NEEDED

                                     1
                                The Incarcerated

 The door of the cell flew open and a large, well-built man entered, struggling with his straitjacketed charge.
With a grunt, he flung her ineptly-kicking form across the room where she bounced-off the wall-padding and onto the floor.
  She struggled vainly to get up, gasping and gurgling inarticulately. Although devoid of her reason, tears fell from her eyes at her awkwardness and the situation she was in.
  She grunted at the effort of sitting upright without the use of her arms, evoking a malicious grin From Dent as he watched her futile struggles. She was tightly ensconced in the jacket's rough canvas embrace and the orderly had the same expression on his face that he'd had when a boy watching his turtle's torment after he'd flipped it onto his back and he stifled a peculiarly high-pitched giggle in his sadistic voyeurism.
  With a final exhalation of breath, she see-sawed herself into a sitting position and threw her tormentor a defiant glance from her hunched position.
    "Ooh, I like you honey, I like you a lot," he oozed. "...but you’ve got to understand who's in charge around here..."
  The brunette made a sound that was almost a growl and the smile fell from his face. Lashing-out, he hooked his foot under her knees and flipped her onto her back again. Dent snorted at her cry of despair, the memory of ants dying as he poured boiling water into their nests flicking through his mind.
  Watching her struggling anew, Dent quoted 'Cool Hand Luke';
    "What we have here is a failure to communicate!" He sniggered as he planted his foot in her stomach, "How many more times must I show you who's boss?"
  The pressure on her midriff increased as did the width of his grin.
    "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?!"
Dent whirled to be confronted by Doctor Hemingway, a sour-seeming but decent human being.
    "I uh, was having some trouble with this patient, Sir!" said Dent, quickly.
    "That’s no excuse for brutality, man!" The smaller figure closed-in on the larger one. "I’ve heard some nasty stories about you, Dent-and I don't like them at all!" 
    "But-"
    "No buts! I don't think you'll be here much longer Dent," Hemingway continued, "...as staff, anyway, now GO!"
  Dent bristled, the knuckles on his clenched fists whitening. He began to turn to leave but was stopped by the Doctor's palm on his chest;
    "I did hope you weren't going to leave her like that?"
  The two men glared at each other for what seemed like an age. Dent was used to violence, he'd taken some karate classes and knew he would have the better of the older, slimly-built man but the thought of losing another job (One he'd only held onto by the skin of his teeth!) cowed him. He turned-back to his erstwhile victim, the sight of his approach making her tense-up but he merely hoisted her up onto her bed.
  Using the pretense of checking her restraints, he whispered;
    "I'm here twelve hours a day, he's not. I'll be back!"
  Dent wasn't even sure if she understood, but he hoped so-that’s what threats were for, after all...
  He then turned and left the room in silence. Hemingway waited until he saw his subordinate turn the corner of the corridor, then entered the room and approached the cowering female.
  She was somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, her brown hair though in disarray framing high, Nordic cheekbones and hazel eyes.
    "Who are you?" He asked, quietly, expecting no response.
  She had been here at Dryfields since his arrival, four years previously. No dental records could be found to prove her identity, let alone finger-prints.
  Her mystery intrigued him, sometimes placid but with sudden panic-attacks and fits. Speechless and seemingly locked inside her own mind with no release, she responded to no treatment or hypnosis. Something terrible must have happened to her to have made her regress so completely.
Hemingway reached-out to put his hand on her shoulder but her involuntary flinch made him vow Dent's immediate dismissal. He straightened-up with defeat. He'd tell other staff (not Dent!) to come back when she'd calmed-down to free her from the restraints. Then he made a mental note to draft-out Dent's dismissal notice.
  The man walked to the cell's doorway and then turned-back to look at her sadly;
    "I wish I could help you..." he muttered, but was certain of her lifetime's incarceration. Her only response was to pull her legs up in a fetal position and gaze at the ceiling. He left.

                                      2
                                  A Dream

  After twenty minutes, her energy and tears spent, sleep claimed her. The woman's sleep though, was rarely restful. Upon waking, she would only retain vague images of darkness, danger and violence. In sleep however she endured a twisted pseudo-reality where people and things worse than Dent made attempts on her life and sanity.

   She was in darkness, the only light filtering through a small, high window. She could just make-out a huge shape in the enclosed space by her. Long and high it was and she reached-out, her hand touching cold steel. She ran her palm up it, the shape arcing-over and down. At its apex there was a raised sigil atop a knob-she could make no sense of it.
  Turning around she tried to make-out something else in the gloom, then a crack of light appeared before her when she faced away from the huge thing. 
  The crack widened and light blasted-in. She could just make-out a tall figure with both hands on the doors then she was somewhere else, cold, chilly. Upturned faces gazed at her lasciviously. She was bound, no-her bindings moved! She lifted her arm to stare into the face of a serpent. Else-where, else-when, assailants came at her again and again. 
  She writhed and groaned in her sleep against the canvas bindings and the violence inflicted against her in her dreams.
  As the attacks against her continued, her dream-self fought back. In wonderment she saw herself exhibiting agility and strength-she was someone else, a different person!
  The memories, dreams or portents flashed-by at high speed now. She saw grass as high as trees, watched from under water as mocking faces tried to drown her with a ducking-stool. She stared at another face in the mirror, one that was not hers. The image touched its lips and she felt cool fingers on her own.
  Then, she was somewhere else, dimly-lit, murky. She was in an alleyway of sorts, but lifting her head she could see a roof seemingly miles above! Suddenly, part of the alley-way collapsed-it being made of boxes, piled high. A huge, dark shape appeared, swaggering toward her like a grudge-bearing freight train. She was in turmoil! Each memory or fantasy was beyond strange, disjointed-surreal!

  When the dreams came she would grow cold, her inability to interpret them terrified her. She seemed locked in a private Hell. Confusion was Hell, but it was also her entire world! Evil forces would descend upon her in the night, her only respite upon waking being a monotonous existence of communal television and crochet.
  That worked, making sense out of abstract reels of cotton and fabric was rewarding to a certain extent but unfulfilling. Her attempts at occupying herself were only really noticeable for their lack of actual, physical violence, Dent.
  Her dreams, although a source of self-discovery and probably her salvation yielded no answers yet only seemed to confuse her more. Each disjointed experience held imminent death for her, flashing from terror to terror. The only sanctuary being in the dark place containing the huge, metal thing with the sigil and the person silhouetted in the light between the doors. This part of the dream felt positive, good. She could only sense warmth from the mysterious presence, although upon waking she could only retain the memory of the huge thing in the darkness and the feel of the cold steel as she traced her finger around the extended letter atop the arc.

                                        3
                              A Dreamlike Visitor

  A sound or feeling made her eyes flicker open. A grating, wheezing noise grew in intensity, together with a rhythmic, flashing light eight feet above the ground. Beneath the light a large, boxlike form began to materialize.
  The immense bellowing ceased and the click of a door opening drew more attention if that was possible and she rolled upright, her eyes impossibly wide. She staggered to her feet and backed away into the corner.
  From around the corner of the box a striking, if disheveled figure appeared. He was well over six feet tall with a shock of white hair and wearing a torn, velvet smoking-jacket, breathless as if in flight;
    "Jehosephat! Where am I?" He turned his head from side to side, "This isn't UNIT H.Q.!"
  He sniffed the air;
    "Hmm, no moisture either so it’s not Wales."
  Then, his eyes becoming accustomed to the dark he noticed the woman for the first time;
    "I don't suppose you could tell me where I am my dear?" He took a closer look at her garb, "Ah no, perhaps not."
  The tall man took a step towards her but she tried to climb into the padding of the wall, her eyes almost swallowing her face, he halted;
   "Charmed, I'm sure." He muttered ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck, "It’s really quite alright, my dear. I wouldn't dream of harming you!" He stipulated. Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed the finger-sized bruises around her throat and the discolouration of the flesh above her right eye, "...I can see however that not everyone is so considerate."
  Despite his effete, dandified appearance the tall man's voice had aquired an edge of steel. He changed his approach and began to croon soothing words at her in an alien dialect which had the desired effect of making her relax somewhat. In less than a minute he had approached her and steered her back to her bed where he sat her down.
  
  The big black Wolseley moved through the night like a whale through uncharted waters as Hemingway drove homeward. 
  Dent had to go of course, but it was necessary for him to check with another member of staff for availability to cover the man's remaining work-hours for the week. Someone had to, of course but was there a chance that Dent would hear of it before his dismissal? Of course there was, it was practically a certainty!
  Paul Hemingway had no fear of Dent for himself, but when news reached his subordinate’s ears there was no telling who Dent might take it out on. One subject did spring to mind, however.
  Was he worrying needlessly? Hemingway paused at the crossroads and looked across to his passenger seat where lay two tickets for tonight's performance.
  He was shocked out of his reverie by a loud hooting from behind and looking-up he saw the traffic light had changed to green. No, he wasn't worrying needlessly!   
  Rolling the window-down, he waved the car on and it howled past him in a Dagenham, twin-cam frenzy with a squeal of tyres and obscenities. The Doctor signaled, checked his mirrors and slew the big 6/110 around with a scrabbling of crossplies.
  Ah well, Rodney Bewes' 'Macbeth' would have to wait!

  He'd tried every hypnotic trick on her he knew but still she didn't respond, she must have experienced quite some trauma.
    "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I'm not what you’d call a 'master' at this."
  With a sigh of resignation the tall dandy looked-down at the pathetic figure. He'd untied her arms and tried to rub some life into them, but as to her mental health there seemed to be nothing he could do in the short time allowed. With his ship in its present unreliable state he really ought to get back to Lethbridge-Stewart as quickly as possible-he was loathe to leave her in these conditions, though.
    "Wait a minute!" He exclaimed, "I wonder if these things' reputation is deserved?" and reached into his back pocket for the item.
  The blue crystal filled her vision. It seemed to glow as if possessed by some mystical, inner fire. Blue light played over her face as she gazed deeper into its heart and walls started to crumble.
  The Doctor watched her face intently and almost imperceptibly her eyes began to lose their glazed appearance. Lines of concentration and character started to appear around them and on her brow as the real person began to surface...

                                        4
                         Surfacing and Taking a Breath

  Raymond Dent watched Hemingway drive out of the gates with a sneer;
    "Yeah, you just go, stick-insect!"
  Would his superior make good his threat? It might be wise to 'play it by the book' for the next few weeks, just in case...
  Ray 'The Horse' Dent had come all the way here from New York, to this dumb, small, wet country following his girl back home, how could he know she'd be such a pain? Nothing was good enough for her, the chances of prize-fights here were few and far between but with his ringside-training and Sharon getting him a job in this dump, he'd made it as an orderly. There had to be more than this though?
  Frustration had gotten the better of him and he'd started taking it out on his charges. What the hell who was going to tell? Who was going to believe these freaks?
  Oh, but it got dull though! Beating these veggies was nothing, they just took it! There was one though, one that at least gave the impression they might put-up a fight if they were able, she was the same size as his wife, too...
  At that moment he turned from the window to see the lanky, blond figure of Baker striding toward him;
    "Have you got another job to go to then, or what?"
    "What do you mean?"
    "Oh sorry, I thought you’d heard. Bad luck." Baker shrugged and slouched-off down the corridor.
  So this was it, another job gone west. Dent seethed. He clenched his fists with anger. He had to do something, someone...
  An unpleasant grin spread across his face as he remembered some unfinished business downstairs...

                                                                                                                
                                       5
                                Hello World!

  It was like waking from a half-remembered dream. Her surroundings were familiar and yet not. How long had she been here? For the first time in an age she was aware of how cold she was and the harshness of the material in the straitjacket.
  Thankfully, her arms were now free, although her hands and fingers were still hidden in the dead-end sleeves of the garment that terminated in straps and fixings that trailed to the floor from where she sat.
  She flexed her concealed fingers, all signs of pins-and-needles now fading but for a slight tingle and she rubbed at her knees to warm-up.
  Her stiff neck reveled in the loosening sensation as she rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder. She stopped with her head tilted-back and looked along her nose with half-lidded eyes at the incongruous shape of the Police-Box and then the cupped hand holding the impossibly large sapphire in front of her face.
  Her eyes traveled along the arm to one of the most strikingly-heroic looking faces she'd ever seen. It was at once both young and old. The mouth beneath the magnificent nose broke into a warm grin and as he stepped back and pocketed the jewel, a shaft of moonlight through the high window turning his mane of silver hair into a bright, surreal halo.
    "Ah, there we are!" the stranger said, cheerfully.
  She tried to speak but her throat was dry and could only manage a croak.
    "Please don't try to talk. I'd say you needed a drink but the room service here is dreadful!" He said, dismissing the cell with a wave of his hand, "If I were you, I'd book-in somewhere else! Where is this awful place? By the way," he added, almost an afterthought, "...I'm the Doctor."
  The woman on the bed managed in a cracked, husky voice;
    "I'm not sure where it is but I'd hate to meet the landlady!" She paused, her eyes clouding-over, "My name's... Emma...I think."
    "Well Emma," the tall stranger said, pulling a silver, Victorian hip flask from an inner pocket and pouring her a large measure, "...it’s positively charming to meet you!"
    "Believe me, the pleasure's all mine!" she said, reaching for the cup. Then she paused and they both looked-down;
    "Ah," said the Doctor, somewhat abashed, "...I appear to be standing on your arms."

  The headlamp-beams of Hemingway's car pierced the night as he raced the ungainly vehicle back to the home. The glare chopped at the darkness as its suspension bottomed-out when leaving the tarmac for the rutted track that lead to the converted manor house, he had to get to her before Dent did!

  With the brandy inside her, Emma felt much better. The Doctor replaced the cap and returned the flask to his inside pocket;
    "A winged bee? Surely they all are! Could it be another type of insect?"
    "Not a bee," she tried to explain, "...a 'B'!" The arm of her restraints flapped comically as she mimed the letter and the Gallifreyan's eyes widened with understanding;
    "Oh, I see. A letter B! Well as far as I know there's only one winged 'B'-is it this?" He drew a pad and a ridiculous feathered quill-open from another pocket. A brief sketch was scribbled at which she nodded, fervently.
    "Bentley." He stated. "You mentioned the colour green in conjunction with it? Well, that only conjures up one thing to me, one of the twenties or thirties sporting Bentleys, they also have the size you alluded to. I can’t see how this helps though, unless you were in a crash with one of these?"
  Many things sprung to mind, now. She was a passenger in one of the huge, ancient cars. She followed one and was greeted from one by a beaming, dapper individual-the one who'd appeared in silhouette in her dream, he raised his bowler then his umbrella-who was he?

                          TO BE CONTINUED