Rose

Clara moved to the Powell Estate at age 18, with her dad. They needed a new start after Ellie’s death. And they had had to downsize, because Dave could no longer pay the mortgage, and he refused to break into the savings for Clara’s going to university.

“Your mother believed in education,” he told her over and over. She had: she had been a teaching assistant. “If I did anything to stop you going to uni, she’d come back from her grave and kill me…”

It had been a matter of months since the Battle of Canary Wharf. People rising from their graves did not seem overly outlandish.

Clara got to know the neighbours while her father worked on fixing the place up. A layer of dust had been settled when they’d arrived, and one of the rooms was a bright pink colour Clara hated. Old Mrs Chan from downstairs came up for a cup of tea.

“You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked Clara over the sound of Dave’s drill.

“No,” said Clara. “Why?”

“A girl called Rose used to live in this flat once,” Mrs Chan said sadly. “With her mum. She were about the same age you are now. Bit of a flighty one. Had more boyfriends than I’ve had hot dinners. Dead now. When them things came from the sky – killed hundreds, killed her mother, killed her. All that lost potential! All that life in her! Just stubbed out.”

Clara didn’t know what Rose looked like. Didn’t know what she sounded like. But she saw and heard her in her dreams, a teenage ghost, a Lost Potential, for weeks and weeks and weeks.

*

Angie and Artie

“School reports,” said George, dropping them on her desk. “These are Artie’s, these are Angie’s. Look how downhill she’s gone.” Clara looked. “Grades slipping, talking back to teachers, fighting with other children…”

“George, I honestly think you should get her to see someone. A proper therapist.”

“She won’t go,” George said glumly. With a bereft tone in his voice that reminded Clara of her own dad, he said, “Clara, what did you do? You don’t mind me asking, do you? What did you do when your mum died?”

“Um….it was different for me,” Clara said. “My mum died of cancer, but Angie’s mum, she died so suddenly…it’s different.”

“But not that different?” George said hopefully. “I mean, did you start acting out? And then calm down? Like Angie’s doing?”

“She’s a lot younger than I was,” Clara said, knowing she wasn’t being helpful in the least. “I think, you need to get her someone…”

“I did! You!”

“I’m sorry,” said Clara hopelessly.

George just nodded gloomily, and exited. Clara sat at her desk, pointlessly tapping buttons on her computer (she was trying to virus-scan the drive) when Angie came in, without knocking.

“Clara, can you braid my hair? I’m going out.”

“Out where?”

“Nina’s birthday party. I asked Dad. He said I could!”

Clara thought she would have to check with George later, but she pulled over a chair for Angie and a mirror.

“You know how to braid hair, right?” Angie asked.

“Yes,” Clara said, although she’d never done it before. “Okay, hold still.” And she started. She thought it was going okay-

“You’re doing it wrong!” Angie whipped away so fast Clara almost accidentally pulled some strands of her hair out. “Mum knew how!”

“Angie, I can only do the best I can.”

“You shouldn’t even be here!” Angie snapped, and she flounced away. She tried to slam the door, but one of Clara’s shoes was in the way, and it just sort of bounced. Clara heard her storming downstairs.

When she coast was clear, she glanced out of her bedroom, and found hersef nose-to-nose with Artie, who was raising his hand to knock on the door.

“Oh, hi, Artie. Sorry.”

“Did Angie yell at you?” Artie asked. He was wearing big glasses. Clara knew he was getting contact lenses soon, but for now he looked like the very archetype of the nerdy kid with the dead mother who got bullied at school.

“A little. It’s all right.”

“She’s always yelling.”

“It’s not her fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?” Clara couldn’t answer, and she just stared at the ground.

“I wish Mum wasn’t dead,” Artie said. “It’s ruined everything.”

“I know,” Clara said. “I know.” And she hugged him. And he let himself be hugged.

*

Danny

Clara thought about the Marriage Questions, whenever she was with Danny. Who’ll take who’s name? Who’ll be at the ceremony? Where will we live? She took that as a sign that she really did love him, even before she knew how much. How many children will we have?

“Clara,” Danny said to her. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

It wasn’t even a date. It wasn’t an anything. They were just sitting on her sofa after work. Why was he choosing now to break the spell? “What is it?”

“I love you,” Danny said to her, which did nothing to calm her anxiety, “so there’s one thing…there’s one thing I know will make you think less of me. Or maybe not. You travel with the Doctor, after all. But I have to tell you-”

“What?”

“When I was a soldier, I accidentally killed a little boy,” Danny said without preamble. And Clara stared at him. She thought she had been expecting something even worse.

“What?” she said again.

“I didn’t mean to. Afterwards – there was an investigation – they think he sneaked into the compound to get his football – they said it couldn’t have been prevented. But-”

“It could,” Clara said, her mind suddenly zipping back to a room where three men stood around a button, where three men nearly pressed it. “Things like that can always be prevented!” She had once prevented them!

“They said I wasn’t to blame.”

“God, Danny.”

“I know I was to blame, Clara. I’m the one who pulled the trigger. It could have been anyone but it was me. I’m going to feel guilty about it the rest of my life, but I tried to put it behind me. D’ya understand?”

“Yes,” Clara said slowly. She had seen the Doctor kill. Hadn’t she? She herself had threatened to kill. And yet…that button. That room…

“How old was he?”

Danny didn’t even flinch at the question. “Ten.”

Clara noticed his lack of flinching, but she couldn’t assign a reason for it just yet. “Did you become a teacher to make up for it?” She thought the answer to that might decide their relationship. The answer to that might decide, even, what Danny Pink was. “Teaching children, instead of…”

“Shooting them,” said Danny, and she caught a glimpse of it then, the very real shame and guilt and anger. “Yes. That’s why. I thought I would do anything to bring that boy back, Clara. But I couldn’t. I could only…make better soldiers, better adults, better people. Less careless ones. Less stupid ones. That’s what I want to do.”

Clara loved him then, as she had still loved the Doctor no matter what he had done. “Danny. I understand. You’re doing good now. You’re doing fine.” For a second, the small horrible part of her thought he’s got some bloody nerve telling me to be honest, when he was keeping that from me! But the rest of her, the best of her, felt sorry. And grateful.

“I’ll never keep anything from you again,” Danny whispered, holding her tightly. “I swear.”

“I know,” Clara answered. But she didn’t say it back.

*

Courtney

Clara returned to Coal Hill School only a week after Danny’s death. Coal Hill couldn’t do without two of its best teachers, and the children missed her. Or so Mr Armitage said.

Most of the students knew about Mr Pink’s – Danny’s – death, but they didn’t spare Clara, not really. Year 9 had not done all their homework, Year 10 did not offer her any help when the projector broke down, and Samson and Bradley had a fight in the corridor. It was not until lunchtime that anyone under 20 offered a kindly word at all.

“Miss,” Courtney Woods said, going up to her in the playground. “I’m really sorry, but…is Mr Pink really dead?”

“Yes, Courtney. He is.”

“Sorry,” said Courtney. “I just wanted to know. I liked him.”

“So did I,” Clara said, thinking, this girl is going to be President someday, she’ll have to learn early on how to deal with hurt and angry people. “But he’s dead. He’s really dead. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Courtney lowered her voice and spoke in a rare whisper. “Can’t the Doctor help?”

“He can’t bring people back from the dead, Courtney.”

“Why not? He can travel in time. That’s like bringing people back from the dead.”

“Yes,” Clara said slowly. “I suppose. But he can’t…he won’t cross timelines, risk his life, risk his TARDIS for one ordinary human.”

“Not even if you asked? He likes you.”

Clara wondered if she meant ‘likes’ as in ‘loves’. “Not even for me, he wouldn’t.”

“But if he can, he’s got no right to tell you you can’t!”

“When you look at it like that, yes, but Courtney-”

“Make him!”

Clara thought, this girl is going to be a terrifying President. And she said, “I suppose if anyone could…I could.”

*

Karim

And she could, it turned out. In every horrific way possible. And then the boy whom Danny had killed was standing in her corridor, and for some reason the first question that popped into her head was:

“Do you speak English?”

“You are speaking Pashto,” said the child.

“Oh yeah…” Clara recollected the TARDIS translation system. It wasn’t here, but it was in her head. Maybe it would always be. “Um…” Where had Danny’s bullet entered this child? There wasn’t a mark on him. Had the Nethersphere fixed that too? “What’s your name?”

“Karim Khan Shinwarai.”

“Okay. Karim. Okay.” There were 21 pictures of Danny on the wall watching him and her. Clara had obsessively begun to print them out and put them up after his death, desperate for Danny to continue existing in some physical form. Look where that had got him. Look where that had got him… “Would you like some tea?”

“No,” said Karim. “I want my baby sister.”

“What?” asked Clara, although she had heard him perfectly.

“My baby sister. She was six weeks old. Did the soldiers kill her too?”

“I,” said Clara. “Um.”

“I want her! Take me to her!” Suddenly this ghost child was as real as any of the kids at the school had ever been: screaming, shouting, throwing things, tearing things. The photos of Danny were the first to come down: Clara watched and said nothing as the child stamped on them.

“Your sister, your parents, all your family might still be alive,” she finally said. “If they are, we’ll get you back to them.” She moved towards him-

“GET AWAY FROM ME!”

So she did. She backed away, right out of the door, and closed it. She heard the sound of something breaking – her mirror perhaps – but then silence. Not even crying. So she cried.

*

Clara had cried on her first day at Coal Hill. Not in front of the children. But they had been cruel and as soon as the bell rang and they had left she had cried for ten minutes in the storeroom. Now she cried for only five minutes, and then she opened the door. Karim was sitting in the debris of paper, porcelain and glass. He didn’t look like he was hurt, though. If he even could be now.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Clara found herself asking, again.

“I don’t like tea,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Clara Oswald.”

“Who are you?”

Clara geniunely couldn’t answer that. I was nearly the wife of the man who killed you. I was the pawn of the forces that brought you back. “I’m your friend,” she finally said. “I’m going to find your family.”

It wasn’t a lie. It was a moment of foolish hope, but it wasn’t a lie.

*

Kate

Kate Stewart was still lying in hospital when Clara came to her the next morning. She had left Karim in the flat, playing Pokemon on Clara’s DS. He was not talking to her much, but could she blame him?

“What happened?” Kate said when Clara walked in. “Is it the Doctor?”

“For once, no.” A nurse was by Kate, changing bandages on her legs. Clara assumed UNIT’s nurses had clearance for this sort of thing, and explained the situation.

“I know there’s a lot going on, Ms Stewart,” Clara finished. “But I could really use your help on this.”

Kate nodded. It was a rather sad nod. Then she said, “I never said to you, sorry for your loss.”

“That’s alright.”

“I need to get out of here. With this an issue too – I have to go.”

“Ms Stewart,” said the nurse, “you’re still not really recovered.”

“I cannot stay in hospital,” Kate snapped, and Clara was reminded again that this was one of the most powerful women in Britain, if not the world. “I have a memorial to go to.”

“Whose?” Clara asked, without thinking.

“I can’t remember if you met her,” Kate said. Clearly not giving a damn that Clara was still there, she whipped off her hospital gown and walked around the room in her bra and knickers, searching for fresh clothes. “Jemma Osgood. One of the best women I’ve ever met, so naturally the one murdered first. Your Doctor’s friend the Master got her. I hope he’s sorry. Pass me that suitcase?”

Clara, mutely, passed her the suitcase.

“I wonder if he’ll be there. He damn well ought to be.” Kate fished a blouse and trousers from her suitcase and began to, very elegantly considering her injuries, put them on. “Clara. I’ll do what I can. I’m a mother too. But if Karim ends up fostered or adopted, please try not to be too disappointed, or feel like you’d failed your boyfriend’s last wish. Life is like that. Sometimes all you can hope for is that a child lives, even if its parents die.”

“I know,” Clara said bitterly.

Kate pulled a striped scarf out of the suitcase. “Osgood’s. Last thing left of her: we barely had enough for burial. Shall we give it to her family, you think, or have it buried with her?”

“Give it to her family, of course! Ms Stewart-”

“Kate,” Kate said. “That’s why he likes you. You know the importance of sentimentality. He won’t be there, will he?”

“No.”

*

Martha

And he wasn’t, or at least not anywhere Clara could see.

Osgood’s sister Laura – a model, Clara later found out – sobbed into her wife’s shoulder as Kate handed over the scarf. Clara adverted her eyes, not even entirely voluntarily, she had seen enough grief now to last a hundred lifetimes.

“I need to put you in touch with Martha,” Kate said, as they stood in the graveyard.

“Who’s Martha?”

“Former companion of the Doctor. Also met the Master – there’s a lot of that story you don’t know – and also paid a high price.”

“Why didn’t the Doctor ever mention her?” Clara asked, wondering if he was right now not mentioning her to some other girl.

“Did he ever mention Amelia? Rory? Donna? Rose? Sarah Jane? Jo? Liz? The robot dog?”

“The robot dog?”

“The robot dog.”

“He mentioned Amelia sometimes,” Clara recalled sadly.

“Then she was a lucky one.”

*

Martha was older than Clara. She didn’t look it, but she was. The ease with with she welcomed Clara into her house worried Clara rather a lot. How did she know she wasn’t a Zygon or a Siltheen or something equally terrible?

“This is Mickey,” she said, introducing Clara to her husband. Clara shook his hand and thought of Danny. Physically they weren’t much alike, but they had the same eyes. The eyes of soldiers.

“And this is Annette.” There was a little girl at the top of the stairs, clutching a Barbie doll. Clara waved to her, and the girl waved back shyly and ran away. Clara felt a strange, yearning pain in her heart, but she attempted to forget it.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” Martha said.

“Did Kate tell you?” Clara asked.

“You were travelling with the Doctor and now you’re here,” Mickey said. “Something to be sorry about must have happened to you.” Martha elbowed him, hard.

“My boyfriend died,” Clara said quietly. “Properly died. He’s never coming back.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha said gently. “Tell me about him.”

So Clara did. She told the whole story, from her first glimpse of Danny to her first glimpse of Karim, and then she sat back and refused to cry. It took magnitudes.

“Also I might be pregnant,” she added. She had not told that to anyone. Mickey’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Do you want to be?” Martha immediately asked.

“Yeah. I do.”

“D’ya have family, people you can turn to?”

“Oh yeah. There’s my gran, my dad – even my stepmum. She’ll be delighted. She wants a grandchild to show off.”

Martha smiled. Clara smiled back, although it hurt.

“I’ll give him or her Danny’s name,” she said. “It just seems right. I can’t believe-”

Then she started crying. Martha instantly went to hug her. Mickey vanished and Clara realised he had gone to see if his daughter was alright. Children hearing adults cry was never a good thing. But she cried, and cried, and cried.

“It’s alright,” she said, after four long minutes. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” Martha said. “And that’s okay.”

Clara decided she wanted Martha to be godmother to the baby, even though she had at this point known her less than two hours. “Thank you,” she said, and started crying again, and it lasted for a long time.

*

Ellie

Clara’s mother was buried in the same graveyard Danny was. Clara put fresh flowers there every day, but now she stopped to talk to her mother. She had been putting it off for a long time, but now she thought she could.

“Mum,” Clara said to the grave. “I don’t know if there’s anything left of your body in there. I never asked. I never dared ask. No-one could ask something like…”

She wiped a tear away from her face.

“They found Karim’s family. His parents and his sister are still alive. It was more than we ever hoped for. But they’re all alive. And fine. And reunited.”

No voice came from the grave, so Clara filled in her mother’s voice for her: Well done. That’s so good. That’s my girl. But none of it sounded real.

“And soon you’ll have a grandchild. So will Dad,” Clara said, her voice breaking. “If it’s a girl, maybe I should name her after you.”

Nothing.

“Or maybe not. Maybe I shouldn’t live in the past so much. Maybe I should let go.” She took a deep, ragged breath and moved her hands to her belly. “Well. I hope you know. Wherever you are.”

She thought she might hear the TARDIS at that moment, but it didn’t. There was nothing, just the sound of the leaves on the grass.

“Bye, Mum. Love you,” Clara said, and she remembered her promise that she would never say those words again. The promise was broken, but so was she. And it was alright. She left the graveyard with her head raised.