Second Hand

The voice that picked up was still a shock, even after all these years. "Hello?"

"Miss Jovanka?" The words came out as a question even though in Emily Rankin's mind, there was no question at all as to whom she was speaking. The brash Australian accent—was it Canberra or Brisbane?—was unmistakable.

"Hello—is that you, Emily?"

Emily switched her mobile phone from left hand to ear as she downshifted for a flock of slow-moving sheep. "Yes, it's me," she said. "Hang on a second." She gave the horn a savage punch as the sheep benignly refused to scatter.

"Well, what do you want?" The question was not meant unkindly, Emily was almost positive, but Tegan Jovanka's forthrightness was difficult to gauge. Ever since she'd come to stay at the old Clark farm just outside of Kidderminster, she'd defied expectations, shaken things up.

"Look . . . Tegan—" Emily found it difficult to say the name with a straight face. "We seem to have gotten some of your mail." The engine sprang to life as Emily guided it over the muddy road, whipping around the ford and the rural parish church.

"My mail? What do you mean?"

Emily dug around in her purse with one hand until she brought out an envelope. "It's addressed to you, but there's nothing else on the envelope. No return address, no stamp even."

"No stamp! How did you get it, then?"

"Was in the letter box with all the other mail, how should I know?" Emily inhaled. "Look, I'll just drop it off for you at the farm."

"I don't know about that—not really a good time for company."

Emily was deliberately rude. "Well, I'm on the main road now, and I'm almost to the farm. See you in a bit." She hung up and grabbed hold of the wheel with both hands, churning mud. She had a suspicion why Tegan might not want to talk and thinking about it gave her goose-pimples.

She pulled the Land Rover into the mucky driveway of the old Clark farm. The Clarks had moved away years ago—they'd been good friends of Emily's parents—and Tegan Jovanka had moved in, oh, some three or four years now. Even though she was her closest neighbour, Emily didn't know a lot about her. Nobody did. She kept to herself mostly, though if goaded to talk it was clear she had some pretty forceful opinions. Why she had moved in was something of a mystery, too—something to do with the death of her uncle and his leaving her the property or something.

One thing was clear, though, thought Emily as she negotiated the mud around the front steps—it could no longer be considered a working farm. There had been plans originally, Emily knew, to rent out the spare rooms as a bed and breakfast. But there was no sign of any guests, paying or otherwise. Emily figured she did something with editing or computers. She knew from village gossip Tegan Jovanka had been, among other things, a knockout corporate saleswoman. At one time.

"Emily, you made it." Tegan stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed over her chest, her sarcasm fleeting. A thin, vigorous woman, her brown hair was streaked with grey in some places, though she always kept it remarkably styled. Emily guessed she was pushing fifty, but she looked a lot younger than that. Emily was worried for a moment she wasn't going to ask her in—though she'd been driving for hours and was dying for a chocolate biscuit. "I've just put the kettle on, so if you have time . . ."

"Thanks very much." Emily figured it wasn't worth demurring and followed Tegan into the farm house. It was comfortable, neat, if old-fashioned—the heating bills must be a nightmare, Emily thought until she spotted the wood-burning stove. Who had cut all that wood? she wondered, noticing the huge pile.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting guests so I've only got custard creams," Tegan said pointedly from the other room. Emily did not reply, merely followed her into the back sitting room lit by a large window that looked back onto a small garden and an expanse of fields. Emily took out the envelope and proudly displayed it beside her tea cup and saucer. "That'll be the kettle," Tegan said, without evincing any interest in the letter. She moved off toward the kitchen.

Emily looked out the window and covered her mouth with her hand. There were a dozen dead sheep in the fields, their winter wool doused with blood. "Good God," Emily exclaimed as Tegan set down the tea pot and biscuits.

"Told you I was busy," Tegan said. She poured the tea.

Emily gulped her tea. "You could have warned me. You didn't have to sit me right next to the window!"

"This is where the sitting room happens to be!" Tegan snapped.

Emily looked down and bit her tongue. "It's awful, isn't it?" she said slowly. "Our fields, too. Our sheep. What do you think happened?"

Tegan laughed. "You're asking what I think?" Emily nodded slowly, coloring. She turned the laptop on the table next to them to face Emily. Emily read, "Alien Big Cats—once only footprints in Kiddminster golf courses—now they've come to us. In the flesh."

Emily shook her head. "Not you, too. There was a man who came to question us, after it happened. A scientist or a crackpot or something."

For the first time, Tegan looked mildly interested. "What kind of a man?"

Emily mimed something enormous. "Oh, I don't know—nerdy man, with glasses. Science fiction conventioneer and what-not, video game addict probably." Tegan smiled ruefully, pouring herself tea. "But you, I thought you were practical!"

Tegan's laugh was sharp. "Practical!" She moved the laptop aside. "What do you think it was?"

Emily said, as if by rote, "Feral dogs."

"Like dingoes, you mean?" Tegan laughed. "Take it from someone who knows, it wasn't dingoes." She ate a custard cream.

Emily squinted at her. "If you don't mind my asking, what do you do here on the farm? I thought you were going to turn it into a b and b."

"I run a website on supernatural phenomenon," Tegan said neutrally. She nodded. "You were just looking at it."

Emily looked away and slurped her tea noisily to cover up the silence. She glanced at a picture in a frame, of a young woman in a purple stewardess' uniform. "Is that you?" she asked suddenly, squinting. "You were a stewardess?"

Tegan seemed to consider long and hard. "Yes. Before the Internet. Before SUVs. A long time ago." She cleared her throat. "You got that letter?"

Emily reluctantly handed it over, pointedly pouring herself more tea. Tegan studied the empty white envelope. Unable to contain herself, she ripped it open and began reading what was inside. "Nyssa!" she exclaimed, though Emily couldn't be sure what that meant. She looked excited and dazed all at once. "Oh, I can't believe it . . ." Emily had made up her mind to ask, but quailed at Tegan's face. She looked straight at Emily. "I'm going to boil some more water. Unless you want something stronger!" She didn't wait for a response but went bounding off into the kitchen. From the way glass clinked, Emily supposed she'd opted for the something-stronger. She chewed vigorously at a custard cream, then noticed that the letter was sitting beside Tegan's chair. She must have dropped it in her haste. Emily bent over.

The script was very strange, neither type-written nor, it seemed, handwritten. She wasn't sure it was even English. Then she recognized words, phrases. "If this reaches you . . . it's been a long time, hasn't it? . . . I'm writing this on Gallifrey, if you can believe it, but I don't want to get your hopes up . . . I haven't heard from the Doctor . . . No one has . . ."

Emily threw herself back into her chair when she heard Tegan coming. Tegan was flushed as she put down the tea pot and a small bottle of whiskey. She looked as though she'd been crying, even though she was smiling. Tears of joy? Emily wondered. Or real tears? Real tears having to do with this Doctor? What was Gallifrey? Emily had to look anywhere, other than the window, other than Tegan's face. Behind her she saw a door. "That used to be a workshop, when the Clarks lived here," she said wistfully. "I remember going in as a girl . . ."

"Now it's a studio."

"Are you an artist, too?" she asked.

Tegan shrugged. "That's how I make the big bucks. You don't think the website pays for itself, do you?"

"May I?" Emily asked. When she got no response, she got out of her chair and peered through the doorway. There were large canvases of abstract art, more focused on color than form. There were landscapes, some of them familiar and some unworldly. There were people, too, portraits. Sometimes Tegan herself appeared, within groups of these anonymous, but strangely alluring, people. The young Tegan, the stewardess from the photo. There were silhouettes, things that didn't look quite proportionate, quite right, and something that looked like a blue Port-a-loo.

"Do you like it?" Tegan drawled. "Anything you fancy?"

Emily shook her head. "I'm sorry, I . . . shouldn't have intruded."

"Does that mean you don't like them?" The older woman's voice was coy, teasing. "Do they make you uneasy?"

Emily backed away from the room. "Yes, they're like nightmares!"

Tegan smiled sadly. "Yeah, I know." Emily suddenly felt like a little girl. Tegan had been places, seen things, she could never imagine. "Now, if you don't mind," Tegan said, "I have a lot of cleaning up to do."

Emily nodded mechanically, picking up her purse and moving toward the door. "Sorry to have bothered you." She paused at the threshold. "Tegan?"

"Yes?"

"If I see that man again, the one asking questions, I'll make sure he talks to you. He was just scaring the children, that's why we sent him away. I guess I should have paid more attention to what he was saying."

"Yes, send him over," Tegan said with relish. "It's definitely beyond fear over here."