Grandma, tell us how you met Nana again? Please?”
Emily pleaded excitedly, bouncing up and down where she sat in bed.
Grandma!” Dylan joined in from the neighbouring bed, following his
big sister’s lead.
“Okay, if I do,
do you both promise you’ll settle down to sleep straight after? You
know tomorrow will come quicker if you do,” Gail offered, beaming
warmly at her two young grandchildren as they nodded enthusiastically
in reply. “Alrighty then.”
She moved the
chair from the corner in between the beds, making herself comfortable
as she allowed the memories to play in her mind, a sweet smile
spreading across her lips. “Well, it all began with a brown paper
package, tied up with string…”
It was the first thing Gail
noticed as she let herself into the frathouse, glad to be home after
a long shift patrolling the icy cold December streets. There, sat on
the kitchen table, was a package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and
secured with string. It drew her attention immediately, reminding her
of the parcels her grandmother used to send her as a girl.
“Who’s ‘Abigail Peacock’?” she
asked Chris, reading out the name on the address.
“Huh?” Chris mumbled over his
shoulder on the couch, his eyes not straying from the intense battle
he was engaged in on screen.
“We just thought it was for
you,” Chris shrugged, still not looking round.
“Peacock, Chris, it says
stated bluntly. She was surrounded by idiots.
Pairing:Ten/Rose, AU Rating:Teen Summary: A viral video forces medical researcher John Smith into a fake
engagement with Vitex heiress Rose Tyler, who is desperate to keep the
tabloids from further blackening her already tattered reputation.
Chapter One: Engagement Rings Must Be Worn At All Times
Under the cover of darkness, John quietly left the premises of the we’re-open-late! convenience shop (rather spy-like, he fancied, though in reality he was a tall, gawky man loitering in front of a magazine rack wearing poorly chosen black clothing that made him stand out rather than blend in as desired). He exited by way of the back entrance, courtesy of a few quid slipped into the palm of the teenaged cashier at the front - just in time to be greeted by a nondescript black car with tinted windows. The passenger door opened with a sinister click to receive him, like a gaping black maw into the pits of some hellish prison he would not be able to escape.
It was quarter after 11PM, Tuesday night. Four days after the Maintenance Closet Incident. Six hours after he’d got a call from an anonymous, private number, giving him the time and location of the rendezvous and further instructions. Five hours-and-fifty-nine minutes since he’d begun to truly understand what he was getting himself into, and to regret his decision to agree to it.