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It was the 23rd December 1869 and in her dimly lit room a young girl, named
Gwyneth, moved frantically in her sleep. Her head was filled with
thoughts of a future - a future of death, unless someone stopped them.
All her life, she had dealt with these visions, they were like a gift,
but a gift that was both a blessing and a curse at the same time.
Mr.Sneed had taken her in, looked after her as if she was his own
daughter, after her parents had died of influenza - something Gwyneth
was in constant fear of getting too. She loved him, in an odd kind of
way.
An unearthly glow began to appear around her. Calm blue, with red
bleeding through. Her mouth, which had been closed, opened and she drew
in a sharp breath, the glow filtered into Gwyneth's mouth and she said
in a hushed tone, “My angels...”. Then all was still.
Meanwhile downstairs, Gabriel Sneed was wiping his brow and checking his
pocket watch. Tiredness was taking its toll, but his customer had still
not said his last goodbye to his recently deceased fiancé. He was about
to enter when he noticed the gas light flicker. He wandered over and was
about to inspect it when the door creaked open...
He turned to see the young gentleman, but something was wrong. He would
not of been so suspecting if it had just been the bags under his eyes.
But something was amiss, he looked evil. His eyes had turned an ungodly
colour. Mr.Sneed wasn’t afraid, for this had happened quite frequently
of late. He held the man back and pushed him backwards before yelling
for Gwyneth over his shoulder.
Gwyneth awoke almost immediately after Mr.Sneed had called for her. She
was mostly refreshed, but would have loved to rest for a short time
longer. But with what had been happening recently, she could not be so
idle for too long. She dressed quickly in her simple clothes before
heading downstairs.
Mr.Sneed was still fending off his now obviously deceased customer, who
had now been joined by his recently deceased fiancé. Gwyneth burst into
the room, almost expecting the events. “Help me girl,” cried Mr Sneed,
before turning back to face his adversaries. These unpleasant dealings
upset him, but what could he do? Gwyneth was a great asset to the old
man and soon they had forced the dead down into the morgue before
locking it. Mr Sneed gave a sigh of relief and mopped his brow before
finally heading to bed. Hopefully, Mr.Redpath would have a more pleasant
visit tomorrow when he came to see his grandmother...
Gwyneth couldn't get back to sleep and decided to secretly borrow on of
Mr.Sneed’s books from the library. She tiptoed to her room and began to
read. She often did this in the dead of night. She read for about an
hour before giving in to her heavy eyes. She tiptoed back downstairs and
put the book back exactly where she had found it and headed back
upstairs. Gwyneth was glad of this hour, which was now part of her
pre-bedtime routine - a true opportunity for her to relax from the
stress of her unusual life.
Elsewhere that same night, Charles Dickens, notable author of his time,
was sat, head in hands at his desk. To his right there lay numerous
scrunched up pieces of paper, full of words that would never see the
light of day. He thought about his family and how it would be Christmas
in just two days, but instead of joy, he felt misery. The truth of the
matter was he didn’t want to think about his family. It was Christmas
time and where was he – Cardiff! He couldn’t believe, wouldn’t believe,
that this was what his life had become. Was this it? Writing just to
forget? Maybe tomorrow his life would change forever. Maybe, if he
really believed...
© Copyright Mark Joselin, Simon Breeze & Doctor Who Online, 2012.
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Written by:
Mark Joselin
Artwork by:
Simon Breeze
Narration & Music by:
Siobhan Gallichan
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