around, the Ex Husband said that he would bring me home. Home from work early, on the bus, have the test and he’d bring me home. Solved. Went in on Monday, had the eye drops, no problems identified… BOOSH. Sorted. Less time on the PC if you please, Mrs. Cawkwell (which brings a bunch of new problems). Stood around outside the opticians with pupils the size of Saturn, looking like I was stoned out of my brain, and couldn’t see anything properly for three hours.

But was grateful to the Ex for bringing me home. We get on fine, he and I. The Son is the key thing we have in common, of course, and whilst that ensures we stay in contact, it also sometimes causes friction. Let me explain.

The baby bit was easy.

The Son is embarking on his GCSE years, as I’ve said in the past and last night I ended up caught in the middle of an ongoing argument between him and his dad. It’s one of those areas where it’s hard to put forth an opinion because I can see both sides of the story.

Here’s the problem, in the easiest way I can put it.

The Son comes home from school. If he has homework, he always does it straight away. But as of yet, the volume of homework is tiny to non-existent. On the other hand, he’s only been back for what – four weeks? I predict that come the start of the Christmas term, the homework will start increasing. Once he’s done his homework, he plays on his computer, or watches TV or any of those other things that fourteen year old boys do.

His dad is under the impression that he should be revising. Something. Every night. And that he needs to spend less time on the computer.

Last night, I was pretty much shouted at by the Son’s dad about the problem. It wasn’t personal; he knows it’s not my fault particularly, but I think he needed to let off steam. The Son and the Ex Husband rub one another up the wrong way all the time, which results in the kind of arguments I used to have with my own dad. I find this really strange, because my relationship with the Son is completely the opposite. When we have disagreements, we talk it out.

Anyway, the Ex Husband shouted at me for a bit longer and I agreed with a number of his points, but did try to play devil’s advocate on others. I’m a great believer in compromise. Yes, I agree he should do a little more revision, but on the other hand, the school will be giving them revision tips soon. No, I don’t think he should be doing it for hours every night. Yes, he does spend a lot of time on his computer. No, I don’t think confiscating it is the way forward, but it’s certainly useful as a threat. Yes, no, no, yes.

Then the Son came downstairs and we left.

We left his dad’s to go to the gym (‘I’m glad you’re taking him to the gym, he’d never do anything otherwise’ was the parting shot) and got in the car. The Son sat there in stony silence. I said to him that I had nothing more to add as I was sure he had listened to everything that had been said. He grumbled his acknowledgement and told me that he was angry. And he was. Unfortunately for him, he’s like me. When he gets angry, he starts getting upset with himself, perhaps because he’s not yet reached an age where he can properly articulate what he wants to say. At least, not with his dad. With me, he can talk about his feelings more easily.

The best thing he said throughout the conversation was this.

‘The worst thing about when Dad gets angry at me? Is that I know he’s right.’

Bingo. Those were the words I needed to hear. Jokingly, I told him that he should never admit to his father that he knows he’s right, but we had a good, very positive conversation about ways he can change his behaviour so that everyone is happy.

Whilst at the gym last night, I was chatting to one of the trainers about various things and because I was wearing a Warhammer t-shirt, the subject came round to model building. He has this kit that his granddad has had for years and has always wanted to build, but doesn’t really have the capacity to do it. The trainer said he and his brother had had a go, but neither of them are model builders – would I know of anybody who liked building stuff?

The Son adores building things. I put the two to talking and the next thing you know, he’s earned himself a little pocket money by agreeing to do something for someone else. It’ll keep him off his computer for a little while at least and sort of counts as D&T revision. Two birds, one stone.

When we came home, he was much, much brighter about the whole thing. He did a page of questions in his GCSE Maths revision book and I put my teacher head on and marked it for him. We ate dinner and watched a film together. He put his computer on for about two hours tops. It was perfect. He knows now that the key to keeping his dad happy is to simply do what he asks. He’s going to make an effort. I appreciate that and I know how hard it is for him. He hasn’t yet connected the dots to realise how important these two years are. He’ll get there. Pushing him isn’t the key.

So yes. The baby bit was easy.