PROSE: The Shining Man [Ch. 19, 20, 21]

Hawker hardly flinched and yet she was knocked off her feet, flying halfway towards the shallow end. She landed painfully, jolting her hip, her hat rolling away. What the hell had just happened? Had Hawker hit her, or shoved her aside in the heat of the moment? Either way, how strong was the guy?

[...]

He glanced towards Schofield, who was trying not to wince as she got back to her feet. 'You all right?'
She rubbed her throbbing leg, imagining the peach of a bruise she'd have in the morning. 'Nothing broken.'
'Nothing broken yet,' the Doctor corrected her, before he too was thrown back like a rag doll tossed across room by a tantruming child. But no one had been near him. Not Hawker. Not Turman. He crashed into the wall with enough force to crack the tiles, narrowly missing the metal ladder that led down to the deep end to slide down to the floor.
Schofield tried to limp towards him, but couldn't. It wasn't her leg that was slowing her down. She was fighting against a gust of wind that had blown up from nowhere.
When she was a kid, her grandparents had taken he to Blackpool for a weekend to give her mum and dad a break. It had been off-season, the beach a no-go, thanks to the weather which had bordered on apocalyptic. Her grandad had larked about on the prom, making her squeal with laughter as he battled to walk against the wind, her grandmother nagging him to be careful. At one point, he'd leant forward, the wind holding him at a 45-degree angle. He'd always been a clown
But there was nothing funny about this. It was like trying to shove herself through a brick wall. But they were inside. Where had the wind come from, and how could it be so strong?
She screwed her eyes tight against the grit that had been whipped up by the sudden storm. She heard Turman and Hawker cry out but couldn't see what had happened to them. She was pushed back and fell, rolling like tumbleweed to slam against the style. She scrabbled against the smooth porcelain tiles, trying desperately to find a grip, anything to hold on to. Her nails dug into the grout between the tiles, but it was no good. She was being dragged back towards the deep end, the wind forming a vortex inside the empty pool. There was a ripping sound from above. The plastic sheets had been torn from the windows, sucked into the whirling mass of air. They joined dirt, paper and fragments of broken tiles whipping around. She had builders sand in her mouth, grit in her eyes and nothing to hold on to. Her palms squeaked against the tiles as she was pulled back, the wind roaring in her ears. She cried out in gear, but couldn't hear herself. Instead, there were voices in the wind; howls both angry and sorrowful at the same time.
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
She tumbled backwards, her head cracking against the wall. There was no way to stop, no way to anchor herself down. She mashed against the tiles, winding herself. What had the Doctor said? Nothing broken yet. Is that what would happen? Would the storm snap every bone in her body? She had no idea what was happening to the others; no idea which way was up or down. All she knew was that she was spinning, around and around, as if caught in a fairground ride from hell. Scream if you want to go faster. Scream if you're going to die.
Scream if you want the voices to stop.
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
Fingers locked around her arm. She jolted to a halt, her eyes flicking open.
It was the Doctor! He'd caught hold of her wrist, his other arm hooked around the metal ladder, holding them both against the wind.
Pain was etched across his lined face, but he wouldn't let her go. She forced her other arm forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. He was yelling something, his words drowned out by the same question repeated over and over again on the wind:
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
They jolted forwards. The ladder was coming away from the side of the pool. The metal bent out of shape, the Doctor's arm still looped around the twisted frame, and then it ripped loose. They flew into the wind, hanging on to each other, spinning around like a sycamore seed caught in a tornado.
She wanted to close her eyes, but the Doctor had them fixed with his. His mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear the words. he reached into his jacket with his free hand, pulling out that strange torch of his, only to cry out in despair as it was snatched from his fingers.
They struck something hard. Pain shot through Schofield's already bruised hip. She held on to the Doctor's arm, even though she could barely see his face. The air was full of dust and debris, the roar of the storm a solid wall of noise. They pitched down and Schofield imagined their bodies being dashed across the bottom of the pool.
Please don't let got, she thought, not knowing if she was talking to the Doctor or herself. Please don't let g—
There was a crunch. There was pain. The Doctor's hand slipped from her grasp and everything stopped.

[---]

Later, PC Turman would make his report. He would say how he had been pressed against the side of the pool, crushed by the wind. He would find out what had happened to Rob Hawker only when he was admitted to the hospital himself: how the builder had been thrown free from the building, breaking his legs on one of the window frames.

[...]

Turman had called Schofield's name, even as they ploughed into the bottom of the pool.
There'd been a flash of light. Blinding. Hot against his skin.
And then all was calm.

[...]

A sheet of transparent plastic slapped against him, covering him like a shroud. He pushed it aside, forced himself to crawl back up the slope toward the shallow end. He was bleeding, his uniform shredded from the shards of broken tiles that had sliced past him in the storm. All he was wanted to do was rest, to sleep, but he needed to see what had happened to Schofield. Needed to see her body.
Because he already knew she was dead. The Doctor too. They had to be. The force of the impact. The sound of them hitting the floor. Nothing could survive that.
They weren't there.
Schofield. The Doctor. They were gone.

[...]

That's when he spotted it, etched into the tiles.
It was a circle.
A large circle spreading out from the exact point they had fallen.

[---]

Because she was dead, wasn't she?
She groaned. She'd made the mistake of moving, every bone in her body regretting the decision. Was that a good sign, or a bad sign?
Pain meant that she was alive, unless the afterlife was one big joke. That wouldn't be fair at all.
She coughed. Another mistake. Her lungs felt like they were full of rusty nails. The cough turned into a choke and the choke turned into near respiratory failure.

[...]

Five minutes ago, she had been on a building site in Huckensall. Yes, it was a building site with its own extreme weather system, but it was largely part of a world she understood.
Now, she was somewhere that made no sense whatsoever.
There was grass beneath her head. The brightest, greenest grass she'd ever seen. She was in a forest, but the kind of forest that couldn't possibly exist outside of a picture book.

[...]

'Here,' said a commanding voice. 'Put these on.'

[...]

Schofield looked up to see the Doctor standing over her, his hand reaching down.