Dr. Who - BBC New Series 28 (8 page)

doctors told her I had to keep off it.’

‘Terrible bunch, doctors,’ the Doctor laughed. ‘But they

often know what’s best, however unpopular that makes them.’

‘Subtle,’ nodded Wilf. ‘Sylv’ll come round. Probably.’

‘Really?’

‘Nah,’ and Wilf roared. ‘Not a chance, mate.’

The Doctor smiled again. ‘You don’t have a problem with me, then?’

‘Oh, you make my Donna happy. Keep that up and you’re fine with me. Do anything that upsets her, though, and you’ll hear from me, even on Mars.’

The Doctor looked surprised at this. ‘How much has she told you?’

‘Everything. Right from the off.’ Wilf pointed at his telescope. ‘I was up here, looking up into the sky when she told me about you. I didn’t believe her at first.’

‘Well, no one could blame you for that.’

‘Truth is, I don’t think I understood what she was actually telling me. Then I saw you after that fat business, flying through the sky, Donna waving down at me, and I realised it was all true. She keeps me up to date when she can. Postcards, emails. The odd gift. Still don’t know what to do with the Verron medal. Or what exactly a Verron medal is!’

The Doctor grinned. ‘Marvellous race, Verrons. They have a brilliant air corps. Utterly useless, they haven’t fought a war in a few millennia, but their air corps is their proudest achievement. It’s a bit like you sending someone a three-bar DSO.’ The Doctor shrugged. ‘Hang on, when did she send you that, where did she get it from, and how on earth did she get it to you?’

Wilf almost recoiled from the Doctor’s stream-of-conscious barrage of questions.

‘Not a clue. ’Ere, you don’t need it back do you? I mean, it wasn’t stolen? Donna hasn’t nicked anything since those sweets from Woolies when she was eight. We made her take ’em back and apologise and everything.’

‘No, no, I doubt she nicked it. Verrons are very generous. I just want to know when she met a Verron.’

‘I’d hate to think my little girl was not being properly looked after, Doctor,’ Wilf said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Helios 5,’ the Doctor said. ‘Had to be there. Or Ylum.

I like Ylum, so did Donna – very cosmopolitan. Or perhaps from the
Moulin Très Rouge
. There was a street market there. Or I suppose there was that day on—’

‘Anyway,’ Wilf cut across him, ‘we came here for a reason.’

‘A reason other than you wanting to check what my intentions were towards your granddaughter? And to give my left cheek a chance to cool down.’

Wilf laughed. ‘Oh, that’s Sylvia’s way, not mine. I know you’re honourable. I also know Donna can take care of herself in that regard. Any dishonourability from you, you’d never hear the end of it. Literally.’

The Doctor thought about ‘oi’ and decided yes, Wilf knew his granddaughter very well indeed.

Wilf adjusted his telescope. ‘Look though here.’

The Doctor did, and saw a star. A tiny little pinprick of light, flickering enough that every so often it seemed to vanish.

‘Like it? 7432MOTT,’ Wilf said proudly.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Doctor said, staring back at him again.

‘They named it after you?’

‘I discovered it. I joined a node. Not long after, I discovered that star. The RPS are doing me a dinner tomorrow night.’

‘I node nudding anout nodes,’ the Doctor said.

‘Ah, well a node is—’ Wilf started, but the Doctor waved it aside.

‘I’m joking. I know what a node is. And I’m dead impressed, Wilf, that you have a star named in your honour and I’m even more overjoyed the Royal Planetary Society are throwing you a knees-up. And I bet you bought a new tie and everything. And I am so sorry to have to rain on your parade, but can I just point out that there’s
another
new star, just down there. It’s incredibly bright, just to the left of the sword of Orion.’

Wilf leaned down and eased the Doctor aside. ‘There?’

‘No,
there
.’

‘Oh, there. Yeah, we all like that one, too. It’s very pretty.’

‘Yeah, very pretty. A very pretty new star shining brightly in a constellation that it shouldn’t be anywhere near. Thing is, stars of that magnitude and shininess don’t just show up for no good reason.’

‘Shininess? Is that a technical term?’

The Doctor threw Wilf a look. ‘It’s good enough for me.’

‘Only I know that everyone who’s been talking about it calls stars like that Chaos Bodies, apparently.’

The Doctor thought for a second or two, then shrugged.

‘Do they? That’s a new one on me.’

‘It’s what they called it in the papers.’

The Doctor nodded. ‘Ah, well, if the newspapers said it, it must be true, because who on earth would argue with the tabloids.’ He looked up at the thing in the sky. ‘Chaos Bodies. Good descriptive name though, they got that right.’ The Doctor threw an arm around Wilf’s shoulder.

‘But you know what, who cares? You got a star, a much less worrying star, named after you and I’m very proud.’

‘Thank you. I’m glad you said that cos you have just solved my problem for me.’

‘What problem is that?’

‘I need someone to take me to Vauxhall.’

‘Why?’

‘The dinner.’

‘Who with?’

‘The Society.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

‘How?’

‘By TARDIS?’

‘Yeah, cos
that’s
gonna happen.’

‘Well all right, on the tube, then. Sylvia thinks I’m not capable of going by myself. I mean, I’m fine sitting in a cold, damp allotment every night, which plays havoc with my—’

‘So Sylvia doesn’t want you going out late at night, right?’

‘I mean, I’m not gonna get lost, Doctor, but she’s getting all protective and daft these days. Since she lost

Geoff. And with Donna away so much. And now Netty…’

‘You know what, Wilfred Mott, I should be delighted to accompany you to dinner in Vauxhall. By taxi – how posh is that? I haven’t had a meal at the RPS since Bernard and Paula took me there in 1969 to watch the moon landings.

Do they still do that chocolate syrup pudding?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t been before.’

‘Then tomorrow night, Wilfred Mott of Chiswick, assuming the menu hasn’t changed in forty years, and being the Royal Planetary Society I think I’m on safe ground there, you are in for a culinary treat.’

The Doctor looked at the worryingly bright new star that wasn’t 7432MOTT one last time through the telescope. ‘Chaos Body indeed.’

‘It is beautiful though,’ Wilf murmured.

And both men suddenly shivered. Like someone was walking over their graves.

Or the grave of the entire planet.

‘Beautiful Chaos,’ the Doctor said quietly.

Caitlin stood waiting at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 5, waiting for flights that would once have gone into Terminal 2. That was currently being demolished, ready for the East Terminal that would replace the one European flights used to come into. She was meeting various inbound flights, including one due in from JFK at midday, which would arrive before the European ones. She watched the huge 787-9 jet come in to land, sunlight gleaming off its new fuselage as it slowly crawled to a halt, before taxiing across to the arrival gate and being drawn into position by the small pilot truck.

Caitlin was dressed in a smart Terminal Staff uniform, her access-all-areas pass, with the highest security clearing Madam Delphi could get, dangling from the strap around her neck. She smiled sweetly at a couple of other staff, neither of whom challenged her even though they couldn’t possibly have ever seen her before. It was the

pass that did that, although Caitlin’s long dark hair and blue eyes would have been enough to distract anyone who wanted a closer look. A quick smile was usually all it took Caitlin to get exactly what she wanted.

It was actually a keen security guard who spotted her as she walked through Restricted Access doors towards the arrivals lounge, heading to exactly where she really had no right to be.

‘Excuse me?’ he called out.

‘Is there a problem…’ Caitlin screwed up her eyes to read his name tag. ‘Is there a problem, Keith?’

Keith Brownlow stared at her, his head slightly to one side as if sizing her up. ‘Not seen you before,’ he said quietly.

‘Not been here long,’ she answered quickly.

‘Funny,’ he replied. ‘I know everyone in this Terminal.

And those I don’t know, don’t get in here. I need you to leave, I’m afraid, until I can verify you are who you say you are.’

Caitlin paused for a moment, trying to remember a name. ‘I’m sure if you check with Mr Golding he’ll vouch for me. I joined his staff on Thursday.’

Keith shrugged. ‘And I’ll do that, but only once you go back the way you came and wait in the Yellow Zone.’

‘You’re very good at this, Keith, aren’t you?’

‘We take security very seriously,’ he said.

‘Of course you do,’ purred Caitlin. ‘Quite right too. But look, there’s only you and me here, you’ve seen my pass, you can see I have clearance. I’m sure it’s just administration that have failed to inform you I’m here. I

really need to be the other side of that door to greet some VIPs.’

Keith ignored her, his right hand resting on the holstered revolver at his hip, his left hand raising his walkie-talkie.

‘Oh dear, and I thought we might become friends,’

Caitlin said, raising her right arm and sending a bolt of purple energy into Keith’s chest, reducing him to ashes before he could even register the movement.

She walked forward, her high heels squashing the few ashes that remained into the carpet. With a quick, deep breath, she pushed open the VIP area doors and marched out to greet her guests.

They were standing, waiting for her, neither of them really seeming to register where they were or what they were doing. Two old Americans, in from New York.

‘Mr and Mrs DiCotta? Congratulations on your wedding and welcome to your honeymoon.’

Donnie and Portia DiCotta said nothing, just nodded as Caitlin led them to one of the service buggies that elderly and disabled passengers were moved around the airport terminals in.

A confused handler looked at her pass as she flashed it at him, but then moved on, allowing her to take the buggy.

The DiCottas climbed on board as the handler turned back.

‘Do they have luggage?’ he called out.

Caitlin smiled her sweetest smile, which she hoped didn’t suggest what she thought (‘Oh, do go away, you pointless oaf’), then said aloud, ‘It’s been delayed at JFK

so we’ll come back for it in the morning.’

She started the buggy up and drove forward. ‘You’re the first,’ she said quietly, no longer all sweetness and smiles.

‘Where are the others?’

‘The Greek is in shortly, the Italian group, not for another hour or so. We’ll wait, collect them and then go to Madam Delphi together. She has a mission for you tonight.’ Caitlin gave a little laugh. ‘I would ask about jetlag, but I imagine Madam Delphi has ensured you feel none of that.’

‘We feel fine,’ said Portia DiCotta.

‘Good,’ Caitlin said. ‘Perfect.’

The buggy carried on, away from the main routes and across to another Gate where the flight from Athens International would arrive. ‘And then we’re off to meet the funky 787-3 from Aeroporto Leonardo da Vinci di Fiumicino,’ she said. ‘I do hope you enjoy your stay. It’ll be brief but very dramatic.’

The little buggy trundled on down the long corridors ready to collect more of the army that Madam Delphi would eventually use to bring the human race to utter destruction.

Donna was adjusting the Doctor’s tie. She’d done this a hundred times for her dad, especially towards the end, which had given him an excuse to be grouchy and feel useless. The Doctor had no such excuse, but it hadn’t stopped him moaning about it.

‘Donna, I can tie a tie, you know.’

‘Really? Cos I’ve seen no evidence of that,’ was her

response, followed by an overenthusiastic shove of the knot a bit too close to the Doctor’s Adam’s apple.

‘Whoops,’ she smiled at him. ‘So sorry.’

He slid a finger down his shirt collar and somehow that single gesture seemed not only to loosen the knot, but also to undo his top button and then put creases into the shirt as well.

It was an art, he said. Geek chic, he said. Scruffy Arthur, she called it, giving up on a lost cause.

‘How’s Netty getting on?’ he asked.

‘She’s OK today,’ Donna said. ‘Granddad’s fussing round her. Mum’s speaking through gritted teeth because of it, so Netty’s hopped off early and said she’ll meet us there. I reckon she’s gone to buy another daft hat!’

‘Your mum’s worried about Wilf, that’s all. Netty’s great fun but a big responsibility,’ the Doctor said.

‘I know, but Mum doesn’t have to be so negative about it, does she?’

The Doctor shrugged. ‘She’s a mum, Donna. It’s their job to find fault with everyone in their family. It’s in the handbook.’

‘Did your mum criticise everything you do? The way you brushed your hair, the clothes you wore, the friends you hung out with, the music—’

‘Yeah, well, it was a bit different for me,’ he said quietly.

Donna looked at him and smiled comfortingly. ‘Of course it was. Sorry. Didn’t think.’

‘Oh, it’s all right. I’m just saying, give your mum some credit. It’s a lot to cope with – she’s looked after your

granddad alone for a long time. Now he has someone in his life, she’s bound to be a bit put out.’