Chapter 1
It was Monday morning and the coffee pot in the break room was empty. The last hour and a half had been spent on the phone, shifting Mr. Holiday's appointment calendar, and arguing with people over conference room times. And now, the coffee was gone. There was tea, but Donna didn't want any bloody tea. She held the carafe and glared at the coffee-stained glass bottom.
What she wouldn't do for a smoke.
She put the carafe down and went out into the sea of cubicles. "Who finished the pot and didn't refill it?" she demanded. "Come on, who was it?"
"There's decaf," said a young, weedy man who was very new.
Donna turned on him. "Why, tell me, would I want decaf? Are you thick? Who drinks blinking decaf?"
The man opened his mouth, and then closed it. Oh, he wasn't going to last long.
Donna found the coffee bag; it was disappointingly light. There was less than a teaspoon of grounds left, not even enough for one cup. Maybe if she just chewed on it? She gagged silently at the thought and unconsciously reached in her pocket for the packet of fags that was not there.
She'd promised Gramps.
She left a large note on the empty coffee pot that said, "Woe betide the bastard who lets this happen again."
Unsatisfied and twitchy, Donna returned to her desk.
She sat in Mr. Holiday's office while he was on a conference call, taking notes in shorthand. Mr. Holiday shouted a lot, and when he shouted, he let fly bits of spittle and his face turned red all the way up to his retreating, sickly yellow hairline. Donna wondered why Mrs. Holiday didn't explain to her husband about men who bleached their hair. Then again, she'd met Mrs. Holiday at the company Christmas Party last year: Mrs. Holiday was platinum, permed, pushed-up, and powdered within an inch of her life. A trophy, Donna supposed, and a very expensive one.
At 11:15, Donna was outside, holding a cigarette that she'd begged off of Doreen. She hadn't lit it, but it felt good to hold it, even if it was murder seeing everyone else with his or her lovely fags and smelling the smoke and almost tasting it.
1:30: she was back at her desk after a small salad and a skim milk cappuccino. The phone wouldn't stop ringing, but at least that meant she was too busy to spend time feeling guilty for lighting the blinking fag. She'd enjoyed it. It had been better than sex—not that she'd been having any lately—but it was the last one. For real this time.
Four last ones later, Donna was getting ready to head home. She sprayed herself with vanilla and jasmine body spray and put two sticks of gum in her mouth. Then she wished that she'd taken the Tylenol for her headache first. She debated with herself over whether or not to take the gum out of her mouth and damn anyone who saw her or just try to keep the wad of spearmint in her cheek and lose half the flavour to water.
She was holding her gum delicately between finger and thumb when her phone rang. She threw away her empty paper cup and picked up the receiver.
"H.C. Clements, Mr. Holiday's office."
There was a strange buzzing noise, but no voice. Donna held the phone away from her face and stared at it.
"Hello?"
Still the buzz. Donna rolled her eyes and put her gum back in her mouth before hanging up.
The spearmint had been a mistake, she decided. Too sweet. She spit it into the bin and then she poked her head into Mr. Holiday's office.
"Anything you need before I go?" she asked.
Mr. Holiday's chair was turned towards the windows.
Donna stepped inside. "Mr. Holiday?" she ventured cautiously. He didn't like being interrupted when he worked.
It was a pretty good view out that window. You could see Big Ben if you went to the far edge of the room. If Donna had had a real office like this, she'd spend all her time looking out of the window.
"Mr. Holiday?" Donna noted the half-cup of tea—the same one she'd brought in at four o'clock. He hadn't finished the chocolate biscuits, either.
"Are you feeling all right?" She touched the corner of his chair and jumped when it spun to face her.
"What is it, Miss Noble?" Mr. Holiday snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and there was a patina of sweat on his rubbery face.
Donna forced a grimace into a girdle to make it a smile. "Just wanted to see if there was anything you needed before I went home, sir."
"No," he said shortly. "Nothing."
"Are you sure you're feeling all right?" she asked tentatively.
"Of course I am!" he shouted.
"Only it's freezing in here, and you're sweating like a—" She stopped short of saying pig. It was a bad idea to compare her boss to swine. That was how she'd lost the job at Vitex four years ago. "Like you have a fever," she said instead. "I can call Mrs. Holiday for you, if you like?"
Mr. Holiday got out of his chair and stood by the window. "How long have you worked for me, Donna?"
Oh flipping fantastic. It was going to be one of those conversations, was it? This was what she got for sticking her nose in. Had he asked her for anything? No. He hadn't.
"A little less than a year, sir," she said.
"Do you like your job?"
"Of course, sir," she said. How could she not love fetching photocopies and fighting with printers and wrestling with conference lines? But it paid the bills (mostly) and kept her and Gramps off the street.
Mr. Holiday turned and looked at her. She blinked a few times. Her eyes itched. He needed drops, or something.
She felt a cold shiver run down her spine when she caught the predatory glint in his eyes. When his gaze lingered too long on her throat, and then her chest, her hackles rose.
Oh no, he didn't. She wasn't in for any of that quid pro quo crap.
He took a halting step towards her. Donna backed away and put the desk in between them. She wished she hadn't left her purse out on her desk. She'd just bought a new can of pepper spray. Sometimes she couldn't get home before dark, and Chiswick wasn't exactly a nice area, was it?
"If you'd like to stay, have a chat..." Mr. Holiday said. His voice sounded strange, kind of buzzy, like he was on the other end of a bad line. "I'd love to get to know you better."
"No, thank you," she said, using her most polite telephone voice. "I've got to get home."
"Donna, Donna..." Mr. Holiday licked his lips. What a pervert! He rounded the desk. Donna went for the door, but his sweaty hand covered hers on the handle.
"Oi!" she shouted, glaring at him in an attempt to hide the sick terror that was rising up her gorge. "This is harassment!"
Mr. Holiday's face broke into a slovenly grin. "Oh, Donna." His red eyes looked into her and she felt the blood drain from her face. He tsked. "Be nice!"
Donna raised her other hand and slapped him across the face as hard as she could.
When he turned his face back towards her, his eyes weren't just bloodshot anymore. The whites were completely red, like a blood vessel had burst. His pupils had grown so large as to crowd out his irises completely. He hummed, no buzzed, at her and then he opened his mouth.
When the long black proboscis where his tongue should have been snaked out of his mouth towards her neck, Donna screamed.
Someone pounded on the door.
"We know you're in there! Come out with your hands up!"
Donna yanked on the door handle with all her might, pulling it into the side of Mr. Holiday's head. He buzzed angrily and grabbed her by the hair.
"Stay back!" Holiday buzzed warningly. Donna tried to pry his chubby fingers open and to blink away the tears of pain from her eyes.
"Let her go!" said a man's voice, bristling with anger. "Right now."
"But I need food for my young! Growing family, you understand. She'll feed them for a week!"
"Oi!" Donna bellowed. "Are you calling me fat?"
"He said let her go." This voice was a woman's, and Cockney by the sound of it. Donna heard a click that sounded like a gun. She hoped it wasn't building security; they were rubbish. When someone had broken into the 4th floor offices last month and threatened to blow the place to kingdom come, they'd just sat around with their thumbs up their arses.
"Are you going to shoot me?" Holiday laughed. Donna tried to master herself and focus her eyes. She couldn't raise her head, so she could only see the ground, her hair, Holiday's shoes, a pair of burgundy Converse trainers, and some black leather women's boots that looked terribly expensive. Were they police? What kind of copper wore trainers?
Focusing on Holiday's shiny black shoes, she raised her foot and slammed her heel onto his toes as hard as she could.
Holiday swore and loosened his grip enough that Donna was able to pull away. Lucky thing she kept her head low, because she heard two shots ring out.
There was a wet thud and then silence.
Donna stood up straight and looked at the still form of Edwin Holiday. Well, it wasn't him, was it? She'd known plenty of insect-like men, but never quite so... literally.
"Nice shot, Rose," said the stranger. Donna looked at him. He was a skinny thing, with a beaky sort of nose and sideburns and hair that stuck straight up in the air. He was grinning like a maniac at a bottle-blonde woman with a wide mouth and dark eyebrows. She looked eerily familiar.
"'Come out with your hands up?'" the blonde wondered, incredulous.
"I've always wanted to say that," he replied with a grin.
"Oi," Donna breathed. "What just happened?"
"Insectoid biomorph," said the man, almost bubbling over with energy. "We've been tracking her for a few days now. Caught her bio-signal while we were..." He stopped talking and stared at her.
Donna looked back at him. "Insectoid what?" she repeated. "What are you on about? That was my boss!" She glanced at the body on the carpet. "And you shot him."
"Tranquillizer gun," said the blonde, holding up a handgun. "She'll be fine." She went over to Holiday and prodded his arm with her boot. "She'll have a headache, but no permanent damage done."
"She was going to eat you," the man said. He was still looking at her. Just her face, though, she noted. Good. She wasn't in the mood for any of that.
"He was not," Donna said.
"I'm afraid she was," he said. He had dark brown eyes that made the rest of his face look a bit more handsome. Not her type, though. Bones like his, she'd bruise her hips. And what was with the blue suit and burgundy trainers? Was he blind, or something?
"Why do you keep saying 'she'?" Donna demanded. "He's a ma— Well, he's not a she, at any rate!"
"Biomorphs can change their shape, within reason," said the man. "Helps them get into nests to find suitable prey." He was still looking at her.
"Oi, do you mind?" she snapped.
He blinked. "Mind what?"
"Stop staring at me."
He looked away, and affected nonchalance. He took a deep breath through his nose and grinned at the blonde as she stooped over Mr. Holiday.
"Well, now that that's done with," he said. "I say we call in the cleanup crew and go back to our dinner."
The blonde stood straight. She had better fashion sense than her partner, at least. Donna wasn't entirely sure about the dark indigo colour of the leather jacket, but the style was very hip. And those boots were to die for.
"Everyone's already out on call," the blonde said wearily.
He looked put out. "Oh, no."
"We can put her in the back seat of the SUV."
"We're going to miss the film," he complained.
"Yes, we are. There'll be another show."
Donna looked between them. "I'm sorry," she cried, "am I the only person who cares that a man turned into a bug and was going to eat me?"
The woman looked at her with the smallest of smiles. "We're used to it," she said apologetically. She extended a hand. "M' name's Rose. Rose Tyler."
Donna gaped. "Oh. My. God." She shook the woman's hand vigorously. "You're Rose Tyler? Your dad owns this company!" Rose looked down at their hands and Donna stopped shaking and let go. "Right. Sorry. Still. Oh my God! You're practically a celebrity!"
Rose's smile waned. "Yeah, right. Thanks, I think."
"Who are you, then?" Donna asked the man.
"I'm the Doctor," he said. He shook her hand more enthusiastically than she'd shaken Rose's.
"Doctor who?"
He looked nonplussed. "Er... Just the Doctor."
He's mad, this one. "Donna Noble," she said.
His smile widened again. "Yes," he said happily. "Yes, you are. Brilliant!"
A little while later, Donna was sitting at the table in the break room with her coat on. Miss Tyler had said they'd get her a car home, but there was some delay because they had to run some kind of test. The man who wouldn't give his proper name and Miss Tyler were joined by a couple of people in black leather jackets. From the looks of it Miss Tyler was definitely the one in charge. The Doctor seemed to be more of a scientist than a secret agent. That was what they had to be, after all. Like most people, Donna had heard the rumours of an underground organization that dealt with weird things like aliens and such. (Though it was mostly on the Net.) The bioform-morph-thing had to be an alien. Had to be.
A young man in a well-tailored black suit brought her a cup of coffee from an upscale shop and said, in a lilting Welsh accent, that he was her ride.
He had a tight little smile and a pleasant demeanour. Donna pegged him for a butler or something, except she caught a glimpse of the gun on his hip when he reached over to open the car door for her. He had a wired headset hooked into his phone; dreadfully old-fashioned, but it made Donna feel safer. She didn't understand people who could still wear wireless earpods and the like.
She wondered if he'd lost anyone that day.
Donna poked her head between the front seats. "What's your name?"
"Ianto Jones," he replied, lips twitching a tiny smile.
"Donna Noble," she said.
"Yes, I know. Donna Noble of Chiswick, daughter of Geoff and Sylvia Noble."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know that?"
He met her eyes briefly through the rear-view mirror, and then looked back at the road. "Cybus Industries, 2007."
She nodded and said nothing. He had lost someone, then. If he seen those names on the list... There was only one reason anyone looked at those lists. She looked out the tinted car window in silence for the rest of the drive. He wasn't chatty, thank heavens.
Mr. Jones opened the car door for her and insisted on walking her all the way up to her front door.
"I'm fine," she insisted. She held up her pepper spray. "See? Always prepared."
"Very good, ma'am," he said, but he kept in step with her all the way just the same. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
"Do you want some tea?" she asked him from the threshold, even though she was still holding the nearly empty coffee he'd brought her. "I always put a kettle on for Gramps."
"No thank you, ma'am," Mr. Jones said, inclining his head.
"Well, you take care, then. Thanks for the lift." He nodded curtly and went back to the sleek black car. Donna watched through the little window in the door until he drove off.
"Donna? S'that you, sweetheart?" Gramps came into the little hall. He was in his plaid dressing gown and fuzzy slippers.
"What did I tell you?" she cried. "You're not supposed to be up!"
"I heard voices! Was that a man?" He smiled hopefully at her. "Did you have a date?"
Donna took her grandfather gently but firmly by the arm and directed him back to his favourite chair in front of the telly. "No, Gramps," she said wearily.
"You should get out more," he said while she adjusted a pillow and placed it behind his back.
"And leave you alone? You and your wild parties, you'll burn the house down," she teased.
Gramps took her hand, stopping her from completing her tidying sweep of the room. "I mean it, Donna. You've got better things to do than takin' care of your ol' Gramps."
Donna's heart shuddered in her chest. She squeezed his hand. "No, I haven't," she said for the millionth time. "Now, you stay put, and I'll bring your tea and you can watch telly while I make supper." She kissed his forehead.
In the kitchen, she put on the kettle. She could hear the news from the next room. She half-listened to the glorified gossip about some charity event that was set for the weekend, and who was going to be there, and some piece about the latest Net craze before taking Gramps his tea.
She cut her thumb while she was doing the potatoes. It wasn't deep, but it hurt like hell, and she was unable to stop the tears. She rinsed the cut and put a plaster on it. While the food was in the oven, she snuck outside with her last hidden pack of cigarettes and smoked three of them, one after the other.
It had been six years since Cybus Industries had tried to destroy them all. She was okay now, she was. And she didn't mind taking care of Gramps. After all, he'd taken care of her all her life. But in the last few months, his health had been getting worse, and it was all she could do to keep that smile on, even for him.
That wasn't what was bothering her, she realised as she pulled a fourth fag from the packet. (Only two left now. Maybe she should just finish them off.)
If she felt like she was going to crawl out of her skin, it was because of Mr. Holiday. Had that creature been him the whole time? Or was he in Spain, and the biomorph thing had just decided to pose as him while the real Mr. Holiday was away? And what were Miss Tyler and that Doctor bloke going to do with the biomorph thing? If they were going to kill it, they would have done it already. Right?
Donna lit the fifth fag and wondered if she still had a job. She wished that she could talk to Gramps about it. She used to tell him every stupid thing that happened at work. Especially the stupid things. But this was different. This was big, she could feel it. She couldn't lay something like this on him.
She looked guiltily at the last cigarette in the packet. She'd promised him she'd quit, and here she was, sneaking around like a teenager. She could remember the first time she'd smoked. She'd hated it, hated the taste, the smell... But the second one hadn't been so bad, the third was better, and by the time she'd finished the fourth, she'd wondered why she'd never tried them before. Not far from there to wondering how she'd gotten by without them.
She soaked the last fag in a glass of water and then tossed it down the garbage disposal.
Every morning, Donna listened to Etta James. She usually skipped "At Last" because she didn't need to hear romantic drivel first thing in the morning. What she needed was something with attitude and sass and energy. Something sexy and bluesy. She had whole playlists of old jazz songs, collected and arranged to help her wake up and keep her alert on the drive to the office.
However, her car was still where she'd parked it yesterday morning. Muttering to herself about parking tickets, Donna pulled an old pair of headphones from the clutter drawer in her bedside table and fixed her iPod to her lapel. (It was old and it only held ten gigabytes, but it was the only thing she had that still took wired earphones.) Etta James didn't energize her the way she normally did—though perhaps it was because she'd gotten only three hours of sleep. Caffeine that late in the evening, plus the spidery nightmares, them crawling on her back and over her shoulders... She switched to Peggy Lee. That helped a little bit.
She was about ten, fifteen minutes late to work. It wasn't until she sat at her desk and looked over at the open door to Mr. Holiday's office that she realised that it probably didn't matter. She could have stayed home.
What good would that do? she asked herself. Besides, the computer at home was almost five years old and she didn't have access to the H.C. Clements database there.
She started her search with Edwin Holiday. There wasn't anything on the news feed, neither disappearance nor death. There was a tiny article in the gossip column about Mrs. Holiday's annual feline leukaemia drive, which Donna could not resist reading. She'd never much liked cats, but it was a pleasant surprise to find out that Mrs. Holiday cared about something. She felt a pang of guilt. The Holidays had a son at university. What was going to be done if Mr. Holiday was really dead? Who was going to tell his wife and son? Did the police know? Was he dead?
She turned her search to Rose Tyler. She found the first articles that related the tale of Pete Tyler, Vitex millionaire, and the miracle reunion with his wife, Jackie, thought to have died in the Cybus Industries "incident" of 2007.
Then there was the added miracle of Rose—the daughter that the Tylers had long thought lost, stolen as a baby (which Donna found rather melodramatic), and found by happy accident by the Torchwood Institute. Despite the fact that it was widely known that the Tylers had no children, genetic testing had proven Rose to be, without doubt, the daughter of the millionaire and his wife. Under the harsh spotlight of the sudden media attention, the Tylers had said they'd never made the sad story of their lost child public for the sake of privacy. Rose had been born before Mr. Tyler had made his fortune. Twenty-seventh of April, 1987. That made her twenty-six years old.
At the time of the 'miracle', Donna had thought it was all very romantic and wonderful. Everyone had, especially given that Jackie had been thought to have been killed by the Cybermen. It had given people hope and more than a few of them renewed searches for lost loved ones.
Donna had ended up hating the false hope of it all. Of course the Tylers were lucky. They were rich. Tyler had worked for Lumic, the madman, so Lumic had spared his wife. No one else was going to get that kind of treatment.
Of course, there were the articles expounding upon the events before the recovery of Jackie in 2010. After losing his wife, Pete Tyler had shown a public about-face, denouncing Lumic, and donating piles of money in the effort to hunt down the remaining Cybermen. Which was good. Least he could do to make up for being a patsy to that devil was to lose a few million pounds.
Donna searched for people called "the Doctor." She got millions of hits; not one of them relevant. She tried "the Doctor" and "alien" and still nothing.
As it stood, Donna saw two real options: sit on her arse and wait for something to happen, or alternatively, she could do some proper sleuthing.
She did not feel like waiting. So, sleuth it was, then. She'd always liked Poirot and Miss Marple and Campion and all that. Time to work ze leetle grey cells.
She started with Vitex, Cybus and H.C. Clements. They all had Pete Tyler in common, and thus Rose Tyler. If she could figure out who Rose worked for (or at least whose payroll she'd been slipped into), then she'd have a clue where to start looking for more information on what had been done with Mr. Holiday. Or rather, the bug-thing. Biomorph. Whatever.
Lunch hour sprang upon her in the form of Elouise from Accounts.
"Donna?"
Elouise was a thin, pinch-faced creature with over-processed tawny hair. She was habitually dressed in one of five pastel pantsuits with a matching scarf around her neck. And pearls. She always wore pearls. Today, her suit was pale spring green, and her pearls were in the form of a long double-strand half-hidden in the gossamer of her scarf.
She looked owlishly at Donna through pale green reading glasses.
"Yes?" Donna looked back at her computer screen. No Rose Tyler in H.C. Clements, either. Damn.
"I need to see Mr. Holiday," Elouise said.
Donna looked up again. "He's not in," she said carefully.
Elouise blinked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she replied, "that he is currently elsewhere."
"Is he out to lunch?"
Donna eyed the thin woman with irritation. Elouise was not known as a time-waster. This was the woman who had told off the entire Accounting department for talking in non-designated break areas.
"He's in a meeting," Donna said. Personal assistants' code for, 'he's buggered off.'
"Until when?"
"All day," she answered shortly. "And probably tomorrow. What's this about, anyway?"
"I'd prefer to speak directly to Mr. Holiday," Elouise said primly.
Donna forced herself not to say what she was thinking, since it was uncalled for and made a lot of reference to a nature programme she'd seen a few weeks ago about termites feeding their young. Larvae. Whatever.
"Yes, well, if you tell me the gist of it, I can relate it to him and we'll see what happens."
Elouise hesitated. Donna watched in fascination as the pastel woman looked around her as if she thought they were being spied upon. She enjoyed a short, hilarious fantasy about Elouise Morris, Secret Agent, in pale pink and pearls and a big pair of shades, speaking in a faux Russian accent.
"I found something in my office," Elouise whispered.
"What sort of something?" Donna demanded. If it was somebody's mouldy lunch...
"I would rather discuss it with Mr. Holiday," Elouise sniffed.
"Look," Donna snapped, losing what little patience she possessed. "He's not here. He's not likely to be here for the foreseeable future. So, why don't you just tell me what stupid little note somebody stuck to your computer or the name of the prat who put tacks on your chair, and I'll see it sorted, all right?"
Elouise's grey eyes went wide and her lip trembled for a moment. Inside her head, Donna was kicking herself. It was bad enough that people laughed at Elouise behind her back. Letting on that she knew about it was just stupid and mean.
The accountant drew herself up to her full height and said, "I want him to talk to the building manager. There's an infestation in Accounting."
How can you tell with all the accountants? Donna thought nastily.
"We put down mouse traps," she said.
"Not mice," Elouise hissed. She glanced over her shoulder again. Then, in a stage whisper, "Insects."
Suddenly, Donna was all ears. "Show me," she commanded.
Accounting was on the 17th floor. Everyone else was at lunch, so the offices were empty. Elouise led Donna to the very last cubicle on the right.
"Where did you see them?" Donna asked. "What sort of bug was it?"
"It was an insect," Elouise said. "It looked like a big mosquito. I told Mr. Holiday that there was lasting damage from the pipe that burst last summer." She shuddered. "There's probably a pool of water in the walls breeding all sorts of unimaginable things."
Donna thought this unlikely, but she did not say so.
"How big was it?"
"At least two centimetres!"
"It's probably flown away by now," she said.
"It didn't have wings," Elouise said.
Donna frowned. "A mosquito without wings? Since wh—?"
Elouise's mouth opened for a soundless scream. Donna turned and saw a big, many-legged thing sitting on top of a keyboard. The only resemblance it had to a mosquito was a long black proboscis. The rest of it was more like if an insect tried to be a puppy. Too many legs (more than six, not an insect) held up a round black body a few inches off of the desk. It was covered in millions of brush-like bristles.
It turned red, segmented eyes on them. The eyes glittered under the fluorescent lights and Donna heard a noise that sounded something like a guinea pig's grunt.
Elouise found her voice and screamed like a 50s movie heroine. The bug buzzed and backed off the keyboard and into the cubicle wall behind it, stumbling as if it had been startled.
"Be quiet!" Donna told her. The bug's legs were trembling. For a surreal moment, Donna imagined that it was frightened. So was she, honestly, but Elouise was hiding behind her and screeching her head off, so the terror department was covered. Donna put out her arms out as a shield.
"Stop that noise, you silly cow!" she shouted.
"What is that thing?" the accountant cried shrilly in Donna's ear. "Oh, kill it! Kill it!"
The bug buzzed angrily.
It couldn't have understood that, could it?"
There wasn't time to think about it, because it jumped at them. Donna grabbed the nearest thing to hand—a telephone—and held the receiver up like a club. Elouise wailed and ran off, letting the door slam behind her.
The bug landed on Donna's arms. She yelled and tied to shake it off. It gripped her jumper with is hooked, crab-like feet. The buzzing was almost a roar in her ears. It jabbed at her neck with its barbed proboscis.
Letting out a noise that she (later) hoped sounded more like a battle cry and less like a girly squeal of revulsion, Donna took hold of the bug with her free hand and pulled it off. She threw it to the ground as hard as she could. Its legs beat pathetically against the air for a few moments, and then it rolled and righted itself and vibrated angrily.
Donna wished she had one of those tranquillizer guns. She picked the rest of the phone off the desk and hurled it at the bug. It sidestepped. The buzzing got louder. Donna's mouth fell open. There were two more of the bugs crawling on the desk. Where the hell were they coming from?
"Right."
Donna turned and ran. They were following her, she knew it. She got to the door and slammed it shut behind her. Something crunched and something else screeched. Wincing, she glanced down.
There was part of a black, spiny insectoid leg caught in the door. Donna's stomach turned. She yelped when another leg poked from under the door and caught her heel. She stomped and missed.
After she'd got a safer distance from the door, she pulled her mobile from her pocket and dialled security.
"Hello? This is Donna Noble."
"Who?"
"Donna. Noble. I'm Edwin Holiday's PA. Look, that's not important! I'm calling to tell you that we have an infestation in Accounts. The 17th floor. You have to close it off. Don't let anyone back in there."
"Building manager put down traps last week," said the guard irritably.
"Not mice!" Donna snapped. "Insects! Bloody huge insects the size of small dogs!"
There was a heavy sigh. "Pull the other one. It's got bells on."
"Are you trying to be funny?" she asked scornfully. "Because if you are, I want you to know, I can see you sacked, you useless lump! Close off floor 17!"
"Am I supposed to call the building manager?"
"Oh, I wouldn't want you to sprain something," Donna snapped. The legs were still flicking out under the edge of the door. She ended the call with a jab of her thumb.
The building manager was an idiot, she thought, and exterminators would probably turn and run with their tails between their legs if they saw these things. She needed to get someone better.
She needed Rose Tyler.