Also available from BBC Books
DIAMOND DOGS
by Mike Tucker
PLAGUE CITY
by Jonathan Morris
For Mark
‘Mum!’
Sammy Holland was barely through the front door before her son ran the length of the hallway and threw his arms around her.
‘Hey, what’s all this?’ she said, prising Noah away from her waist and dropping down to look into his puffy eyes. She wiped a tear away from his cheek. ‘Whatever’s happened?’
Noah was 8 and short for his age, with a freckled face, chipmunk-like cheeks and a mop of curly brown hair. He sniffed, wiping snot on the back of his hand. ‘It jumped out at me and Frankie. It was horrible.’
Sammy frowned. ‘What did? What are you talking about?’
‘He’s making it up!’ came a voice from the lounge.
Sammy looked across the hall. Through the lounge door, she could see her daughter draped over the sofa. Ten going on eighteen, Masie took after her father, more’s the pity. The two children couldn’t have been more different. While Noah was short, Masie was long and willowy, her shoulder-length hair poker straight and so dark it was almost black. Their temperaments were just as distinct. Noah was the quintessential mummy’s boy, always looking for a hug, while Masie was becoming a thoroughly independent miss, desperate to grow up. She was all about make-up, celebrity gossip and being glued to her mobile phone 24-7.
‘Making up what?’ Sammy asked. ‘Will someone tell me what’s been going on? Why’s your brother so upset?’
‘Is that you, love?’ a woman’s voice called out from the back of the house. ‘Am I glad you’re home!’
‘Mum?’ Dropping her handbag by the door, Sammy scooped Noah into her arms and carried him through to the kitchen, his tears running down her neck. Her mum was in the utility room, piling wet clothes into the tumble dryer. Sammy didn’t know how she’d manage without her. She’d retired early, giving up her job at the local Co-op to help look after the kids. She picked them up from school every day, giving them their tea, so Sammy didn’t have to rush home early from work. Of course, Sammy had told her time and time again that she didn’t have to do the laundry, but Hilary Walsh was not the kind of woman who took no for an answer; or put up with nonsense from her grandkids for that matter.
‘I haven’t been able to do anything with him since we got back from school,’ Hilary said, rubbing her back as she slammed the dryer shut.
Sammy sat Noah on the worktop, as she had whenever they needed a serious chat ever since he was a toddler. He sat swinging his legs, looking down at the checked lino on the floor, refusing to even meet her gaze.
‘OK. Let’s have it. Who jumped out at you, Noah?’
Hilary crossed her arms and gave her grandson a knowing look. ‘If you don’t tell her, I will.’
Noah still didn’t respond. Sammy’s Mum tutted.
‘All right, then,’ she said. ‘Someone decided to leave the school grounds at lunchtime.’
Sammy’s hands went to her hips. ‘Noah, you didn’t!’
‘Do you want to tell her why?’
Noah mumbled something incoherently. Sammy took a step back and, mirroring her mother, crossed her own arms. She didn’t like to admit it, but the two of them were like peas in a pod. Neither woman was taller than five foot four, both had tight curly hair and blue-green eyes, and they shared a contempt for lies and liars.
‘Sorry?’ Sammy asked, jutting her head forward. ‘What was that?’
Noah sighed and gave into the inevitable. ‘It was Dylan. He said he’d seen one on the way to school, down Shrewfoot Avenue.’
‘Seen what?’
Noah wiped his eye with the heel of his hand, still looking everywhere other than at his mum. ‘A Shining Man,’ he mumbled.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Sammy looked from the boy to her mother, who just shrugged and shook her head. ‘That nonsense on the radio? What have I told you about leaving the school? What did Mr Weenink say?’
‘Oh, he said enough, trust me,’ Hilary said, before explaining in excruciating detail how disappointed the new head teacher had been.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Sammy said, running her hands through her hair, still damp from the rain. She stomped back into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. She didn’t want a cup of anything; it was just habit. Something to do other than rant at her son. Of all the stupid things to do. ‘A Shining Man? Really?’
Noah followed her out. ‘But Dylan was right. We saw him.’
‘Told you he was making it up,’ Masie shouted from the other room.
‘Not helpful,’ Sammy called back. ‘And get off that screen. Haven’t you got homework to do?’
‘Done it already,’ came the reply. ‘I’m skyping Shona.’
Sammy went to respond, but stopped herself. Choose your battles, Sammy. Choose your battles.
Blowing air from her cheeks, she led Noah to the kitchen table and sat him down.
‘Noah,’ she said, sitting beside him and taking his hand. ‘Shining Men don’t exist. They’re just some silly urban legend that’s got out of hand.’
Noah looked puzzled. ‘What’s an urban legend?’
‘A story that’s told to scare people.’
‘But Dylan said—’
‘Dylan Edwards says a lot of things,’ she snapped. ‘All of them rubbish.’ She paused, regaining her composure. ‘Why were you really out of school? Were you going to the newsagent?’
‘I told you. We were looking for the Shining Man, but he found us first. He jumped out of the bush and roared at us.’
‘Noah …’
He yanked his hand away. ‘Frankie said you wouldn’t believe me, and he’s right.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘It happened!’ Noah insisted. ‘His eyes shined right in our faces, we couldn’t see anything, and he tried to grab Frankie.’
‘And you told Mr Weenink this?’
‘I’ve told everyone, but no one’s listening.’ The chair squeaked on the kitchen floor as Noah pushed it away and bolted from the room. Sammy let her head drop into her hands and listened to the thud-thud-thud of her son charging upstairs.
‘You shouldn’t let him talk at you like that,’ Hilary said from the sink, the sound of the water running into the bowl competing with the music now blasting from Noah’s room upstairs.
‘Leave that, Mum,’ Sammy said, standing up. ‘I’ll do it later.’ She undid her coat and went to hang it beneath the stairs. ‘What if he’s telling the truth?’
Hilary snorted. ‘About seeing ghosts and goblins? You’re as soft as he is if you believe that.’
‘Something’s scared him.’
‘Yeah, being caught out of school. He’s talking bobbins, and you know it.’
Sammy leant against the kitchen door and sighed. The Shining Men. She’d laughed when she’d first heard about them. Bogeymen spotted on street corners, turning up on blurry photos, two blazing lights for eyes. She’d seen the pictures online, like something from the cheap horror films Noah’s dad used to make her watch. It was the same every week. A new DVD would plop through the door with a garish cover and a stupid name, and she’d have to pretend she enjoyed every gory minute. The Devil’s Whisper. The Walls Have Teeth. Children of the Cull. What a load of rubbish. If she never saw another monster movie, it would be too soon.
She’d dismissed the early Shining Man reports as a publicity stunt for a similarly puerile film. Halloween was just around the corner, after all. But then the kids started banging on about Shining Men at school, freaking each other out, claiming to have seen them hanging around the neighbourhood. And Dylan-blooming-Edwards was the worst of the lot. That boy wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the bum.
‘Mu-uuum!’ Masie whined from the lounge. ‘Noah’s playing his music too loud. I can’t hear Shona!’
‘It’s not too loud!’ Noah shouted back down the stairs, and whacked the stereo up at least another ten decibels.
Sammy fought the urge to bang her head against the wall. It was going to be a long night.
Two hours later and the atmosphere in the Holland household had mellowed considerably. Masie was in her room, probably still glued to a screen, while Sammy perched on the side of Noah’s bed, a well-thumbed book in her hands.
‘The goblin hopped up and down in anger,’ she read. ‘“It’s a trick,” it complained. “A filthy trick by a filthy human.”’
Noah giggled. He always loved it when she did the goblin’s squeaky voice.
‘Jack smiled at the imp,’ she continued. ‘“We made a deal,” he reminded the creature, “and I’ve kept my half of the bargain. Now it’s time to keep yours.”
‘ “You haven’t heard the last of me,” the goblin snarled, disappearing in a puff of smoke. In its place was a golden egg. Jack scooped up his prize and ran all the way home where he and his mother lived happily ever after.” ’
Noah smiled, nestled beneath his superhero duvet; the Ghost soaring up, up and away across a Manhattan skyline. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
She brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘Can I read for a bit?’
She closed the book and handed it over. ‘Half an hour and then lights off. And I’ll be up to check.’
He nodded, already flicking through the brightly coloured pages to find a story to read. Not that he didn’t know them all off by heart. Sammy had lost count of the times they’d read it together, but she didn’t mind. The Goblins of Neverness had been a favourite of hers since she was little. Back then it had been her dad doing the funny voices, making her squeal with laughter every time the goblin was outraged.
She leant over and planted a kiss on Noah’s head. ‘Love you, peanut.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’
Sammy left him to his fairy tales, checking in on Masie. As expected, her daughter was watching YouTube videos on her bed, headphones clamped firmly over her ears. Sammy just couldn’t understand it. Masie spent more time watching other kids playing computer games than playing them herself. Still, anything for a quiet life. At least she wasn’t squabbling with her brother.
Sammy went downstairs. The radio was still playing in the kitchen. A hit from the 1990s. Sammy smiled. Her mum had always hated that one, played over and over on loop.
She walked into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as she passed. The tea things were still in the sink. Usually her mum would have done them, but she had rushed into town to see a show at the Palace with the girls from bingo. Sammy laughed to herself. The Girls. Not one of them was under 60.
The song on the radio finished to be replaced by the seven o’clock news. Sammy already knew what the first headline would be. The same story had been rehashed for every bulletin since she’d got home.
‘Shining Man arrested in Stockport,’ the newsreader declared. ‘Locals demand action.’
Sammy sighed and switched off the radio. She’d heard enough about Shining Men for one night, thank you very much. This was getting out of control. Now people were dressing up as the damned things just to scare people. The guy in Stockport had been caught jumping out at an 82-year-old woman, giving her the fright of her life. Sicko. The thought of someone doing that to Noah made her blood boil. Masie was convinced he’d made it all up, but Noah had stuck to his guns all evening. Sammy didn’t know what to believe. At least he’d think twice before slipping out of school again.
Sammy’s mobile rang, out in the hallway. She went to recover it from her handbag, glancing at the screen. It was Polly from work. She clicked answer.
‘Hiya Pol,’ she said, wandering back to the kitchen. The kettle had stopped boiling and she flicked it on again, finding a clean mug from the draining rack. ‘No, I can’t get out tonight. Mum’s gone into town, so there’s no one to watch the kids.’ Polly made a suggestion and Sammy scoffed. ‘Yeah, like that’ll happen. You know Mike. He needs at least two months’ notice to see his own children. Besides, Noah needs me around tonight.’
She dropped a teabag into the mug, telling Polly about the entire Shining Man debacle. She poured the water and went to get milk from the fridge. ‘I know. It’s all over the news. Did you hear about the bloke in Stockport? Should throw away the key.’
She returned to the sink, glancing up as she slopped milk into her tea. ‘I don’t believe it.’
In her ear, Polly asked her what was wrong.
‘There’s one on the corner of the street. A Shining Man!’
Polly swore in response.
‘Not a “real” one, obviously. One of those nutters dressing up.’
Sammy leaned across the sink to get a closer look. The figure was tall and painfully thin, its back to her. As she watched, it turned its head and two beams of light swept across the road in front of it.
‘It must be wearing head torches or something,’ she muttered, prompting Polly to ask what she’d said.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, making a decision. ‘Pol, I’ve got to go.’ She stormed out of the kitchen, snatching her coat from the peg in the wall. ‘I’m not going to let them get away with this, frightening innocent people.’
On the phone, Polly tried to dissuade her. ‘What are they going to do to me?’ Sammy said, slipping on her coat. ‘Probably a big coward behind all that get up, anyway. Yeah, yeah. I’ll be careful. I call you back.’
Sammy ended the call, looking around for her keys. Where were they?
She rifled through her pockets, putting her phone down on the bookcase in the hall. She walked back into the kitchen, spotting her keyring by the kettle, the little plastic pixie from a family holiday to Cornwall winking cheekily at her.
She grabbed the keys, heading back to the door.
‘Just stepping out for a moment,’ she yelled up to the kids, opening the front door. ‘Stay in bed.’ She didn’t wait for either of them to reply.
The cold hit her as soon as she stepped outside. What kind of freak stands around on street corners in the middle of October? Probably, the same kind of low-life that jumps out at kiddies near schools. Zipping up her coat, Sammy marched down the road.
‘Oi,’ she cried out. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The figure didn’t turn. They didn’t even flinch, standing there in their long shabby coat, greasy hair stretching down their back.
‘I’m talking to you!’ she continued. ‘It isn’t right, what you’re doing. Scaring people. It’s not a joke, you know? My little boy was terrified earlier today. Really, really scared.’
Still the weirdo ignored her. She wasn’t having that.
She couldn’t tap him on the shoulder. The guy was too tall for that. Ridiculously tall. But even that didn’t stop her, not today. Sammy grabbed him by the arm, pulling him around to face her.
‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
The Shining Man didn’t say anything, but he did turn, the light from his torches dazzling her. Sammy threw up a hand. ‘Hey. Cut it out. Turn those things off.’
The figure tilted its strangely elongated head, and Sammy’s words died in her throat. The light wasn’t streaming from torches, but from wide blazing eyes. The thing in front of her had no nose, no ears, no features at all. That had to be a mask. Yes, that’s what it was, just better than the cheap Halloween tat they sold at Betterworths.
All the same, Sammy took a step back as a slit appeared across the void of a face. The slit opened to become a gaping mouth that shined bright in the darkness.
Sammy stumbled, and then screamed as the light washed over her, blotting out everything else, burning her skin.
And then the Shining Man closed its eyes and ragged mouth, and the face was smooth once again.
The figure disappeared, flickering out of view.
Curtains twitched in number fifteen, one of Sammy’s neighbours looking out.
They’d heard something. Had it been a scream? No. The street was empty. It must have been a cat.
Back in her house, Sammy’s mobile rang where she had left it on the bookcase. Noah ran down the stairs and picked it up. It was Polly, his Mum’s friend.
‘No, she’s not here,’ he told the woman. ‘She said she had to pop out.’
He opened the door and looked outside, but there was no sign of his mum.
Sammy Holland had disappeared.
Bill’s life was mad. One hundred per cent, no messing about, certifiably mad.
It hadn’t always been like this. Not until she got a job at the university. Serving chips in the canteen. Sounded simple enough.
Then she started sneaking into the lecture halls, listening to what the professors had to say. One soon became her favourite, but he wasn’t a professor. He was a doctor. The Doctor.
No one knew what subject he was supposed to be teaching. Some said it was physics. Others claimed it was history. But Bill didn’t care. Each lecture was different, covering everything under the sun. The Doctor taught art, and literature, and action figures, and music. He talked about comics, and philosophy, and computing, and architecture, and knitting, and engineering, and … stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. But he never made any of it seem trivial. Sitting in his lecture hall, listening to him speak, you couldn’t help but be swept along by his words, by his enthusiasm. To the Doctor, a bag of jelly babies was just as fascinating as quantum mechanics. Everything was connected. Everything was important.
Then he had made her an offer. Sitting behind his desk in his office.
Actually, it was more of an ultimatum.
‘If you ever get less than a First, it’s over …’
She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but he continued anyway.
‘A First. Every time. Or I stop immediately.’
‘Stop what?’ she’d asked, and then he’d said it. Four magic words.
‘Being your personal tutor.’
It was still hard to believe. Bill Potts, server of chips, had her own personal tutor, someone who believed in her enough to share the secrets of the universe.
Literally.
Because her personal tutor turned out to be an alien with a time machine in his study. A time machine that looked like a police box on the outside and was bigger on the inside. A time machine that could go anywhere in history, if it wanted to. Bill had been to the future. She’d been to the past. She’d run from killer robots and eaten alien fish. But none of that was the mad bit.
The mad bit was how natural it all felt. How right.
Even standing here, in an impossible time machine owned by a 2,000-year-old nutter, Bill felt like she belonged. Like she was safe.
That was, of course, until the TARDIS was hit by a storm. Not outside. Oh no. That would be too normal for the Doctor. Too boring. No, this storm hit inside.
It came without warning. The Doctor was working at the console as usual. He was tall and thin, with a shock of grey hair and eyebrows that could stop a supernova in its tracks. His wardrobe ranged from ageing punk rocker to sharp-suited mod, but today veered towards the latter: a crisp white shirt buttoned to the neck beneath a velvet Crombie jacket.
His fingers were dancing over the controls of his ship, the console beeping and chiming in time with whatever buttons he pressed in a sequence that was anyone’s guess. There was nothing particularly odd in this, except for perhaps the potted plant he had balanced beside the central column. That was new. Perhaps he wanted to pretty the place up a bit, although the blue and yellow blooms would be less precarious on one of the many reading tables dotted around the upper gantry.
Bill was considering all this when the wind started to pick up. It was barely noticeable at first, like a breeze from an open door. Then it grew. The Doctor didn’t even seem to notice, until it began whistling around the upper level, the walls of the TARDIS creaking as if at sea.
He glanced up as papers swirled from above, carried by a gust of wind that rushed down the stairs. The deck shuddered beneath Bill’s feet, before bucking like a fairground ride, throwing her against the console. Opposite her, the Doctor made a grab for the plant.
She barely heard the pot smash on the floor above the roar of the gale.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me?’ the Doctor shouted from where he was hanging from a particularly flimsy-looking lever.
‘Ask you what?’ she yelled back.
‘People usually ask me what’s happening when the TARDIS is attacked.’
‘We’re being attacked?’
‘You noticed!’ the Doctor said, as a large leather-bound book flew from one of the shelves on the upper walkway to almost take off his head. ‘I knew you would.’
The heavy-looking volume bounced once on the floor before being snatched back up into the whirlwind.
‘It’s kind of hard to miss!’ Bill said as something slapped against her cheek. She cried out before realising it was just a dog-eared children’s book.
‘Hey, that’s a first edition,’ the Doctor complained as she chucked it onto the floor. ‘Little Miss Sunshine versus the Sulky Skarasen. I helped with the pictures.’
‘Doctor!’
‘What?’
‘The attack?’
‘Oh yes, that.’ he said, turning his attention back to the controls. ‘Nothing to worry about. Everything’s completely under control.’
‘I’d hate to see it when it’s not. Ow!’
‘Now what?’ he asked, his jacket billowing out behind him.
‘Something hit me.’ Bill rubbed her hand, yelping as she was struck again, this time behind her ear.
‘What kind of something?’
‘Something hard.’
A tiny ball of ice bounced off the console in front of her.
‘Is that … is that hail?’ she asked, making the mistake of looking up as the deluge began in earnest. Hailstones the size of marbles hammered down, clattering on the deck and stinging her skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks.
‘This is not supposed to happen,’ the Doctor announced as the console began to spark and fizz beneath the meteorological assault.
‘No kidding!’
There was a crash from below, a clatter that could have only been the Doctor’s precious guitar toppling from its stand. He shot a mournful look down the stairs before redoubling his efforts with the controls.
‘Have you got an umbrella?’ he asked, wiping icy water from his eyes as he worked.
‘Of course I haven’t!’
‘Then bring one next time. Useful things, brollies. Always used to carry one, back when I was Scottish the first time around.’
‘You’re babbling,’ she told him, her fingers now numb with the cold. ‘You always babble when you’re scared.’
‘I’m never scared!’ he snapped, throwing a lever without warning. The room lurched, and Bill fell away, not because she let go of the console or even slipped. Instead, she was grabbed and pulled from her feet.
Grabbed by a hand that wasn’t there.
A hand with claws.
She skidded across the room, smacking her head on the TARDIS doors … and the storm stopped.
It was that quick. One minute the wind was raging, books were flying and the hail was falling, and then next … everything was as it should be – other than the Doctor fussing over her.
‘Bill? Bill, can you hear me?’
‘Y-yeah. Of course I can.’
He looked at her with concern written all over his craggy features. ‘How many heads am I holding up?’
‘Don’t you mean fingers?’
He stood, offering her his hand. ‘You’ve never met my godmother.’
She stood, gazing at the carnage all around the control room. ‘What happened to the wind and stuff?’
‘Oh, that,’ the Doctor said, waving away the question as he returned to the console. ‘I turned it off.’
‘You turned off a storm …’
‘It wasn’t actually a storm,’ he told her, picking up books to stack them in almost neat piles on the stairs. ‘Not really.’
‘Felt like one to me,’ she replied, lending a hand. It was odd. Books, maps, papers and a document claiming to be the last will and testament of Lord Lucan were strewn across the floor, but none of them were wet. She’d at least expected the deck to be dusted by a thin layer of hailstones, but they were gone. There weren’t even any puddles.
‘It was certainly unexpected,’ the Doctor agreed, as he climbed up to the upper gantry to return his blackboard to its easel from where it had fallen. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
The Doctor avoided her gaze as he skipped back down to the console.
‘It was your fault?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said, putting the console between them, just in case. ‘Well, maybe a little. I was running some tests.’
She circled the control panels to face him. ‘What kind of tests?’
‘The telepathic circuits,’ the Doctor said, glancing towards a row of slimy rubberised ridges on a nearby panel.
‘The TARDIS is telepathic?’
‘Everything’s a little telepathic. Except squirrels. No one knows why. Especially the squirrels.’
‘So what were you testing?’
The Doctor glanced at the shattered remains of his pot plant. Bill’s mouth dropped open. ‘You were testing a flower?’
‘Not just any flower,’ the Doctor told her, scooping up the plant and looking for somewhere to deposit it. ‘A primrose. Incredible plants, primroses. By the late fifty-fourth century, they evolve into a race of brilliant philosophers and orators. Minds the like of which the galaxy has never seen.’ He slapped the pile of earth, petals and bent stems unceremoniously into Bill’s hands. ‘Here, hold on to this.’
Soil slipped between her fingers.
The Doctor returned to the console. ‘I was trying to detect that guy’s thoughts. His name’s Nigel, by the way.’
Bill gaped at the battered flower. ‘The primrose is called Nigel …’
‘Or Martin,’ the Doctor said, checking the scanner screen. ‘Or maybe George. Anyway, whatever his name, it turns out he doesn’t have many thoughts that don’t involve Grimsby Town Football Club.’
She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Now you’re just taking the mickey.’
The Doctor nodded furiously. ‘I know! Did you see their last match? Who in their right mind plays 3-5-2 against Barnet?’
‘Doctor!’
He waved her towards the piles of books on the stairs. ‘Just pop him over there.’
Bill almost apologised to the flower as she did what she was told. ‘So, these tests …’
‘Proved slightly trickier than I expected. I was forced to drop the TARDIS’s psionic defence grid …’
‘Opening us to attack.’
The Doctor gave her an appreciative grin. ‘You’re catching on.’
He pulled the display around to show her, as if she had a hope in hell of understanding the swirling circles that danced across the screen.
‘Nope, sorry,’ she admitted. ‘Still need the Idiot’s Guide. Where did the attack come from?’
He raised a long finger. ‘Hold that thought.’
‘Why? Where are you going?’ she asked as he disappeared down to the lower level.
‘Just a minute!’
‘But, you don’t understand,’ she said, brushing soil from her palms as she walked to the top of the stairs. ‘It wasn’t just the storm. Something grabbed me.’
‘Grabbed you?’ he repeated, running back up to her, his black and white electric guitar in hand.
‘Like a claw. It dragged me across the floor.’
‘Interesting,’ he said, giving the guitar’s paintwork a cursory inspection before handing the instrument over to Bill. ‘Look after that.’
She regarded him with extreme suspicion as he braced himself against the console. ‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘This!’ he announced, slamming his hand down hard on a button.
It was all back in an instant. The hail. The wind. Even the low-flying books.
‘Seriously?’ she asked, buffeted by winds that had no business to be there. ‘This is your plan?’
‘Works for me.’ the Doctor replied. ‘I stopped the storm by raising the defences.’
‘So you’ve dropped them again?’
Thunder roiled high across the ceiling. The Doctor glanced up, looking as though he was loving every terrifying moment. ‘I wonder if we’ll get lightning this time?’
So much for feeling safe in the TARDIS.
‘Just protect that guitar!’ the Doctor instructed her as his fingers went to work on the controls.
‘Forget the guitar. What about me?’
‘A little hail never hurt anyone,’ the Doctor insisted, flinching even as he said it. ‘I just need to lock on to whoever’s reaching out to us.’
‘Reaching out? Is that what you call it? ‘
Bill’s words were lost on the wind. She was blown back, lifted from her feet by a fresh squall. She crashed into the railing, still clutching the Doctor’s precious guitar. This was ridiculous. Screwing up her face, she fought against the wind, stalking back to the console, even as the Doctor let out a cheer.
‘Yes! Well done you.’
Bill heaved the guitar onto the console and smiled at the compliment, despite the weather. ‘Don’t mention it.’
Confusion flashed across the Doctor’s face. ‘I was talking to the TARDIS!’