Archive of Our Own ^beta

Back in the flat, Eleven paused the game. ‘Maybe we should play Mario Kart,' he said.

‘I don’t want to play Mario Kart,’ Ten complained. 

‘We should invite our friends over and play Mario Kart,’ said Eleven. 

‘You think they’re gonna come?’ asked Ten. 

Eleven shrugged. ‘It’s worth a try.’ 

‘And if they don’t come, then we can always play together,’ Thirteen pointed out. 

‘Well, Rose isn’t gonna come; she’s got work,’ said Ten. ‘Actually, so has Donna.’

‘I can’t remember if Rory’s on his placement or not,’ said Eleven.

‘Let’s just invite people, and if they say no, they say no.’ Thirteen shrugged.

‘Fine by me,’ said Eleven. ‘Oh, Thirteen, can you get me a Coke from the kitchen, only I’ve run out.’ He held up his empty can and shook it as if to prove it was empty.

‘You’ve got two working legs; get it yourself,’ said Thirteen. 

‘You’ve got two working arms; get it for me.’ Eleven argued.

‘Yeah, the keyword is  two , Eleven, I have  two arms. I’m not an octopus,’ said Thirteen.

‘Stop arguing,’ said Ten, throwing down his JoyCons. ‘What would One say if he were here?’ 

Eleven shrugged. ‘You’re all adults now. Act like it?’ 

‘I don’t know. What would One say if he were here?’ asked Thirteen. 

‘Dunno, really,' said Ten. ‘But it stopped your arguing. Thirteen, just go and get Eleven his drink.’

Thirteen huffed. She scooted closer to the edge of the armchair and pulled herself up and into her wheelchair. ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t do it yourself, Eleven.’

‘It’s like you said, you have two working arms.’ 

‘I also said I’m not an octopus.’ Thirteen paused for thought. ‘But at least I have two working arms. I could have been born paralysed and armless.’

‘Alright, Coke. Chop-chop.’ Eleven clapped his hands. 

Twelve was sitting down in the restaurant across from Missy when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and tapped the screen. 

Seven eighteen pm. Swipe to open , said Siri. 

Twelve swiped three fingers across the screen and fumbled around with the apps.

Twitter. Audible. Facebook. Tuner. BBC News. FanFiction. Discord. Siri read out. 

‘Fanfiction?’ asked Missy. 

‘Blind people write fanfic, Missy,' said Twelve, tapping on the Discord app. 

‘Yeah, I... suppose, but what do you write fanfic of?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Twelve quickly. 

Eleven today at seven sixteen pm: We’re having a Mario Kart Party at blindautie one-two-one-two-one-two is out on a date with mistress evil. 

‘For fucks-can’t leave them alone for a minute,’ Twelve complained. 

Thirteen today at seven sixteen pm: everyone come to our flat for Super Mario and Dominos Pizza. We also have Sprite. 

Yaz today at seven seventeen pm: at wheeliefun thirteen, sounds like fun, I’m on my way. 

Clara today at seven seventeen pm: yo at ladyme eight-five-seven you in?

‘They’re having a pizza party without you,’ said Missy. 

‘You too!’ said Twelve. ‘It’s on your Discord too-you’ve been tagged in this.’ He tapped at a new notification. 

Amy today at seven nineteen pm: wish I could go, but I have work. 

River today at seven nineteen pm: at eleven bowtiesrcool eleven I’ll be there, Sweetie.

‘They  knew I was going to take you back home,’ Twelve growled. ‘I haven’t had any  fuckin’ peace this week.’ He brought his phone to his face to look for the microphone symbol. 

‘Your Mario party is cancelled full stop. There is no Mario party comma-’

‘Twelve? Oh my god, it  is  you!’ 

Twelve sighed loudly. ‘Hello, Bill. What are you doing here?’ 

‘I had notifications about Super Mario. Then I heard a voice reader and figured, ‘well, that’s gotta be Twelve, he’s the only blind guy I know, so I came over and, well, here you are.’ 

‘No, why are you here, specifically. At this restaurant.’ 

‘Isn’t it obvious, Dear?’ said Missy. ‘She’s on a date, same as us.’

‘I take it you’re not going to the Super Mario party my brothers and sister are putting on,’ said Twelve. 

‘Nah, it’s like Missy said. I’m on a date, right,’ said Bill with a shrug. ‘Oh, you know what we should do, right? We should double date.’

‘No,’ said Twelve firmly. 

‘Come on, Twelvey, it sounds like fun,’ said Missy.

Twelve frowned. ‘Since when do you ever call me ‘Twelvey’?’ 

‘Twelve, seriously. Those eyebrows,’ said Bill.

‘What about my eyebrows, Bill? I can’t see them-I’m still... I’m fuckin’ blind, aren’t I?’ Twelve hissed. 

‘You look angry,’ said Bill.

‘I  am  angry!’ Twelve shouted. 

Missy put her hand on Twelve’s. ‘Twelve, Dear, people are staring.’ 

‘I can’t see them staring, can I?’ asked Twelve much more calmly this time. 

‘I’m gonna, um, go...’ said Bill, and her footsteps got further away. 

Then they started getting closer again. 

‘I told you already, Bill, I don’t want a double date-’

‘Twelve, it’s the waitress,’ Missy whispered in his ear. 

‘Oh,’ said Twelve. 

‘Are you ready to order?’ asked the waitress.

Twelve scratched his eyebrow. ‘Erm... do you have a kids' menu?’ he asked, flashing an innocent smile. 

Twelve hadn’t always been blind. And, like most blind people, he wasn’t totally blind. His vision was extremely blurry that it couldn’t be corrected with glasses and had black spots in his field of vision where he was totally blind. That happened after he got sick on his oldest brother One’s watch. One had been twenty-one at the time, and Twelve had only been four. It hadn’t been a good time for either of them.

For fifteen years, Twelve had been used to those black spots and looking at the world as if it were underwater. He thought nothing of it. He didn’t really remember ever having been sighted. And he  definitely  didn’t remember waking up in the hospital trying to blink out and rub away the black spots. He’d survived. He adapted. He was doing just fine, thank you very much. 

But every so often, he would have to put up with idiots. 

And unfortunately for Twelve, the waitress noticed his sunglasses and his folded up cane on his lap. 

This was one of those times. 

‘I... THINK... IT’S... SO... BRAVE... OF... YOU... TO... COME... OUT... TO-NIGHT!’ The waitress shouted in Twelve’s ear. 

Twelve’s brow furrowed, and his mouth formed an ‘o’ shape as he tried to work out in his head what was happening. 

Missy snorted but put her hand over her mouth and pretended it was a sneeze. 

‘YOU... ARE... SUCH... AN... IN-SPI-RA-TION!’ 

‘Are you for real?’ Twelve asked in his regular voice. 

‘I’LL... GET... YOUR... KIDS... MEN-U...NOW!’ 

Her footsteps got further away. 

‘Twelve, she’s gone,' said Missy. 

‘Thank the fuckin’ gods.’ Twelve wanted to put his forehead on the table and not lookup. He wanted to leave; he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

‘She really made a right tit out of herself,’ said Missy. ‘I wish you could have seen it-her arms were flailing everywhere.’ 

‘I bet the whole restaurant was staring,’ Twelve mumbled. ‘Actually, don’t  answer that; I don’t want to know.’ 

‘Your face is red.’ 

‘Of course, it’s red, Missy; I’m embarrassed.’ Twelve groaned. ‘Why can’t people keep their stupid opinions to their stupid selves? Wouldn’t it be a novel idea if people just, I don’t know, did their jobs? Of course, it’s hard when idiots like that turn up. I don’t envy her co-workers. Thank god I’m blind, or else I might be working as a waiter here too instead of Westminster.’ 

‘An anti-government man working in the government,’ said Missy. ‘Thrilling.’

‘It worked for Ron Swanson.’ 

‘Ron Swanson isn’t real, Darling,’ said Missy. ‘Oh heads up, she’s coming back.’

The waitress handed Missy the kids' menu. 

‘Erm... thanks?’ asked Missy, wondering why the menu had been handed to her. 

The waitress put a piece of paper in front of Twelve and a box of (what sounded like) crayons. 

Twelve couldn’t fathom why this had happened until the waitress started speaking. 

‘You’re  such a dedicated carer,’ she said. ‘It must be so hard dealing with an adult with the mental age of a child. Now, what will he be having?’ 

‘What the actual fuckin’ hell?’ Twelve rose from his seat and put his cane on the table. 

‘IT’S... O-KAY... NOW! BE... CALM!’ said the waitress. ‘Oh, you poor thing. It must be so hard what with him-’

‘I want to speak to your manager,’ said Missy. Her voice sounded so calm that it was chilling.

‘Is something going on here?’ asked Bill. ‘Only we heard some disparaging comments.’ 

‘Everything’s fine, Bill,' said Twelve. ‘Go back to your date.’ 

‘I can’t do that when yours is being spoiled,’ said Bill. 

‘CAN... EV-ER-Y-ONE... CALM... DOWN-’

‘I demand to speak to your manager,’ Missy repeated. ‘Right now.’ 

‘What she said,’ said Twelve. ‘Unless, honey, you want me to pull down your trousers, unfold my cane, and ram it up your arse so hard that it comes out the other end. And believe me, you really don’t want to find out which  end.’ 

‘Twelve, you really should stop with the threats of violence,’ said Bill. 

‘She deserved it, Bill,’ said Twelve. 

‘Yeah, but that was going a bit far though with the-oh she’s gone now,’ said Bill. ‘Ran off into the back. With any luck to get the manager.’ 

‘I never liked her anyway,’ said Missy. 

‘Bitch.’ Twelve cursed under his breath. ‘How dare  anyone  presume my incompetence. I’m blind, not deaf, not... Down Syndrome. And even if I  did  have Down Syndrome or I  was  deaf, she shouldn’t be talking like that anyway. Who the  fuck  does she think she is?’

Meanwhile, at the flat, people were starting to arrive. 

“I got your drink, now you open the door.” Thirteen said. 

Eleven sighed and did as he was told and opened the door. 

“Hello, Sweetie.” 

“Um. River.” Eleven greeted. 

“What’s the matter, aren’t you happy to see me?” River asked. 

“Oh tremendously.” Eleven said. “I just didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Well, you know me, I love Super Mario.” River planted a kiss on Eleven’s lips before inviting herself in. 

“Yes.” Eleven closed the door. 

“Hello, Ten. Hey, Thirteen.” River greeted. 

“Good to see you again, River.” Thirteen said. 

Ten smiled at her. “Hey. Nobody else is here yet, you know.” 

“Well, I suppose it’s easier for me to get here,” River said, “after all, I do just live next door.”

“Jack’s hanging out with his friends, but he sends his love.” Ten said, reading from his phone screen. 

“So who is that so far?” Eleven asked. “River, Yaz, Donna, Clara, Ashildr-“

“It’s all girls.” Thirteen said, pouting slightly. 

“You’re a girl.” River pointed out. 

Thirteen shrugged. “Yeah, well...” 

“Oh, Rory’s backed out.” Ten said. “He’s at the hospital.” 

“Is he alright?” Thirteen asked. 

“Nah, he’s working.” Ten said. “Still no answers from Bill, Rose, Mickey and Nardole.” 

“Maybe they’re busy.” River reasoned. 

“Nope, scratch that, Bill’s typing something.” Ten said. 

Eleven frowned. “I thought she was on a date with that girl, Heather.” 

“Why is everyone out on a date?” Thirteen asked. 

“Not everyone, Thirteen.” Ten said. “I’m not. Rose is working.” 

Thirteen shrugged. “Still though.” 

“Apparently Twelve’s kicked off at Frankie and Benny’s.” Ten said. 

“Whoa, why?” Eleven asked. 

“I dunno she’s writing now-oh a rude waiter.” Ten said. “Missy’s writing.”

Thirteen took her phone out. “Yeah, I see it. I know it doesn’t take much to set Twelve off, I mean, he is Scottish but-“

“He’s not Scottish, Thirteen, he just picked up the accent.” Eleven said. He was also looking at his phone.

“I know.” River said. “He’d never make a scene in a restaurant.”

Three knocks on the door had Eleven jumping up from his seat to open it. “Ah. Clara, Ashildr, hello.”

“I keep getting notifications.” Clara said. “Something’s happening with Twelve-“

“This waitress noticed Twelve’s cane and started shouting and saying he had the mental age of a child-according to Missy, who was mistaken for his carer.” Ten said. 

“Oh my god.” Clara exclaimed.

“Well that’s just rude.” Ashildr said. 

“Should I call Four?” Eleven asked. “His girlfriend is a journalist after all.” 

“Let Twelve decide if he wants to go to the press or not.” Ten said. 

Clara hummed. “Well, he is angry enough to want to.”

Ashildr nodded. “A political science major who is also an intern at Westminster. My best bet is that he does.”

“Twelve’s bollocking the manager now and the waitress is called Becky.” River said. “And apparently she’s a help teacher for SEN kids.”

“Ooh. That makes it worse.” Clara said. 

River nodded. “Just a bit.” 

“Does Twelve know that Bill and Missy are telling us what’s going on?” Ten asked. 

“Probably not.” Thirteen said. “If he’s busy with the manager. Well...” She grimaced slightly. 

“I don’t care!” Twelve snapped. “She shouldn’t be talking to me in this way-she shouldn’t be talking to anyone in this way!”

“Twelve, Darling, please calm down.” Missy said. 

“Easy for you to say-this Becky girl didn’t insult you.” Twelve snapped. 

“Missy’s right though.” Bill said. “It’s probably best to be calm in this situation.” 

Twelve was standing up behind a table with Bill and her girlfriend Heather trying to hold him back. Missy was at his side. The manager was stood at the opposite side of the table with the waitress, Becky, almost cowering behind him. 

“I’m very sorry for the way that you were treated, but Becky is a hardworking, valued employee at this establishment-“

“Oh don’t give me that bull crap.” Twelve grumbled. “She shouted at me-slowly-as if I were deaf. No deaf person deserves to be treated this way. I am not deaf, of course, I’m fucking blind. Not all disabled persons a-are... fuckin’ homogeneous.” 

“Twelve.” Bill hissed.

“I understand that, sir-“

“Understand this, I am never stepping foot in any...”

“Frankie and Benny’s.” Heather whispered to him. 

“Yes, any Frankie and Benny’s establishments again.” Twelve said. “Until you punish the employee responsible. Preferably by firing.” 

“I cannot fire Becky, she’s-“

“A raging ableist!” Twelve said loudly. “I can sue for that. Or I can get it out in the press. My sister in law-she’s a journalist, yeah. So. What’ll it be?”

“Please leave, you’re causing a scene.” The manager said, almost fearfully.

“She’ll do it again you know.” Twelve said, oddly calmly. “She’ll say some ableist comment, maybe to some mother with her autistic kid-“

“Child suffering from autism-“ Becky interjected. 

Missy let out a near silent; ‘ooh’ and Bill let go of Twelve. 

Twelve could also feel Heather had flinched slightly as well. With his newly freed arm, he reached up and removed his sunglasses, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. 

“Autistic kid.” He said, his usually calming blue eyes now angry and staring down the waitress. His breath was heavy. She hadn’t said the dreaded ‘R’ word. But she might as well have done in his mind. He felt Heather also let go of him.

“I do not suffer from autism-I do not suffer from blindness.” He said through gritted teeth. “What I do suffer from is people like you,” he pointed a finger at the waitress, who he assumed was the waitress, “saying things about me-to my face-talking through me and to my girlfriend instead, assuming my incompetence, like I’m some five year old and giving me fucking crayons while I’m, you know... blind.” He dragged out the last word, for dramatic effect, lowered his hand again and narrowed his eyes. 

“Erm...” The manager said. Or rather he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

Twelve was pretty confident everyone was looking. He didn’t care. Four had always told him that it’s better to stand up for yourself and others than to have people stare. 

“This isn’t the last you’ve heard of me.” Twelve said. “Come on, Missy.” He put his sunglasses back on. 

Heather tapped Twelve on the shoulder. “Here.” She said, handing him his cane. 

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” Twelve nodded, taking it from her. He normally would have smiled, but this whole situation was pretty soured. 

“We’re coming too.” Bill said. 

“No, enjoy your date.” Twelve said.

“I don’t think we can anymore.” Heather said. 

Twelve simply nodded. He put his hand on Missy’s shoulder and followed her out of the restaurant with Bill and Heather close behind them. 

“Twelve. I’m sorry-“ Missy said as soon as they were outside. 

“Don’t.” Twelve said as he unfolded his cane. “It’s not your fault.” 

“So what do we do now then?” Bill asked. 

“Ah... there’s always a Super Mario party back at my flat.” Twelve tried to smile but it didn’t feel sincere. It didn’t look sincere either, but nobody called him out on it. 

“Alright.” Missy said. “Lead the way.” 

At the flat, since there had since there had been no more updates, everyone was playing Mario Kart-or watching the game of Mario Kart. 

“Left, Clara, left!” Eleven exclaimed. 

“I am going left!” Clara said back. 

“Suck it up, Mario, you are not getting beaten by Princess Peach!” Yaz cried. 

“Come on, Luigi.” Ashildr grunted. 

“Come on! Come on!” Thirteen urged. “You can do it, come on-YES!” She held her controller up in her victory. 

“And the winner is, Thirteen.” Ten said with a slight sigh. “Alright, losers hand in their controller to the next person waiting.” 

Ashildr handed her controller over to Donna and Clara to Eleven. 

Nobody noticed the sounds of a key scraping inside a lock over the hubbub of Thirteen’s win. But they sure noticed when Twelve, Missy, Bill and Heather walked in. Because Twelve announced it. 

“Sorry we’re late.” He said. “Is there still pizza?” 

Four reached behind him and knocked the door. “I have Jelly Babies.” 

“He’s not going to open it.” Eleven said. 

“I don’t think he can even hear over his guitar.” Ten said.

“Has anyone tried texting him?” Sarah asked. 

“Everyone.” Ten replied. 

“And he’s seen them all.” Eleven added. 

“So have you got any clever ideas to get him out?” Ten asked. 

Four pulled himself up on his feet. “Um. I might. I might.” 

“Good because I’m going out.” Ten said. 

“Going out? Out where?” Four asked. 

“Nowhere.” Ten shrugged. “Shopping. Tesco’s. Get some groceries and stuff.” 

“A-and I’ve got to meet... someone.” Eleven said.

Ten quirked an eyebrow. “River?” 

“... yes.” 

“So where’s Thirteen now then?” Four asked. 

“Your brother’s still locked up in his room then?” Ryan asked. 

He, Yaz and Thirteen were walking down the street-well, Thirteen wasn’t exactly walking, but Ryan and Yaz were. Thirteen was wheeling herself, lagging behind them with her eyes half open.

“Yeah. Haven’t slept since Thursday night.” Thirteen answered. “He just keeps playing guitar solos over and over again.” 

“Really?” Yaz asked. “Like what?” 

“Smoke on the Water. Highway to Hell. Back in Black. Don’t Fear the Reaper. Layla.” Thirteen listed. “It’s driving our neighbours crazy and they’re sending all kinds of warnings under the door and in our pigeonhole. But nobody can get him out of there. Four’s back there trying, but I think there’s only so much he‘ll be able to do.” 

Ryan frowned. “Four?” 

“My older brother.” Thirteen said. “Fourth born.” 

“And his name’s Four?” Yaz asked. 

“Mine’s Thirteen.” She pointed out. 

“So... what?” Yaz shrugged. “You have younger siblings called Fourteen and Fifteen?” 

“Course.” Thirteen said. 

“Mate, that is weird.” Ryan said. 

Thirteen shrugged. 

“Do you think Twelve’s ever going to come out of his room?” Yaz asked, changing the subject back. 

“He’s gonna have to at some point.” Thirteen said. “He’ll need to eat and drink and go to work and we still have no idea what he’s been using as a toilet.” 

“Probably his bin.” Ryan said.

Yaz crinkled her nose in disgust. “Ugh. Ryan that’s gross.” 

“Eh, he’s probably right, actually.” Thirteen admitted. 

“No. Stop. Right now.” 

“I just hope Four can get him out. Otherwise we’re gonna hafta call in the big guns.” Thirteen said.

“And that is...?” Ryan questioned.

“One.” Thirteen said.

“One what?” Yaz asked.

“Our oldest brother.” Thirteen said. “One.”

“That shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.” Yaz said. 

“You have an older sister.” Thirteen pointed out. 

“Yeah, but she’s got a normal name.”

“All names are normal, Yaz.” Thirteen said. “They’re all just a bunch of letters strung together to make a word and it doesn’t matter if that name’s Yasmin or Ryan or Thirteen, that word becomes someone’s identity.” She turned at the zebra crossing and looked both ways before crossing the road, knowing that any cars would slow down and stop for her anyway. 

“So your name’s literally just Thirteen Doctor?” Ryan asked. 

“Come on, Ryan, we’ve been over this; of course it is.” Thirteen paused for only a brief moment. “Well, not really, but yes.” 

“And you have twelve older brothers.” Yaz said. 

“Thirteen.” 

“Yeah, we know you’re Thirteen, but-“

“No, I have thirteen older brothers.” Thirteen clarified.

“Thirteen older brothers and your name’s Thirteen? Why’s that then?” 

“It just is.” Thirteen said. 

“Mate, I don’t know how I’d live if I had thirteen older siblings.” Ryan said.

“You say that all the time.” Thirteen hummed. “I have younger siblings too. But they probably wouldn’t be able to help Twelve.” 

“What about you?” Yaz asked. 

“Nah.” Thirteen said. “‘S why I’m staying out of it. Leaving it to my much older brothers.” 

“Twelve,” Sarah knocked on the door once the guitar sounds had stopped, “come and see who’s out here for you. It’s K9!”

Arobotic dog with a metallic blue paint job and K-9 embossed on the side in white letters moved over to Sarah. The robot had an LED eyepiece, rotating ears resembling satellite dishes and a tartan collar as if to match Four’s colourful scarf. 

Master sent me here. K9 said in his metallic voice. Master is worried about you.

No answer. Then came the sounds, not of an electric guitar but a much quieter acoustic guitar  playing Fire and Rain. 

Sarah sighed loudly. Not even K9 had able to get through to Twelve. And Twelve loved K9. She and Four had been banking on K9 so now it was back to the drawing board.

K9 looked up at Sarah. Mistress? 

“I’m fine, K9.” Sarah insisted. “Well, maybe a little frustrated.”

“So let me get this straight. Twelve went on a date with Missy. The waitress was rude and treated him poorly, talking to his girlfriend over him. So he flipped and went back to his flat and he hasn’t come out of his room since.” 

“Yep, that’s right, Graham.” Thirteen said. “Exactly right.” 

“I feel like I’m missing something though.” 

“Well, besides Thirteen, Ten and Eleven, nobody else in their family knows that Twelve is seeing Missy.” Yaz said. 

Graham nodded. “Ah. That’ll do it.

“So what do you think?” Ryan asked. 

“I think that they’ll find out at some point. People tend to find out about things like this.” Graham said. 

“Of course they do.” Thirteen, resting her elbows on the table, popped a fry in her mouth. 

Thirteen, Yaz, Ryan and Graham were sitting in a McDonalds at an accessible table. Thirteen’s eyelids were heavy and she was clearly tired. 

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Graham asked. 

“Not since uh, Thursday night.” Thirteen replied with a yawn. 

“Thursday night?!” Graham was taken aback. “It’s Sunday now.”

“He keeps playing the guitar. Loudly. It’s keeping us and the neighbours up.” Thirteen said. “Neighbours hate it, actually. Feel like murdering him myself, nobody pays attention to disabled on disabled crime anyway.” 

“You can stay with me and Ryan if you want.” Graham offered. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind. It’s just helping out a friend.” Ryan said.

Thirteen yawned. “I’d love that. Get a decent night’s sleep. Until Four and Sarah get it under control.”

“Great.” Graham said. “You can stay on the sofa. Until Twelve starts being more co-operative.” 

“But what about, uh, Ten and Eleven?” Yaz asked. 

“Ten’s gone out I think. Eleven’s got a date.” Thirteen said. “They’ve got other friends they can stay with.”

“It’s just sad that your brother’s driven you out of your flat.” Ryan said. 

“He’s working through some things.” Thirteen said. “It’s not his fault.” 

Eleven was sitting on a swing in the park with River sitting on the swing next to him. Eleven was simply sitting with his head in his hands, while River was swinging gently. 

“You look tired, Sweetie.” 

“I am tired.” Eleven said. “Bloody Twelve keeping me up for past two days and not allowing me into my own bedroom. I haven’t changed my clothes in two days either. Had to go out and buy new underpants from Asda.” 

“Oh charming.” River muttered. 

“I’m going to get into that room, Sarah Jane Smith, just watch me.” Four said. 

“I believe you, I believe you.” Sarah said. “It’s just you haven’t done so well so far.” 

“Ah but this time, I’m using force.” 

“Not a robotic dog?” 

“Are you telling me there’s something wrong with my dog?” Four asked. 

“Our dog, Four.” Sarah corrected. 

“Yes, yes.” Four nodded. “Our dog.” He took the long multicoloured scarf from around his neck and handed it to Sarah. 

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked. 

“Oh. Something.” Four said, taking a silver pen like object out of his pocket. He pointed the red head at the door and it started buzzing. 

Sarah covered her ears and glowered at Four, who then kicked the door open. 

Twelve turned around. He had an acoustic guitar strapped across his front. “Four-how did you-?”

“Two invented this sonic device. It opens locks.” Four explained quickly. “You have to stop playing guitar. You have to talk to us.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Twelve said. “I’m almost twenty.”

“Twelve.” 

“Why don’t you go and take your girlfriend and your robot with you?” 

“Twelve...” 

“Because you’re ten years older then me. You should know better than to break into-into locked rooms. I’m doing just fine-“

“Dougan!” 

A silence fell over everyone. 

Twelve removed his guitar and pulled it over his head. His face pulled into a scowl and his eyes narrowed at who he hoped was Four, though it might have been Sarah Jane-they both had long brown hair and they were both really very blurry and blacked out in places so it was hard to tell. 

“Don’t you ever call me that... again.” He hissed. 

“I had to get your attention somehow.” Four argued. 

“Don’t call me that-never fuckin’ call me that!” Twelve shouted. “My name is Twelve! It’s fuckin’ Twelve!”

“Twelve, please don’t swear.” Sarah said calmly.

“... even she gets it.” Twelve said. 

“What’s this really about, Twelve?” Four asked. “Is it about what happened in Pizza Hut on Friday?” 

“It wasn’t Pizza Hut, it was Frankie and Benny’s.” Twelve muttered.

“Frankie and Benny’s.” Four said with a nod. 

“Listen, Twelve. You know me. You can talk to me. And if you want to talk without Four here-“

“I don’t want to talk because there’s no problem.” 

“You’re upset.” Four said. “I know you are. I know when something’s bothering you.” 

“There’s nothing bothering me.” Twelve insisted.

“Twelve...” Sarah said gently. “You forget that we’re not blind. We can see your face right now. You’ve been so used to not hiding your face this past weekend that-“

“Your guard’s down.” Four finished. 

“Yes.” Sarah nodded. “Please. Talk to us.” 

Rose’s picket sign was less hastily made and her cardboard had at least been painted. It still had a picture of a blue puzzle piece stuck on with PVA glue. The letters of the words ‘People Are Not Puzzle Pieces’ had been cut out from print outs from WordArt.

Mickey’s sign was the laziest. His sign comprised only of a piece of A4 paper. And on that piece of A4 paper were the words ‘Diffrent Not Lesser’ scrawled in ballpoint pen (blue ink) typo and all.

Donna was marching with a large sign with a blue puzzle piece in the centre, a no symbol around it with only the words ‘NO CURE’ in big bold capital letters. 

Martha’s picket sign was covered in poorly printed and cut out pictured of needles that were stuck to white painted cardboard with Pritt-Stick (some were peeling off). In a rather eye catching shade of red, her sign read ‘Vaccines Don’t Cause Autism, Genetics Does’. 

And Jack was marching with a rainbow coloured picket sign that in black ink and a calligraphy style font simply read (simply referring to the words, rather than how they were written) ‘Boo Eugenics’. 

Mickey stopped as they passed a news vendor. “Hey, Ten, have you seen this?” He handed his sheet of paper to Martha and held up an issue of The Standard. 

“What is that?” Ten asked walking back towards Mickey. 

“Trouble.” Mickey replied. 

“Yeah, I see that happening.” Jack agreed. 

“Oh crap.” Ten lowered his picket sign and took the newspaper from Mickey. 

The headline read in bold letters:

DISABLED CIVIL SERVANT MOCKED BY WAITRESS

“Well then. Twelve’s dead.” Jack said. “Shall we start planning the funeral?” 

“Where does it say that he’s died?” Donna asked. 

“Right... there.” Rose pointed to a sentence. “It clearly says ‘Mr Doctor and his girlfriend, Missy Masters’.”

“Oh well. It was nice knowing him.” Donna said. “I’d like to say the same thing about Missy only I wouldn’t mean it.” 

“Shame.” Martha said. “I liked Twelve. He could play the guitar really well.”

“I liked listening to his practicing when I came over.” Rose said. 

“It was always cool when someone would offer unwanted assistance and he’d threaten to ram his long cane up their urethras.” Jack said. “And kinda sexy.”

“Can everyone stop talking about my brother like he’s already dead.” Ten asked. “And/or describing his rage fits as ‘sexy’?” He did air quotes with his fingers. 

“He’s always frowning. Scowling. Even when the rest of his face doesn’t look angry, his eyebrows do. That’s-“

“I swear to god, Jack, if you say ‘sexy’, I’m going to defriend you.” Ten said. “Like, that’s my younger brother-“

“I’m sorry, but people with autism do already have rights.” 

Ten turned from the newspaper and to the woman on the pavement. “In the sense that all people have human rights and it’s autistic people, not people with autism.”

“I’m sorry, but it is people with autism, that’s the correct term.” The woman said. She was holding the hand of a little boy who was sucking his thumb. 

Jack stepped forward. “I’m guessing that’s your little boy, right? Around seven years old? And he’s autistic, isn’t he.” 

“He has autism.” The woman said. 

Jack shrugged slightly. “Eh. He’s autistic. What’s his name?” 

“Oliver.” The woman said. “I don’t see how that’s relevant-“

Jack crouched down to the boy’s eye level. “Hey there, Oliver.” 

Oliver averted his gaze from Jack and carried on sucking his thumb. 

“He has autism. He can’t speak. He doesn’t understand.”

“He understands alright.” Ten said. “He understands that because either you or your partner? Husband? either way one of you is autistic and passed that gene on to him and you resent him for it.” 

“Unless he’s adopted.” Donna suggested.

“Yeah, good point.” Ten said. “Is he adopted?”

“... no.”

“Yeah, then you resent him because you’re unhappy with your own genetics.” Ten said. 

“Excuse me!” The woman growled. “He has autism because he’s had vaccine damage from the MMR and-“

“Oh hey, look who’s fully vaccinated and isn’t autistic.” Ten said. 

Rose waved and Mickey folded his arms. 

“I’m a med student. Vaccines cause nothing except lower disease levels and allergic reactions in some people.” Martha said. 

“Then he had one of them.” The woman said. 

“... you... you know what an allergic reaction is, right?” Martha asked. “Because anaphylaxis doesn’t cause autism.” 

“Well he must have had it-how else did he get autism?” 

Martha frowned. “From you or you partner-do you not know how genetics work?” 

“Leave it.” Mickey said. “There’s no reasoning with martyrs like her.” He said with a flick of his head.

The woman’s nostrils flared in anger. “How dare you-“

“How dare you not read a book.” Rose said. “Andrew Wakefield falsified data so he could patent his own MMR vaccine. He literally had his medical license stripped from him.” 

“Yeah, I barely got A-Levels and even I know this.” Donna said. 

“And you know what I have to say about this guy.” Jack stood up and pointed at his picket sign. “Boo eugenics.” 

Ten sighed. “This is why we need autistic rights.” 

“Boo eugenics.” The little boy, Oliver, said. 

The mother’s eyes opened wide and her jaw nearly dropped down to the floor as she looked at her son.

“At least we got through to someone.” Rose said. 

The woman huffed and pulled her son away. 

“Boo eugenics.” Oliver said again. “Boo eugenics.”

“And read a science journal!” Martha called after her. 

Jack snorted. “Fucking load on her.”

“When that kid started talking I got the feel she was about to keel over.” Mickey said. 

“Oh my son used to be non-verbal but I’ll never hear him say ‘I love you’ because some rat-arsed twenty-something taught him to say ‘boo eugenics’ instead and now that’s all he’ll say.” Donna said, doing a near perfect imitation of the woman. 

“Did I ever tell you that some days I really hate my life?” Ten asked. “Right, where’s that paper? I want to have another look at it.”

“Check it out.” Thirteen said, happily admiring a box. 

“It’s a box.” Eleven said. “From Amazon.” 

“Yeah, but it’s what’s inside the box.” Thirteen said happily. 

“What is inside the box?” Eleven asked. 

“You’ll see now.” Thirteen picked up a pen and used it to stab the tape open. She opened the box and her eyes went wide and a big smile passed across her face. “Oh brilliant!” 

“What is it?” Eleven asked. 

Thirteen pulled the contents of the box out and discarded the box. “Look!” She showed her item to Eleven. 

“A Barbie doll in a wheelchair.” Eleven said. 

“It is a Barbie in a wheelchair!” Thirteen said excitedly. “I’ve never seen a Barbie that looks like me before-it’s... so cool, Eleven! For the first time, I feel seen.” 

“You know who else is seen?” Eleven asked, looking at his phone. “Twelve.” 

“What’d you mean?” Thirteen asked. 

“According to Ten, it’s in the newspaper that Twelve and Missy are dating.” Eleven said. 

“Oh.” Thirteen shook her head and peeled the cardboard backing from her doll. “I’m going to miss him. Sometimes it’s nice having a brother like Twelve.” 

“What about Ten and I?” 

“Twelve’s scarier.” 

Eleven nodded in agreement. “True, true.” 

“But it was cool growing up with thirteen older brothers. Some of them even feared. It kept a lot of people off my back that normally would have bullied someone like me.” Thirteen said. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” Eleven said. 

“Really?” Thirteen cocked an eyebrow. “What about the social awkwardness, the impulsiveness, the fact that I had a help teacher, the orthoses-that I still wear, the walker that I had, the way I couldn’t take part in PE-“

“I get it, Thirteen.” Eleven said. “PE was hardly a cakewalk for me either, you know.” 

“But you’re not in a wheelchair.” Thirteen pointed out. “You don’t get the stares that I do. The mutters that I’m ‘faking’. The people groping me and my chair when I try and get on the Tube-which not all the stations are accessible, actually. The people trying to ‘help’ and getting huffy when you say ‘no, I’m fine’, like, my chair doesn’t have handles for a reason. And the catcalling. Ugh. I always try and have another guy with me when I go down the street.”

“No, you’re right.” Eleven said. “You have it worse. But not for long. Pretty sure the next time we see Twelve, he’ll be in a box.” 

“That’s if it’s an open casket.” Thirteen said. 

Eleven nodded. “Ooh yeah, good point.” 

“You’re dating Melissa Masters.” 

Twelve was standing in Three’s very spacious flat in Westminster, squeezing his hands on his cane. Also in the flat was one of Three’s friends, Jo. Despite that they had been doing an experiment for UNIT, Three had called Twelve over, specifically over the piece that had emerged in The Standard. 

Harry slammed a newspaper down on Missy’s coffee table. “You’re dating a Doctor?!” 

“I never said I was dating anyone.” Missy said. 

“You bloody well did and it’s right here.” Harry tapped his finger down on the paper. “You’re dating the blind one. Of all the people you could have dated, it was the blind Doctor! What’s his name-“

“Twelve.” Missy replied. “He’s not ‘the blind one’, his name is Twelve.” 

“Twelve.” Harry scoffed. “His name’s not actually Twelve. Says in here that it’s... Dougan.” 

Missy waved her hand dismissively. “They’re all numbered from William down to Jodie.” 

“Jodie’s the stupid wheelchair girl.”

“She has cerebral palsy, yes. But she’s not stupid.”

“She’s a Doctor, of course she’s stupid.” 

“What have they ever done to you, Harold?” Missy asked. “As I recall, you and Ten used to be friends.”

“Melissa, we’re not five years old anymore.” Harry said. “There’s a feud. Act like there’s one.”

“No.” Missy said. “No, I like Twelve.”

“I don’t know what you see in him and his grey hair and his stupid angry eyebrows. He can’t see you back he’s blind.”

“I’m very fucking aware that he’s blind, you know. The cane and the Braille books very much give it away.” Missy folded her arms. “Delgado used to be close with Three, you know. They were like brothers-“

“Then something happened and bam! We’re feuding.” Harry said. 

“Do you know what that something was?” Missy asked. 

“Er... no.” Harry admitted. 

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” 

“I’m not about to ask Delgado ‘hey, what happened between you and Jon Doctor?’ because chances are he’s not going to answer that question anyway.” 

“I want to know because it affects my relationship with Twelve.” Missy said. 

“I’m not asking.” Harry put his hands on his hips. 

“Fine.” Missy huffed slightly. “You can just, I don’t know, sit here watching Teletubbies. Like some kind of twenty year old baby.” She turned to the door to leave.

“Where are you going?” Harry snapped. “I wasn’t done talking with you.”

“I was.” Missy opened the door, walked out and slammed it after her. 

That evening, Twelve strapped his acoustic guitar to his back and grabbed his long cane ready to slip back out of the flat. 

“Where are you going?” Eleven asked. 

“Out.” Twelve said. “You didn’t care last weekend, why do you care now?”

“I know Three’s talked to you.” Eleven said. “And you’ve got your guitar-“

“Correction, one of my guitars.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“It’s Open Mic Night at the local.” Twelve said. “Thought I’d play fucking... Wonderwall or some shite.” 

“Do you want me to call Thirteen and we can go and see you?” Eleven offered.

“Where is Thirteen?” 

“Gone to stay at her friend Ryan’s. She came back earlier to get her mail. Took all her meds with her.” 

“You think she’s moved out?” 

“Nah, she’s got her beloved coat here and her spare wheelchair’s still in the closet.” 

“Right, well, I’m going out. And I don’t want you to follow me.” 

“Oh. Right, okay.” Eleven nodded. “I’ll just... call River then.”

“Call her then.” Twelve opened the door and walked out. 

Twelve knew the way to the Tube station. He had his Oyster card with him. There were very few routes Twelve had memorised, but the ones he did have memorised were to his work, to Westminster, to King’s Cross and to Euston. And now he would be stopping off at St James’s Park. 

Twelve always took more caution in the Tube stations. They were always full of people that would ignore that he was blind. Sure, he loved it when people ignored that, but not in places where he could fall down escalators and die. 

He knew his way down from the train station to the District line, that it would take him to Westminster, where he got off to work. St James’s Park was just the next stop along where he’d meet Missy. Another route he knew well was the route to Lewisham, where Missy (and Harry) lived (as well as to Croydon, where Four and Sarah lived). 

When the Tube came, Twelve asked the conductor to make sure it was going to St James’s Park (which it was), so he got on and sat down. He took his guitar off and put it between his legs and put his folded up cane in his lap. It was going to be a long journey of about forty minutes, so he took his earbuds out and started fiddling with his phone; listening to music and texts.

People generally took no notice. Until around halfway through the journey, a man put his hand on Twelve’s shoulder. 

Twelve took one of his earbuds out. “What?” He asked, almost aggressively. 

“I would like to pray for you.” 

Twelve groaned. He’d had nutters try and pray for his eyesight before. He’d always refused. This time was no exception. “No.” He said firmly and went to put his earbud back in. 

The man grabbed his hand to stop him and Twelve closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This guy was one of those guys. 

“I wouldn’t be doing my duty as a Christian if I didn’t pray for the less fortunate.” 

Twelve gritted his teeth as his mind filled with expletives that he wanted to scream at the man, but would also be screamed all over the rest of the Tube carriage. 

“Dear Lord, I pray that you heal this unfortunate blind man’s eyes and help him to-“

“Look mate, there’s fuck all wrong with my eyes.” Twelve hissed in a low voice. “Yes, I’m blind, but that’s because of fucking brain damage that I will not be healed from because guess fucking what? There’s no cure for brain damage! And surprise, fucking, surprise, I was actually cured of the disease that blinded me-I believe you may have heard of it it’s called meningitis.”

Twelve glowered at the man. “And if you don’t get your fucking hand off me right now, I will snap your fucking fingers off and shove them so far up your arse that you’ll have to have surgery to get them removed because there is no way you’re shitting them out yourself. Got that?” 

The man relinquished his grip on Twelve’s hand and gave a weak nod. “Yep.” He squeaked. He was so shocked; he’d never had a disabled person threaten him before. 

“Good.” 

“You’re disabled though-I thought you’d be happy to be cured by the hand of God with a miracle since your life is lesser to mine-“

Twelve’s jaw dropped. “Oh ho ho... fucking fuck me. My life is not lesser. After all, I’m not the useless fuck who harassed a random stranger on the Tube. You don’t fucking know me yet but I guarantee you will. And even if I did believe in God and his... Divine Plan, then he clearly fucking meant for me to become blind and it’s un-Christian-like or insulting to God some shite to not believe in that plan or whatever, right?”

“Um-“

“Good. Now we have that cleared up, get the fuck out of my residual sight.” Twelve put his earbud back in his ear and shook his head. At least that man hadn’t confused him for a beggar and offered him money.

Towards the end of the journey, Twelve took his earbuds out; he needed to hear where he was. Embankment. Two stops to St James’s Park.

The next stop was Westminster. He stood up, unfolded his cane and held his guitar between his legs. He put his arm around the handrail to brace himself. He couldn’t see much of... anything, but he could definitely feel they were about to stop. That and the Tube announcement said they would. 

The doors opened and Twelve picked up his guitar and stepped off the train along with around twenty other people. When he was safely on the platform, he swung his guitar over his shoulder and began to find his way out the maze of stairs and escalators. 

Twelve was alone. Most of the time, he liked that. Alone was great. 

Tube stations were not really a place he liked to be alone. And from what he’d heard from his friends and family, even the non-autistic, non-blind, and non-wheelchair users, the Tube could be daunting, especially on unfamiliar routes and stations. He did not know the St James’s Park Tube station like he knew the Westminster Tube station. Or the Lewisham DLR station. Or the Croydon Overground station. Yet he found his way out-mostly by groping walls and ticket barriers. 

“Twelve.” Missy said in concern. “What the hell did you call me here for?” 

“Missy. Missy, they know.” 

“Who knows what?”

“Three knows.” Twelve said. “Jo Grant knows. And apparently some guy they work with called Benton. He knows.”

“Yeah, Harry knows too.” 

“It’s going to come out.” 

“Why did you tell Sarah Jane Smith?”

“You talked to her too.” Twelve said. 

Missy sighed. “What now then? Go on to Victoria and elope while watching Hamilton?” 

“Vegas.” Twelve suggested. 

“I’m being serious.” Missy said.

“So am I. We’ll stay there.” Twelve said. “Eight’s living out in California with his girlfriend and their friends so it’s not like we’ll be alone out there. And apparently one of them’s Irish.” 

“I don’t care about Irish people, Twelve.” 

“Yeah, neither do I really.” Twelve said. “I mean I don’t not care about them. But... What I mean to say is that I have no strong feelings-or connection-to Ireland.”

“I’m not moving to California.” Missy said

“Why not? They have a Disneyland.” Twelve pointed out. 

“I don’t want to go to Disneyland. Twelve, just listen to yourself.” Missy said. 

“I don’t want to.” Twelve admitted. 

Missy sighed. “Come on. There’s a bench here. Let’s just sit down and talk this through.” 

“I don’t want to talk.” Twelve said. 

“And I don’t want to run away.” Missy said. She took Twelve’s guitar off and pulled him down onto the bench.

“I don’t know what else there is to do.” Twelve admitted, putting his head in his hands. 

“Come on. It’s August. It’s evening. We’re in St James’s Park.” Missy said. “You brought your guitar-“

“As an alibi because Eleven asked where I was going.” Twelve said. “I told him I was going to the local, not into London city itself.” 

“Why does that matter so much?” Missy asked. “You’re twenty in three days.”

“Three days.” Twelve moaned. “I’ll be in work then.” 

“I thought Parliament was in recess-“

“It is but I’m not a politician, I’m a civil servant, therefore I have to keep working.” 

Missy frowned. “Mean.” 

“Mean.” Twelve nodded in agreement. He lifted his head from his hands as a thought occurred to him. “Mean.” He repeated, opening his guitar case. 

“What... what are you doing?” Missy asked. 

“You said ‘mean’ and that gave me an idea.” Twelve said. He pulled his guitar out and gently strummed to check that the strings sounded right. “So... what should I play?” 

“Morning all.” It was Nicky Morgan’s voice. “Now I know we’re all supposed to be in recess. And I’m supposed to be in the East Midlands. But as you all know, Brexit’s coming up in about eighty-something days and quite I’d rather us leave with a deal. And I’m not quite sure where I’m going with this. But, uh... yes. Let’s get to work.” 

Twelve turned back to his computer and grabbed his mouse, putting his other hand back on the Braille display, ready to log onto the Internet. 

That plan was scuppered, however as Nicky Morgan approached, and addressed, him personally. 

“Erm, Doctor.” 

Twelve instinctively turned his head to let her know he was listening-he could still feel what he was doing on the computer anyway, thanks to the refreshable Braille display. 

“Earlier this morning, the Opposition Communications Director was hit by a car on The Mall.” She explained. “Probably not looking where he was going because he was giving someone a bollocking on the phone.”

“Oh right.” Twelve nodded. 

“Tweet a nice tribute or... something.” Mrs Morgan was still settling into her new job and it came through. Either that, or she had something against Labour. Which of course she would, she’s a Tory.

“Is he dead?” Twelve asked. 

“I actually don’t know. It’s just on the news that it had happened.” 

“Alright. I’ll Tweet something so heartfelt, in two hundred and forty characters, that I you’ll get a lump in your throat when you read it.”

“Watch the sarcasm around me, Doctor.” Mrs Morgan said.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic, Minister.” Twelve said. 

“Just get on with the Tweet.” With that, she walked away. Presumably to her office. 

“Nobody’s even noticed I’m twenty.” Twelve mumbled before getting on with the task. 

Ten 

@everyone, it was Twelve’s birthday yesterday. He turned 20 and spent it being berated by Three. So we’re having a surprise belated party today and we want to make it a good one. 

Rory

I’m at work. 

Ten

You’re always at work. 

Rory

I’m a nursing student on placement-I don’t know what you expect

Eleven sat down on the sofa, put his feet up on the coffee table, turned on the TV and set the channel to BBC News. 

“-is very effective at his job, of course. I have asked him to tone down the swearing and the threats, but it seems his reputation-“

“What are you watching?” Ten asked. 

“Oh, it’s Jeremy Corbyn.” Eleven pointed at the TV screen. “A BBC journalist ambushed him outside his home.” 

“Antisemitism?” Ten asked, taking a seat next to Eleven on the sofa. 

“Not this time, no.” Eleven said. “His spin doctor’s been hit by a car or something. Twelve just texted me.” 

“Well that’s a surprise.” Ten said. 

“Time for a reminder of the headlines; Protests in Hong Kong-“

“Hong Kong’s made the headlines every day for the last few weeks now.” Eleven said. 

“Home Secretary Priti Patel-“

Ten grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. 

“Hey!” Eleven protested. “I was watching that!” 

“You’re supposed to be planning a birthday party for Twelve, though.” Ten said. “This is so typical of you. Take your Ritalin.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” Eleven asked. 

“Then I’ll prise open your mouth, put the pills in myself and massage your throat so they go down.” Ten said. 

“Yeah...” Eleven stood up. “I’m going to get to party planning...” He walked to the front door and opened it to see River standing with her arms folded. 

“Hello, Sweetie.” She greeted. 

“Hey, River.” Eleven half-heartedly greeted back. 

“So tell me,” River said, ignoring Eleven’s tone, “how you’re going to host a party for a blind man.”

Ten rubbed the back of his head. “Maybe I didn’t think it through.” 

“Maybe?” Eleven fiddled with his glasses. “It was a terrible idea.” 

“We can’t just say it’s off though.” Ten said. 

“Just don’t get any bright bunting and I think you’ll be okay.” River said. 

“I’ve asked Clara for help. She’s his friend so she’d know what he likes.” 

“You’re his brother, you should know what he likes.” 

“He keeps to himself, honestly.” Eleven said. “Unless he plays guitar or shouts at one of us, we don’t really hear from him.” 

“Yeah, that’s true.” Ten said. “Since he took that job as a social media manager for the government, we don’t see him as much as we used to.” 

“But you want to have a party anyway because he’s your brother.” River said. “I can understand that.” 

“I just figured he’d enjoy a gathering with his friends.” Eleven said. 

“You’d best find out who’s coming then.” Ten said. 

“I’ll make a list.” Eleven said. 

“Now.” Ten said. 

Eleven picked up his phone and sat back down on the sofa. “Relax, I’m making the list.” 

“Okay.” Ten said. “I’ll go to Asda and get the cake and some food.”

“Why not Tesco?” Eleven asked. 

“Asda’s closer.” Ten said. He grabbed his key and swiftly left the flat. 

River picked up a notepad and a pen from the table and sat next to Eleven. “Alright, who’s coming so far?” 

“Erm... me, Ten, you...” Eleven looked down at his phone. “Clara. Jack and those Welsh friends of his-“

“How many Welsh friends has he got?” River asked. She was taking notes. 

“I...’m not sure.” Eleven counted on his fingers. “I think five.” 

“I’m assuming Thirteen’s coming.” River said.

“Yeah, I cant imagine she wouldn’t.” Eleven reasoned. “Kate and Rory can’t make it, but the Osgoods might.” 

“Osgoods... question mark.” River muttered to herself. “Alright, is anyone else coming?” 

“Bill and Missy have both just confirmed.” Eleven said. His phone pinged in his hand and he looked down at it. “Oh and Bill says her girlfriend’s coming too.” 

River scribbled their names down in the notebook. “Great. That’s...” she paused as she counted under her breath. “Twelve.”

Eleven’s phone pinged again. “Mickey and Martha send their regards, but can’t make it tonight. It’s their anniversary.”

“Two years already?” 

“Yep, two years.” Eleven said. He looked over at River, who was still taking notes, and he bit his lip. 

He knew that he loved River. He loved her immensely. And sure they’d had their fights-what couple hadn’t? But it was almost that exact moment he realised what he wanted out of their relationship. 

His phone pinging snapped him from his thoughts. “Oh um... Donna’s coming. And so is Nardole-seriously, where did he come from?” 

“I don’t know, Sweetie, he exists, just leave it at that.” River said, adding the names to the list. 

“Do you know if Amy’s coming?” Eleven asked. 

“I don’t.” River said. “I just let her get on with her own life. Make her own choices.” 

Eleven shrugged. He could understand that. 

“So who hasn’t responded yet?” 

“Erm...” Eleven scrolled up through the conversation. “Ryan, Rose, Amy, Ashildr And Yaz.” 

“Alright, let’s put them down as ‘maybe’ and get this thing underway.” River finished her list and put the pen and notebook down. 

Later on in the afternoon, Clara made her way over to the flat and knocked on the door.

Eleven answered. “Clara, hello.” He greeted. 

“I got some stuff here for Twelve’s party.” Clara said. “Just some music and some decorations-stuff that he can touch rather than see. So no rainbow coloured bunting.” 

“Shame, I like rainbow coloured bunting.” 

“Wouldn’t work for a blind man, would it?” Clara asked, stepping inside. 

“No, I suppose not.” Eleven agreed. 

“Hey, Clara.” Ten greeted. “I’m just setting up the table now.” 

“I can see.” Clara nodded. “Is that a chocolate cake?” 

“Twelve likes chocolate cake.” Ten said. “And crisps. And Fanta.”  He pointed towards the two bowls full of crisps either side of the traybake chocolate cake and three 2L bottles of Asda Orange Crush at the very end of the table. 

“Fanta?” 

“It’s Asda brand Fanta.” Ten said. “More radioactive looking and less... Fanta like. But it’s cheap, so...” he shrugged. 

“And the crisps are cheap too?” Clara asked.

“Asda’s own brand.” Ten confirmed. 

“Why not get the real brands?”

“Well, Twelve’s the only one of us who’s actually earning a wage.” Eleven explained. “Thirteen gets her student loans and Ten and I used to get them. Now we don’t. We’ve graduated. But we get benefits.” 

“You get benefits.” Ten said. “I’ve signed on. So yeah, we can only afford the cheap stuff.” 

“That’s actually... Sad.” 

“Well, welcome to life with a disability. You make your family poor, you yourself are poor and the government only works to make you either poorer still, homeless or, best case scenario, you kill yourself by age thirty.” Ten said. “I’m cracking on with life. I’m twenty-one now. I want a job. But what do you do with an English degree?” 

“Be a teacher.” Clara said. “I’m getting my degree in English and I want to be a teacher.” 

“Great, let’s say we both apply for the teaching job-who are they going to hire?” Ten asked. “Me, the autistic person who’s socially awkward, childish and often says things at inappropriate times? Or you, who’s normal?” 

“It’s hardly a conspiracy, Clara, but nobody ever does hire autistic people.” Eleven added. 

Clara walked over to the shelf where Twelve’s cards were. Some of them had raised images, tactile images and large font, others were in Braille. “Let’s just get this party set up.” She said, quietly considering what Ten and Eleven had just said to her. 

Twelve had had a long day at work. He was starting to dislike his boss, who seemed to be asking him for overly political requests and he hated that because it absolutely, categorically was not his place to get involved in Party political matter. He was in the Civil Service and his was his job to remain politically neutral. No matter how much he hated the Party in office. 

He walked as he normally did; trying to look confident as he passed through the Tube stations with his long cane in front, rolling across the floor checking for obstacles and feet. Twelve didn’t just hate the Party in power. He hated people too. Especially when they grabbed him out of the blue. 

“Here, let me help.” It sounded like a man’s voice, but Twelve couldn’t be sure. 

“No.” Twelve said adamantly. 

“Excuse me?” The person sounded affronted. 

“You heard me. I said no.” Twelve said. “I don’t need help. And I certainly don’t need you grabbing me in a place where if I lose my balance, I could fall to my death in front of thousands of people. And by the way, touching me? That’s assault. I could get you done for that if I call 101.”

“Look, mate, I’m just trying to help-I know if I was the tragic blind person, I’d need someone to-“ 

“I wouldn’t fucking piss on you if you were on fire. Now fuck off.” Twelve said. “And let go of my arm.” 

The person let go of his arm instantly. “I thought you people were supposed to be-“

“Blind people are not fucking homogeneous with other disabled people. Nor are we all fucking angels. Now let go of the cane or I call a TFL attendant who will call the police for me.” 

The person let go of the cane. 

“That’s what I thought.” Twelve said. He lowered his sunglasses and glowered at the person, who scuttled away. “Wanker.” He muttered to himself and carried on with his commute. 

Twelve found his way down to the platform he needed-at least he hoped he had. When a TFL worker approached him, asking him if he needed help, Twelve responded with; “Is this the District Line to Upminster?” 

“It is indeed, the train will be arriving in around three minutes.” 

“Alright, thanks.” Twelve said. 

“No problem.” The worker then walked away, leaving Twelve to wonder why all his conversations couldn’t be like that. 

At the flat, everyone was gathering, getting ready to surprise Twelve. 

Clara had put up decorations with different textures and at touch level so Twelve could feel them. Ten had put out a spread of finger foods including crisps, pizza, onion rings, sausage rolls, fruit and crackers and in the centre of the spread was a chocolate traybake birthday cake. Eleven had set up the music Clara had brought. It was all on her Spotify account, but he had set up the speakers to her mobile. 

Roadrunner by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers was playing as they hurried to put the finishing touches on the gathering in their small flat (though River, Rory and Amy had offered their flat up as an extra space). 

“Do you think Twelve will appreciate this?” Bill asked as she and Heather entered the flat. 

“Given that he spent yesterday being shouted at by Three, I’m gonna say this will probably be a welcome change.” Ten said. He was pouring the Asda own brand orangeade into the plastic cups Donna had brought with her. 

“Sometimes I feel bad for Twelve. Like he doesn’t catch a break.” Heather said. “Anyway, we brought a present.” 

“Yeah, we meant to come round yesterday with it. Only we forgot.” Bill said with an awkward chuckle. 

“Just leave it on the coffee table.” Ten said.

“When’s Twelve coming anyway?” Donna asked. She was sitting on the sofa. 

Eleven looked at his watch. “Erm, he’s due in around ten minutes, I think.” 

“You’re telling me we’re early?” Bill asked. 

“You could always help out in the kitchen.” Clara said. “Or help River and Amy next door. Or wait with Donna on the sofa.” 

“Who else is next door?” Heather asked. 

“Thirteen, Yaz, Ryan and River and Amy.” Clara said. 

“Yeah, I’ll wait on the sofa.” Bill said, sitting down next to Donna. 

Next door, Ryan and Yaz were blowing up balloons. Ryan was blowing up the balloons with a pump, while Yaz was tying them. Amy was pinning the balloons up, trying to make the flat look festive. It wasn’t working. While Thirteen was packing party favour bags. 

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do what you’ve been talking about?” Yaz asked as she tied a balloon off.

“Yeah, what about your brothers?” Ryan added. 

“Twelve’s already twenty and the twins are twenty-one.” Thirteen said. “They’ve got their own girlfriends. Their own lives.” 

Ryan handed another balloon to Yaz. “Which you’re not a hindrance to.” 

“Never said I was.” Thirteen ripped open a pack of cheap yo-yos. 

“Why are you-the yo-yos.” Yaz said. “Twelve’s blind. Isn’t that insensitive?” 

Thirteen shook her head. “It’s not insensitive to Twelve. He likes yo-yos. Blind people can play with yo-yos.” 

“I know it’s insensitive to me.” Ryan said. “Don’t put one in my bag.” 

“What should I put in yours then, Ryan?” Thirteen asked. 

“Anything but a yo-yo.” Ryan replied. “I mean I only just learned how to ride a bike. I’m not about to go learning how to yo-yo as well.” 

“So you’re really going to do it?” River asked, coming from her bedroom. “You’re going to move out?”

“Don’t tell Ten, Eleven and Twelve, but yes.” Thirteen said. 

“We’ve been looking at flats together in Dagenham.” Yaz said. 

“You’ll be seeing a lot of Eleven then.” Amy said. “Rory’s father lives there. Moved here to be closer to him while he was at uni or something.” 

“What’s that got to do with Eleven? I thought he was seeing River?” Ryan asked. 

“He is.” Amy said. “He’s friends with Rory and I too and through Rory, well, he’s friends with Rory’s dad. Kind of.” 

“He’s a weird person, isn’t he?” Ryan said. 

“Yeah, he’s unusual.” Amy agreed. “Childish. Kind of just saunters around the place like he owns it. He’s funny though, he’s my best friend for a reason.”

“Yeah, well, he befriends who he wants to and tries his best to help everyone.” River said. “That’s why I like him.” 

Thirteen just shrugged. “His bow tie’s embarrassing.” 

River walked over to the door and glanced out. “Missy’s coming. Twelve can’t be far behind.” 

“Shit.” Amy exclaimed. “Let’s just... finish up here. Last balloon.” 

River walked out of her flat to next door, where Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run was now playing. “Hello, Missy.” 

“River Song.” Missy greeted. “Any idea where Twelve is?”

River looked at her phone. “He’s due back in about two minutes. Provided the District Line is running on time.” 

“The District Line is running on time.” Twelve said, appearing behind them. “River. Missy. Are you not going to tell me what’s going on? Or are you going to make me guess?” 

“Guess?” River said with a shrug. 

“Only I bumped into the Osgoods outside.” 

River glowered at Missy. 

‘I never saw the Osgoods.’ Missy mouthed. 

“Something about a... surprise party.” Twelve said. “That and the uh...” He sniffed and his nose twitched. “There’s a smell of cake. And cheese and onion crisps. And Fanta... and Bruce Springsteen’s playing.” 

“Okay, yeah, this is a party.” Missy said. “But they only held it because they were worried about you with what happened yesterday.” 

“Nothing happened yesterday, I’m fine.” Twelve pushed past and folded up his cane. “I mean I did turn twenty.” 

“Yes, it was your birthday and now we’re having a party.” Eleven said. “Come on, we worked hard here.” 

“I worked harder than you did.” Clara said. 

“Clara!” Twelve exclaimed. “Good to see you.” 

“Figuratively?” Clara asked.

“Figuratively. And literally.” Twelve replied. 

Heather stood up from the sofa. “Hey, Twelve.” 

“Sorry we missed your birthday yesterday.” Bill stood up with the present and put it in Twelve’s hand. 

“It’s just a little small... thing.” Heather said. 

“Oh. Thanks.” Twelve said, trying his best to sound sincere. “I just want to get out of these stupid clothes.” He said, referring to his suit, minus the tie. He hated having to wear ties, ties always felt wrong. 

“Oh, okay.” Bill nodded, trying not to sound hurt.

Twelve walked around the flat carefully, just in case he bumped into someone. He did bump into Donna. 

“Shoot, I’m sorry.” Donna said, stepping out of the way. 

“It’s fine.” Twelve said. He opened the door and stepped inside the bedroom only to slam the door shut. 

“Well... that went well.” Ashildr said. She’d been standing next to Rose by the food table with a cup of orangeade. 

“Is that it?” Thirteen asked from the front door. “Party over?” 

“Party over.” Ten confirmed. 

“Well that sucks.” Amy said. 

“Twelve’s touchy like that.” Missy said. “Something must have happened at work.” 

“Do you hear a guitar?” Rose asked. 

“Yeah, it’s Thin Lizzy.” Eleven said. 

“I’m not referring to The Boys Are Back In Town. I’m referring to... something else.” Rose said. 

“If you asked Twelve to reproduce this riff, could he?” Bill asked. “Like, I know he can play guitar and he can do it pretty well, but would be be able to play this riff?” 

“I can play anything.” Twelve said from inside the bedroom. He re-emerged wearing his electric guitar across his body and without his suit jacket. Though with his shirt still tucked in his trousers. 

“Can you play this?” Bill asked. 

Eleven paused the music. 

Twelve positioned his fingers on the fretboard of the guitar and first played the chords before settling down into the riff, which he was able to do with ease and without missing a note. 

“I wish I could play guitar.” Rose said. 

“Ah it wasn’t easy to play.” Twelve said, still playing. “I had to convince my brothers to let me play. One said no. Two said no and handed me a recorder. Three said no. Months I pestered them. Four eventually said yes.” He stopped playing. “I’ve actually been playing guitar longer than I’ve been using my long cane. Muscle memory, see.” 

Twelve began playing a familiar guitar solo. A familiar solo to Missy anyway since she began singing along. 

“Four am in the morning, carried away by a moonlight shadow. I watched your vision forming, carried away by a moonlight shadow. Stars roll slowly in a silvery night.”

Twelve joined in. “Far away on the other side, will you come to terms with me this night? But she couldn't find how to push through.” 

“Carried away by a moonlight shadow...” 

Twelve finished the solo and everyone applauded. 

“Er... thanks.” Twelve said. 

“Twelve, that’s really good.” Amy said. 

“You should be a professional.” Heather said. 

“I wouldn’t say I’m quite that good.” Twelve said. 

“Yeah, but that’s really good for a blind guy.” Donna said. 

Twelve sighed at the backhanded compliment-if it could even be called a compliment. 

“It’s got nothing to do with him being blind.” River said. “He’s just a natural guitarist anyway.” 

“Yeah.” Missy nodded in agreement. “Twelve’s an amazing guitarist. And he’s just as good as any sighted amateur guitarist.” She turned to Twelve. “Go on. Show them. Play that weird instrumental song you love from the 60s.” 

“Jessica?” Twelve asked.

“No, the one that’s not the theme song to Top Gear.” Missy said.

“That’ll be Classical Gas then.” Twelve took his electric guitar off. 

“I’ll get your acoustic guitar.” Clara offered. 

“I have more than one acoustic guitar, Clara.” Twelve said. “And more than one electric guitar. I have a few.” 

“I’m your bezzie mate!” Clara said. “I think I know which one you want.” 

“You know, I’m not in the mood for more guitar.” Twelve said. “I’d rather just do some eating.” 

“If you’re sure.” Ten said. “I’ll pop the music back on.” 

“Fine by me.” Twelve said. 

Ten put Clara’s Spotify playlist back on-I Fought The Law. The Clash’s cover, of course. 

“You really know what kind of music I like, Clara.” Twelve said. 

“Rock and punk.” Clara said as if it were obvious. 

“Rock and punk.” Twelve nodded. 

“What song was that you were singing?” Amy asked Missy. 

“Moonlight Shadow.” Missy replied. “It’s an old eighties song.” 

“Why that specific song though?” Amy asked.

“It’s our song.” Missy said. 

“It’s so... depressing.” 

“Yeah well, we’re being pulled apart by circumstance.” Missy said. “Just because our families hate each other over some stupid feud Three Doctor and my oldest brother Delgado got into years ago.” 

“You feel helpless.” Amy said. 

“I don’t feel helpless.” Missy lied. “Maybe Twelve does, but-“ 

“Hey, everyone! I brought biscuits!”

Almost everyone turned to look at the portly, bald young man at the front door. 

“Fucking Nardole.” Twelve muttered. “Come in.” He said at his normal volume. “Might as well join us, aye. Just don’t touch my cake. I want to stress eat that later.” 

“Uh...”

“Give it to me or I will ram it where the sun doesn’t shine-“

Jamie grabbed Malcolm’s arm. “Malc! Stop it! You’re acting more erratic than usual-what the fuck’s got into you?”

Malcolm turned and glared at Jamie. 

“That move won’t fucking work on me, mate.” 

Malcolm turned back to the driver. “If you call the cops or an ambulance or the fucking AA, I swear to FUCK it’ll be the last mistake you’ll ever make. Now drive.” 

“Don’t drive, stay there.” Jamie said. “Malcolm.” He pulled Malcolm to the wall. “Jesus H. Christ I think your shoulder’s fuckin dislocated.”

“It’s not. I’m fine.” Malcolm lied. He was starting to feel a horrible burning pain at the top of his arm. “Let’s just go to headquarters, yeah?” 

“I think Corbyn’s gonna send you to a hospital if he sees the fuckin state o you.” 

“Fuck Corbyn. I’m a big boy now. He’s my boss, not my father.” Malcolm took a step forward, but his knee almost buckled under him. 

“Jesus fuck.” Jamie muttered, lunging forward to catch his friend. 

“I’m fine, Jamie.” Malcolm said, a little bit more aggressively. “I mean I just got hit by a fucking car so I’m hardly getting on a Boris Bike any time soon, but I’m not a fucking... dead man fucking walking. Jesus Christ.” 

“Mate, I’m taking you to fuckin casualty.” Jamie said. “I’m not having you fuckin slipping into a fuckin coma gone brain dead on a life support machine and being fed through a fucking tube.”

“That’d be a great time actually.” Malcolm said. “Finally get some fucking peace rather than constantly being on my guard for fucking antisemitism.”

“Where’s the nearest?” 

“St Thomas’s. Through uh... there,” Malcolm pointed to St James’s Park, “and uh... past the bridge-y thing.” He couldn’t think properly-the pain in his arm was much worse and had spread across his shoulder, chest and neck. It was overtaking all of his thoughts and all he could focus on was the pain. 

“You’re not making sense.” Jamie said. 

“No. I-I am.” Malcolm insisted. “I know it.” 

“Your eyes are glazed over. I’m fucking calling a fucking ambulance.” Jamie said, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. He hit the numbers 999 and put his phone to his ear. “I need an ambulance please.”

“Jamie, no, please don’t fucking do this.” Malcolm practically begged, but was interrupted by Jamie putting his finger up to stop him. 

“Hello, yes. I was just walking down the street with my friend. He was hit by a car.” Jamie lowered his hand and looked over at Malcolm. “He’s acting funny and his eyes are like... glassy. I think he might have broken his arm. Maybe his neck too, he’s holding that funny.” He paused to listen to the operator. “Erm... We’re on The Mall right now. Up at the Trafalgar Square end, by the ICA-Malcolm!” 

Malcolm had collapsed back on the ground, causing more people to look-some were in the earlier crowd. 

“Jesus Christ, why do you do this to me?” Jamie muttered, kneeling down to him. “No, I-he just... he just collapsed. Fell down to the ground. Er... no, I don’t-his eyes aren’t open. I don’t think he’s conscious. It happened earlier too.” He put his fingers on Malcolm’s neck to check for a pulse. “Yeah, there’s a heartbeat. It’s very fast-should it be fast? Oh-okay.” He then put ear to Malcolm’s chest to check for breathing. “Definitely breathing. I think he just... fainted.”

Jeremy Corbyn, the Leader of the Opposition, was still in his house, getting ready to leave for work that morning. His phone kept ringing, but each time, it was his Shadow Home Secretary Diane Abbott, so he sent it to voicemail while he piled up his papers and shooed away El Gato until he couldn’t ignore the calls anymore. 

“Diane.” 

“Jeremy, thank god you answered this time.”

“Something wrong?” He asked. 

“Tucker-Malcolm Tucker, your senior press guy-he’s just had an accident.” 

“What kind of accident?” 

“A pretty serious one.” Diane said. “According to Jamie MacDonald, he was hit by a car, he’s out cold and they’re waiting an ambulance.” 

Jeremy leaned up against the wall and put his head in his hand. He needed his spin doctor. Yes, he was aggressive and sweary and lots of other things, but he couldn’t afford to lose him. Not right now. Not as the Opposition were about to take on Boris Johnson. 

“Jeremy?” 

“I’m here, Diane.” Jeremy said. “What happens now?” 

“You’ve got Jamie and your other advisors. Oh and the press are probably going to hound you about that, so good luck.” 

“Morning, Boris.” Priti Patel greeted, walking into his office at Number 10. “Heard the news?” 

“What news?” Boris asked. “Your tough on crime news?” 

“No.” Priti said. “Well that too.” She leaned towards him. “It’s Malcolm Tucker. There’s been an accident.” 

Boris’s eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.”

“I am not.” Priti said. 

“Oh, don’t tell me he’s finally had that massive aneurysm he’s been working towards? Those bulging veins in his head he gets when he shouts, they’ve finally burst and killed him, right?” Boris asked.

“You’re The Prime Minister, you should be checking the news.”

Boris picked up his phone and unlocked it to check the news app. 

“He was hit by a car-parts of The Mall are cordoned off.” Priti said. “What do I say about that if the BBC ask? ‘We can’t rule out terrorism as a motivation’?” 

“Jesus Christ.” Boris slammed his phone on his desk. “This is going to be top news all day, Priti, not your crime policy.”

“Why’d you think I’m here?” Priti asked. “Get your press people and spin doctor onto it.”

“Oh and how the hell do they spin this?” Boris asked. 

“I don’t know, but I’m not a press person nor am I your spin doctor. What I am is the Secretary of State for the Home Department,” Priti began, “and I have a policy coming out about prisons today so that should be top news and not... not Jeremy Corbyn’s top bloody press man being in a coma or whatever-and even if he dies from this, I want my prisons policy to be top news.” 

“I’d love nothing more than that too.” Boris said. “We’re the ones in government. I’m the Prime Minister now. I run the country. It should be us in the news and not Jeremy Corbyn. Unless it’s smearing him for antisemitism or being in the IRA.” 

“Get your press people onto this.” Priti said. 

Boris picked up his phone. “Right on it.” 

Jamie entered St Thomas’s hospital out of breath and stopped at the A&E reception. “I need to-I need... fuck me. I need to see... Malcolm Tucker.” He said, panting heavily. 

The receptionist frowned as if she recognised the name, which she probably did, and tapped something into her computer. Leaving Jamie to catch his breath at the counter, she turned to one of her colleagues. 

“You don’t know if we have a Malcolm Tucker in, do you?” 

“Like the politician?” The other woman asked. 

“I think he means the politician.” 

“There’s a Tucker outside of resus. Not sure if it’s the same one or even if they have the same first name. If that helps.” 

“Yeah, it’s the same one.” A porter said as he passed. “Malcolm Tucker, the politician guy. Hit by a car-saw it on the news when I passed by the waiting area.” 

The first woman turned back to Jamie. “You’ll find him outside resus.” 

“Er... where’s that?” Jamie asked.

“I can take you.” The porter said. “Come on.” 

Jamie followed the other man down the corridor. 

“So how’d you know this politician guy?” 

“Oh uh, we work together.” Jamie answered. “For uh... the Leader of the Opposition.” 

“So you’re a politician guy too?” 

“... yes.” Jamie said. “Except neither of us are politicians. We just work in politics.”

The two walked in silence as they turned a corner and walked down another corridor. 

“Alright, resus is just around the corner. Good luck.” 

“Thank you.” Jamie said. He hurried down the corridor and turned the corner to see a doctor and a nurse standing by a gurney outside. The man on the gurney was Malcolm, still in his suit, but strapped up and immobilised with a spinal board, a neck brace and head blocks, looking rather pitiful.

“Malcolm! Thank fuck I found you.” Jamie stopped at Malcolm’s side. “Fucking fuck me, you look like shit.” He said, noting the visible bruising and grazing on Malcolm’s face. 

“I’ve been hit by a fuckin’ car, Jamie.” Malcolm said. “I’m flat on my back here because you said I broke my fuckin’ neck, you twat.” 

“Well, you might have.” Jamie argued. “I’m not gettin into that right now but, well... look, it’s all over the fuckin’ news that you’re hurt.” 

“No doubt Boris and his government are fucking... celebrating, yes?” Malcolm asked. 

“Na, they’re fuckin Twittering what a great bloke ye are.” Jamie held his phone over Malcolm’s head and scrolled through them. “Even after ye threatened to fuckin flay their skin off.” 

“Insulting someone while they’re in the hospital is never a good move.” Malcolm pointed out. A pained expression passed across his face. 

“Somethin wrong, Malc?”

“Besides the pain?” 

Jamie opened his mouth to answer, but through the resus doors came another person on a gurney alongside a doctor. 

Malcolm’s doctor had a message on his pager and looked at it. “Alright, Mr Tucker, we’re bringing you through now.” 

“Help me, Jamie.” Malcolm said as he was pushed through the resus doors. 

“I can’t.” Jamie said, mostly to himself, as Malcolm was taken out of view. 

Jeremy was in a meeting with Diane and the Shadow Culture Secretary (and deputy leader of the Opposition), Tom Watson, when his phone started ringing. 

“You should get that.” Diane said. 

“Yes.” Jeremy nodded and answered his phone. “Hello? Oh Jamie, yes. How’s Malcolm?” He nodded again as he listened. “That bad?”

“What’s happening?” Tom asked. 

Jeremy put his finger over the receiver. “He’s over at St Thomas’s and they’re treating Malcolm for spinal injuries.”

“Spinal injuries?” Diane muttered.

“I’m sorry, Jamie, I didn’t quite-could you repeat that?” Jeremy asked. “Oh. Oh. Oh no. Is he going to be okay? Come back here and make sure it stays out of the hands of the press then. Alright. See you in half an hour.” 

“Tucker’s in a coma, is he?” Tom asked. 

“No, the BBC are at the hospital.” Jeremy said. 

“Christ, that’s not good.” Diane said.  

“I think we should wait for Jamie to come back and then draft a statement.” Jeremy said. “After all, he knows better than us Malcolm’s condition.” 

Diane nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Focus on the Tories first. Then Malcolm.” 

“And back to the Tories.” Tom said. “We’re still going to go ahead with the plan, right?” 

“Of course. It has to be done.” Jeremy said. “Tom, you know you’ll have to look into the legalities of what we’re about to do.” 

“Of course.” 

“Look for any loophole, any archaic law. Anything. Brexit must be stopped at all costs.” Jeremy said. 

As soon as Jamie stepped outside the hospital, the media frenzy started. 

“Mr MacDonald! Mr MacDonald!”

“-Malcolm Tucker-“ 

“-you were there-“

“-hit by a car-“

“-potential spinal injuries-“

“-comatose-“ 

“-surgery-“

“-broken bones-“

The overlapping voices became too much for Jamie, who pushed through the crowd of journalists with their microphones and notepads, trying to get information out of him. Ghouls. The lot of them. 

Jamie grit his teeth and balled his fists, not realising he was doing so. “No comment.” He said, sounding more angry than he’d liked to, but again, he didn’t realise what he was doing. 

“I’ve got nothing to say. No comment. Let me through.” 

“But Malcolm Tucker’s unconscious-“

“I’m just trying to get to my Uber so I can get to work.” 

“Mr MacDonald!”

“Malcolm Tucker-“

“-he deserves-“

“-is he dying?”

“Oh just get the fuck out of my way, you useless wankers!” Jamie physically pushed a BBC news camera out of his face, knocking it down to the ground. “And fuck you, Laura Kuenssberg.” 

Jamie slipped into the back seat of his Uber and shut the door after him. “Fucking parasites.” He said, noting the reporters still harassing him out the window. 

“You’re going to-“ 

“Hang on a minute.” Jamie said. He pushed a button that lowered the rear window. 

“Mr MacDonald! Have you got anything to say about Malcolm Tucker’s hospitalisation-it’s known to Sky News that the two of you are friends-“ 

“Oh go and harass Eddie Redmayne on the Tube-I hear he’s at Cockfosters today.” 

“Mr MacDonald, what about-“ 

Jamie flicked the overzealous Sky reporter a V sign. Then he made another rude gesture; the Wanker sign. 

“Okay. Now drive.” He said, closing the window.

Some time later, Jamie arrived at headquarters and walked into the meeting room. He was trying to hold himself together with his worry because he had to focus on his job. 

“Jamie.” Diane greeted. 

“If anything happens to Malc, his sister’s gonna call me.” Jamie said. “So what’s happening here?” 

“We were just making a plan to stop a no-deal Brexit.” Jeremy said. “We can make a statement about Malcolm and get back to these plans later.” 

“What would you even say in that statement?” Jamie asked. 

“You’re the senior media advisor.” Diane said. 

“Oh shit I am.” Jamie exclaimed. “Alright.” He took a seat at the table with Diane and Jeremy. “Well,” he picked up a notepad and a pen, “we should start with the basics. Malcolm Tucker was hit by a car on The Mall. He hit his head... and was knocked out-briefly.” He scribbled down in journalist shorthand. “He got up and walked around for a bit before acting erratically and falling down unconscious again. An ambulance was called, so was the police. The driver, as far as I know, is being questioned by police, who have appealed for witnesses.” 

“I though you were a witness?” Jeremy asked. 

“Yeah, and I’ll have to talk to the police later.” Jamie said. “Alright, the paramedics arrived. Malcolm was awake by then. The blue lights were called and another ambulance came and took Malcolm to St Thomas’s Hospital, where he is being treated for a head injury and a potential spinal injury.” 

“Alright.” Jeremy nodded. “Draft that statement.” 

“Aye.” Jamie said. He stood up and took the notepad and walked out of the room. 

“That’s great. Thanks.” Jamie said. He was standing outside the now-vacant Palace of Westminster. The press were gathered in front of him and Jeremy Corbyn was about to make a statement to them. He hung up his phone.

“What’s great?” Jeremy asked, adjusting his tie as he passed. 

“Malcolm’s just had some x-rays taken. He’s doing fine.” Jamie said. 

“That is great.” Jeremy said. 

“Here’s your statement.” Jamie handed a paper over to Jeremy. 

Jeremy looked at the paper and nodded. “Alright. Thank you.” He walked to a lectern that had been set up previously. 

Jamie stayed at the side and put his hand in his pockets. 

“Good afternoon.” Jeremy said. “I’m sure you know why you’re all assembled here. Our Director Of Communications, Malcolm Tucker, was hit by a car earlier today on The Mall. The investigation is ongoing and police have appealed for witnesses. I would like to echo this and say that if anyone witnessed what happened, please come forward to the police. Malcolm Tucker is currently being treated in hospital for a head injury and spinal injuries and will be unable to carry out his duties. Jamie MacDonald will be our Director Of Communications until further notice.”

From the sidelines, Jamie’s eyes widened. He took one of his hands from his pocket and ran it through his hair. Of all the things, he hadn’t expected Jeremy to say that. 

He carried on watching Jeremy speaking from the sidelines, but knew that some cameras had turned to him. 

“Erm...” Jamie walked over to the lectern, “I will carry this duty out to the best of my ability.” Jamie said. “Until Malcolm Tucker recovers. This is a temporary thing. Wouldn’t... wouldn’t want to put my friend out of a job.” 

“Mr MacDonald!” 

Jamie raised his hands. “No questions.” He walked away from the lectern. 

Jeremy stepped to the microphone. “You’ll have to excuse Jamie, he’s had a long day.” 

“Bloody hell.” Boris exclaimed. He was in his office in Number 10 with Priti Patel and they were both watching the news on the TV. “Corbyn’s making a statement. Your prisons policy’s going to be bumped down the news for this.” 

“Then get the press here and I’ll make a statement.” Priti said. “I’ll make an announcement. And I’ll talk to... George Alagiah If I have to.” 

“Doesn’t he host the News at Six?” Boris asked. 

“Huw Edwards?” Priti asked.

“Simon McCoy.” Boris said. “He hosts the afternoon slot.” 

“How do you know this?” 

“I watch the news, Priti.” Boris replied. “Also Google.” 

“Malcolm Tucker could be comatose on a life support machine for all I care. My prisons policy will be the top headline. Then it’ll be protests in Hong Kong. Then it’ll be horoscopes or some crap. And then, way down at the very bottom, it’ll be Malcolm Tucker.” Priti said. “I want to speak with Simon McCoy and I want to do it ASAP.” 

“I’ll get my press guys right on it.” Boris said.

After delivering the statement, Jeremy and Jamie headed back to headquarters in silence. Once there, Jeremy was about to go to the meeting room, but was stopped when Jamie started speaking.

“You really want me to take over Malcolm’s job?” 

“Well, yes.” Jeremy said. “I can’t think of anyone more qualified-“

“You have plenty of people who are more qualified.” Jamie said. 

“Yes, I suppose. But you’ve known Malcolm an extraordinarily long time.” Jeremy explained. “You’ve worked together in Westminster for years and before that, you used to work on the same Scottish broadsheet.” 

“There’s lots of things I don’t know about Malcolm.” Jamie said. “I don’t know anything about his private life.” 

“But you know how to do his job, don’t you?” Jeremy asked. 

“Yeah.” Jamie said. 

“I’m not asking you to replace him in every aspect of his life, just his job. Temporarily. While he’s incapacitated in the hospital.” 

Jamie nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

“Alright.” Jeremy opened the door to the meeting room. “Are you coming in?” 

“Er...”

“You should be here, but you don’t have to be.” Jeremy said. “Diane, Tom and I are having a meeting about Brexit.”

“Shouldn’t Keir be here too?” Jamie asked. “I mean, he’s the Shadow Brexit Secretary-“

“Keir knows what we’re doing.” Jeremy said. 

Jamie nodded and walked into the meeting room after Jeremy. “Aye.” He said. 

“You seen this?” Tom asked. He turned the telly up. “Priti Patel. She’s giving an exclusive interview to Simon McCoy.” 

“What about?” Jamie asked. “Not her awful ‘tough on crime’ stance?” 

“Exactly that.” Diane said. 

“Sometimes I think the Tories just can’t stand to see another person making the headlines,” Jamie said, “even if it is because that person’s been fuckin horribly injured. They’re selfish, evil bastards who dinnae care aboot na ane but themselves.” He cleared his throat, not really meaning to have that outburst. It was hardly his first outburst. He was practically an outburst veteran. But he had just had a temporary promotion and he wanted to make a good impression.

“Yes. Well, it is our aim to make a Britain that’s for the many, not the few.” Jeremy said. 

“Let’s just watch the rest of this.” Tom suggested, pointing at the telly with the remote. 

It was a few hours later when door to the meeting room opened and in walked, limped, Malcolm Tucker, wearing his suit jacket draped over his shoulders because his right arm was resting at his side in a sling. 

“Malcolm, I was so worried about you today.” Jeremy said, partly in shock because the last person he expected to walk through the door. “It’s so good to see you up and about.” 

Malcolm pointed at Jamie. “You. I fucking...” He took a deep breath to compose himself. “The reason my neck was looking funny was because my shoulder was dislocated and my collarbone is broken.” 

“Ouch.” 

“I was holding it that way to compensate and you just... fucking wasted NHS resources.” 

“Haud yer whisht!” Jamie exclaimed. “Your neck could have been broken.” He argued. “You would have been bollocking me if you were fucking fully paralysed so don’t start that with me.” 

Malcolm sighed and shed his coat. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right.” 

“How are you feeling?” Diane asked. 

“My shoulder hurts.” Malcolm said. “Like a lot. You have no idea how bad it is.”

“He fainted from the pain earlier.” Jamie said. 

“Oh, let’s see you get hit by a fucking car and not faint afterwards.” Malcolm said. 

“So what’s the damage?” Jeremy asked. “Is it just the shoulder-?”

“Dislocated shoulder, broken collarbone, sprained ankle, bruised ribs, concussion, whiplash, some bruises, cuts and a bit of road rash.” Malcolm listed. 

“Sounds painful.” Diane said.

“Aye. I’ll be back in work tomorrow though-“

“No you won’t.” Jeremy said. “You were just hit by a car. You have a concussion. I want you to take at least a week off. Meaning I don’t want to see you here until at least the twelfth.” 

Malcolm opened his mouth to say something. 

“No arguing your way out of this one. Please.” Jeremy said. 

Malcolm pulled a chair and sat down at the table. “But Brexit-“

“We can manage without ye, Malc.” Jamie said. “Just take this time and get better. Ye’d do a better job against Johnson when your mind’s not clouded by painkillers.”

“You should go home.” Jeremy said gently. “We have it all under control here.”

“If you don’t?” Malcolm asked. 

“We can handle it.” Jeremy said. 

“What is your Brexit plan?” Malcolm asked. 

“Oh we’re going to write to every other Party leader; the LibDems, the Greens, the SNP, Plaid Cymru, and we’re going to ask them to join us in meetings to stop Boris from forcing through a no-deal Brexit.” Tom said. 

“Aye.” Malcolm nodded absently. “Good plan.” 

“It’s our only plan.” Diane said. “If this doesn’t work or if Boris prorogues Parliament, I don’t know what we’re going to do.” 

“Boris said he won’t prorogue Parliament though.” Jamie said. 

“When have you ever known a Tory to either tell the truth or not do a complete 180 on what they say?” Malcolm said. “Remember...” he tapped on the table with his finger as he tried to remember. “Remember Theresa May. She said she wasn’t going to call a snap election and then she did not one week later. Boris Johnson isn’t different. Plan for him proroguing Parliament. Because if I were him, I’d do the same thing.”

“Are you sure?” Jeremy asked. 

“Positive.” Malcolm stood up. “I’m going to call an Uber.” 

“Er, no thanks.” Yaz said. 

Thirteen shrugged slightly. “Well, I don’t blame you, they can get pretty rowdy at times.” She picked up her burger, but a muscle spasm caused her to drop it and it flopped onto the table. “Crap.” She whined.

“Just eat it anyway.” Ryan said, lowering his own burger back in the box. “Like, it’s okay. It just went on the table.” He spread out the paper wrapping of Thirteen’s Big Mac and started to reassemble the burger. “It’s not like it went on the floor.” 

“I just hate that it happens so often.” Thirteen admitted. 

“I-I’ve never seen this happen.” Yaz said. 

“Yeah, nor me.” Ryan put the top bun on the burger and pushed it back towards Thirteen. 

“I have... poor muscle control.” Thirteen said. “Why’d you think I have a wheelchair?” 

“I dunno, mate.” Ryan said. “I always thought you had some accident or something and you were paralysed.” 

“Me too.” Yaz said. 

“I was starved of oxygen at birth. It’s brain damage.” Thirteen explained. “Not the same kind as Twelve, mind-“

“Twelve’s got brain damage?” Yaz’s eyebrows knitted together as she considered that statement. “No. That can’t be right. He’s just blind.” 

“Because of brain damage.” Thirteen said. “Honestly, what do you think brain damage even is? It’s just the destruction of brain cells. In Twelve’s case, the ones that make you see. In my case, the ones that control my arms and legs. Mostly my legs. Sometimes my arms. It’s different for each person really.” 

“I didn’t know that.” Yaz said. “I always thought of like... people in comas on life support.” 

“Yeah, that was Twelve at one point. But that was because he was sick. Anyway, his sickness was cured, he woke up and he’s had a good life ever since.” Thirteen said. “Me? Well, I’ve never been on life support-except when I’ve had general anaesthetics-and I’ve never been in a coma. I’d very much like not to be, thanks.” 

“I don’t know what I thought.” Ryan admitted. “I s’pose I thought of like, people who were fully paralysed and needed full time care and were fed through a tube.” 

Yaz nodded in agreement. 

“It’s just society’s perception of disability, isn’t it?” Thirteen shrugged. She picked up her burger again, this time holding it tighter in her hands, and took a bite. 

“Have you told Eleven, Ten and Twelve that you’re moving out yet?” Yaz asked. 

Thirteen chewed and swallowed, wondering whether to give the honest answer. “Well, no.” She said. “I haven’t. I’m a bit worried how they’ll take it, to be honest. And it’s not like we’ve even found a place to rent.” 

“But when we do.” Ryan said. 

Thirteen sighed softly. “I suppose I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Ten doesn’t deal easily with change. He’s the kind of person who’d be like ‘oh it’s all my fault’ when it’s not. He carries a lot of guilt.” 

“Yeah, I kinda get that feeling from him.” Yaz said. 

“I wouldn’t want to freak him out.” Thirteen said. “And I know Eleven’s having some kind of nervous breakdown over something right now that he refuses to tell us about. And Twelve’s busy with the government collapsing.” 

“Eleven?” Ryan asked. 

“Yeah. I don’t know. But he’s... nervous. And... kinda jumpy.” Thirteen said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s got to be something big.” 

Eleven was walking on Oxford Street with Amy. They’d got off the Tube at Marble Arch and were planning to walk the whole length to Tottenham Court Road. After all, they did need to get some things. 

“Alright, Primark first.” Amy said. “It’s just here and I need some new tops.”

“Remind me why I went shopping with you.” Eleven said with a slight groan. It’s not that he didn’t like Primark, but he... didn’t like Primark. It was always noisy, crowded with people not looking where they were going and the lights were so fluorescent. 

“Because you need my help.” Amy said. “And today’s my day off.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Eleven said. 

“I don’t know, Amy.” Eleven said. “I can’t help worrying-“ 

Just as Eleven was halfway through his sentence, the lights went out and the music stopped. 

“I don’t think that was supposed to happen.” Amy said. 

Eleven took his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. “Amy.” He pointed at the ‘no service’ sign at the top left of the screen. 

Amy glanced at it and took out her own phone. “No service for me too.” 

Around the shop, people were talking amongst each other and angrily complaining to members of staff. 

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave.” A staff member said to Eleven and Amy. 

Ten was on the Tube, the Hammersmith and City Line, on his way to King’s Cross St Pancras to meet up with Rose, Mickey and Martha for a double date to see the Harry Potter Platform Nine and Three Quarters (and an evening at Nando’s) when everything suddenly stopped and everything was plunged into sudden darkness. The only light came from peoples’ electronic devices. 

Ten sat upright and looked around. Lights were shining up and down the carriage from peoples’ phones, iPads, tablets, e-readers, laptops and games consoles. 

There was no way he or anyone else was getting a signal this far below London. He only had to ask himself the question, what had happened up there? Had America declared nuclear war and they’d been hit? Had there been a terrorist attack elsewhere on the line? Had there been a suicide or a murder or an accidental death? 

The worst part was not knowing. 

Malcolm was lying down on his sofa watching a mind numbing teen comedy with his niece, Elspeth, when the telly went off. 

“Uncle Malc, what’s going on?” Ellie asked. “Did you turn the telly off?”

“No, I didn’t.” Malcolm said. He peeled himself up from the sofa one handed and plodded across to the light switch. After flicking the lights on and off with nothing happening, he came to a conclusion. “It’s a power cut.” 

“Uncle Malcolm!” A voice shouted from upstairs. Malcolm’s nephew, Keir. “My game’s gone off!” 

“Aye!” Malcolm shouted back. “There’s a power cut!” 

“You’re a politics guy! Get the power back on!” Keir shouted. “I need to play! I was talking with my mates!” 

“I’m not the National Grid!” Malcolm shouted. “And my Party isn’t even in power!”

“Always excuses!” Keir shouted.

“Keir Iain McLeod, if you want to talk, come down here and do it properly!” Malcolm shouted.

Four was outside in the garden with Sarah and K9. He and Sarah were sitting in cheap camping chairs from the nearby Lidl listening to music, albeit not particularly loudly as in to disturb the neighbours. 

It was hardly sunny outside either, it had been raining and it looked like it would rain again, but it was summer (damn it) so they, like all Brits, would wait for breaks in the weather and go outside.

Four stood up. “I’ll go and get some more drinks, shall I?” He said. 

“Yeah, can you get me a lemonade?” Sarah asked. 

Water, Master. K9 said. 

“You’re not getting water, you’re not a real dog. You’re a robot.” Four said. 

K9 bowed his head almost sadly. 

Four walked inside and into the kitchen. He failed to notice that the fridge wasn’t humming as it usually was. He opened the fridge and the light was off so he reached for the switch and pressed it a few times, just to be sure, before heading back outdoors. 

“Sarah Jane, I think we need a new fridge freezer.” 

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked. 

“I mean our fridge is broken.” 

“It was fine ten minutes ago.” 

“Well, now it’s not.” 

Sarah sighed as she stood up. “Are you sure it’s broken?” 

“Very sure.” Four said. “The little light is off.” 

“Well, that could be a blown fuse or something.” Sarah reasoned. “You can replace that. 

They walked inside with K9 following up to the door. He couldn’t get over the weather seal. Master.

“Sorry, K9.” Four said. He picked the robotic dog up and set him down in the kitchen. 

Thank you, Master. K9 said. 

“See, it’s broken.” Four said. 

Sarah had her head in the fridge examining the light. “I’d say it was the light needed replacing, but don’t feel any cool air.” 

Outside, the rain had started again. 

Master, it is raining again. K9 said. 

“Ah shit.” Four ran outside to get his phone and the wireless speakers. 

Sarah walked over to the light switch and tried to turn it on. She flicked it twice before realising what had happened and went into the living room. 

Four walked back in and slid the door shut after him. He looked around and noticed Sarah wasn’t in the room. 

“K9, where did Sarah go?” He asked. 

Mistress went to the living room. K9 said. 

“Thanks. Good dog.” Four hurried into the living room, where he found Sarah trying to turn the telly on. “What’s going on?” He asked. 

“Well, I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s a power cut.” Sarah said. 

“Oh no.” 

“Oh yes.”

Five was out in the Czech Republic with his friends, Tegan, Nyssa, Peri and Adric. Prague was very nice and they enjoyed it, but they weren’t in Prague. They were on a bus on their way from Prague to Brno, where they would stay overnight. Tegan and Nyssa were sat next to each other behind Five and Adric and Peri was happily sitting in front of them listening to music on her own. 

Five was looking on his phone through his contacts list when Nyssa stood up and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“What’re you doing?” She asked. 

“None of my brothers are answering their phones.” Five said. 

“Try your sister.” Adric suggested unhelpfully. 

“If they won’t answer, then she wouldn’t either.” Five said. 

“Doesn’t Nine live outside of London?” Tegan asked, getting in on the conversation.

“Yes, he lives up north.” Five replied. 

“So try him.” Tegan said with a slight shrug. “I mean, it can’t hurt, right?” 

“I suppose not.” Five opened the contact for Nine (in brackets, Chris) and selected ‘call’, holding the phone up to his ear. 

After a few long seconds, a familiar Northern accent came through. “Hello? Five?” 

“Ah, Nine.” Five said. “Erm... I can’t get through to anyone.”

“I’m not surprised.” Nine said.

“Why? What’s happened?” Five asked, sounding slightly panicked. 

 Tegan, Nyssa and Adric leaned towards him slightly, mainly in curiosity. What was Nine going to say?

“Do I need to come home?” 

“Nah. It’s all fine over here, as far as I’m aware.” Nine said. “There’s a massive power cut affecting some parts of the UK. You can’t get through to the ones living in London because they’re affected.”

“You’re joking, surely?” 

Nine chuckled. “Nope. Huge power cut. It’s on the news and all.”

“How come you’re okay and nobody else is?” Five asked.

“Salford’s not affected.” Nine replied. 

Twelve first noticed something was wrong when his refreshable Braille display didn’t refresh. 

The second hint that something was wrong was this;

“Alright everyone!” Jones shouted out across the office. “Can I have your attention please?! There has been a power cut-“

“Yeah, no shit!” A civil servant shouted from the back of the room. 

“Fuck you, Jenkins!” Jones shouted. 

“With what? There’s been a fucking power cut! My vibrator won’t fucking work!” Another civil servant shouted.

“Stop being so fucking crass!” Clark shouted. 

Twelve lowered his head and groaned. He hated the way these people talked. Westminster was a fucking sewer. No wonder everyone hated politics. 

Yaz and Ryan were walking around Leicester Square with Thirteen following. It was raining and horrible and of course, very puddle-y. And there were a lot more people than usual with huge crowds coming out of the Tube Station. 

“What’s going on?” Yaz asked. 

“I don’t know.” Ryan said. “Maybe there’s been a suicide.” 

Thirteen scrunched her face up. “It’s horrible when that happens. Think of the poor person, what they were going through to turn them to that.”

Yaz turned to someone who’d just come from the Tube station. “Excuse me, what’s happened down there?”

“Power’s out.” She said. “Mobile service is out too.” She walked away with the rest of the crowd.

“What?” Ryan whipped his phone from his jeans to look. “Mate, it’s true. There’s no service.” 

“No service?” Thirteen asked. 

“And a power outage.” Yaz said.

“So we just go to another Tube Station.” Thirteen said. “This one isn’t even accessible anyway.” 

“I don’t think we can.” Ryan said. “Look around. Everywhere’s shut.” 

“Wait, you mean to say that we’re stranded in Leicester Square?” Yaz asked. 

Ryan nodded. “Er, yeah.” 

“I am not walking all the way back to Acton.” Yaz said. “It’ll take hours.” 

“Spare a thought for me.” Thirteen said. “I’ll have no cartilage left in my shoulders by the time I get home. Maybe I should get a scooter. Do they come in orange-y yellow?” 

“This is why we need to rent with each other.” Ryan said. 

“Do you know how much it’ll cost to rent in the City?” Yaz asked. 

“A lot more than we can afford.” Ryan said. 

“Alright. Let’s not lose our heads.” Thirteen said. “So all the shops and the restaurants are shut, it’s throwing it down and we can’t get the Tube back home.”

“You make it sound so nice.” Yaz said. 

“That is the situation though.” Ryan said. 

“Yes, yes it is, Ryan.” Thirteen said. “So now what?” 

“What’s happened?” 

“Try and fucking keep up, Jones, there’s been a stabbing at the Home Office.” Clarke said. 

“Priti Patel?” Jones asked. 

“I don’t know.” Twelve said, tapping twice on the screen. 

Home Office cordoned off by armed police amid reports of a stabbing.

“Yes, yes, we know that part.” Twelve scrolled down. 

Thursday 15 August 2019 14:33

The Home Office building has been cordoned off by armed police amid reports of a stabbing.

“Doctor, stop your phone from repeating the same shit over again.” Clark said. “Get it to say something new.”

The Independent understands that a victim is thought to have been stabbed or slashed near the government department’s headquarters in Marsham Street, Westminster.

The building was cordoned off by armed police on Thursday afternoon, as staff remained inside. 

More follows...

“Jesus H Christ.” Jones said. 

“I wonder what happened.” Clarke said. 

“Isn’t it fucking obvious-someone was either stabbed or slashed at the Home Office. And that someone may or may not be Priti Patel-Schroedinger’s Knife Crime, see.” Twelve said. 

“Alright everyone!” Mrs Morgan clapped her hands. “There’s been a stabbing! Doctor-you are to send a fucking Tweet saying how sorry I am that this has happened, Jones, keep the press away from me and onto Priti, and Clarke, just reach out to Tucker and his lot, get their reaction to all this. Cal, in my office with me.” 

As the door slammed shut, frantic phone calls were made. 

“Sky News are all over it like a rat up a drainpipe.” Clarke said. “Well, according to... Alex McGuinness, a man suffered life threatening injuries and an ambulance is there.” A pause. “Well I don’t know if it was a fucking civil servant or not. A civil servant might have been the one to do the fucking stabbing. Well of course I have to swear, it’s the only language you fucking know!” 

“Put your attention onto Jeremy Corbyn, the man wants to call No Confidence in Boris so he can be PM for a week!” Jones said. “And Plaid Cymru and the SNP say yes! Focus on that, not the stabbing!” 

“The fucking Met are dealing with it-they’ve arrested the guy.” Clarke said. “Yes, for fucks sake, we just want you to fucking agree that it’s bad!” 

“Make sure that Jeremy Corbyn wanting to be PM is the top story on BBC News, not the stabbing-“

Twelve stood up from his chair, unfolded his cane and walked out of the room away from the shouting. 

It had been a rough news day so far. Prep for a General Election, a Labour MP announced his intent to stand down, a Tory MP (Sarah Wollaston) crosses the floor to the Liberal Democrats, Labour Leader Jeremy Corbyn wants to be PM to stop Brexit, which is barrelling toward them, the detention of an Iranian tanker at Gibraltar and now a stabbing at the Home Office. This was supposed to be Summer Recess, yet more was happening now than before Summer Recess!

It was all too overwhelming. And Twelve didn’t like overwhelming. 

“There’s fucking sheep outside.” A passing civil servant said. 

“What?” Asked another one.

“Sheep. Actual sheep. Part of a protest or something.” The first one said.

“Jesus Christ what is even going on today?” The second one said.

Twelve didn’t know either. This day had just taken a turn from bad... to weird. 

Eleven was in the City with River. They’d been walking around South Bank and Eleven had got tickets for the London Eye, and they were just trying to kill time until it was their turn. 

“Come on, let’s go to St. James’s Park and feed the birds or something.” Eleven suggested. “Maybe we’ll see Twelve.” 

“Why would Twelve be here?” River asked. 

“Oh he works around here.” Eleven answered. “I don’t know exactly where, but-“

“I thought he worked in government and isn’t the government in recess?”

“Yes, but he’s a civil servant. He’s still working.” 

They stepped onto Westminster Bridge. 

“Oh right.” River nodded. “You know, I didn’t know that. I always thought that once Parliament went into their summer recess, that the MPs would work among their own constituencies or something, but I suppose with Brexit coming up and Jeremy Corbyn’s plan to block it...” 

“... yes. Well, I suppose backbenchers do go home. The Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet probably don’t.” Eleven reasoned.

“What happens to their constituencies?” River asked.

“I’m honestly not sure.” Eleven said. “I don’t know what happens.”

“So you really think we’re going to see Twelve?” 

“I don’t know. I mean I know he works in Westminster and in the government, not the banks, and he’s a Civil Servant.” Eleven said. 

“So that’s a ‘maybe’, then.” River said. 

“Everything’s a maybe, River.” Eleven said. “Will the sun rise tomorrow? Maybe. Will Donald Trump cause a nuclear war with Iran? Maybe. Will Boris Johnson cause a no-deal Brexit-“

“Definitely.” River said. 

“Maybe.” Eleven corrected. “We don’t know what’s going to happen, really. Nothing’s certain one way or the other. Except the things that are.” 

“And those things are...?”

“The things that have already happened.”  Eleven said. 

River gave a small shrug. Eleven was right. Of course he was right. 

“But then, even those things aren’t certain either.” Eleven said. “History’s written by the winners. But we did go walking on South Bank. And that is a certainty.” 

“I must say I find your way of thinking very confusing.” River said. 

“It’s all about thinking fourth dimensionally.” 

“Ah.” River smiles. “Back to the Future.” 

“I love that film.” Eleven admitted. 

“And another fucking thing,” an angry Scot shouted on the other side of the road, “you give your fucking condolences to whatever fucking civil servant was killed or whatever.” 

“Is it me, or does he look familiar?” River asked, discreetly pointing at the man. 

The angry Scottish man was tall and had short, grey hair and very angry looking eyebrows. His right cheek was scabby and his right arm was in a sling and immobilised at his side. He was clearly shouting down his phone at someone, though nobody seemed fazed. It was almost as though they were used to it. 

“Kinda looks like a sighted Twelve.” Eleven said. “Only Twelve’s hair is wilder and curlier and white and this guy’s is clearly straight and short. And he’s a lot older and wrinklier and Twelve’s not wrinkled at all-“

“I thought it was Malcolm Tucker. You know, that politician guy?” River asked. 

“Shit, it is too, isn’t it?” Eleven said. 

“You know, I think you’re right. He does look a bit like Twelve.” River said. 

Thirteen was sitting alone in Green Park. Sometimes it was fun to feed pigeons stale Malted Milk biscuits. 

“Need any help, love?” Yet another person asked her. 

Thirteen sighed. “No.” 

That’s what she hated about being out alone. That and the rampant sexualisation. And people trying to grab her wheelchair, but being pissed off then they realised there wasn’t any handles. And the people who did it anyway. 

She waited until the person had walked away before throwing more crumbs out for the pigeons. 

“What are you doing?” She heard someone ask. 

Thirteen looked up and opened her mouth, ready to defend herself, when she realised she knew this particular person. It was Kate Lethbridge-Stewart wearing running gear. 

“Oh. Uh, feeding the pigeons.” Thirteen answered. “My brothers left a pack of Malted Milks get stale so now they’re pigeon food. I didn’t know you ran in Green Park.”

“I usually run in Hyde Park.” Kate answered. “But Dad’s got something on there today. Some kind of drill with your older brother.” 

“Do you know what UNIT does?” Thirteen asked. 

“I’m not at liberty to say anything about what I may or may not know about UNIT.” Kate replied. She took her iPhone from its pouch on her arm and frowned. 

“What?” Thirteen asked. 

“There’s been a stabbing at the Home Office.” Kate said. “I think it’s a civil servant.” 

“Who stabbed someone?” 

“Who was stabbed.” 

“Oh my god, is it Twelve?” Thirteen asked. “I need to know if it’s Twelve-phone your father, he’ll know.” 

“Does Twelve work at the Home Office?” Kate asked. 

“I don’t know, he won’t say where he works.” Thirteen said. 

Kate bit her lip and unlocked her phone. She scrolled through her contacts until she got to the one she wanted and called them. 

“Benton? No, not ‘Katie’, it’s just Kate. I need you to do me a favour. There’s been a stabbing at the Home Office and I need you to tell me who was stabbed.” Kate explained. “Yes it’s important. You know your friend Three? Well, it might be his little brother and my friend, Twelve.” She sighed loudly. “Then please tell me what you know.” 

Thirteen leaned forward in her wheelchair, trying to hear the phone. 

“Really?” Kate said in surprise. “You don’t know? You don’t know or you won’t tell me? Yes, there’s a difference, Benton. Look, my father... yes I know I don’t want preferential treatment. But please just tell me if Twelve’s alright.” She said, almost desperately. “Er... I don’t know his first name, but his last name’s Doctor. Yes I know Twelve Doctor is a stupid name, but it’s not his real name, is it?” 

“What’s going on?” Thirteen asked. “Kate.” She tapped Kate’s arm. “Kate.” 

Kate ripped the phone away from her ear. “Shush!” She said, bringing the phone back. “Yeah, no not you-I’m with someone. Dougan? That’s an unfortunate name-no, that’s an alliterative name. Jesus what a name.”

“I could have told you his name.” Thirteen said. 

“Yeah. Media? Digital, Media, Culture and Sport? He’s with the DCMS? So not the Home Office? Alright thanks, Benton. I owe you one.” Kate took her phone from her ear again and this time, hung up. 

“What’s going on? Is Twelve okay?” Thirteen asked. 

“Twelve’s fine.” Kate said. “He works for the Culture Secretary, not the Home Secretary. Different offices. Different part of Westminster. He’s fine.” 

Thirteen let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank god.” 

“You worry about him, don’t you?” Kate said.

“No more than I worry about my other brothers.” Thirteen said.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like having to worry about so many siblings.” Kate said. 

“I don’t know any different.” Thirteen said. “One was three years old when Two and Three were born. So he was an only child. I was born when there were already thirteen of them. First girl too.” 

“I honestly can’t imagine.” Kate said. 

“Don’t you have brothers and sisters you worry about?” Thirteen asked. 

“No, no I’m an only child.” Kate replied. 

“I wonder what that’s like.” Thirteen mused. 

“What’s it like being one of... however many siblings you have?” Kate asked. 

“Busy. Crowded. Annoying. You never get any personal space, even on the toilet. But there’s always someone on your side. And there’s less chores because they’re shared out with all of us. And we’re always celebrating something. The Secret Santa’s brilliant.” 

“What about the hand-me-downs?” 

“Oh I didn’t have any.” Thirteen said. “First girl, so everything I got was brand new.”

“Huh.” Kate said. 

“Okay, brand new to my family from the charity shop.” 

“Ah.” Kate nodded. “I... I wouldn’t know what any of that’s like. Anyway, I’m glad Twelve’s okay.”

“You can stay and feed the pigeons with me, if you want.” Thirteen said. 

“I’m still on my run.” Kate said. 

“I’ll come with you.” Thirteen unlocked the brakes on her wheelchair. 

Kate furrowed her brow. “What’s... something’s happened, hasn’t it?” 

“I just don’t want to be alone.” Thirteen said. 

A young woman and her boyfriend, maybe her husband, passed by Thirteen and Kate. They were in Green Park where many people passed by. It wasn’t particularly noteworthy, except they approached Thirteen and Kate. 

“Oh I think it’s so wonderful that people like you are out and about, just enjoying the sunshine.” The young woman put her hand on Thirteen’s shoulder. 

The boyfriend (husband?) cringed slightly and so did Thirteen. Kate watched on in a state of sort of muted horror.

“Well done for getting out.” She patted Thirteen on the head and turned to Kate. “Are you the carer?” 

“No, I’m not now don’t patronise my friend.” Kate snapped. 

“I told you to leave it.” The boyfriend (definitely husband, the wedding rings gave it away) said. “She’s not brave for living her life.” 

Thirteen nodded at the man. “Thanks.” 

The man grabbed his wife’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go.” He said. 

“Let go of me!” The wife said. “How dare you demand-“

“I wasn’t demanding anything!”

Thirteen looked at the arguing couple before turning her chair and wheeling herself away. 

Kate jogged after her. “What the hell was that?” 

“That, Kate, is what I put up with every day.” Thirteen said. “Though usually it’s a lot worse. That was pretty mild, to be fair.” 

“Mild?” Kate asked. “That was not mild, that woman patted your head and called me your carer.”

“At least she addressed me.” Thirteen shrugged. “Usually when I’m with someone, I don’t get addressed at all.” 

“God. I’m so sorry.” Kate said. 

“Just forget about it.” Thirteen said. 

“Alright.” Kate nodded. She couldn’t help but wonder though, if that’s why Thirteen didn’t want to be alone. 

“So how’s, uh, things?” Thirteen asked. 

Eleven and River had made it on the London Eye and were very slowly making their way to the top. 

“It’s really nice up here, Eleven.” River said as she casually leaned forward on the grab rail. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Eleven pulled nervously at his bow tie. 

“Something wrong, Sweetie?” River asked. 

“Nothing.” Eleven said. “Look, you can see the Palace of Westminster over there.” He pointed out of the pod window towards the Palace of Westminster. 

“It’s a shame Big Ben is under refurbishment.” River said. “The view would probably be better.” 

“Actually, it’s the tower under refurbishment.” Eleven said. 

“Huh?” 

“Big Ben is the bell, not the tower. The tower is Elizabeth Tower.” 

River wandered over to the other side of the pod after noticing another person leaving that spot. “Look, it’s Charing Cross.” 

“I wonder which one of those government buildings Twelve works in.” Eleven said, pointing slightly to the left. 

“It’s the BT tower-wow, you can see everything from up here.” River said. She was focussing on the view from outside the pod. 

Eleven awkwardly cleared his throat and pulled out a little box from his inside jacket pocket. He became acutely aware of the other people in the pod starting to stare at him as he got down on one knee. “River.” He said, stopping to rub his wet palm on his trousers. 

River turned around to see Eleven on one knee and holding the little box. Her eyes widened and her hand flew to her mouth as Eleven opened the box to reveal a dainty silver ring with a small emerald mounted in the middle, surrounded by smaller diamonds. 

“River Song. Melody Pond. Will you, er... will you marry me?” 

“I did.” Eleven put his keys in the bowl and went to sit on the sofa. 

“And?” Ten asked. “How did it go?” 

“She said yes.” Eleven said. “We’re engaged now.” 

“Er. Congratulations.” Ten thought he’d feel happy at this news. He didn’t. He didn’t feel unhappy either though. He wasn’t sure what he felt. 

“I just think it’s time to be moving on with my life.” Eleven said.

“You’re moving out, aren’t you?” Ten asked.

“No?” Eleven said. “No, not yet anyway. We’re not married!” 

“But you’re going to get married.” 

“River hasn’t even started her masters yet. And she wants to get her PhD in archaeology before we get married, so that’s a few years yet.” Eleven explained. “I think Four and Sarah Jane will get married first.” 

“Or Twelve and Missy.” Ten suggested.

“I don’t think Three will allow it.” Eleven said. 

“What did happen between him and Delgado anyway?” Ten asked. 

“I don’t know.” Eleven said with a shrug. “But we could always ask Two.” 

“But-and this is a but-I need you to make them feel welcome. You know, make teas, coffees and all that-“

“I’m an intern in communications, not tea making.” Twelve argued. 

“Yes, but you are an intern.” Mrs Morgan pointed out. 

“So you’re getting me to make tea... because I’m an intern?” Twelve asked. “Instead of managing communications, I’m making tea?” 

“Yes, and they’ll be here soon. So uh, get making that tea.” 

Twelve sighed as he stirred the coffee he was making. This is not what he had in mind when he’d signed up for the summer internship. 

“Nicky Morgan.” 

“Tom Watson. It’s good to see you.” Mrs Morgan said. 

“Don’t lie.” Mr Watson said. “We both know how we really feel.” 

“And uh... when Tom said he was bringing a ‘press advisor’ along, I didn’t realise that it would be you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, get on with the fucking pleasantries and get down to fucking business.” A Scottish man said.

“Ah. Um...”

“You don’t have to say anything. We all know we’re here doing work for Jeremy Corbyn.” Mr Watson said.

“I’d like for you to not swear, at least in my office-“

“Your office? That’s fucking rich right there. How long do you fucking think that this is going to be your fucking office? Because I can tell you this right fucking now, there’s going to be a general election and the whole fucking country’s planning on it. See this yeah? Don’t get too used to it.” The Scottish man said.

“You always did have a way with words.” Mrs Morgan said.

“Yeah well I try my fucking best, darling.” 

“Doctor, where’s that coffee I asked for?” Mrs Morgan asked. 

Twelve sighed, picked up his cane, which was resting against the table, and the cup of coffee and made his way over to Nicky Morgan and the Labour Party delegation. 

“You’re hiring blind children to make your coffee now? That’s a new low, even for the Tories.” The Scottish man said. 

“Yes, well, he’s not my assistant, he’s an intern.” Mrs Morgan took the coffee from Twelve. “He’s on that summer program for disabled civil service interns.” 

“Oh really? That makes it so much better, yes indeed!” The Scottish man said sarcastically.

“No need for the sarcasm, Tucker.” Mrs Morgan said.

“Can we all just not verbally eviscerate each other?” Mr Watson asked. “This visit will go much smoother then.” 

“Right. Come into my office. We can discuss Brexit in there.” 

Twelve counted three sets of footsteps walking into the office. The problem with that is that there were four people. 

“Hey, Blind Kid.” It was the Scottish man, Tucker. He’d lagged behind. 

“I have a name. It’s Dougan but everyone calls me Twelve.” 

“Oh finally. Someone else who can speak properly.” Mr Tucker said.

“Speak for yourself, sweary man.” Twelve said. 

“Malcolm Tucker. Director of communications and strategy for the Labour Party.” 

“I’ve heard about you. You were hit by a car the day after my birthday.” 

“Why’s your nickname Twelve?” Mr Tucker asked. 

“I’m the twelfth born.” Twelve said. 

“You’re the twelfth... how many brothers and sisters have you got?” 

“More than I’d like.” Twelve said. 

“Yes. Well, you don’t have to take it from her, you know. Making the teas and coffees.” Mr Tucker said. “You could, I don’t know, take it to your superior.” 

“She is my superior.” Twelve said. 

“She is not. The head of Government Communications is your boss. And the head of civil service is your boss’s boss.” 

“Tucker!” Mr Watson called out. 

“Think about that, yeah?” Mr Tucker said before walking into the office himself. 

Ten and Eleven had made a phonecall to their older brother Two on speakerphone on Eleven’s phone (which had more credit than Ten’s). 

“I get the feeling that this isn’t a social call.” Two said. 

“Yeah, it isn’t.” Ten said. 

Two sighed. “What do you want to know?” 

“We want to know about what happened between Three and Delgado Masters.” Eleven said. 

There was a near silence from the other end of the call. The only way they could tell that Two hadn’t hung up was because they could hear him breathing. 

“Two?” Eleven asked. 

“They were best friends.” Two said. “Almost inseparable. You have to understand that what happened happened before you two were even born.” 

“What did happen?” Ten asked. “Two, do you know?” 

“I know.” Two confirmed. 

“Can you tell us?” Eleven asked. 

“I... I can’t.” Two said. “I promised Three I wouldn’t.” 

“You two don’t like each other anyway.” Eleven said. 

“That doesn’t mean that promises made to my brothers aren’t important.” Two said. 

“What if we promised not to tell anyone?” Ten said. 

“He didn’t do anything bad, right? Nobody murdered anyone?” Eleven asked.

More silence. 

“Oh my god, who murdered someone?” Ten asked. 

“Nobody.” Two said, unconvincingly. “There was no murder. Look, I can’t tell you what happened. But I can tell you someone who can. Her name is Rani. Rani Ushas. Find her and you’ll find the answers.” 

“What kind of name is that?” Eleven asked. 

“A foreign one.” Ten said grabbing a nearby notepad. “Two, what was that name again?” 

“Rani Ushas.” Two repeated. “R-A-N-I U-S-H-A-S.” He spelled. 

Ten scribbled the name down and closed the notebook.

“She used to be friends with Three and Delgado, before she moved away. She also knew One, me, Four, Five and Six.” 

“Got it.” Ten said. “Thank you for your non-help, Two.” 

“Well, that’s not true.” Eleven argued. “We have a lead now, which is more than we had before.”

“And if Three asks, I didn’t tell you anything. This phone call never happened.” 

The line went dead. 

Eleven picked his phone from the table and pressed the lock button on the top. 

“What now?” Ten asked. 

“We find this Rani woman.” Eleven said. 

Twelve finished work that day and sat down in St James’s Park. He didn’t want to go back home, work had been too horrendous for him to want to get on the Tube. Among people. So he stayed where he was, watching (kind of) the people passing by in a blur. 

That was until someone sat down next to him. 

“Long day at work, Darling?” 

“Hey, Missy.” Twelve greeted. “For a second, I thought you were someone who was going to pray for my eyesight to return.” 

“People actually do that?” Missy asked. 

“You’d be surprised.” Twelve said. “How many times have you been mistaken for my carer?” 

“Yeah, but... you’d expect praying for sight to come back to be a thing that happens in America. They’re all god botherers and bible thumpers over there.” Missy said.

“Well not all of them, Missy.” Twelve said. “But most of them.” 

“So how bad was work?” Missy asked. 

“Stressful.” Twelve said. “So fucking stressful. Now I know why politicians have mouths like sailors. Or rather why sailors have mouths like politicians.” 

“That bad?” 

“How was your work?” 

“Well, it’s obviously not as hard being a waitress as it is being a politician.” Missy said. “But I’ve got to get to my second job as a barmaid in,” she paused to consult her watch, “an hour and a half.” 

“Don’t you want to do something more ambitious than waitressing and barmaid-ing?” Twelve asked. 

“Oh yes.” Missy said. “But waitressing and barmaid-ing pays the rent. And besides, when I graduate, I’ll be able to get a better job. Pizza Hut and the pub are only temporary. We’re still on for tomorrow, aren’t we, Darling?” 

“Yeah.” Twelve nodded. “We are.” He stood up and unfolded his cane. 

“That’s good.” Missy said. She squeezed his hand and stood on tip toes to kiss him.

“I hate when you kiss me unannounced like that, Missy.” Twelve said. “You know I-“

“Can’t see it coming.” Missy finished. “It’s almost like that’s your favourite joke.” 

“Well I don’t mind.” Twelve said. “But since you have an hour and a half, we could do something if you want.” 

“I’d love to...” Missy said. 

“There’s a ‘but’, isn’t there?” Twelve asked. 

“My bar job’s back in Lewisham.” Missy explained. “So I have to go back home on the Tube now.” 

“Then... I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” Twelve said. 

“We could... walk down to the Tube station together.” Missy suggested. 

Twelve nodded. “Then let’s do that. Westminster?” 

“Sure. Westminster.” Missy agreed. 

“What’s happened?” Twelve asked. 

“Corbyn’s speaking.” Jones said. “Clarke, you’re the communications person, get the fucking news on!” 

“There’s only so fast I can type!” Clarke said. “Jesus, give me a fucking minute.” 

“I can do it-I’m already on the BBC website.” Twelve scanned across the page with his mouse and his Braille reader. “Alright, got it.” He clicked on his mouse and Jeremy Corbyn’s voice came from the speaker. 

“Boris Johnson and his Tories are driving the country towards a dangerous cliff edge.” 

“No fucking shit.” Clarke said. 

“Hey, we work for Tories.” Jones said. 

“You do.” Twelve said. “You’re an advisor. Most of us are civil servants.” 

“You still work for them to enact their policies.” Jones said. 

“Not so much a no deal Brexit, more a Trump deal Brexit.”

“Trump deal Brexit?” Jenkins asked. “What the fuck’s a Trump deal Brexit?” 

“Trump: The Art of the Deal.” Clarke said. “Never heard of it?” 

“I’ll just remind them, our NHS is not. For. Sale.”

“Yes!” Twelve cheered. “I love the NHS-I wouldn’t be here without the NHS.” 

“Is it the blind thing?” Jenkins asked. 

“Of course it’s the blind thing.” Jones said. 

“It might not be.” Clarke reasoned. “I mean his appendix might have exploded or something.” 

“No, it-it’s the blind thing.” Twelve said. “I got deathly sick as a little kid. Now I’m blind.” 

“That’s horrible.” Clarke said. 

“Nah, it’s a pretty good trade off.” Twelve said. 

“It won’t be him or the wealthy people in the Tory Party paying for it.”

“The Tories don’t really pay for anything.” Clarke said. 

“They pay our wages.” Twelve said. 

“No, we’re the Civil Service.” Jenkins said. 

“So the Queen pays it?” Twelve asked. 

“No, the Queen doesn’t pay for anything either.” Jones said. 

“I’m confused. Who does pay our wages?” Twelve asked.

“The same people who pay the wages of the police and firefighters and the NHS.” Jenkins said. 

“The government?” Twelve said. 

“Yeah.” Jenkins said.

“So they do pay our wages?” Twelve asked. 

“No, the government does and the same people would be paying regardless if the government was Labour or Tory.” Clarke said. 

“Yeah, we just help the Tories implement their policies and remain impartial.” Jenkins said. 

“Yeah, and what a great fucking job you’re doing of remaining impartial.” Jones said sarcastically.

“And I will bring about a vote of no confidence in the government.”

“No confidence?” Twelve asked. 

“Do you not know what no confidence means?” Jenkins asked. 

Another set of footsteps and a blurry person joined them. Calvin White, an advisor. “What’s going on here, then and why are we watching Jeremy Corbyn?” 

“Because he’s giving a speech, White.” Jones said. “And we want to hear what he’s saying.” 

“Never mind that, Doctor, do you really not know what a vote of no fucking confidence is?” Jenkins asked. 

“No, I do.” Twelve said. “Honestly. I fucking do.” 

“And it falls to the Leader of the Opposition to make sure this doesn’t happen”

“So you then, mate.” Jones said. “You’re the Leader of the Opposition.” 

“And if there is a general election this autumn”

“And there will be.” White said. “Everyone’s gearing up towards it.”

“Our second since 2017.” Jenkins said. 

“At least I’ll be old enough to vote in it.” Twelve said. 

“No outcome will have legitimacy without-“

“Wait, Doctor, how old are you?” White asked. 

“Twenty.” Twelve answered. “Just gone.” 

“Fuck me, where’s your umbilical cord?” Jones asked. 

“It got cut when I was born.” Twelve said. “And I’ve been living without my mammy for the past fourteen years.”

“You call your mother ‘mammy?’” Clarke asked with a snigger.

“Course I fucking did. She died when I was six.” Twelve said. 

“Oh Jesus.” Clarke sobered up. “I’m sorry. That was... insensitive.” 

“It will be a once in a generation chance for a real change”

“Once in a generation isn’t as long as you think it is, Jeremy.” White said. 

“How long is a generation?” Jenkins asked. “I thought it was like twenty years?” 

“It is.” Twelve said. “Isn’t it?” 

“Fuck if I know.” Jones said. 

“Things cannot go on as they were before-“

“Well, they never can.” Twelve said. “That’s why there’s always change. Especially in politics. There is no such thing as the status quo. It’s just all,” he began counting on his fingers, “what’s happened then, what’s happening now and what will happen in the future.” 

“Well, of course. That’s all that ever will happen anyway.” Clarke said. 

“Let me put it another way.” Twelve said. “You’ve read A Christmas Carol, right? Or at least seen an adaptation. Everyone has. There’s the Ghost Of Christmas Past, the Ghost Of Christmas Present and the Ghost Of Christmas Yet To Come.” He listed. “If Scrooge was the present day Labour Party and this story was happening now, the Ghost Of Labour Past would be Harold Wilson, the Ghost Of Labour Present is Jeremy Corbyn-“

“Who would be the Ghost Of Labour Future?” Jenkins asked. 

Twelve shrugged. “Keir Starmer?” 

“But Jeremy wouldn’t be the Ghost Of Labour Present because he would be Scrooge.” Clarke said. “The Ghost Of Labour Present would probably be Diane Abbott or Emily Thornberry.” 

“Look at the incredible levels of wealth a small majority have-“

“Well if people weren’t so fucking lazy on benefits-“ White began.

“Not everyone on benefits are ‘lazy’.” Twelve said. “That’s-that’s a fucking misconception right there. Disabled people need benefits-“

“You’re blind and you’re here.” White said. “Why not all blind people? They’re lazy. Plain and fucking simple. Disabled people are all lazy. Unemployed people are lazy. Get a job, lazy bastards.” 

“I’m on benefits.” Twelve said. “And I most certainly am not lazy.” 

That stunned White into silence. 

“Inequality getting worse and it’s failed to keep us safe-“

“Inequality sucks.” Clarke said. 

“Well, the wealth gap is getting bigger.” Twelve said. 

“How the fuck do you know that?” White asked sounding suspicious. 

“You know there’s such a thing as Braille right? So I can read articles on it on the Internet.” Twelve said. “And I have residual sight so even though some of my vision has black spots,” he pointed to his eyes, “I can actually see things if they’re either close enough to my face for me to see them or I have magnifying glasses.” 

“Why not wear glasses?” White asked. 

“Because that’s none of your business and I’m not obligated to tell you anything.” Twelve said. 

“Labour offers a real change of direction that I believe the country needs-“

“Well, he’s not wrong, White.” Jenkins said. 

“I’m just asking-“

“Do you work for the Department of Work and Pensions?” Twelve asked. 

“No-“

“Are you an optician?” 

“No.”

“So my eyes don’t fucking concern you, do they?” Twelve said. “Now shut the fuck up.”

“The Tories have lurched to the hard right. Johnson himself is Britain’s Trump as the US President has said, so it must be true.” 

“Did Trump really say that?” Jenkins asked. 

“I don’t know, someone get on that.” Jones said. 

“On it.” White said. 

“I got it here and yes he did.” Clarke said. “About a month ago, he said it on video just after Boris took office.” 

“His exact words?” Jones asked. 

“They call him Britain Trump.” Clarke read. 

“Yeah, that’s on brand for Trump.” Twelve said. “Like Nambia and Covfefe.” 

“Namibia right?” White asked. “Or Zambia? Gambia?” 

“No, Nambia.” Twelve said. “Google it.” 

“You can’t be cutting taxes for the very rich and expect that money to be there for services.”

“Shit, he fucking did say Nambia too.” White said. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

“That’s not even scratching the surface of the stupid things he’s said.” Jones said. “I wish they’d impeach him.” 

“But then he’d be replaced by that shitbag Mike Pence and he’s a fucking raving homophobe.” Clarke said. 

“I’ll take my chances.” Jones said. 

“We can be trusted to take radical steps necessary to protect the climate.”

“Pfft.” White scoffed dismissively. 

“What have you got against the climate?” Twelve asked. 

“Nothing.” White said. “I believe in global warming. I just don’t think it’s happening as fast as they say it is.” 

“Sorry, who’s ‘they’?” Jenkins asked. 

“I’d also like to know.” Twelve said. 

“You know. Scientists. Experts.” White said. 

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten.” Clarke said. “Britain’s had enough of those, haven’t they.” 

“I suppose you want to shout at American ex-politicians and fucking... little Swedish girls about that too.” Jenkins said. 

“What do you mean?” White asked. 

“Jenkins means that you want to shout at Al Gore and Greta Thunberg.” Jones said. 

“Well, yeah. They’re making climate change into the end of the fucking world.” White said. 

“It is the end of the world.” Twelve said. 

“Not for Tardigrades.” 

“We’re not fucking Tardigrades.” Clarke said. “We’re people. It will be the end of the world for us.”

“Inequality holds us all back. It means the talent of millions of people is squandered.”

“Poor people have no talents.” White said. 

Everyone overlapped each other talking to White. 

“Jesus Christ, calm the fuck down.” White said. “One at a fucking time.” 

“You’re a fucking cockwomble.” Twelve said. 

“You know I’m working class, right?” Jenkins said. “And so’s Wright and Lewis and Hussain and-“

“I stand by what I said, poor people aren’t talented.” White said. “If they were, they’d have made it to be rich by now.” 

“Yeah? Well maybe Corbyn’s right.” Twelve said. “Inequality is holding us all back. Or maybe, just maybe, you’re the fucking gatekeeper. You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re stopping us from climbing the class ladder because you don’t want us here. You just want Etonian fuckboys and Oxbridge arsewaffles and Bullingdon Club spunktrumpets who shove their todgers in the decapitated heads of dead pigs for other peoples’ fuckin shits and giggles.” 

“People have a choice as I’ve said.”

“Wow. Doctor.” Jones said. “That was... something.” 

“Is this kid just Malcolm Tucker had a facelift and pretending to be blind?” White asked. “Honest to fuck, that was fucking intimidating.” 

“He’s close to wetting himself.” Jenkins said. “Never been told off by someone more than half his age before.” 

“We’ll introduce a living wage of £10 an hour.” 

“Oh and how are you going to do that?” White asked. 

“If you’d stop talking, you might actually hear how he’s going to implement his policies.” Twelve said. 

“My guess is taxing the rich.” Jenkins said. 

“So we will give working people more powers.”

“Define ‘working people’, Jeremy.” White said. “People who work. I work. Therefore, me.”

“You’ll find that the Tories already look after your rights.” Twelve said. 

“You know what?” White said. “You’re a civil servant. I can report you to your boss for not being impartial.” He said smugly.

“Good luck proving that when it’s not on my work.” Twelve said. “I think you’ll find that on my work I’ve been nothing but fair and impartial-I mean once you learn Braille, unless you think that’s beneath you too.”

“Doctor’s pretty good at keeping impartial.” Jones said. “He has some very strong views and wears them on his sleeve, but it doesn’t ever come out in his work.” 

“Fuck you, Doctor.” White said.

“Fuck you too, White.” Twelve said. 

“Labour won’t tell people they have to work until they’re seventy-five before they get their pension as Iain Duncan Smith’s think tank has suggested.” 

“Wait, what?” Jenkins exclaimed. 

“So I’m going to be working for the next fifty-five years?” Twelve asked. “I’m blind! How the fuck is that fair?!” 

“Seventy-five.” Jones said. 

“It’s fair.” White argued. 

“Fair to who?” Twelve asked. “Do you expect cops to be running around after criminals at age sixty-five? Nurses to be giving patients sponge baths at age seventy? Office workers to be hunched over their computers at age seventy-three? The more you make people work, the more they get stressed and the more their life expectancy decreases.”

“He has got a point there.” Clarke said.

“That’s why we will bring rail, mail and national water back into public ownership.”

“That is pretty ambitious.” Jenkins said. “I doubt that’ll happen.”

“The coming general election will be make of break for our public services.” 

“Who said anything about there being another general election?” White asked. 

“There’s going to be one.” Clarke said. “It’s in the atmosphere. Thankfully some of us have job security.”

“What does that mean?” White asked aggressively.

“Well, you’re an advisor. I’m a civil servant.” Clarke said. “Most of us in this office are civil servants. And we’re hired by the crown-“

“And appointed by the government!” White pointed out.

“Yeah, but we sign contracts and those contracts aren’t up when the government decides they’re up.” Jenkins said. “So we’ll probably be here during the next premiership. And possibly long after you’ve gone.”

“Is that Party political matter, Jenkins?” White asked smugly. 

“No, it’s fact.” Clarke said. “We’re employed by the government but not any particular Party, so...” 

“Which actually shows that Labour has won the argument that austerity damages our country and was always a political choice!”

“I barely remember a time when there wasn’t austerity.” Twelve said. 

“Do you remember Gordon Brown?” Jones asked. 

“Vaguely.” Twelve replied with a shrug. “I was only ten when the Coalition happened.” 

“And now you’re working in government.” Clarke said. “Wow. It doesn’t feel it was that long ago, but thinking about it this way, it was half your life ago.” 

“That is a long time.” Jenkins agreed. 

“Good.” White said. “The longer we’re in power for, the better.” 

“In office.” Twelve corrected. “You’re not in power, you’re in office. Your boss works for the British public. They have the power. Even if they’re too pudding brained to realise it yet.”

“Take crime. Which the Prime Minister is trying to turn to his political advantage.” 

“I think Boris is doing excellently on crime.” White said. 

“You would say that, you’re practically a Nazi.” Jenkins said. 

“Fuck you.” White said. “I am going to put in a fucking complaint about you to the civil service.” 

“Go ahead.” Jenkins said. “I’d like to see you try.” 

“Think about it. The closed youth resources around the country.”

“That was David Cameron.” Jenkins said. “Something about austerity.”

“It’s been so long now that I don’t even remember.” Clarke said. 

“If a week is a long time in politics, then how long is nine years?” Jones asked.

“Harold Wilson.” Twelve said.

“What’s Harold Wilson got to do with anything?” White asked. 

“‘A week is a long time in politics’, Harold Wilson allegedly said that.” Twelve said.

“I didn’t know it was a Labour guy who said it.” Jones said. 

“That’s because it wasn’t.” Twelve said. 

“You said it was though.” Clarke said. 

“No, I said ‘allegedly’.” Twelve said. “It’s often attributed to him, but he never said it.”

“What message is that to the message of the youth of 2019?” 

“Oi, Doctor, you’re the youth of 2019, what is the message?” White asked. 

“That that’s that’s why the knife crime rates are going up.” Twelve said.

“So Labour will rebuild our public services because we know they are the glue that binds the country together.” 

“Public services like the NHS and...” White shrugged. “What other public services are there?”

“The police. The fire services, ambulance, coastguard, teachers-they’re all public services too.” Jenkins said. “I know you don’t work at the Home Office, but get a clue, man.” 

“Fuck that, privatise it all!” White said. 

“You want to privatise fire engines?” Twelve asked. 

“Why not?” White asked. 

“Can you fucking imagine that?!” Twelve asked. “‘Hello, 999, I need a fire engine because my house is on fire!’ ‘That’ll be five grand please.’ ‘I can’t afford that.’ ‘Sorry can’t help you then.’” 

“Yeah, what about Grenfell?” Clarke pointed out. 

“Privatise it all.” White said.

“And on the issue that poses the greatest threat to our common future, the climate crisis, Labour-“

“Fuck off. There is no climate crisis. You’re just a fucking coward. Hiding behind false issues-“

“Shut the fuck up, White.” Jenkins said. “I fucking hate you, you know that?” 

“I fucking hate everyone in this miserable fucking office.” White said. “You don’t hear me complaining about it.” 

“You complain about us all the fucking time.” Clarke said. 

“That must be followed by radical and decisive action”

“There is climate change, right.” Twelve said. “It’s getting worse. 

“There is no climate change.” White said. “Just let the adults talk and-“

“I am an adult!” Twelve said. 

“Yeah, but you’re blind. You can’t see, so-“

“Excuse me?” Twelve said. “Don’t you dare try and use my disabilities against me or I will stick my cane so far up your rectum that it’ll come out the other end.” 

“And that... and that green industrial revolution will create jobs in renewable technology-“

“... How will you do that if you can’t see?” White asked. 

“Firstly, I can see, just not well. Secondly, I have four other senses that all work just fine. And two arms that work just fine.” Twelve said. “And lastly, I fucking hate you.” 

“I hate you too.” White said. “Insolent child.” 

“I am an adult.” Twelve narrowed his eyes and stared White down. 

“The future is within our grasp.”

“How far into the future? Like a minute?” Clarke asked. “Because that kind of future is always in our grasp. And lots of minutes make up a year.” 

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.” Twelve said without missing a beat.

“How do you know that?” Jenkins asked. 

“My younger sister likes Rent.” Twelve replied. 

“Led by the current Crime-Prime Minister.” 

“Well there’s a slip of the tongue.” Jenkins said. 

“He meant to say Crime Minister.” White said. 

“Well, he was just talking about crime.” Jenkins said. “It was probably just a slip of the tongue.” 

“No. He meant to say that.” White said. 

“Well, he is a Crime Minister.” Twelve said. “Fuckin Boris thinks he can do whatever the fuck he wants and get away with it. Wouldn’t be surprised to see blatant lawbreakery in his premiership.”

“There won’t be any.” White said. 

“One law for you Tories and another for us commoners, right?” Twelve asked. 

“Oi.” Jenkins exclaimed. “You’re a civil servant. Don’t take sides.” 

“Yeah, don’t take sides.” White said.

“That’s why we will do everything we can to stop it.” 

“It’s not right for a civil servant to take sides.” Clarke said. 

“I get it.” Twelve said. “You know they do provide copies of the Civil Service Guidelines in Braille, right?” 

“Why should you get a special copy?” White asked. “Just read the same copy as everyone else.” 

“I can’t fucking do that, I’m fucking blind.” Twelve said. 

“Then don’t work.” White said. “Be lazy.” 

“Fuck off.” Twelve said. “I mean it. Fuck off from my desk.” 

“Fine.” White said. “I have work to do anyway than standing here watching Jeremy fucking Corbyn.” He walked away. 

“This is an historic moment with the potential for real change across the country, if we grasp that opportunity. Thank you.” 

“Well. That speech certainly was something.” Clarke said.

“Listen to the questions?” Twelve asked. “Or should I turn him off now?” 

“Yeah, just turn it off.” Jones said.

It was the Scottish man, Malcolm Tucker. 

“I have a name.” Twelve said. 

“That’s right. You’re the one with all the siblings.” Malcolm sat down next to Twelve. 

“Why are you-“

“I’m not a scary man, you know.” Malcolm said. “I know my reputation. But I’m just a regular, normal man.” 

“Alright.” Twelve said sceptically. 

“I’m trying to help.” Malcolm said. 

“Who said I need your help?” Twelve said. “I don’t need your help.”

“Nobody can do anything on their own, kid, especially in politics.” Malcolm said. 

Twelve frowned. “I don’t need yours or anyone else’s pity because I’m blind-“ 

“This has fuck all to do with your disability.” Malcolm said. “You’re being used as Nicky Morgan’s chew toy.” He rustled a bag and peeled open the unmistakable sound of cardboard and plastic, a sandwich pack. 

“Well... maybe a bit.” Twelve said. 

“A bit?” Malcolm snorted. “A lot, you mean.” He bit into his sandwich.

“Twelve? Thirteen? Or Ten?” River asked. 

“Three.” Eleven replied. 

River’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. Right. Wasn’t expecting that answer.” 

“Ten and I, well we called Two about Three. And he sent us on a trail to find an unfindable woman named Rani Ushas-“

“I know that name.” River said. 

“How?” Eleven asked. 

“I’ve done a lot of travelling, Sweetie.” River said. 

“And yet you’ve still never seen the Cutty Sark.” Eleven said. 

“Well, I have now.” River shrugged. “So tell me,” she asked, leaning against the railings, “why did Two send you to find this woman?” 

“She has information about Three and Delgado.” Eleven said. 

“Was there some body that they buried out in the woods or something?” River asked. 

“I don’t know, but I’d love to find out.” Eleven admitted. “But if any of my siblings were likely to kill someone, it’d be Twelve.” 

“I’d be the one most likely to kill someone between me and Amy.” River said. “And I can definitely believe that about Twelve.” 

“So tell me how you know this Rani.” Eleven said. 

“Ah. That’s complicated.” River said. “But it all goes back to this girl I had sex with-“

“Rani?” 

“I’ve had sex with people of all different genders, Eleven, but I’ve not had sex with this Rani.” 

“So what do you know?” 

“This girl I had a one night stand with, she knew this Rani.” River explained. “I’m still friends with this girl, I could send her a message on Facebook with some lyrics from Someone You Loved to butter her up if you want.” 

“No!” Eleven said. “I mean, no. No. Just don’t butter her up.”

River smirked and elbowed Eleven in the ribs. “Jealous fiancé?” 

Eleven’s cheeks flushed red. “Pfft. No.” 

River raised an eyebrow. “Of course you’re not.” 

“Just ask this girl about this Rani.” Eleven said, now deliberately avoiding eye contact. 

“Of course, Sweetie.” River said. 

“It’s really nice out here.” Eleven said, changing the subject. 

“It helps that it’s a nice, warm summer day and we don’t have to wear hoodies or coats.” River said. 

“It’s not warm, it’s hot.” Eleven said. “Twenty three degrees is hot.” 

“We’re still in our t-shirts.” River said. “Although you’re just in a short sleeved shirt.”

“It’s a t-shirt.” Eleven argued.

“No, it’s a shirt.” River said, lightly tugging at the short sleeves. “That shirt and those braces, they make you look like an old man. It’s not a bad thing. You’re just different from everyone else our age.”

“Two didn’t like belts.” Eleven explained. “He dressed me in braces.” 

River frowned slightly. “Yes, that makes a lot of sense. You get your dress sense from your older brothers.” 

“Twelve is just... he dresses however he wants. He wears a suit for work. But usually, he wears jeans, hoodies, t-shirts and Doc Martens. He just doesn’t care. I wish I could be more like that.” Eleven said. 

“So go out and get some new clothes.” River said. 

“It’s not that easy, I just don’t have any money-“

“Then go to a charity shop.” River shrugged. “I like extravagance sometimes and when I need it, I can get it from a charity shop. Macklemore didn’t rap about them for no reason, you know.” 

“I don’t listen to Macklemore. Or much popular music.” Eleven admitted. 

“No because you’re a thousand years old and only listen to Greensleeves.” River joked. 

“Actually Greensleeves was written in the sixteenth century.” Eleven said. “It is believed that Henry VIII wrote it for Anne Boleyn, but that’s not true because it was written after his death. It isn’t known who wrote it.” 

“That’s interesting.” River said. 

“History is interesting. It’s the story of how we got to here.” 

“Yes, I know how fascinating you find history.” 

Eleven shrugged and put his hands into his pockets. “You find it fascinating too. You’re an archeology and history student. How did you not know that?” 

“Because studying archaeology is different to studying the Dark Ages.” 

“Most historians argue that the Dark Ages ended around the time of the fifteenth century.” Eleven said. “Also, historians don’t like the use of the term ‘the Dark Ages’ because it implies that the Middle Ages were a backward time and consider it to be misleading.” 

“Like how the Stone Age is thought to be millions of years ago, but actually, it ended in the year four thousand BC. Though to be fair, the period did last for about three million years. But it’s also much more recent than we think.” 

“I suppose.” Eleven said. “I don’t know much about archaeology. You’re the archaeologist, after all.” 

“And I can tell you this right now, it’s nothing like Indiana Jones.” River said. 

“Er, no.” Malcolm shook his head. “I’m alright, thanks, Sam. It’s a nice enough day. Think I’m going to go out.”

“Don’t get yourself hit by a car again.” Sam said.

“Of course not.” Malcolm said with a sigh. “I mean, it hurt like a fucking bitch last time. And I got concussed. Have you ever been hit by a car?” 

“No. But lots of things happened to you that haven’t happened to me.” Sam said. 

“Yeah. Fucking true.” Malcolm agreed. 

There was never a chance Sam could lose one of her children. Or more. Her sister was still alive. Her parents were still alive. Her husband was still alive. She didn’t drink and she didn’t do drugs. 

She did, however, have her share of heartache and her own traumas which Malcolm didn’t like comparing his own to. She couldn’t have children, thanks to endometriosis. She used the Pill and an IUD to try and control her symptoms, but there were still days where Malcolm had seen her looking grey and sweating like crazy at her desk and he’d have to comfort her while she cried doubled over the toilet. 

The way Malcolm treated her illness with kindness and understanding quickly won him her loyalty. 

“But you’ve had things happen to you that haven’t and couldn’t happen to me.” Malcolm said. 

“So are you going to see that kid who looks like you?” Sam asked. 

“How do you know about him?” Malcolm asked. 

“Jamie told me.” 

“I’m going for a walk.” Malcolm said. “Jeremy can cope just fine without me for an hour. I have to eat my fucking sandwiches at some point.” 

“Alright. Take care.” Sam said. 

Malcolm walked out of the Labour Party offices. 

In Yaz’s flat, Yaz, Ryan and Thirteen were still flat hunting. Thirteen’s laptop sat on the coffee table as she and Yaz scrolled through it from the sofa. Due to the lack of space, Ryan was sitting on the floor. 

“I don’t know.” Thirteen said. “I liked the flat in Dagenham.” 

“I dunno, can we afford that?” Ryan asked. 

“We need two bedrooms at least.” Yaz said. “Thirteen and I, we’re girls and you’re a boy. We all need privacy.” 

“And we need somewhere with enough space for my wheelchairs.” Thirteen said. 

“Like plural?” Ryan asked. 

“Yeah. Plural.” Thirteen said. 

“Why do you have plural?” Yaz asked. “I only ever see you in one. That one.” 

“Because I do.” Thirteen said. “I also have a walking frame and a gait trainer and crutches and orthoses-“

“Why?” Ryan asked. 

“Because I’m disabled, Ryan.” Thirteen said. 

“Surely it costs a lot.” Ryan said. 

“Yeah, I know you’ve got dyspraxia and all, but being physically disabled is expensive. That’s why so much of us are in poverty.” Thirteen said. “I gave up on walking a long time ago. But I still need them because I can’t sit down all day. I’m not paraplegic. I have feeling. I can move. But just not quite the way I want to. Hence the...” 

“So what happened then?” Yaz asked. “Cerebral Palsy doesn’t just occur randomly, does it? You said it’s brain damage. Something has to happen, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not that interesting.” Thirteen said with a shrug. “My birth was just long, drawn out and difficult. When my mother was in labour, I got starved of oxygen. I was born. Then at three, I was diagnosed with CP. The doctors gave my parents a long list of stuff I’d never do again. Then my brother got meningitis and almost died, but ended up mostly blinded. Then my parents died and I was raised by my older brothers; One, Two, Three and Four. One was really strict with my physiotherapy and pill regimen. Four helped me pick out my wheelchairs and decorate my walking frames and crutches when I felt self conscious. Two and Three helped me with my school work. Then I took my GCSEs, passed my A Levels and went to university, where I gave up on walking because why should I have to when I can use a wheelchair and be more comfortable? And... here we are.” 

“I didn’t really need to hear your life story.” Yaz said. 

Thirteen chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry. I just-I ramble sometimes.” 

“We know.” Ryan and Yaz said in unison.

“What about that flat in Hillingdon?” Thirteen suggested. 

“No way-I don’t want to live in Uxbridge.” Yaz said. 

“Why not-oh...” Thirteen nodded. “Yeah, I get it. Uxbridge is out.” 

“There was that other flat in Croydon. That’s close to your brother, right?” Ryan asked. 

“Yeah.” Thirteen nodded. “One of them. But I don’t want to live anywhere near the older Masters. Or the younger ones.” 

“Why not?” Yaz asked. 

“Trust me, if you knew them, you’d feel the same way.” Thirteen said. “All you know is Missy. She’s the kind-of-alright one. Though she can still be a complete bitch most of the time.”

“Who’s the worst then?” Ryan asked. 

“You’re asking a good question there.” Thirteen said. “They’re all as awful as each other. I’m inclined to say Harry, but that’s probably because Harry’s around my age. Well, he’s twenty-one. But that’s not far off my age. He revels in the rivalry between his family and hours. And you didn’t see how he broke Ten. Emotionally, I mean. But the others harassed my older brothers. And this whole thing wouldn’t have started if not for Delgado. Or Three. So I don’t know. They’re all bad to me.”

“Except for Missy?” Ryan asked. 

“Nah even her most of the time.” Thirteen said. 

“Can we go back to the flat in Dagenham?” Yaz asked. 

“Sure.” Thirteen picked up her laptop and looked through the tabs. “This one, right?” She asked with her cursor hovering over the RightMove tab. “One thousand one hundred PCM.” 

“That’s not bad.” Yaz said. “We’re all earning-“

“I get student loans.” Thirteen said. “I don’t earn.” 

“Okay, so Ryan and I are earning-“

“But because I’m in a wheelchair, I also get benefits.”

“Can we really afford two hundred and fifty quid a week for rent?” Ryan asked. 

“I don’t think we can afford anywhere cheaper.” Thirteen said. “This is London.”  

“No, yeah, you’re right.” Ryan nodded. 

“I mean the only problem for me is that the Tube station isn’t wheelchair accessible.” Thirteen said. “But I could take a bus. I think we should go for this one.”

Yaz nodded. “Yeah, I agree with Thirteen.” 

“Yeah. I’m in.” Ryan said. 

“Alright,” Yaz said, “time to call the estate agent.” She picked up her mobile phone. 

“River?” Eleven asked. “Are you sure this is the right place?” 

“Yes, I’m sure.” River said, casually twirling her engagement ring on her finger. “My friend definitely said to meet her here.” 

“She’d better show up soon.” Ten said. 

“Oh relax, David.” River said waving her hand in a dismissive manner. “You’ve waited years to know what’s happened between the Doctors and the Masters. I’m sure you can wait five more minutes.” 

“If it takes five more minutes.” Ten said. 

Twelve was sitting down on a bench in St James’ park feeding his sandwich to the swarming pigeons. 

“You’re not a very hard boy to track down.” 

Twelve looked up to see the blur he recognised as Malcolm Tucker. “What do you want?” He asked, putting his sandwich beside him. 

“Nothing.” Malcolm lied convincingly as he sat down on the bench sending a few dozen pigeons flapping and cooing angrily.

“Why are you here?” Twelve asked as he unscrewed the top from his bottle of Fanta. He finished what was left.

“I’m here to feed the pigeons.” Malcolm said. 

“No you’re not.” Twelve screwed the cap back on the bottle. 

“Yes I am.” Malcolm insisted.

“Why did you want to track me down then?” Twelve put the empty bottle beside him.

“No reason.” Malcolm said, lying again. “It’s just that this is the third day I’ve seen you.” He took a seat next to Twelve. 

Twelve narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe Malcolm, but he had no proof either way. 

“Fine.” Malcolm shrugged on his good side. 

Twelve’s phone let off a tone in his pocket and so he stood up to take it out. He brought his phone up close to his face so he could read what it said. 

“I thought you were blind.” Malcolm said.

“I am.” Twelve said. “Also that’s none of your business. You’re just some spin doctor. A poor man’s Alastair Campbell.” He tapped on the message. 

Message received from Nicky Morgan 1m ago

Come back to the office Doctor I never gave you clearance to leave the building where the fuck are you?

Twelve sighed. He put his phone in his pocket and unfolded his cane. “Duty calls.” He said. “I hope I don’t see you tomorrow. If I do, I’m calling the police for stalking.” 

Malcolm didn’t manage to get his DNA sample, but noticed as Twelve walked away, that he’d left his Fanta bottle on the bench and picked it up and bagged it. Hopefully this would be a good enough sample. 

“River!” Came a woman’s voice. 

“Romana!” River exclaimed.

Romana? Ten mouthed to Eleven, who shrugged in response. 

“It’s so good to see you!” River said.

“It’s good to see you too.” Romana said.

The two women hugged. 

“Oh, Romana, this is my friend, David.” River gestured to Ten who waved awkwardly. “And my fiancé, Matthew.” 

“Erm, hi.” Eleven greeted.

“I’m going to get right into it-we were hoping you could tell us what you know about Rani Ushas.” River said. 

Romana nodded. “Oh... right. She’s... she’s no good. Stay away from her.” 

“I believe you know a mutual friend of ours, Romana, and that is Tom Doctor.” River said. 

“Oh right. Yeah. I remember Tom.” Romana said with a smile. 

“Well these are two of Tom’s younger brothers.” 

“You’re Doctors?” Romana asked Ten and Eleven. 

“Yes.” Ten said. “And our younger brother, Twelve-“

“Who calls a kid that?” Romana asked. 

“It’s his nickname.” Eleven said. 

“Well, Twelve is dating Missy Masters.”

“Delgado’s younger sister.” Romana said with a nod. 

Ten nodded. “Yeah. And Th-uh Jon, he... well, he disapproves.” 

“We know something happened between him and Delgado. But we don’t know what it is.” Eleven said. 

“I... I don’t know either.” Romana said. “Jon already loathed Delgado by the time I met Tom and Patrick and Bill didn’t say anything when I asked.” 

“We’re hoping that Rani Ushas has some answers.” Eleven said. 

“I know that Rani, Delgado and Jon grew up together and that they were extremely close. Best friends, even. By the time I met Tom, it was just Jon and Rani. I know that Rani and Jon were close throughout school and that Jon pined after Rani.” 

“Th-uh... Jon.” Eleven said. “He never told us any of this.” 

“We’d never heard of Rani Ushas until a few days ago now you’re telling us that she was a best friends with our brother and the oldest Masters sibling?” Ten shook his head. 

“Well... I suppose every family has their skeletons.” Romana said. 

“Romana, do you know where we can find this Rani woman?” River asked. 

Romana nodded. “Yes. Yes I do.” 

“Nobody’s going to find out. Because nobody’s going to tell anyone. Got it?” Malcolm asked. He walked to his tiny closet of an office and sat down, resting his head on the table. 

Outside, Malcolm could hear muffled talking. Two people who were definitely standing right outside the door. One Scottish; Jamie MacDonald. The other English; Jeremy Corbyn.

“Are you sure he’s okay?” 

“Honestly, Jeremy, I think it’s just this whole Brexit thing dragging him down, it’s dragging us all down. And he was hit by a car earlier this month. Could be pain in his shoulder. Or he’s refusing to deal with it.” 

“If he needs some time off, I could give him that.” 

“I don’t know if that’s what he needs. Then again, I don’t know what he needs. Maybe it’s best just to ask him yourself.” 

One of them knocked at the door. 

“Malcolm? Can I come in?” 

Malcolm lifted his head. “Yeah.” He said, knowing that the man behind the door wasn’t Jamie. 

Jeremy opened the door and slipped through it, closing it behind him. “Malcolm, your behaviour’s been a bit... odd these last few days. You’re going out more and more.”

“Walking aids recovery.” Malcolm said, not really interested at all. 

“And so does not smoking, but here you are smelling like an ash tray.” 

“It’s from hanging around too much with Jamie, he’s a chain smoker-twenty a day.” 

“You came in looking lifeless.” 

“Brexit’s left me a husk of my former self, which was already a husk.” 

“You’re not shouting. You’re not angry. You’re not even swearing.” 

“Fuck.” Malcolm said as unenthusiastically as possible. 

“And these gossip rags-my wife picked one up this morning and it’s got you in it, in Parliament Square, with a teenage boy.” 

“He’s not a teenager, he’s twenty and he’s a Civil Servant.” 

“That makes it worse. They know he’s a Civil Servant. Half of the gossip rags think you’re trying to influence Brexit policy, while the other half think you’re cottaging.” 

“He’s my son.” 

“W-what?” Jeremy spluttered. 

“You can’t tell anyone.” Malcolm said. 

“Who knows about this?” Jeremy asked. 

“Me. Jamie. You.” Malcolm said.

“Right.” Jeremy nodded, frowning as he considered what to do. “So uh, what’s he like?” 

“Angry. Though he has every fucking right to be. I shagged his mam, never called again not knowing that she was knocked up, he’s brought up in a fucking family of fourteen kids, he gets sick, loses his sight, has his parents die and his entire life uprooted from Glasgow to Ruislip only to find out, hey, he’s not just a blind orphan, he’s a blind autistic orphan with a Weegie accent, so imagine the bully fodder that was, and now that he’s grown up, he’s dating a girl his family hate, he made the news because of a fucking waitress being ableist to him and he’s spent his entire summer being pushed around by Nicky Morgan and her fucking crones.” Malcolm ranted, hardly pausing to take a breath. “Get Jamie in here. I need to talk to him about how I’m gonna fucking... spin this. Never fucking easy.” 

Ten and Eleven were talking as they walked down the stairs from their flat. 

“I mean, as long as we’re back before tea time, I promised I’d go and see that Angel Has Fallen film with Rose and I already bought the tickets.” Ten said. 

“Oh we’ll be fine.” Eleven said. “I’ve got this whole big thing planned with River.” 

“Oh yeah? What’re you gonna do?” Ten asked.

“That’s for me to know and River to find out and you not to know.” Eleven said. “Ever.” 

“Have you really got something planned?” Ten asked, raising his eyebrow sceptically. “Or are you just lying about it because I have plans and you don’t want to feel like a lonely idiot?” 

“Anyone ever tell you you have vanity issues?” Eleven asked. 

“Yeah, you. All the time actually.” Ten said as he pulled the door to leave the building.

As soon as the two stepped outside their building, they were met by an irritated looking Four. 

“Uh... Hello, Four.” Eleven said. “What brings you here?” 

“I’m not going to beat around the bush. I had a call from an old friend.” Four said. “She told me that the two of you are planning to do something really stupid.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to see a film with Rose.” Ten said. 

“And I’m... going for condoms.” Eleven said. 

“Stop it, I know you’re a virgin, Eleven.” Four said.

“Well. Um... actually I’m not.” Eleven said. 

“Neither am I.” Ten said. “Or Twelve.” 

“Well luckily for you, I’m not here about Twelve this time.” Four said. “I’m here because you two are idiots who can’t be trusted.”

Ten and Eleven shared a glance of worry. 

“I know you’re going prying through Three’s personal history.” Four said. “I know you’re looking for Rani Ushas.”

“Does Three know?” Ten asked. 

Four shook his head. “Luckily, no.”

“Do you know that it was Two who told us to go looking for Rani Ushas?” Ten asked. 

Four was taken aback. “... what?”

“It’s true.” Eleven said. “We only want to find out why Three and Delgado Masters hate each other so much.”

“And Two knows about your search and told you to look for Rani?” Four asked. 

“Basically.” Ten said. “Look, he spent all of Twelve’s birthday shouting at him for refusing to dump Missy Masters-“ 

Four grabbed his younger brothers and dragged them to the side, out of the way of the building entrance (and exit). “You don’t get involved with the Masterses.” He said. “I’m not saying you can’t be friends with um...” He struggled to name Ten and Eleven’s friends. “I mean see that Rose or that River. Is Thirteen seeing anyone?” 

“She’s not.” Eleven said. 

Ten nodded in confirmation. 

“Alright. And you can all keep your weird intergenerational friendships. But Twelve cannot see Missy Masters anymore.” 

“Why?” Ten asked. “Tell us why and we’ll accept it.” 

“You’re not supposed to ‘accept it’, you’re supposed to do what you’re told.”

“You don’t like blindly following orders and yet you’re telling us to blindly follow orders.” Eleven said. “Now I may be autistic and not get the concept of irony, but I think, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but that’s the textbook definition of irony.” 

“Don’t play smart with me, Eleven.” Four said. “It won’t work. Where is Twelve anyway?” 

“He’s at work, right?” Ten said. 

“No, no it’s Saturday, Twelve doesn’t work on Saturdays.” Eleven said. 

“So... where is he?” Four asked. 

Ten shrugged.

“I don’t know.” Eleven said. 

“He’s blind-he’s autistic and blind and you’re letting him roam London on his own?”

“Calm down, Four.” Eleven said. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay though, is it?” Four said. “You were supposed to be looking out for your younger siblings, that was the whole point of the four of you moving into the same flat-“

Thirteen came out of the building with three boxes of different size on her lap. Ryan and Yaz followed her and were all also carrying boxes. Graham also followed, Only he was carrying a folded up wheelchair. 

“Four?” Thirteen asked, wheeling herself over to her brothers. “What’s going on here?” 

Four turned around to see Thirteen and her friends. “I could say the same thing. Who are they?” 

“My friends.” Thirteen said. 

“Why are you all carrying boxes?” Four asked. 

“Erm... I’m... I didn’t want you to find out this way, but I’m temporarily... moving to Acton to live with my mate Ryan for a bit.” Thirteen said. “My friends are helping me pack my things.”

“You’re what?!” Four asked. 

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Ten demanded. 

“You pay the rent too!” Eleven said. 

“You can’t move across London-I don’t even know your friends!” Four said. 

“I can sense this is a bad time, I’m just gonna-“

“All three of you are in big trouble when I tell One-“

“Now you’re just being a hypocrite-“

“I am not being a hypocrite, Jodie!” Four shouted in anger. 

Yaz put her boxes down and stormed over to Four. “Don’t speak to her like that!” 

“She’s my sister-I don’t even know you-“

“Just because she’s your sister, doesn’t give you the right to tell her what she can and can’t do.” Graham spoke up. “Thirteen is an adult. And she can make her own choices.”

Four sighed and ran his hand through his curly hair. “Yes. Yes, you are. I’m sorry, Thirteen.” 

“It’s my fault. I should have told you.” Thirteen said. 

“We’ll talk about this later.” Four said and turned to Ten and Eleven. “You two are still in it deep.” 

“Am I free to go?” Thirteen asked. 

“Yes.” Four said. “We have things we need to sort out, but these two idiots need sorting out first.” 

Thirteen nodded. She turned and wheeled herself back to her friends with Yaz walking beside her. 

“So your real name’s Jodie?” Ryan asked. 

“Shut up.” Thirteen said jokingly. 

“Nothing wrong with Jodie.” Yaz said, picking the boxes back up. “I think it’s a pretty name.”

“Anyway, Graham, how are you going to get two wheelchairs in your car?” Thirteen asked. 

“I’ll manage.” Graham said. “Just like we’ll manage with the boxes.” 

“Like playing Tetris.” Ryan added.

Four watched the group from the corner of his eye before he turned back to Ten and Eleven. “Where is Twelve?” 

“We don’t know.” Eleven said. 

“Is he with Missy Masters?” Four asked. 

“We don’t know.” Ten said. 

“Shall I call Seven and Ace here so they can find him?” Four asked. 

“Please don’t!” Eleven said. 

“So tell me, where is Twelve?” Four demanded.

Twelve had received a text earlier in the day from his friend Kate, telling him that some government guy was looking for him. Twelve took a wild guess as to who that person was and sneaked off out to St James’ Park, where Malcolm Tucker was reading an actual genuine broadsheet newspaper.

“Ah fuck off Alastair Campbell, you has-been twat. You’re just pissed off because I took your fucking job.” Malcolm said. 

“You’re angry today.” Twelve noted as he sat down on the bench next to Malcolm and folded his cane. 

“I’m less angry and more frustrated.” Malcolm said. 

“I’ll take your word for that.” Twelve said. 

“Twelve. Tell me more about yourself.” Malcolm said. It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t an order. It simply came from a place of curiosity. 

“Since I’m ninety-nine percent sure you’re stalking me and will probably find out this information anyway, I was born in 1999.” Twelve said. “August 4th. I had-still have-twelve older brothers, eleven biological, one adopted-“

“You can talk to me about her if you want. I’m always here to listen, mate.” Jamie said. 

Malcolm said nothing. He stewed in his own silence. 

Jamie nodded and stood up, understanding that Malcolm wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. 

“Her name was Maisie.” Malcolm said, in a voice that was barely a whisper. 

Jamie sat back down. 

“You knew Elaine. You knew what she was like.” 

“Aye.” Jamie said with a small nod. 

Malcolm twisted his wedding ring on his finger. “We met in uni back in 1979. Married in 1985. As soon as we moved in together after graduation, we kept trying for a baby. In 1988, she fell pregnant and we were both overjoyed. I couldn’t wait to be a da. We were living and working down in London at the time. I wanted a Scottish name for the baby. Elaine didn’t because she didn’t like the spellings of some of them.” He chuckled lightly. 

(September 1988)

“No, Malcolm.” Elaine was sitting on the sofa rubbing her belly. She’d just started showing. “I’m not naming my child Hamish.” 

“Why not?” Malcolm chuckled sitting down next to her. “It’s a good, strong Scottish name.” 

“I’m not Scottish.” Elaine said. 

“I am.” Malcolm said. 

“I’m not calling any baby of mine Hamish. It’s ugly!” 

“Alright then, what about Cameron?” Malcolm put his hand on Elaine’s belly. “He could be a little Cameron Tucker.” 

“He could. Or she could be a girl.” 

“Mhairi.” Malcolm said. “After my mother.” 

“How do you even spell that?” Elaine asked. 

“M-H-A-I-R-I.” 

“No.”

“No?”

“The spelling’s too weird. Vahree-does it begin with an M if it’s... Malc, I don’t want a name I have to think about spelling. And what about my mother?” Elaine asked.

“Your mother’s called Phyllis.” Malcolm said. “Come on El, it’s 1988, not 1888. We can’t call our daughter Phyllis.” 

“I don’t want a weird Scottish name.” 

“There are plenty of Scottish names in use around the UK.”

“Like...?”

“Ian.” 

“After your brother?” 

“Why not?” Malcolm asked with a shrug. 

“No, Malcolm.” 

“Jamie.” Malcolm suggested. “Works for a boy or a girl.” 

“No.” 

“Alright, you suggest.” 

“Jessica for a girl.” Elaine said. “Andrew for a boy.” 

“Andrew’s a good Scottish name.” Malcolm said. “I can see it now; Andrew Tucker. I’d teach him how to play football.” 

“You could never teach him to play football, Malc.” Elaine said. “You don’t know the offside rule.” 

“I could go down to any pub and ask.” Malcolm pointed out. “I mean, I’d probably get a pint glass to the face and have this,” he gestured to his face, “handsome face ruined-“

Elaine chuckled. “I didn’t marry you for your good looks, Malcolm Tucker.” 

“That’s a good thing.” Malcolm rubbed his nose. “But no daughter of mine will be called fucking Jessica.”  

“We settled on two names in the end, both of them Scottish. Andrew Craig Tucker for a boy. Maisie Fiona Tucker for a girl. We found out in a routine scan that we would be having a girl. So we started preparing for her arrival. Bought baby grows. Painted a nursery. Assembled a cot.” 

(November 1988) 

Malcolm crouched down to the level of his wife’s growing belly as she painted their spare bedroom a bright yellow colour. The spare bedroom that would become their daughter’s bedroom. 

“Ye Ken, A’m yer Da? An yer ma wean. Me an yer Mam, we cannae wait tae meet ye.”

“Malcolm, stop speaking to the baby in weird Scottish slang.” 

“It’s how I was brought up speaking.” 

“Yes well you grew up in Gorbals.”

“And you grew up in Oxford.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Oxford.” Elaine said. 

“And there’s nothing wrong with Gorbals.” Malcolm countered. “In fact, when Maisie’s old enough, I’m going to take her there. See where I grew up.” He put his hand and face to Elaine’s belly. “Ye hear that, ma wee lassie? Yer Da’s gonna spayl ye.” 

“She can’t hear you, Malcolm.” Elaine said. 

“If takin tae hoose plants maks them grow, then takin tae a wee babby maks them grow.” Malcolm reasoned.

Elaine laughed. “I have no idea what you just said.” 

“It wiznae flattering tae ye.” Malcolm joked.

“Now that I understood.” Elaine swiped Malcolm with her paintbrush leaving a yellow streak across his t-shirt. 

A grin spread across Malcolm’s face and he dipped his much smaller paintbrush into the pot of pink paint he had on the floor and swiped down her nose with it. 

“Malcolm!” Elaine complained, rubbing it off, but laughing. “Oh Malcolm.” She grabbed his hand and put it to her belly. “She’s kicking again.” 

Malcolm savoured the moment of feeling his daughter kicking. Tomorrow, he’d be back at work, sitting at his desk as he tried to find interesting stories to tell. But for now, it was a peaceful moment between him and his wife. 

“Then came the big day. Elaine went into labour.” 

(March 1989)

“Malcolm.” Elaine grabbed his hand. “I can’t do this alone. I’m scared.”

“It’s alright.” Malcolm held her hand in both of his. “I promise. We’ll get through the birth. And soon, when we’re cleaning nappies and doing night feeds, you won’t remember this. All you’ll know is life with Maisie.” 

The sonographer entered the room. “Alright, So you’re having a baby. Congratulations Mr and Mrs Tucker.” 

“She’ll be our first.” Elaine said. 

“Ah, I had my first five years ago.” The sonographer said. “Twins. Danielle and Michael. Since then I’ve had a singleton, Jennifer. Have you thought of a name?” 

Malcolm nodded. 

“Yes we have.” Elaine said. 

“Alright then. Let’s see how your baby’s doing. Can you please unbutton your shirt.” 

“Malcolm-“ Elaine grabbed Malcolm’s hand and gripped it tight. 

“It’s alright.” Malcolm said. “I’m here.” With his free hand, he managed to unbutton Elaine’s blouse, leaving her lying on the bed with her bra exposed. Then he gently kissed her head. “You’re doing well.” 

“You’re Scottish!” The sonographer said, reaching for the gel. “My husband’s Scottish too. He’s from Edinburgh.” 

“Glasgow.” Malcolm said. 

“Alright, this will be cold.” The sonographer squeezed the ultrasound gel onto Elaine’s big baby belly and picked up the ultrasound wand. 

“Malc.” Elaine looked at the screen at their baby. “Look.” 

“I can see her.” Malcolm said with a smile.

The sonographer frowned as she moved the wand over Elaine’s belly. “I’m just having a bit of trouble finding the heartbeat. I’m sure it’s there somewhere.” She said, turning the screen away, so Malcolm and Elaine couldn’t see it and carried on moving the wand over Elaine’s belly. “She must have turned or something. I’ll go and get another machine.” 

The sonographer put the wand back and walked out of the room. 

Malcolm rubbed his hand on Elaine’s belly, covering his hand in ultrasound gel. 

“Stop it, Malcolm. I’m really scared.” Elaine said. 

“Don’t worry.” Malcolm said. “She’s sure that Maisie’s okay.” 

“But what if she isn’t, Malcolm?” Elaine frowned. “I don’t want to have a caesarean.” 

“Elaine.” Malcolm held Elaine’s hand in his. “I promise. Whatever happens, I’m going to be here for you. I’m going to support you.”

Elaine simply nodded. “I love you, Malc.” 

“I love you too, El.” 

It didn’t take too long for the sonographer to return with a doctor. 

“Hello, Mr and Mrs Tucker. I’m Dr Lewis. Now net’s see if we can’t find a heartbeat.” The doctor said. 

Elaine nodded. “Yeah.”

Dr Lewis picked up the wand and ran it across Elaine’s belly. He frowned as he looked at the grainy black and white image of the baby. He looked at the sonographer. 

“What?” Malcolm asked. 

“I’m so sorry.” Dr Lewis said. “There’s no heartbeat. Your baby’s died.” 

“No. You’re wrong.” Malcolm said. “She-she was moving earlier.” 

“It’s true.” Elaine said. 

“I’m sorry.” Dr Lewis said. 

“It took thirty-six hours, but finally, the baby was born. Only there was something wrong.” Malcolm stopped. He swallowed hard and blinked away the tears from his eyes. 

“It was too quiet. She wasn’t breathing. Her heart wasn’t beating. She was dead.” 

Jamie bit his lip. “Malc.” 

“We were offered time with her. Elaine refused. She didn’t believe that... So I cut her umbilical cord and I held her. She was perfect. My wee bairn. She had my dark hair. Her mother’s nose...” 

(March 1989)

Maisie came into the world. 

Elaine cried. Malcolm cried. He’d hoped against hope that the doctor was wrong. That Maisie had a heartbeat. But there was no piercing cry. Only a deafening silence. The doctor had been right. 

They had a very nice and understanding midwife. Malcolm was offered to cut the umbilical cord. And he did. 

Elaine didn’t want to see Maisie. She was crying in the next room. Malcolm wanted to. He wanted to meet his daughter. The midwife left with her, and was gone for what felt like forever but was closer to ten minutes and then Malcolm was handed a baby swaddled in a pink blanket by the midwife. Seven pounds. Ten ounces. 

“Yer ma wee bairn. Ma lassie. Maisie.” Malcolm whispered to her, knowing that she couldn’t hear the words. That she never would. 

She looked just like she was sleeping. But her chest wasn’t rising or falling. 

Malcolm took in her features and gently stroked her dark hair with his thumb. He wanted to remember the feel of her hair and skin. He wanted it all seared into his memory.

“Malcolm.” 

Malcolm turned around to see his mother, Mhairi Tucker. “Mam.” He said, tears in his eyes, tracking down his cheeks. 

“A’m here.” Mhairi said. “Elaine?” 

“Elaine’s Mam’s wi her.” 

Mhairi nodded. “Aye.”

“Maisie. She’s deid, Mam.” Malcolm sat down and put Maisie back in the cot. He put his head in his hands and broke down in tears, sobbing loudly. 

Mhairi knelt down and put her arms around her youngest son. It broke her to see him like this. 

“Where’s Da?” Malcolm asked, trying to sound normal. 

“Yer Da’s outside.” Mhairi said. 

Malcolm nodded. “He shouldn’t...”

“Malcolm. It’s fine tae cry. Ye just had a-“

“I’m a man.” 

“Man or nae, ye shuidnae hold it in.” Mhairi wiped her own tears away. She pulled a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped Malcolm’s tears from his cheeks. “Yer wean.”

“Maisie.” 

Mhairi nodded. “She’s deid. Ye shuid be cryin. It’s fine. It’s fine.” 

Another pained sob wracked through Malcolm’s body. 

Mhairi wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, rocking him from side to side and stroking his hair. 

Malcolm didn’t hold her back. He couldn’t bring himself to. He just cried. 

“Is he...?” Malcolm’s father, James. 

“He’s hurting.” Mhairi said. “We all are. But Maisie was his daughter. Malcolm and Elaine will feel this worse than us.” 

“Lad.” James put his hand on Malcolm’s head. “It’s okay. But you have to be strong. For Elaine.” 

It took all his strength, but Malcolm pulled his head up from his mother’s shoulder and nodded. 

“Can I... hold her?” Mhairi asked. 

Malcolm tried to speak, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him, so he just nodded again. 

Carefully, Mhairi picked Maisie up from the cot. “She’s beautiful, Malcolm. She has your hair. And your chin.” 

“She has Elaine’s nose.” James said. “I’m really sorry-“

Malcolm swallowed hard, but the lump wouldn’t go away. Trying not to cry only made the tears flow more. “I... I want her.” He croaked. 

Mhairi nodded and handed her carefully to Malcolm. 

“I love you.” Malcolm whispered. “I love you.” 

“Elaine saw her and held her a while after I did. My mother came and I had to explain to her that she... had died. But Mam held her anyway. We took photos, prints of her hands and feet and a lock of her hair and then... we were sent home. Elaine was grief stricken, so I planned the funeral. We both agreed to have her cremated so she would be with us. I felt I had to be strong. I’m the man. I’m only the Da, I’m not the Mam.” 

(March 1989)

“Elaine. We have to talk about this.” Malcolm said. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Elaine said emotionlessly. 

“We’re cremating our daughter.” Malcolm said. “We outlived her-“

“We outlived her because she never lived, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm sighed and adjusted his black tie. “I know.” 

“I don’t want to think about it.” 

“I know.” Malcolm put his arm around Elaine and kissed her head. 

“It’s not fair. We should be tired from nappy changes and night feeding. Not from crying ourselves to sleep at night.” Elaine wiped her eyes. 

“Come on.” Malcolm said quietly. 

“Malcolm. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

“I’ve planned a lovely service for Maisie-“

“Don’t say her name.” Elaine said. It was more of a demand.

“For... her.” Malcolm compromised. “I just don’t know what kind of a fucking god would let this shit happen.” 

“A terrible one.” Elaine sniffled.

“A non-existent one.” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm, you can’t-“

“What kind of a fucking god would fucking let a kid die before she’s even fucking born?!” Malcolm shouted. His voice was full of pain and hurt and anguish. “No god! God isn’t fucking real! It’s just a fucking story!” He punched the hearse. 

“Malcolm!” Elaine hissed.

“Oh no. No no no no...” Malcolm looked inside the hearse at the tiny coffin. “Ma wee lassie. Yer Da’s so sorry.” Tears formed in Malcolm’s eyes and he was careful to wipe them away. “A didnae mean tae scare ye.” 

The funeral director approached them “Mr Tucker.” He said. “I’m so sorry-“

“Everyone says that.” Malcolm said. 

“It was good of you to do this, Mr O’Brien.” Elaine said. 

“It was a horrible thing to happen to you.” The funeral director said. “And doing it free was the least I could do.” He turned to Malcolm. “Mr Tucker. Are you ready?” 

“No.” Malcolm admitted. “I could never be ready.”

The funeral director nodded sympathetically. “No parent ever is.” 

Malcolm took a deep breath and picked up Maisie’s little white coffin from the back of the hearse, trying his hardest not to break down in tears. And with Elaine following, Malcolm carried the coffin into the crematorium. 

Malcolm put his head in his hand as the tears started coming. 

Jamie could feel himself starting to cry as well. He’d never heard Malcolm tell this story and the only times he’d seen Malcolm crying were at his dad’s funeral, Elaine’s funeral and at his mother’s funeral. It was hard to see him crying at his own desk in his own office. 

“I carried the coffin myself.” It was getting harder for Malcolm to speak clearly without sounding like he was crying. “I spoke about... she was wanted. Loved. I cried. I registered her birth. And her death. I don’t feel like a father.” 

“Malcolm. I’m so sorry.” Jamie said.

“Now Twelve...” No more words came from Malcolm’s mouth. 

“The feelings have been dragged up again.” Jamie said. He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. “Mate, it’s... I’m...” he sighed and put his phone in front of Malcolm. “When you feel better, call this number, yeah? They helped me. They’ll help you too.” 

Malcolm picked Jamie’s phone up to look. Jamie had searched for the number of SANDs; the Stillborn And Neonatal Death charity. He nodded at Jamie, giving his phone back. 

Jamie nodded back and quietly picked up a pen and a Post-It, scribbling the number down. He peeled the Post-It from the rest of the stack and put it on Malcolm’s paperwork. He pulled his chair back and stood up. “I’m here, Malc. We’re all here.” 

Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He looked back at his screen. 

Jamie walked out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. That’s when the sobbing started. 

“Is he alright in there?” Jeremy asked as he passed by. 

Jamie shook his head. “No.” He said honestly. “He isn’t.” 

“What’s happened?”

“He’s... he’s had some old wounds re-opened.” Jamie said. “Turns out that Malcolm’s a father. Not just to a blind Civil Servant,” he said in a more hushed voice, “and you can’t tell anyone I said this, but Malcolm had a daughter.” 

“Really?” Jeremy asked. “What happened? Was she adopted? Has she contacted him?” 

Jamie shook his head. “She was stillborn.”

Jeremy put his hand to his mouth. “No.” 

“In 1989.” 

“Oh my god.”

“You can’t tell him you know.” Jamie said. “I heard about it from The Observer only I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“Holy... he’s really been through it.” Jeremy looked at the door to Malcolm’s office. “No wonder he’s so aggressive and violent.” 

“I think he’s just exhausted.” Jamie said. 

Inside the office, Malcolm cleared his throat and dried his eyes. He was a fucking sixty year old man. He shouldn’t be crying. He stood up and with his good arm, he punched the stack of newspapers off his table in a rage. It didn’t help; he still felt very angry. In fact, he didn’t know what he felt. 

He walked back to his desk and sat back down. No longer crying, he took another look at the number Jamie had left. 

He picked his phone from the desk and dialled the number, waiting until someone answered.

(March 1989)

“Oh Malcolm, we heard what had happened.” Peter said. Peter was the editor at the paper that Malcolm and Elaine both worked at. 

“Yep.” Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

“How’s Elaine holding up?” Peter asked. 

“She wants to come back to work.” Malcolm answered. “She doesn’t like being alone in an empty house.” 

“Oh it must be so horrible for her.” Peter said. 

Malcolm gritted his teeth. Her death had happened to him too. “Yes.”

“Can you give her this, it’s from all of us.” Peter handed Malcolm an envelope from his desk. 

Malcolm took the card. “Sure.”

“Since you’re Scottish, can you cover the death of that Scottish politician?” Peter asked. 

“Bob McTaggart?” Malcolm asked. 

Peter snapped his fingers. “Yep. Him. There’s gonna be a by-election, so cover that too. Go on.” 

Malcolm left Peter’s office disillusioned. His daughter had just died and he’d been told to cover the death of a Labour politician. He hadn’t even been asked how he was feeling. 

He opened the envelope to see a white card with a bird on it reading; With Deepest Sympathies. He opened it to see it was addressed to Elaine and Elaine only. He aggressively forced it into the nearest bin with a huff and went to his desk. 

(December 1989)

“Malcolm.” Elaine said. “Look. I have something to tell you.” 

“What?” Malcolm asked, putting the volume down ton the telly. 

“I...” Elaine handed Malcolm something and sat down on the sofa next to him

Malcolm took it and realised it was a pregnancy test. That came up positive. “You’re pregnant?” 

Elaine shook her head. “Not anymore.” 

“You mean-?”

“I’m having a miscarriage.” Elaine put her head in her hands and started crying. 

Malcolm put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. This Christmas was supposed to be her first Christmas. It was already sad enough. But now Elaine was miscarrying... well that only made it much worse for them. 

(June 1995)

Malcolm kissed Elaine on the lips. They were standing on Jamie and his wife Linda’s doorstep. Malcolm rang the doorbell. 

Jamie answered. “Ah, Malc, good tae see ye.” 

“Jamie.” Malcolm greeted. 

“Hello, Jamie.” Elaine greeted. 

“Good to see you too, Elaine.” Jamie said. “How’ve you two been?” 

“We’re doing good, actually.” Elaine said. 

Malcolm nodded. He didn’t want it escaping that he and Elaine had been attending counselling. And that he’d been seeing a psychiatrist. And taking anti-depressants. 

Linda appeared behind Jamie. “Hey, Elaine, Malcolm.”

“Hey, Linda. 

“Linda.” 

“Come in.” Jamie stepped aside as Malcolm and Elaine stepped inside. “Living room, yeah.” He led Malcolm to the living room.

Elaine stayed behind in the hall.

“You okay?” Linda asked. 

Elaine shook her head. “Not really.” 

Malcolm poked his head around the living room door. “El.”

“What’s going on?” Jamie asked. 

“We’re not doing as okay as we said.” Elaine said.

“El, you don’t have to tell them.” Malcolm said.

“I found a lump.” Elaine said. “Had it tested. It’s cancer.”

Jamie appeared in the doorway. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Elaine.”

Malcolm stepped forward and put his arm around Elaine. 

“Malc and I, we’ve been through worse.” Elaine said. “I’m sure we’ll survive.”

“It’s a life threatening disease.” Linda said. 

“I know. I just don’t want to dwell on it.” Elaine said. “So...” she glanced down and looked at Malcolm. “So how are you guys doing?”

“We’re doing, erm...” 

“We’ve put an application in to adopt a kid.” Linda said. “We’re going to be parents.” 

“That’s good.” Malcolm said smiling halfheartedly. “Really happy for ye, mate.” 

“Good luck.” Elaine added. 

(March 1997)

“I’ve been headhunted.” Malcolm said. “Tony Blair. He wants me to help on his campaign.” 

“Oh, really?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye. I’m going to hand in my notice now.” Malcolm said. 

“Does Elaine know about this?”

“Elaine knows. She wants me to go for it.” 

“You’re, what, you’re going to be a fucking politician now, right?” Jamie laughed and shook his head. “No offence, mate, I just can’t see you as a politician.” 

“That’s because I’m not going to be a politician.” Malcolm said. “I’m not fucking standing as an MP.” 

“Then what-“

“Media advisor.”

“Work your way up from there?” Jamie asked. “If he becomes PM-“

“Which he will.” Malcolm said.

“You’re going to work your way up to becoming his own personal aide?” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “You laugh now.” 

“Okay. Okay. So how’s Elaine?” Jamie asked. 

“She’s... good days and bad days.” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Mostly bad days now. It just... it hurts me to see her like that.”

“I’m really sorry, mate.” Jamie said. 

“I know you are. You say it all the fucking time.” Malcolm said.

“That.” Jamie nodded at Malcolm’s resignation letter. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” 

“Er, probably not, no.” Malcolm admitted. 

“In that case, it’s been good working with ye, Malc.” Jamie said. “Take care, mate.” 

“Yeah. You too.” Malcolm said. He turned away from Jamie and walked over to Peter’s office and knocked the door. 

(September 1998)

Malcolm sighed. He didn’t expect to be sat in a church. And though he was surrounded by his and Elaine’s friends and family, he felt completely isolated. Alone. 

He looked down at the ring on his finger and turned it. He’d loved Elaine with all his heart and it hurt that she wasn’t here anymore. He’d known she was going to die. He’d been expecting it. But what he hadn’t expected was how crushing her death would be to him. 

All the days were running into each other now. He couldn’t tell what day it was. It could have been a Tuesday or a Sunday. He didn’t care either. He’d just been operating on autopilot. 

He stood up. Said a speech about Elaine. He didn’t cry. His voice didn’t break. But he was broken inside and it was obvious. 

The one person who shared his grief at her death, he’d just lost. He’d lost his best friend. The love of his life. His support system. 

At the cemetery, he didn’t listen to anything anyone was saying. He was so intensely focused on his own grief. From the jar of dirt, he took a handful and sprinkled it on Elaine’s coffin. 

At the post-funeral gathering, everyone was talking about Elaine. Malcolm stayed away from everyone else and went to the alcohol. He took a bottle of whiskey and headed to the Men’s, locked himself in and drank the whole bottle as he sobbed. Nobody could see his weakness. Men didn’t cry. 

(August 2000)

Malcolm opened his front door to Jamie, who could instantly tell something was wrong. 

“I was just down in London and thought I’d come and see you.” Jamie said with a frown. “You’re looking a bit...” 

“I’m not drunk” Malcolm insisted. His behaviour said otherwise. 

“See... I think you are.” Jamie said. “You’re drunk. Drunk as a skunk. You need to stop this.” 

“Stop what? I’m fine. I’m just... I’m fucking fine, mate.” 

Jamie pushed past Malcolm. “You’re not fine. Your wife died. You aren’t coping.”

He froze when he saw a suspicious looking white powdery substance split up into lines on Malcolm’s dining table. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Jamie asked emotionlessly, pointing at the substance. 

Malcolm rubbed his nose. “What?”

“You’ve taken cocaine.” Jamie said. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Your nose is runny.”

Malcolm rubbed his nose again. “I... have a cold.”

Jamie noticed Malcolm’s twitching muscles. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask you if you were fine.” 

“I’m fucking fine!” Malcolm shouted. 

“Bollocks!” Jamie shouted back. “You’re in pain! You’re drinking to cope! Now you’re on cocaine! The Class-A fucking shit!”

“I’m not on any fucking drugs, Jamie!” Malcolm roared. “I’m not on fucking drugs. My wife fucking died but you know what? I’m fucking fine, mate! I’ve got a fucking good job, right, working for fucking Tony Blair. I’m in the fucking government now. I’m in the loop, mate-I am the fucking loop!”

“Malc-“

“No.” Malcolm took a step back from Jamie. No you’re just... you’re trying to get me fired.” 

“I’m not-“

“You want to replace me. You’re fucking Satan or something.” Malcolm rubbed his nose again and looked down to see blood. “You’re trying to fucking kill me or something, yeah? Get me fired and kill me so you can usurp my fucking job.” 

Jamie said nothing. He was too in shock at the erratic behaviour of his friend. His friend who was drunk and had taken cocaine. His friend who was wearing dirty clothes and probably hadn’t washed for a few days. His friend who was tweaking out, had dilated pupils, a bloody nose and blood smeared on his cheek. 

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Malcolm said. He physically pushed Jamie backwards, knocking him over. 

“What the fuck, Malcolm Tucker?” Jamie snapped. He pulled himself from the floor. “Jesus. You’re fucking paranoid.”

“I’M FINE!” Malcolm screamed in Jamie’s face. 

Jamie swallowed the urge to scream back in Malcolm’s face. After all, Malcolm wasn’t being rational. He very much doubted at that moment that Malcolm was even there. 

“You need help, mate.” 

“Get out!” Malcolm shouted. He rubbed his nose again. 

Jamie nodded. “Fine.” He walked towards the front door and opened it. He turned around to see his friend before he left. “I hope you see that you need help. Or your job will be gone. And I won’t be the one taking it.” 

Malcolm threw a beer bottle at the door, causing Jamie to duck behind the door as he closed it. 

“Jesus.” Jamie muttered. 

Malcolm looked at the powder on the table that was definitely cocaine. He took the fiver from the table and rolled it up. 

(January 2001) 

“What he hell’s he doing?” Alastair frowned. He and another advisor, Steve Fleming were standing behind the scenes of Breakfast With Frost, having been aware of Malcolm’s increasingly erratic behaviour.  

“I don’t know.” Steve said.

“He’s supposed to be fucking talking about fucking Peter Mandelson not... whatever the fuck that is.” Alastair said. “I’m going to get him off.” 

“You can’t do that, this is live.” Steve said.

“I’m getting him off.” Alastair said.

“Alastair.” His PA came to his side. “I’ve just been talking to Malcolm’s PA.” 

“And?” Alastair asked. 

“And in Malcolm’s desk is a little bag of suspicious white powder.” 

“Shit.” 

“And another with brown powder.” 

“Fuck!” Alastair whispered loudly. “Steve, get him out of there.” He said to Steve 

(September 2001) 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Alastair shouted. “I said to fucking bury bad news! All the press have been talking about for ages is the fucking Twin Towers! Why didn’t you bury this fucking news then?!”

“We didn’t have this news then.” One of the higher level media advisors said. 

“Of course you fucking did!” Alastair paced the floor slightly. “You had these fucking crime figures and you fucking fucked up!”

“What do you want me to do about it?” The advisor asked. 

“Fucking nothing. You’re completely fucking useless, like a chocolate fucking fireguard.” Alastair growled. “Why the fuck didn’t you just do as you were told?”

“Because sixty-seven Brits died in the Twin Towers attacks-“

“Fucking and?” Alastair shook his head in incredulity. “Do you want me to give you a fucking medal for knowing that information? Or how about I go to the Queen and get you a goddamn knighthood?” 

Malcolm peered over his cubicle to see the advisor getting the bollocking of his life from Alastair Campbell. Malcolm noted the fury that burned in Alastair’s eyes that frightened even him. 

Alastair leaned forwards. “You are a fucking incompetent twat! And I will be having words with the PM about you later.” 

Malcolm ducked down, immensely grateful that he had leaked the story about the budget overspend on that day. He’d done his job and just as Alastair Campbell had asked him to. This unfortunate fuck had not. 

(April 2002)

Malcolm left his alcoholics support group with his head low. He may have been in Lambeth and not Westminster, but he lived in Lambeth and thus knew other people who lived in Lambeth. Once he was safely away from the vicinity, he turned on his mobile phone to find several missed calls and texts from his sister and her husband, Dan the British Airways Pilot. So he called back. 

“Dan, what do you want?” Malcolm asked, somewhat aggressively. 

“Your sister’s giving birth.” Dan said down the phone. “Get here now.” 

“Where the fuck is ‘here’, Dan?” Malcolm asked. 

“Kings.” 

“Couldn’t have been St Thomas’s.” Malcolm groaned. 

“She’s gone into labour, Malcolm, it’s progressing ridiculously fast. I didn’t know it was supposed to be this fast-it’s supposed to take hours or something, but-“

“I’m already on my way, Jesus. I’ll get a bus.” Malcolm hung up and ran to the nearest bus stop to wait impatiently for the next bus. 

When the bus came, Malcolm paid his fare and sat down only to wait impatiently there too. He shifted in his seat and bounced his leg and then bounced his other leg. He played with his phone, but the beeping on the keypad became too annoying after too long. 

It was only a half hour journey, but it felt so much longer. At least it wasn’t rush hour. 

(August 2003) 

“So I’m terminated, just like that?” Alastair said. 

He was sitting at his desk in his office at Number 10 with Malcolm looking at him all hard. 

“Yeah. Just like that.” Malcolm said. “Look, Alastair, a man died-“

“I fucking know a man died, don’t I? I fucking gave evidence at the inquiry.” 

“So don’t you think it’s better to resign now?” Malcolm shrugged. “Rather than have the press hound you out later?” 

“I am the fucking press, Malcolm Tucker and I am your fucking boss.” Alastair said. 

“Erm... no, actually, you aren’t. Malcolm said. 

“What?” 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you see Tony, well he got your letter of resignation earlier.” 

Alastair’s eyes widened as he realised what was being said to him. “What.”

“Yeah. I read it too. You know, while I was writing it.” Malcolm shrugged. “It was very well written. Brought tears to my fucking eyes and I had a fucking lump in my throat.” 

“You fucking-“

“Ah. No. You’re a civilian now, remember.” 

“You don’t have what it takes to do my job, Tucker.” Alastair slammed his ID badge on the table. “This job will fucking kill you. You will have no time for your fucking kids or fucking your wife.” 

“Good thing I don’t have kids or a wife and the job’s not going to me, then isn’t it?” Malcolm said. The words stung to say. But it was true to an extent. He didn’t have any kids, his daughter was dead. He didn’t have a wife, she was dead too. 

“Who’s the job going to then?” Alastair asked. 

Malcolm scoffed. “Fucking Steve Fleming the fucking drip.” 

“Fuck him.” Alastair said. “And fuck you too, Malcolm Tucker, for making me do this.” 

“You’re lucky you’re not in more trouble with your Dodgy Dossier, Alastair.” Malcolm said. “You’ve got blood on your hands already and I can only say that it’s going to get a lot worse.” 

“Like you’re innocent in all of this too.” Alastair said. “I’m not the one who got drunk and fucking high on fucking drugs and melted down on fucking David Frost’s show.” 

“You want to know what fucking happened there, Alastair?” Malcolm asked challengingly. “You know I was married and my wife’s fucking dead. You know my parents are fucking dead. But you know what else? You know what I haven’t told you? I had a daughter-had. She’s dead too. That’s all fucking true, you can check with my old editor, Peter White.” 

“Of the-“

“Yep. And it’s not like you’re innocent either in getting drunk and having very public meltdowns yourself.” 

Alastair stopped and ran a hand through his hair. 

“This stays with us.” Malcolm said, wiping his eye. He still didn’t like to think about it-it was raw and painful. “Or I tell everyone about that time you went in fucking blackface for Gordon Brown’s Halloween party.” 

Alastair nodded. “Course.” 

“Now get out of here and publicly say you’re resigning.” Malcolm said. 

(September 2003)

“Malcolm. Can I talk to you?” Tony Blair asked Malcolm into his office at Number 10. 

“Er, sure, yeah.” Malcolm said. 

“I know you wrote Steve Fleming’s letter of resignation.” Tony said. 

“Ah. Was it that obvious.” Malcolm asked.

“Let’s just say that I’m getting to recognise your style.” Tony said. “Anyway, my point is, with Steve Fleming gone, I’ll have gone through two Communications Directors in less than a month.” 

“Let me guess-as the next most senior person along this department’s food chain, you want me to take the job, yeah?” Malcolm asked. 

“Well, obviously I’ll have to vet you first.” Tony said. 

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Malcolm said. “I’ve been sober for two and a half years now.” 

“Sober?” Tony asked. “Sober from what?” 

(May 2010)

Malcolm arrived at Number 10 and headed to his office. “Hung Parliament.” He muttered, taking his jacket off. “Fuck this shit.” 

He looked at the stack of newspapers waiting for him and chose instead to log onto his computer and then picked up the top paper on the pile. The Guardian.

Gordon Brown knocked on the door and walked in. “Malcolm.” 

“Gordon. Come in.” Malcolm said, throwing the paper on his desk. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“Well I’ve come to warn you that I’m not going to talk with the Liberal Democrats anymore.” Gordon said. 

“You mean...?” 

Gordon nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Pack your things. David Cameron is going to be moving into Downing Street.” 

“Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck it all what the fuck?” Malcolm said. 

“Yes.” 

(May 2012) 

Malcolm adjusted his tie in his seat. He didn’t want to be back giving testimony to the Leveson Inquiry, but here he was again. 

“Alright.” Robert Jay leafed through papers. “You joined Tony Blair’s staff in 1997, is that correct?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. “I came on as a media advisor for his campaign. He won the election and then, after vetting, I joined as a media advisor full time, in Number 10.” 

“So how was your relationship with Mr Campbell, Mr Mandelson and Mr Fleming?” Robert Jay asked. 

“In a word? Strained.” Malcolm admitted. “I never liked either of them and neither of them liked me.” 

“According to Mr Campbell’s statement, you referred to them as the, well, the ‘c’ word often.” 

(May 2015) 

It was election night. The results were coming in and the seats were all going to the Tories. Or so it seemed like. 

“Well, that’s it.” Ed Miliband sighed at the telly. “The Tories have the majority. The LibDems are fucked. We’re fucked.” 

“In fairness, Ed,” Malcolm said, “that picture of you eating a sandwich that got dragged up was very fucking unflattering.” 

“What happens now?” Ed asked. 

“Well. You have two options.” Malcolm put one palm out. “You could resign. Or-or,” he put the other palm out, “you could hang on in there until the press hound you the fuck out.” 

“Those aren’t very good options.” Ed said. 

“You see, I’m only the Director Of Communications. You might want to talk to your fucking advisors.” Malcolm said. “But if you want my suggestion? Resignation.” 

“Wow. I feel so much better.” Ed said sarcastically. 

(May 2017)

“Get the telly on!” Malcolm shouted to campaign staffers. “Come on! Hurry it up!” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost fucking ten pm! The polls are closing! Exit polls! Predictions! Chop fucking chop!” He clapped. 

The telly came on and everyone gathered around it, Malcolm, Jamie and a few other staffers at the front. 

“-we’re able to predict what has happened tonight.” David Dimbleby said.

The chime of Big Ben as the clock struck ten on the telly and Malcolm could feel his heart in his throat. This would be it. Would he hang onto his job?

David Dimbleby’s voice continued. “And what we’re saying is the Conservatives are the largest party-“

“No!” A staffer shouted. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Jamie said. “Listen to this posh twat!” 

(August 2019)

Nicky Morgan raised an eyebrow at Malcolm “You always did have a way with words.” 

Malcolm wrapped his good arm across his chest, almost forgetting his other arm was in a sling because of a broken collarbone. “Yeah well I try my fucking best, darling.” 

Nicky turned to someone who was making coffee or tea at a table on the other side of the offices. “Doctor, where’s that coffee I asked for?” 

Malcolm’s jaw dropped slightly when he saw the person was using a cane and realised that he was blind and, despite what his wild white curly hair would say, he looked pretty young too. Definitely no older than twenty. “You’re hiring blind children to make your coffee now? That’s a new low, even for the Tories.”

“Yes, well, he’s not my assistant, he’s an intern.” Nicky snatched the cup from the blind kid’s hand. “He’s on that summer program for disabled Civil Service interns.” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Oh really? That makes it so much better, yes indeed!”

(August 2019)

“Uncle Malc, this letter came for you earlier.” 

“Ah thanks, Ellie.” Malcolm took the letter from the teenage girl. 

“What is it?” Ellie asked. 

“It’s something important.” Malcolm said. “I don’t know what’s in it because I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Is it anything work related?”

“Go play Fortnite with your brother.” Malcolm said. 

Ellie nodded. She knew she had her uncle wrapped around her little finger. But she also knew when not to push her luck. So she walked out of the living room. 

Malcolm put his thumb under the sealed flap and held the letter under his chin while he opened it-with his right arm temporarily out of commission, he had to think of creative ways to solve his problems. 

He took the letter from the envelope and looked at it. It was indeed the results of the DNA test he’d ordered since Jamie had him paranoid about Twelve. This letter would tell him whether they shared DNA. And hopefully exonerate him. 

Malcolm’s eyes scanned the letter and his heart sank. And then rose. And then started pumping a thousand miles an hour. His stomach was in knots and he didn’t know what to do or say. 

The DNA samples of Malcolm Tucker and Dougan Doctor showed a 99.9% match. 

Malcolm was Twelve’s father.

“Hello? Hello? Are you there? Are you okay?” A voice said down the receiver. 

“Erm..” he cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, “hi.”

“Hello.”

“I-I’m Malcolm Tucker. And in 1989, my daughter Maisie was stillborn.” 

“Are you being headhunted?” Ten asked. 

“No.” Twelve said. 

Eleven walked into their shared bedroom. “There’s a Scottish man downstairs looking for you, Twelve. Says Jeremy Corbyn wants to see you.” 

Twelve groaned. “Alright. I’m getting up. Get out so I can have my privacy.” 

Twelve emerged from his bedroom after a few minutes, dressed up in a t-shirt, a hoodie and jeans, rather than his usual work suit. Despite his brothers’ attempts to talk to him, Twelve simply put his Doc Martens on without saying anything. He grabbed his keys from the bowl and his cane and headed downstairs. 

Downstairs, Malcolm was waiting, leaning against a wall and browsing on his phone. As soon as he noticed Twelve, he put it away. 

“Kid-“

“It’s Twelve.” He said almost aggressively. “What do you want?” 

“I need you to come with me-“

“No.” Twelve said.

“Okay... You’re coming with me.” Malcolm said. “And that’s me telling you nicely.” 

“Why should I?” 

“Because a newspaper reporter with a grudge against me has found out all about your mother’s affair and is threatening to tell the world by tonight’s evening edition.” 

“If he really wanted to do it, he’d publish it online-nobody reads newspapers anymore when we can all access the Internet.” 

“You make a good point.” Malcolm said. “But he wants you. I’ve got the benefit of having you now. And together we can talk to a nice journalist-“

“Why would I want to?” 

“Because... you don’t want your siblings to find out in this way before you’ve even had the chance to tell them, do you?” Malcolm said. 

Twelve thought back to One. One knew that their mother had an affair. He doubted any of the others did, especially the younger ones like Thirteen and Fourteen. “Okay.” He said quietly. “I’ll come. But I’m not going to like it.” 

“I didn’t say you had to.” Malcolm said. 

“Now fuck off. I have personal matters to attend to.” Twelve said, taking his phone from his pocket. He fiddled about with it, listening to Siri’s narration of what he was doing on his screen. 

“Clara, who’s Clara?” Malcolm asked. 

“I told you to fuck off.” Twelve said as he typed. “I know you’re still there. I could hear you breathing. I’m blind, not deaf.” 

“I’m just trying to take an interest-“

“Well I never asked you to.” Twelve said still typing, Siri still reading out the letters as he did so. “Fuck off.” 

Malcolm nodded and walked a few steps away, still listening in on Twelve’s typing. 

“I know you’re still there.” Twelve repeated. “And I believe this is the third time I’ve told you to fuck off now, so fuck off.” 

Malcolm sighed and he began to pace, still listening on Twelve. 

Twelve could hear and see Malcolm pacing the floor, finding it extremely off-putting. He didn’t finish his message, but he did send it and pocket his phone. 

“Are you done?” Malcolm asked. 

“You annoy me.” Twelve said as he put on his sunglasses.

“I annoy everyone.” Malcolm said. 

“I can believe that.” Twelve said. He put his cane out in front of him. “I annoy everyone too.” 

“So you’re just going to meet this Rani woman.” Rose said. “And you’re going to ask her about your brother.” 

“That’s exactly right.” Ten said. 

“Why is this so important to you?” Rose asked. “To know about your brother, I mean. Isn’t that your brother’s issue?”

“I don’t want to know for me.” Ten said. “I want to know for Twelve. Three and Delgado Masters used to be best friends. Something happened. Now I’m running from Harry Masters and Twelve is dating Missy Masters and he’s... happy. Everyone else tells him to dump her, but he’s happy. And I just want to know why they don’t want to see their brother happy.” 

“Aw. You’re a softie.” 

“No I’m not.” 

“You are.” Rose said. “I mean, you clearly care about your brother.” 

“All I have are my siblings.” Ten said. “Even if I don’t get along with all of them.” He paused for a moment. “And Susan, of course.” 

“You remember your parents though.” Rose said.

“Course I do.” Ten said with a slight shrug. “I... remember them.” He looked down at his hands awkwardly. Ten and his twin brother Eleven had both been eight years old when their parents had died. He definitely remembered them and he remembered them much more than Twelve or Thirteen, but did his best not to think about them. “They brought us all to Alton Towers once.” 

“Remember that time we went to Alton Towers?” Rose asked, changing the subject. 

“Course I do, it was only Easter.” Ten said. “Me, you, Mickey, Martha, Donna, Jack and those weird Welsh friends of his.”

“We didn’t see much of Jack.” Rose said. 

“Yeah, but we didn’t see much of anyone.” Ten pointed out. “We spent most of that trip going back to the Premier In we were staying at and eating out at Pizza Hut. Come to think of it, we didn’t see Lenny Henry either.” 

“Lenny Henry was paid for those adverts though.” Rose said. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to see more of the park.” 

“We enjoyed our hotel room time.” Ten said. 

“Yes we did.” Rose said with a cheeky smile. “Or else we wouldn’t have spent so much time in there.” 

“We can always go back next year if you want and see more of the park.” Ten suggested. “Or we could go to another Premier Inn. There’s one by Euston, I hear that’s good-“

Rose chuckled and shook her head. “It’s not about the hotel, Ten.” 

“It’s not?” Ten asked, looking slightly confused. 

“No! It’s about... it’s about you and me. And not being around your brothers or sister. Or our friends.” Rose said. “I like our friends, of course. But our alone time-“

“Oh I don’t live with Thirteen anymore.” Ten said. “She moved out a few days ago to the other side of London. Eleven’s getting married. And I don’t know what’s up with Twelve, but-“

Rose shook her head. “Hang on-Eleven is getting married?” 

“Yeah, about two weeks ago he asked River to marry him. She said yes.” 

“How come I didn’t know?” 

“I think he was waiting to invite you to the engagement party.” 

“Are you going to ask me to marry you?” Rose asked. 

Ten leaned back and waved his hand dismissively. “No, god no.” He paused as he considered whether that was the right thing to have said. “Unless you want me to.” 

Rose chuckled. “It’s fine. I’m totally not ready to be married yet. I mean, I’m only twenty two.” 

“Yeah. So’s River.” Ten said. “And Amy and Rory. Eleven’s friends consist of him and River and another engaged couple.” 

“I think that’s cute.” Rose said. “But not for me. There’s so many things I haven’t done yet, so many places I haven’t been to and want to see-“

“If you want to see places, you should talk to my brother, Five.” Ten said. “He’s a traveller. Like professionally not the... ethnicity. He just backpacks from place to place with his weird friends that are all from different corners of the world. It’s so cool-wish I could do that. Get away from everything-the humdrum mundanety of London.” 

“Mundatety isn’t a word.” Rose said.

“Yes it is.” Ten insisted. 

“The-the word is mundaneness.” 

“I prefer mundanety.” 

Rose shrugged in a way that said ‘fair enough’. “So why don’t you go travelling then?” 

“No money.” Ten put his hands in his pockets. “The furthest I can afford to go is Alton Towers and that’s by Stoke-on-Trent in Staffordshire. At least it’s not in Sheffield.” 

“It’s still quite close to Sheffield.” Rose said. 

“I never was all that good at reading Ordnance Survey maps.” Ten said. “Suppose I could learn. And maybe then we could go travelling. I’d still need a job though.”

“It’ll be easier when you have a degree, I’d imagine.” Rose said. 

“You have a degree and you’re managing the student shop.” Ten pointed out. 

“Well I only graduated last month.” Rose said. “I’ll find a better job. But for now, I’m happy living with my mum and managing the student shop.”

“So if we went travelling, where would we even go?” Ten asked.

“Where would you want to go?” Rose asked. 

“I’d like to go back to Scotland.” Ten said. “Haven’t been there in years. This isn’t my natural accent-I was actually born there.” 

“I know.” Rose said. “Don’t forget, I also knew Nine.”

Ten nodded. “Oh yeah.” 

“Glasgow?”

“Glasgow.” 

“Are there any theme parks in Scotland?” Rose asked. 

Ten pulled out his phone. “Hang on, let me check.” He typed in his password and quickly googled ‘theme parks in Scotland’, which turned up more than a few results. “Yeah, yes there are.” 

“Where were we going to go next Easter?” 

“Chessington.” Ten replied. 

“We’ll go to Scotland next Easter then.” Rose said. “No Mickey. No Martha. No Donna. No Jack. Just you and me.” 

Ten smiled. “Now see, I like that idea. I’m in.” 

Malcolm led Twelve through the Labour Party HQ and into his office. He had tried to grab Twelve to try and get there faster but learned quickly why that was a bad idea. And so he sat down in a chair. 

Twelve was used to the hostile environment of a political office, but it was the office of the DCMS rather than the office of the entire Opposition Government. It was much more of a crowded place. Much more shouting. Screaming. Swearing. Far more hostile. And there was a meeting with the Shadow Cabinet so their advisors were all wandering around aimlessly, threatening to bump into Twelve. 

The first thing Twelve noticed was that Malcolm’s office was tiny. About the size of a broom cupboard and Twelve wasn’t unconvinced that it wasn’t actually a repurposed broom cupboard. There was no room for him to move his body, let alone move his cane. In that respect, at least it was easier to find a chair and sit down. 

The second thing he noticed was that there was someone else already in there. 

“Alright, Twelve, this is an old... acquaintance of mine, Angela Heaney. We’ve known each other for-“

“About fifteen, sixteen years now.” Angela said. 

“Yeah, gotta be by now.” Malcolm said. “And Angela, this is Twelve Doctor. That’s his-Twelve’s a nickname.” 

“I was gonna say!” Angela chuckled. “You don’t meet very many people called Twelve!” 

“It’s nice to meet you.” Twelve said. 

“Look, Angela, I think you know why I called you.”

“Well there’s rumblings of an affair and a secret love child.” 

“Yeah, the secret child part is true.” Malcolm said. “And you’re looking at him.” 

“Oh. Oh my god.” Angela exclaimed. “How do you know this? I mean beyond the... uncanny resemblance.”

“Well...” There was the sound of crinkling paper as Malcolm opened a letter and handed its contents to Angela. “This.” 

“A DNA test. That shows a match.” Angela said. 

“I don’t believe anything unless I do a test of my own.” Twelve said.

“Er... son-“ Malcolm didn’t quite know what to say.

“Don’t call me ‘son’, you fucking granddad.” Twelve snapped. 

“Well he’s certainly inherited your mouth, Malcolm.“ Angela said. 

“I didn’t have an affair, okay, his mam did because my wife was already dead at that point.” Malcolm said. “We can sort that out later, but right now, I just want Simon Hewitt to back off my daughter.” 

“You have a daughter? Where’s she then?” 

“At my home, in my bedroom in an urn. The same place she’s been for the last thirty years.” Malcolm said. 

The room went silent. The only noise came from the muffled shouting from outside. 

Twelve frowned as he thought-if this was true, and it was, then... he had a dead older sister. His life was changing far too quickly for his liking. And he didn’t like it. Not at all. 

“Oh... Malcolm. I-I didn’t know.” Angela said softly.

“And there’s a reason for that.” Malcolm said. “I didn’t want anyone to know because I didn’t want to be seen as ‘that guy with the dead wife and kid’, you know.”

“So you’d rather be known as ‘The Wolf Of Whitehall’? The uh... ‘Gorbals Goebbels’?” Angela asked. “The Sweary-“

“I get it.” Malcolm said impatiently. “I know what they call me. Christ. Now Simon Hewitt knows about my kids and he’s threatening to tell the world about her.”

“Okay. How did he know?” Angela asked. “Do you have any idea how he found out?” 

“No idea.” Malcolm said. “My best guess is someone leaked something to him and even then I wouldn’t know who it was.” 

“I didn’t say anything, before you ask.” Twelve said. 

“I didn’t say it was you.” Malcolm said. “This place is leakier than a fifty year old boiler.” 

“Malcolm, would it be such a bad thing if the world did find out-“

“It would be very bad,” Twelve said, “because my siblings don’t know. I am the only one in my family who has a living parent. I think.” 

Eleven was playing on the swings as he often did. There was something oddly calming about it, yet at the same time it was totally exciting. 

“Hello, Sweetie.” River said as she took a seat in the empty swing next to him. 

“Hello, River.” Eleven said. “I’m busy right now-“

“No you’re not. You’re playing on the swings.” River said. 

“Well yes. I’m busy playing on the swings.” Eleven reasoned. 

“If you were a time traveller, where would you go first?” River asked. “The future or the past?” 

“Somewhere else in the present.” Eleven said. “I don’t like the past. And the future isn’t going to be good.” 

“Tomorrow might be good.” River said, using her feet to start her swing. 

“It might also be the day that the US president declares nuclear war on North Korea.” 

“It’ll be Iran if it’s anywhere, Eleven.” River said. 

“No, yeah, you’re right.” Eleven said. 

“So are you still planning to meet Rani Ushas?” River asked. 

“Yes. And so is Ten.” Eleven said. “We’re doing it tomorrow.” 

“I want to come too.” River said. “I know you have your brother, but something’s telling me I need to be there too.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” Eleven nodded. “Fine. You can come with us as long as you don’t tell Three or anyone at UNIT.” 

“What’s Unit?” 

“Nothing.” Eleven said. “Nothing at all.” 

River suspected there was more to the story than Eleven was telling her, but there was more to the story that he didn’t even know. And for the first time, being around Eleven made her feel... uneasy rather than happy. 

“If you’re sure, Sweetie.” 

Eleven simply nodded and the two of them sat playing on the swings, not saying a word. 

“It’s a nice place you’ve got, Graham.” Thirteen said as she shuffled awkwardly and jerkily from the kitchen to the sofa. “I can totally see why you moved from Sheffield.” 

“My heart’s still in Sheffield, Thirteen.” Graham said. “I just... I’d live there if I was able to.”

Thirteen sat down. “Why aren’t you able to?” She asked.

“It’s just personal issues.” Graham said. “Like you wanting to move out of your brothers’ flat and into your own. I felt I just needed a, well, a bit of a change of pace.” 

“And we settled on London.” Ryan said. 

“But only because he was going to university here.” Graham said. 

“Still, you didn’t have to follow me, Granddad.” Ryan said. 

“How exactly are you two related?” Thirteen asked. 

“I told you before, he married my grandmother.” Ryan said, pointing at Graham.

“And where’s your grandmother now then?” Thirteen asked. “Is she still in Sheffield?” 

Ryan and Graham shared a look. Apparently neither of them had told Thirteen. 

“Um... yes and no.” Graham said. 

“What do you mean?” Thirteen asked. 

“She’s... she died, Thirteen.” Graham said. “In an accident.” 

“What about your parents?” Thirteen asked. 

“My mother’s dead. We don’t talk about my dad.” Ryan said. 

Thirteen felt about fifty different emotions all at once like a punch to the chest and suddenly everything fell into place. 

“My... my brother, Nine. He lives in Salford.” Thirteen found it unable to talk properly through the weight of the hurt. “We don’t see him. Because our parents died. I was five. He was ten. He saw it. You-it’s the same reason you’re here.”

“I didn’t know your parents were dead.” Graham said quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be, I didn’t really know them.” Thirteen said after a pause. “I’m so sorry you lost your wife, Graham. And Ryan, your grandmother and your mother.” 

“Well, we all got something, don’t we?” Ryan shrugged and looked away, clearly trying to avoid talking about it. 

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re staying with us for the next few weeks, Thirteen.” Graham changed the subject. “I honestly had no idea you could walk though.”

“I can. But I don’t like to.” Thirteen said. “One forced me into walking a lot when I was a kid. So did Two and Three. Four was cool though. He helped me pick out the yellow wheelchair I use. But I love all my older brothers. They all shaped me into the woman I am now. One was like a dad to me. Two taught me the recorder. Three taught me about diplomacy. Four taught me that growing up is for losers. Five taught me about seeing the beauty in everything. Six taught me that it’s okay to feel negative emotions. Seven taught me magic tricks. Eight taught me how to manage my ADHD. War taught me all about dark humour. Nine taught me never to let anyone off the hook because they were just ‘following orders’. Ten taught me to never be a doormat while Eleven taught me that fishfingers and custard tastes super gross and Twelve taught me to be kind. Without them... I wouldn’t be me. If I was an only child I don’t know who I’d be.” 

“That was lovely.” Graham said. “But who names their child ‘War’?”

“Oh you misunderstood-his name’s John, but he’s a war doctor. And so as our last name is Doctor, Four nicknamed him War, so he’s now a war doctor named War Doctor.” Thirteen said. 

“Dr Doctor?” Ryan sniggered. 

“What’s wrong with that?” Thirteen asked. 

“Mate. Your parents were weird.” Ryan said. 

Twelve was on his way from the Westminster Tube station down to the windowless offices of the DCMS, when Malcolm Tucker caught up to him at the toucan crossing. 

“Blind Kid.” 

Twelve grunted in disapproval. 

“Thought you might like to know how yesterday went before you got into the office.” Malcolm said. 

“Make it quick.” Twelve said. 

“I did not make the news and neither did you,” Malcolm said, “but that’s because there’s a rumour that Boris Johnson is going to prorogue Parliament today.” 

“What the hell does prorogue mean?” Twelve asked. 

“He’s going to suspend Parliament, but not dissolve it.” Malcolm explained. “We’re off the hook for now. But not forever.” 

The toucan crossing began beeping, letting pedestrians know it was safe to cross. 

“And what do you expect me to say to that?” Twelve asked as they crossed. 

“I know what we have to do.” Malcolm said. 

Twelve came to a stop by the subway. “And that is...?” 

“Let Angela run the story.” 

“What the fuck, no!” 

“What the fuck? Yes! What an amazing plan, Father, thank you-“

“You are not my father!” Twelve snapped.

“Yes I fucking am!” Malcolm hissed. “Look, I’ve been doing spin since nineteen-fucking-ninety-seven. I know what I’m doing. And what I’m doing is spin.” He explained. “There’s a technique we use and that is to ‘bury bad news’ under another more major news story, like... I don’t know, say you have botched immigration figures the same week you have a rowdy protest from the Orange Order that turns deadly-“

“What’s the Orange Order?” Twelve asked. 

“The same week as an ISIS bombing.” Malcolm corrected. “What do you do? Well, the bombing is serious. All eyes will be on the bombing and the terrorist and speculating whether he had some kind of mental disorder or autism or whatever and while the press are distracted and are distracting the country, you quietly drop those botched crime figures.”

Twelve took his sunglasses off. “But there isn’t a terrorist attack-“ 

“But we got lucky this time as BoJo the Clown is going to prorogue Parliament.” Malcolm said. “All eyes will be on that. There will be protests. There might even be riots because this is all to force through a no-deal Brexit.”

Twelve nodded. “Alright. If you think that’s best, then I... I suppose I have to trust you since you know what you’re talking about. Pull the trigger. Do it.” 

River was already sitting and waiting on a bench in Battersea Park when Ten and Eleven arrived. 

“What’s she doing here?” Ten asked. 

“She’s my fiancée.” Eleven said. “She wanted to be here to support me, so I said ‘yes’.” 

“Of course you did.” Ten sighed. 

“Hello, Sweetie.” River said, slightly more apprehensive than usual. “Hello, Ten.” 

“Hey, River.” Ten said with a small wave of his hand. 

Eleven adjusted his glasses. “I suppose we have to get this thing over with then.” 

“You don’t have to.” River said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” Eleven said. 

“We have to do this.” Ten said. “For Twelve.” 

“Not for yourself?” River asked. 

“For Twelve.” Ten repeated. “He’s our brother-“

“I suppose for me it is sort of a morbid curiosity as well.” Eleven said. “I mean, I’ve always wondered why our family hates the Masters family.” 

“It’s them that hate us.” Ten said. 

“We hate each other.” Eleven said. 

“You are a literal alien, you know that?” Ten asked. 

“If I’m an alien then so are you.” Eleven said. “We are twins.” 

“Did you ever think it’s weird how you’re a twin and,” Ten pointed at River, “you’re a twin and you’re both engaged?” He asked. 

“I... hadn’t thought about it, no.” River admitted. 

“Maybe you should.” Ten shrugged. 

Thirteen was upset. She had, for the most part, forgotten that she was living with her friends. And accidentally broke her wheelchair. She‘d spent rather a lot of her morning crying about it, once Graham and Ryan had left the flat. And she’d called one of her older brothers about it who’d turned up to the flat. 

“I can’t believe you moved out. I thought you’d be with Ten, Eleven and Twelve forever.” 

“Shut up, Six.” Thirteen said walking with great difficulty to the sofa. “I just need to know if you can fix my wheelchair or not.”

“Why didn’t you call the wheelchair repair people?” Six asked. “You should have called them before you called me. You should have called them instead of me!” 

“Yeah, well, I called you. And now I’m stuck with you.” Thirteen sat down. “So tell me if you can fix my wheelchair.” 

“I’ll need to take a look at it.” Six said. “What did you do to it exactly?” 

“I tripped over it. The brakes don’t work now.” 

“Is that it?!” Six spluttered. “You called me out here for brakes?” 

“They’re important, Six.” Thirteen said. “Brakes are important. I don’t want to go rolling off-“

Six sighed. “Alright. I’ll take a look.” He said and walked over to the broken wheelchair. “You are going to have to call the wheelchair people though, Thirteen.” 

“I can’t afford to get it fixed right now, Six, I’m moving into a new flat soon.” Thirteen said. 

“Ask One to get it fixed.” Six said as he examined the brakes. 

“Are you having a laugh?” Thirteen asked. “One is ashamed of me because I prefer to use a wheelchair rather than walk. He’d say that this is a good thing because now I can walk and not be lazy.” 

“He wouldn’t do that-that would be the equivalent of telling Twelve he’s lazy because he’s reads in Braille and not uses what he has of his eyesight to read with his eyes.” 

“It was my choice to use a wheelchair-“

“It was the right choice for you.” Six said. “That doesn’t mean it would be the right choice for anyone else.” 

Thirteen nodded. “Yeah. I suppose.” 

“I teach disabled kids all the time, Thirteen.” Six said. “Every one of them is different. The blind ones. The Deaf ones. The ones who have autism.”

“Autistic.” Thirteen corrected. 

“Actually, you should ask how a person wishes to be referred to. The autistic community may prefer ‘autistic’, but that doesn’t mean individual people do.” Six pushed Thirteen’s wheelchair to the side. “I can fix it. But I’m going to need a day or so.” 

“Why a day?” Thirteen asked. 

“If you want it fixed, it’s best not to whine about it.” Six said. 

“I’ll whine if I want, Six. I don’t have any freedom.” Thirteen complained. 

“You’re wearing your orthoses I noticed.” Six said. “You can walk with a frame or crutches. You have more than one wheelchair-“

“I like that wheelchair.” Thirteen said. 

“You can’t have that wheelchair.” Six said. “It needs fixing. Find a new way of getting around or use your spare wheelchair. Those are really your only two options here, Thirteen.” 

Twelve was sitting at his desk as he usually did, refreshing social media as he usually did. Malcolm was right. Boris Johnson had done it. He was going to the Queen to ask if he could suspend Parliament. That could only mean one thing. Well there were a few things that could mean, but to him it meant that Malcolm had encouraged his journalist friend to print the story. 

“Doctor, I’ve seen you hang out with Malcolm Tucker.” Clarke said as he approached Twelve’s desk. “Tell me, did you know he had a dead kid and a secret kid?” 

Twelve said nothing. He wanted to, but he didn’t want to be defensive and if he was defensive, they’d know that Malcolm Tucker was his father. 

“Where did you hear that then?” Jenkins asked. 

“Just read it in The Mirror.” Clarke said. “I mean, I work in communications so it’s my job to know what’s going on.”

“I work in data management, so I should know what’s going on too.” Jenkins said. 

“Anything else more important going on today?” Twelve asked. 

“Yes, the PM’s proroguing Parliament.” Clarke replied. “It’s a bit odd as it’s going into Party Conference season.” 

“How long is the prorogation?” Twelve asked. 

“Twelfth of September to the seventeenth of October.” Clarke said. 

“That’s ridiculous.” Jenkins said. “We are literally going to Brexit on Halloween. That’s cutting it fine.” 

“That’s the point.” Twelve said. 

“No offence, little foetus boy, but you don’t have experience in the civil service like we do.” Clarke said.

“Well Sajid Javid was supposed to give a Budget today, but he cancelled it last night under mysterious circumstances with less than a day’s notice.” Twelve said. “It sounds to me like he didn’t want the spotlight taken from Boris Johnson’s Parliamentary Prorogation. This was all premeditated.” 

“No yeah, he’s right.” Jenkins said. “That’s pretty fishy.” 

“What’s going to happen with this vote of confidence and early general election then?” Twelve asked. 

“There’s not going to be a vote of confidence. Or a general election.” Clarke said. “It was all a smokescreen for this.” 

“But there has to be an election.” Twelve said. “They’ve been talking about it for weeks. Boris Johnson is unelected, that would be tyranny-“

“You’re a civil servant, Doctor, you can’t say that-“

“Oh fuck the civil service!” Twelve said as he stood up. “And fuck you lot too! You’re complicit in this suffering. And you happen to be the worst group of people that I have ever, ever had the misfortune of meeting in my life-and we’re including the people on the Tube who grab me and try and pray for me to be able to see again in this. Fuck the lot of you.” 

Twelve grabbed his cane and unfolded it before he stormed angrily out of the DCMS offices. 

Meanwhile, at Battersea Park, Ten, Eleven and River were waiting on a park bench and talking when a woman approached them. 

“Are you Mattnew and David?” She asked. “I was told to meet two teenage boys here and that one would be dressed as an old man with a tweed jacket, braces and a dickie bow While the other would have well worn white Converse and that seems to be matching your descriptions.”

“First off, we’re not teenagers.” Eleven said. “And do you know how that sounds saying that you’re here to meet teenage boys-“

“Don’t care.”

“So I take it you’re Rani, right?” Ten asked. 

“That’s right.” She said. 

“Okay. Well, I’m David,” Ten said, “and that’s Matthew. And that’s River.” He said, pointing at each of them in turn. 

“Okay, so you two are Doctors.” Rani said. 

“Yes.” Ten said. 

“But not her.” Rani pointed at River. 

“Soon to be.” River said. 

“Oh, so one of you’s getting married.” Rani said.

“We didn’t call you to make pleasantries.” Eleven said. “We called you because you knew Three. Uh Jonny I think you’d know him as.”

“I knew Bill too. And Patrick. And Tom. And Peter. And Colin. And Sylvester. And even Paul.” Rani said. “And John.” She whispered loudly.

“You know the Masters too.” Eleven said. 

“Yep. Delgado, Peter, Geoff, Ainley and Eric.” Rani listed. “Jacobi too, but not as well. 

“Well, we need to know what happened that caused Jonny, Patrick’s twin that is, and Delgado to hate each other.” Ten said. 

“Oh is that it?” Rani asked, sounding slightly disappointed. “Okay, there was a murder and  Delgado suggested covering it up by burying the body. He recruited Jonny and me into helping him, but Jonny kind of freaked out and was like ‘no, dude, we have to tell an adult!’ but Delgado was like ‘look dude, I’m the one who just killed someone and I’m going to get in a shit load of trouble so just help me hide the body’, so we did, of course. Jonny tried to convince Delgado to ‘do the right thing’ and ‘turn himself in’, but he never did, which is what led to the rift between them.”

“Is that true?” Ten asked. 

“I may be a sociopath, but I'm not a liar.” Rani said. 

“How old were you all?” River asked.

“We were all about nine or ten at the time.” Rani answered. 

“Is there more to the story or is that it?” Eleven asked. 

“There is more to the story, yes.” Rani said. “That’s just the start.” 

“Can you tell us, please?” Ten asked. He was starting to freak out knowing that his older brother was a murderer. 

Rani nodded. “Okay. So after Delgado, Jonny and I hid the body, it caused some tension between the two of them. A lot of tension. And Jonny’s marks started to slip because, I can only assume he felt really guilty and Delgado didn’t. Jon was also extremely nervous and jumpy all the time. So he got all the attention. Delgado on the other hand, well he became more arrogant. After all, he’d quite literally just got away with murder. Me? I was indifferent, but tried to keep the three of us together.” She explained. 

“By secondary school, Delgado had changed. A lot. He’d become much more domineering. He’d turned into a bully. What he’d done was probably driving him crazy, just as it was doing to Jon, but in a different way. Jonny had changed too. He’d turned into a pacifist. She spat the word out as if it were shameful. “He preferred ‘tact’ and ‘diplomacy‘ and he was just he complete opposite of Delgado. They started arguing and they fell apart. They just stopped being compatible.”

“So why aren’t we allowed to associate with the Masters?” Eleven asked. 

“Do whatever the fuck you like, nobody can stop you.” Rani said with a shrug. 

“Except our brothers.” Eleven said. 

“Why did you want to know that anyway?” Rani asked. 

“Two wouldn’t tell us.” Ten said quietly. 

“Two?” 

“Patrick.” Eleven corrected. “When our parents died we... we numbered ourselves.” 

“Two told us to talk to you about it.” 

“It’s not some big complicated thing, they just killed someone and argued about how to handle it.” 

“But it was an accident, right?” Ten asked. “Right?” 

Rani snorted. “Nah, it was a full on murder. But they would have got away with it anyway as they were below the age of criminal responsibility.”

Neither Ten or Eleven knew what to say and River was still processing what she’d just heard. 

“So who wants chips?” Rani asked. “I’m starving.” 

Kate was out for her daily jog in Hyde Park, but she slowed down and stopped when she saw Thirteen sitting down on the grass surrounded by pigeons. She pulled her AirPods from her ears and put them in her pocket. 

“New wheelchair?” She asked, gesturing to the black wheelchair next to Thirteen as she turned the music off her iPod. 

“Did you hear Boris Johnson prorogued Parliament?” Thirteen asked. 

“Yes, I did hear that.” Kate said. 

“What does prorogue mean, do you know?” 

“Ah-I do not.” 

Thirteen shrugged. 

“Do you like pigeons then?” Kate asked. 

“I do.” Thirteen said, coaxing one towards her with a piece of biscuit. “They’re friendly. They’re the bird of peace.” 

“I thought that was doves.” Kate said.

“Same bird family.” Thirteen said. The pigeon hopped up into Thirteen’s hand, allowing her to use her free hand to gently stroke the pigeon. 

“You can stroke pigeons?” Kate asked. 

“You can stroke any London wildlife.” Thirteen replied. “Pigeons. Squirrels. They’re all used to people. Though I wouldn’t try and touch a goose. Or a seagull. They’d kill you for a chip.”

“Yes, I suppose they would.” Kate said. “You know, you remind me of Snow White right now.”

Thirteen’s arm jerked, which caused the pigeon to panic fly away, flapping its wings wildly. “Probably not now.” She said. 

“No.” Kate said. 

“D’you want a drink or something?” Thirteen asked. “I’m buying.” She stood up off the floor using her wheelchair to support her. 

“Er... sure. Like a Powerade or something.” Kate said. 

Thirteen sat down in her wheelchair, put her seatbelt on and unlocked the brakes. “Come on then.” She pushed herself forwards, causing the pigeons to coo and flap away scared. 

Kate stood up and walked after her. 

Twelve was in St James’ Park while he calmed down from his outburst. He was sitting on a park bench, wearing his sunglasses and listening to what was going on around him. The people. The birds. The kids. The traffic. The protesters. 

“Numbers?” 

Twelve recognised that voice and lowered his sunglasses. “You’re.... Malcolm Tucker’s friend, right?”