songofsong | Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

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Melody Malone and the Invisible Wife

PROLOGUE

It was another dark and dangerous night on the streets of New York. Well, it was always one of those. And that was just the way I liked it.

After all, that was my profession. As a detective, those streets were what kept me alive, and for as long as the people of New York kept giving into their paranoia and fear, I would be in business. It seemed people would pay a high price to feel safe in their beds at night, and I too slept a little easier, knowing I had the villains caught and money in my pocket.

And what villains they were indeed. For I didn't deal with wanted criminals or the occasional ruffian the police failed to catch; my customers were of a more particular variety, and too were their problems. I could say it was because these particular clients paid me rather handsomely, or that I felt some kind of noble responsibility to keep New York safe - but none of that was true.

The reason I did it, was because I loved it.

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She stops quickly when he questions her, glancing back to see him holding a photograph of that place. Grayle's. Something overcomes her as she quickly steps forward, tugging it out of his hand before he can look too long.

"Just a case I'm working on," she dismisses quietly, turning her back to him as she slides it back into the file, slipping it under a paperclip next to a photograph of a man. She touches the picture for a lingering moment before she clears her throat and quickly closes the files, going to snatch up her glass of scotch and finishing it in one mouthful.

"That's Grayle's place," The Doctor speaks up, even as she snatches the picture away. He doesn't know how all this works, that story, that time, it can't happen for her, can't have happened, or at least not the way it really did. But then why would she have that picture?

"Don't go there," he tells her quickly. "You shouldn't go there. It's dangerous."

The fact he recognises the house makes her slowly look back, a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, and the volumes of curls that tumble there. "What do you know about it?" she asks quietly, warningly. This isn't business, this is personal, and it's told by the way her voice changes.

"I know it's not somewhere you want to go," he tells her, implores. "Grayle, he's a collector. All sorts of things, and not any of them good. If anybody asks you to go there, you stay away. Just stay away."

She has no reason to listen to him, of course, no reason at all, but even if she isn't River, he won't lose her again.

She turns to face him, one hand splayed on top of the file as though it might accidentally come open and reveal more than she wanted. "Your warnings are too late," she tells him, levelling him with a grim look that says she regrets ever setting foot in there. "I've been there. I known exactly how dangerous it is."

Because that was how she lost him.

He can't quite piece how all this works. She's been there, but it can't be what really happened, not even what's in that book, a written recount of what truly happened. But what about all those other stories? Amy's other books. Was there something there? Something written in there?

"The Angels?" he asks her, two simple words, but oh he's interesting now, isn't he, Melody?

She becomes very still at the mention of those creatures, looking at him for a long time, so long, it was almost as if she was seeing something else. But then, she suddenly moves again, a twist of motion that has her crossing the room, and from out of nowhere, a loaded gun, cocked and pointed directly at his forehead.

Yes, he's most definitely interesting now.

"What do you know of the Weeping Angels?"

He sits there, dripping wet like a drowned rat, nothing to his name but a sopping wet bow tie, and oh great, a gun pointed at him again. Both of his hands raise, and he looks at her with an almost nervous gaze.

"You're making quite the habit of this pointing a gun at me, aren't you?"

He's aware that doesn't answer her question, but strangely enough guns don't tend to make him chatty.

"You're making quite the habit of earning it," she replies without hesitation, not taking her eyes off him, nor her weapon. Disrupting her investigation is one thing, but having information that might help her, is another. "You know something about them. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. And whatever it is you know, you'd better tell me right now."

He looks at her, just looks at her, looks at the way she holds the gun, unwavering as its levelled against him.

"Oh I know about them," he says quietly. Finally. "I know all about them. And I know if you lose someone to a Weeping Angel you can't ever get them back." There's pain in his voice as he says that, it still hurts, it will always hurt.

"A Weeping Angel isn't gentle, a Weeping Angel isn't caring, it just wants every day you never had."

She listens to him closely as he speaks, eyes not daring to move from him. She's never met another person who knew about the Weeping Angels, who knew what horrifying creatures they were.

When she hears that pain in his voice, it triggers something in her and she tightly swallows the lump in her throat, adjusting her hand nervously on the gun before she quickly drops it. It had been an overreaction, she knows that, but anything that came close to this case, and it set her off.

"I've seen many things, in my line of work," she tells him quietly, dropping her gaze for a moment. "But I've never seen anything quite like them."

"Are you the praying type, Melody?" he asks her, continuing without truly waiting for an answer. "Then pray you never will."

The Doctor has seen many things, terrible things, but the Weeping Angels are some of the worst. A Dalek he can handle, something full of evil and hate. But the Weeping Angels are something else entirely, and they ripped his family from him.

"Melody," he says her name again then. "Please help me work out what's happened to me."

Her eyes remain downcast as he speaks, lost to the thoughts that had plagued her since this whole mystery began. It weighs heavy on her heart, and when he asks for her help, she slowly looks up, that heaviness seen in her eyes. She looks him over, the pitiful state he's in and somehow, it works.

"Alright," she then says quietly, before steeling her voice, hiding that vulnerability. She lifts her head, lips drawn into a determined line. "I'll help you, if you can help me."

There's an almost palpable relief when she agrees, and he nods a little, thankful. He doesn't know what she could possibly want help with, but help is sort of his thing, so he can at least try.

"Of course. Yeah. Of course. What can I do?"

At his question, Melody glances back towards the file, touching it briefly before she closes up again. “Well, first of all, you can stop making a mess on my floor,” she says, eyes flicking pointedly to the small pond forming underneath the chair. With that, she pushes away from the desk, stepping through another door into the next room. She very quickly returns with a towel, suggesting the next room along is just as small, and she drops it in her lap as she walks past him, going to fetch her cigarette from the tray.

Leaning back against her desk again, she holds it out in front of her, one arm folded, watching him through the steady wisp of smoke that joined the ceiling, forming her very own set of clouds to match the storm outside.

“So, you really don’t remember anything since we last met?” she asks casually, setting the cigarette in her mouth, pinched between two scarlet fingernails.

The Doctor takes the towel and quickly wipes it over his head, soaking up a little of the water from his hair. It does very little though, his clothes sodden through, and he's begun to shiver as it permeates his skin.

Her question brings a shake of his head. "You gave me that card earlier, next thing I was in another street. But that's not the point. I shouldn't be here at all. I can't possibly be here Melody. And I have no idea how I got here."

"What, here in New York?" she asks, trying to make sense of his refusal. "Well, unless you dropped in out of the sky, there are only so many ways you got here." She considers him again, thinking it through, that detective mind at work, separating the clues, analysing the evidence. "If you're having blackouts, it's pretty likely you just forgot how you arrived. Have you checked your wallet? Check for ticket stubs, gas receipts, anything like that."

Here in New York, yes, here in whatever weird fabricated world this is too. But he won't mention that, telling people they're fictional doesn't tend to endear them towards you.

Still, her suggestions make him shake his head.

"No. No I don't travel that way. I don't have a wallet, and anything I do have is gone. So here I am, just me and a wet bowtie to my name. No way of getting back, no way of working it out, reel him up and let him go." He sighs, and rubs his temples, trying not to get too frustrated.

"I'm not from around here," he says evenly. "I'm from along way away."

"Yes, I did notice the accent," she remarks, pointing the stub of her cigarette at him in gesture. "Not often you hear that around these parts." Of course, herself included. She's an oddity in this city, in more ways than one.

"Alright, calm down, honey." She waves a hand at him as if he's about to have a full on breakdown in her office, when all he's done is sigh. "We'll work this thing out. It's what I do."

She pushes away from her desk, setting a clean, empty glass on the corner nearest him. "Here," she says, uncapping her bottle and pouring in just enough to cover the bottom. She's not giving him more than he needs, it's a precious commodity.

"Accent?" he frowns before realising. It's funny, he supposes he does sound English. He doesn't tend to really think about it. Still, 1938, England might as well be as far away as the stars.

He looks at the glass as she lays it out, and shakes his head a moment, ready to refuse with an 'I don't really drink' comment. But he's so cold, bones hurting from shivering from the rain, his damp clothes still heavy against him. So he reaches out and takes the glass, consuming its contents in one quick swig, a slight pulled face after it. Might warm him up at least.

"If you know anywhere I could find a bed for the night..." he asks. What do people usually do? He knows what he usually does, but that seems to be off the menu. Not so easy without his old ship or a handy screwdriver to do the job.

Bringing the bottle back towards her, she refills her glass with a noisy slosh, giving herself a little more than she gave him. Tough luck. Spinning the cap back on, she returns it to the messily arranged desk, papers and newspaper clippings covering the majority of the scratched surface.

With a glass of scotch in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other, she looks like a typical detective from a motion picture - except she's all woman, made quite clear if not by what she's wearing, then the way she positions herself on the corner of her desk.

"Plenty of places," she replies. "But if you've got no wallet, I'm guessing you've got no cash either." She says this with full knowledge, and she raises a pointed eyebrow at him, because she knows what's coming next.

"I heard Central Park's benches are nice this time of year."

He can't help but notice the way she sits, the way the half light in the room reflects against her skin. He aches with how much he misses her. It's so much easier to pretend it isn't true when she's not right there in front of him.

His question hadn't been some attempt to stay with her, but rather a hope that she might know somewhere he could go. Her answer makes him dip his head a little, and he nods, trying not to listen to the way the rain hits loudly against her window.

"Yes, of course. One with nature. What could be better?" He smiles, or at least tries to smile, and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Rolling her eyes somewhat, she gets up from her desk, taking one final drag of the cigarette before she stubs it out. She doesn't know what else he expects. This is New York. It's the Depression. They'd charge you to sleep in the gutter if they could.

Turning her back to him, she stands at the window, opening the slats to gaze out the grim scene outside. A setting so dark, it's almost void of colour. The rain continues to thrash down her window, hitting it with such a force, it almost doesn't seem real.

She says nothing all the while, her arms folded, one hand nursing her glass that she occasionally sips from, all while miraculously leaving no lipstick stains on the rim.

She knows what she's going to do, and she's annoyed at herself for it, which is why she's biding her time. Of course she's not going to throw him out on the street. If he has information on her case, then she needs him, and if she lets him go now, there's a chance he might not even remember this encounter if he keeps having blackouts. She can't afford to let him out of her sight.

Sighing, she turns her head aside slightly, looking back at his pitiful state. "Alright. Fine. You can stay here til we find out what the hell's happening to you," she says, as if he's been begging her.

He’s not really sure what he expected, but it wasn’t that. It’s disconcerting, he’s usually the man with all the answers, or at least some of them, but not today, today all he has is questions, and each of them bigger and more confusing than the last.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, his hands clasped around the empty glass as though he might get warmth from it. He still shivers, and he looks down to where there are still pools of water beside each of his feet.

“I just need to know if anything strange has been happening lately. Anything unusual. Might help me work out how I got here.”

Slowly, she begins to frown, beginning to piece together a possible answer, one that's as unusual as it can get. "The Weeping Angels," she says quietly, looking towards him once more, her eyes carefully studying her. "It's said that they can displace people in time. Send them back, send them away. You said you'd heard of the Weeping Angels. Maybe they got to you too."

The 'too' is a slip up, and one she doesn't notice.

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