Freedom has never tasted so good.
The bathysphere door swings open after passing some very tall statues holding up numbers. Maybe they’re diving judges. Anyone willing to dive to 18fathoms has got to see something interesting.
Anyway, the lighthouse smells faintly of salt and seaweed, and has pleasant violin music in the background. Saying that, if I don’t hear “Beyond the Sea” for another millennium, I’d be happy. Other than that, there’s not much else besides an ugly bust of Andrew Ryan, one of his quotes and some propaganda.
There is a rather late addition of a big blue box, sitting there waiting like a faithful dog. Or a bored tour guide. Whatever the metaphor, I’d give it a hug if I could reach.
My mind’s finally given it a rest. I don’t agree with what I saw or did, but I learnt something. Maybe that’s all there is left in the end. A moral. At any rate, I can sit on this low wall, watch the sun rise over the Atlantic and try to reach some kind of serenity. Besides nervously awaiting Womble, of course.
…speak of the resourceful devil…
Just as the sun breaks over the water, Womble breaks through the surface. I can only laugh as he paddles towards the steps; with relief, surprise, confusion or at the priceless look on his face that would suggest all is normal here.
His arms look a bit different though. A bit more…noticeable than normal.
Ah, count your blessings HH. Trial by Rapture that smashes my morality and alters Womble’s arms – we got off easy. The TARDIS medical bay is open to him should he want it.
Womble reaches the top of the stairs and joins me in the sunlight of a new 1959 morning. He opens his mouth to speak…
…a starfish falls out…
It lies there between us. A tale to tell, no doubt, didn’t I say? I burst out laughing; it may not be the correct response to a mate spitting out live seafood, but I might have missed that life lesson.
Womble seems momentarily stunned- either my laughter or the starfish has rendered him a vegetable.
I glare at the starfish. Full-on, now-you’ve-gone-and-done-it glare. I could send Godzilla into counselling with this glare, if I wanted to. But I don’t.
“Fancy a drink?” He says.
Undoubtedly, unabashedly and most definitely, yes.