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What Amy Remembered
I saw the Doctor die.
It was one of those dreadful moments. I once saw a dog crossing the road, not looking where it was going, not seeing a speeding white van. I can remember everything about that – the sign on the van, the happy look on the dog’s face, the way it trotted over the road, tongue lolling out between two rows of sharp teeth and red gums, the people on the other side of the street, a special offer in the corner shop, a pram with three shopping bags looped round the handles, a man tying his shoelaces, half a headline from the folded paper on the van’s dashboard…
You get the picture. Anyway. The Doctor was dead. As simple as that.
I saw it happen, and it was like my childhood died too. All those hopes and adventures and ideas, all dropped to the ground with him. It was the Doctor and someone had just shot him. Not a clone, a duplicate, a copy or an imitation. Not a glancing blow, not a flesh wound, not a blank or a near-miss but an unquestionably deadly shot. Dr Bloom had just had the most amazing bit of beginner’s luck. Funny how you think stuff like that.
My first impulse was to ask the Doctor what he thought of it all, as he’d be bound to have something funny to say. Something really funny and Doctory. Funny and Doctory and really reassuring. Instead, he said nothing. He just lay in a little dead heap on the wet sand. Because he was dead. My raggedy Doctor.
My second impulse was to turn to Rory, whose hand I was gripping ever so tightly.
‘Do something!’ I yelled.
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