then.’
The Doctor nodded. ‘I’ll go and check the TARDIS, then.’ But he stopped at the doors, looking out of the nearest window on to a village green and church that were almost too typical of their kind. ‘Looks like May. Looks like England.’ He sniffed. ‘Not too far from the sea.
Hmm, get a whiff of that salt water. . . ’
Rose laughed and pointed to the TARDIS. ‘Go on, go and check it.’
The Doctor picked up his flagpole and bag of golf clubs and van-ished back inside the TARDIS.
Rose was about to follow him when she saw a newspaper lying on the bar. She couldn’t stop herself from grabbing it in her gloved hand and taking a look, checking the date. The Doctor was right: it was May.
Whenever she came back to Earth, Rose liked to catch up on the news. This was only a local paper, the front page concerned with nothing more exciting than a dispute over parking and a plan for a supermarket, but something made Rose take off her gloves and flick through its pages all the same as she walked idly towards the TARDIS.
3
A few pages in she stopped dead. She felt her heart miss a beat.
The headline ran ROMAN REMAINS AT CREDITON VALE. Beneath it was a colour picture of a middle-aged man in hard hat and yellow jacket, standing next to a large case that contained a broken section of Roman mosaic about six feet across. Depicted on the mosaic was a full-length portrait of a man and woman, both handsome, dark and curly-haired, in purple robes. Further along were a jug and a bunch of green grapes. And right at the far side, shown in shades of gold on tiny pieces of tile, was a familiar pepperpot shape. Three rods stuck out from it: an eye-stalk from the dome of its head, a sucker attachment and a gun from its middle. Its lower half was studded with shining circular shapes.
A Dalek.
Rose ran for the TARDIS – and the police box door slammed shut in her face. There was a loud thump. The light on top began to flash and the ancient engines deep within the craft ground into life.
‘Doctor!’ Rose called. ‘Doctor, what are you doing?’
Five seconds later, the TARDIS was gone. A deep square imprint on the pub’s flowery carpet was the only sign it had ever been there.
4
CHAPTER TWO
KATE YATES JUST knew it was going to be a bad day.
She was dreaming that she was back at school. Everybody else in the class was sixteen, while she was twenty-eight, and there were childish sneers and whispers of ‘Why’s she still here?’ Then she heard her dad shouting up the stairs, ‘It’s eight o’clock!’ At the same moment the radio on her bedside table came to life. A few seconds later she heard the front door slam as her parents left for their jobs.
Then the news finished and Wogan began talking, the gentle Irish chatter Kate had known since childhood seeping into her very bones.
He talked about toothpaste, last night’s TV. . . small, funny things. But for Kate he was simply saying, Just five minutes longer. Five minutes longer in your bed, Kate Yates, in the softest, most comfortable bed in the whole world.
He stopped talking and played some music. ‘This is Anne Murray,
“Snowbird”.’
Kate knew it was deadly, a song designed specifically to stop people getting out of bed and going to work. It was a drowsy, yawny song.
But she couldn’t resist, and she turned her face into a deep fold of pillow, closed her eyes and felt that, like the snowbird, she too should spread her tiny wings and flyaway.
A second later she heard another voice. A Scottish voice. Ken Bruce.
Wogan was handing over to Ken Bruce – which could only mean it wasn’t a second later but half past nine.
Kate sat up in bed and checked the clock. ‘What?’ she screamed.
‘How can it be? What happened to those ninety minutes?’
She threw back her duvet and ran for the bathroom, tore off her pyjamas, rolled a deodorant under her arms, grabbed a creased blouse from the airing cupboard, slipped into her work skirt and shoes, and
The Doctor nodded. ‘I’ll go and check the TARDIS, then.’ But he stopped at the doors, looking out of the nearest window on to a village green and church that were almost too typical of their kind. ‘Looks like May. Looks like England.’ He sniffed. ‘Not too far from the sea.
Hmm, get a whiff of that salt water. . . ’
Rose laughed and pointed to the TARDIS. ‘Go on, go and check it.’
The Doctor picked up his flagpole and bag of golf clubs and van-ished back inside the TARDIS.
Rose was about to follow him when she saw a newspaper lying on the bar. She couldn’t stop herself from grabbing it in her gloved hand and taking a look, checking the date. The Doctor was right: it was May.
Whenever she came back to Earth, Rose liked to catch up on the news. This was only a local paper, the front page concerned with nothing more exciting than a dispute over parking and a plan for a supermarket, but something made Rose take off her gloves and flick through its pages all the same as she walked idly towards the TARDIS.
3
A few pages in she stopped dead. She felt her heart miss a beat.
The headline ran ROMAN REMAINS AT CREDITON VALE. Beneath it was a colour picture of a middle-aged man in hard hat and yellow jacket, standing next to a large case that contained a broken section of Roman mosaic about six feet across. Depicted on the mosaic was a full-length portrait of a man and woman, both handsome, dark and curly-haired, in purple robes. Further along were a jug and a bunch of green grapes. And right at the far side, shown in shades of gold on tiny pieces of tile, was a familiar pepperpot shape. Three rods stuck out from it: an eye-stalk from the dome of its head, a sucker attachment and a gun from its middle. Its lower half was studded with shining circular shapes.
A Dalek.
Rose ran for the TARDIS – and the police box door slammed shut in her face. There was a loud thump. The light on top began to flash and the ancient engines deep within the craft ground into life.
‘Doctor!’ Rose called. ‘Doctor, what are you doing?’
Five seconds later, the TARDIS was gone. A deep square imprint on the pub’s flowery carpet was the only sign it had ever been there.
4
CHAPTER TWO
KATE YATES JUST knew it was going to be a bad day.
She was dreaming that she was back at school. Everybody else in the class was sixteen, while she was twenty-eight, and there were childish sneers and whispers of ‘Why’s she still here?’ Then she heard her dad shouting up the stairs, ‘It’s eight o’clock!’ At the same moment the radio on her bedside table came to life. A few seconds later she heard the front door slam as her parents left for their jobs.
Then the news finished and Wogan began talking, the gentle Irish chatter Kate had known since childhood seeping into her very bones.
He talked about toothpaste, last night’s TV. . . small, funny things. But for Kate he was simply saying, Just five minutes longer. Five minutes longer in your bed, Kate Yates, in the softest, most comfortable bed in the whole world.
He stopped talking and played some music. ‘This is Anne Murray,
“Snowbird”.’
Kate knew it was deadly, a song designed specifically to stop people getting out of bed and going to work. It was a drowsy, yawny song.
But she couldn’t resist, and she turned her face into a deep fold of pillow, closed her eyes and felt that, like the snowbird, she too should spread her tiny wings and flyaway.
A second later she heard another voice. A Scottish voice. Ken Bruce.
Wogan was handing over to Ken Bruce – which could only mean it wasn’t a second later but half past nine.
Kate sat up in bed and checked the clock. ‘What?’ she screamed.
‘How can it be? What happened to those ninety minutes?’
She threw back her duvet and ran for the bathroom, tore off her pyjamas, rolled a deodorant under her arms, grabbed a creased blouse from the airing cupboard, slipped into her work skirt and shoes, and
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