It was a beautiful evening, the stars shone clear against the velvety night sky, the soft summer wind grazed warmly through the fields, and the sound of crickets rang softly across the countryside. It truly was the perfect evening. Bibury was peaceful. A welcomed change, given the end of a horrible war and the dwindling of the time of distress that had followed. Peace was good. Peace was welcome.
But, all too suddenly, the peace was disrupted. The Eight O'Clock train was coming around the bend, but tonight it's usual bellows of the horn were more frequent and much more frantic. As the train approached it's fateful resting point, an obstacle appeared in its path. An obstacle that seemed impossible. An obstacle that didn't make sense.
An obstacle in the shape of a rickety blue police box.
The conductor could not stop the train, nor did he have time to blast out a final warning. The train plowed straight into the police box, ripping the boards from their seams. But something seemed even more remarkable about this little blue police box, with its light flashing to an unknown rhythm.
Just before the collision, the conductor could have sworn he saw a man leap out of the box. That man, broken and battered, was lying by the train tracks, with nothing but a tiny sonic screwdriver clutched in his hand.