TWO
The Doctor felt the familiar jolt of the TARDIS setting itself down and jumped out of his seat. He went to the monitor, leaning over and scrunching up his nose in an apparent effort to see it more clearly without having to get his glasses out. Needless to say, it didn't help.
"Still not pinpointing the source of that interference, eh?" he said, tutting to himself and shrugging. "Well then, perhaps I'll just have a wander, find out what it is, maybe get it turned off," he added thoughtfully. "Especially as it's interrupting your basic mapping and display systems."
He went to the pocket of his long brown coat, fishing inside for the key. He pulled it out, pausing to run his thumb over the surface, remembering a time when someone else had needed it to save the world.
He sniffed to himself and pushed it in the pocket of his brown trousers, turning and walking to the doors resolutely.
"Right then," he said cheerfully to himself, "let's see where you've dropped me this time." He opened the door and stepped out.
It was dark, and he let his eyes adjust before turning and locking the door carefully. He turned back to look around, seeing some kind of dark, humid room.
"Store room," he grinned to himself, his eyes acclimatising to the dark with a sudden rush. He took in the mops and buckets arranged precariously against walls and shelving, and then his eyes picked out the shape of the door. He walked over, pushing through it cautiously.
He walked out and found himself in a typical grey adjoining corridor. He turned to his left and saw the end door, with 'staff exit to concourse' written in large red letters on the inside. He smiled and walked to it, finding it locked. A quick jimmy with his screwdriver and it opened for him to step out into a busy, bustling area.
He let his hands go into his pockets, looking around and grinning at the movement, the hustle and bustle, the hundreds of humans simply going about daily life.
He looked up across the open area, spotting huge glass doors with six-foot numbers laminated on, and spotted the trains at the platforms beyond. He looked up, finding the four blue sign boards arranged in a cube, hanging from the high glass ceiling. The name on the top caught his eye and his grinned delightedly.
"Piccadilly!" he crowed, "Ohhh, we're in London!"
He bounced on his toes, looking round and taking it all in. His gaze landed on the glass door to the platform nearest him and his grin faded slowly.
He turned around in another circle slowly, taking more notice of the building, of the layout and sizes.
"This isn't right," he said curiously, noticing the name Piccadilly clearly written on the route map pasted onto the sandwich board by the platform entrance. He didn't recognise the names of any of the stations thereon. He turned quickly, confused. "This isn't Piccadilly, is it?" he said, offended. "What've they done to Piccadilly?"
"Mister," a small voice said, and he turned. There was no-one there. "'Ey, mister," the voice said again. He looked down and found a thin, brown-haired child looking up at him. "Two things, mate," he said confidently.
"Excuse me?" he said, intrigued.
"I said, two things. One, you dropped this," the boy said, holding out his screwdriver. The Doctor peered at it, then pulled his hands from his pockets quickly, patting his jacket breast pocket and realising it was indeed his. "And this is Piccadilly."
The Doctor looked at him, noticing the large eyes that stared at him with curiosity and innocence.
"Oh, well, thanks, er… You sure this is Piccadilly?" he asked, reaching out and taking his screwdriver back politely, but nevertheless quickly.
" 'Course. I know better'n anyone," he said miserably.
"What are you, a train station expert?" he said, mostly to himself.
"What are you, a complete tourist?" the boy said quickly.
"Traveller."
"Clumsy bloke?"
"Oi!" he protested, and the boy smiled cheekily.
"Just having you on. You should go careful round here, someone else might've nicked that."
"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, and the boy paused, looking him over with growing curiosity.
"Where've you been, mister?" he asked suddenly.
"Sorry?" he asked, confused.
"For what?"
"What?"
"What 'what'?" the boy asked.
"No, 'what' what?" he asked, irritated.
"You said you were sorry. Sorry for what?" the boy said clearly. The Doctor just stared at him, then shook his head, indicating his tenuous grasp on the conversation.
"What was your question?" he asked wearily.
"I said, where have you been?" he asked slowly. "You not from round here, then?"
"Well obviously," he said heavily. They looked at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up.
"Cos you look like… Dunt matter, forget it," the boy said slowly, undecided.
"Oh well. Thanks for returning my screwdriver, son, but –"
"I'm not your son," the boy said hotly. "I'm not anyone's son."
"Oh. Right. Well anyway, thanks and all that, really should be getting –"
"Where you off to?" he asked suddenly.
"Why?"
"Just asking."
"Why?"
"Cos I'm nosy," he said instantly. The Doctor smiled, he couldn't help it.
"You know what? I really don't know where I'm going," he said, deciding suddenly that he didn't care who saw his pretence at autopilot come crashing down, his smile fading like morning snow.
"Well if you're looking for't train stations, you'll have to start over there, mister," he said, turning and pointing at television monitors and chairs a good thirty feet to his right.
"Right. Thanks," he said. He moved to go, but then looked back at the boy. He was still watching him. "Don't you, er… have something to be getting on with?" he asked.
"Yeah," the boy said faintly. "I think I do." He paused, then tilted his head slowly, looking the Time Lord up and down slowly. "Don't you?"
The Doctor looked at him strangely, then up and around the concourse.
"Yes. Although, it would also be nice to find out what they've done to Piccadilly," the Doctor added to himself quietly.
He remembered the boy and looked down, but he had already disappeared.
He shrugged and turned to walk through the crowds, scanning the place to find an ATM. He noticed a few by the escalator and something called a Sainsbury's Express, and made for them, pulling out his screwdriver to borrow some immediate funds.
He helped himself to a wad of genuine year 2007 English pounds sterling, courtesy of Natwest Bank's supposedly hidden slush fund.
He wandered back to his entry point, noticing the sign for the ticket counter and joining the slight queue. He was still staring around, eyes wide, hands in pockets, when he heard someone who seemed to be calling to him.
He turned to see a bubbly young lady behind the red counter, smiling at him.
"This way, love, how can I help?" she smiled. He walked over quickly.
"Hello," he said cheerfully. "I wonder if you could tell me what's happened to this place," he said brightly. "Last time I was here, there were these colour-coded zones and stuff. And what's a Metrolink?" he asked, intrigued.
The girl giggled at him, flicking blonde hair back over her shoulder pleasantly.
"Oh love, you're a little far out of your way, aren't you?" she beamed, and he realised she had the same strange accent as the little boy had had.
"Am I?" he wondered.
"D'you mean the colour-coded zones for't Underground?" she asked him apologetically.
"Well, yes," he said, confused. "But I don't see the –"
"That's Piccadilly," she said patiently.
The Doctor paused, looking up and around quickly, spotting that exact name on at least half a dozen signs dotted around the huge ticket counters.
"Well where are we then?" he asked, thoroughly confused.
"Piccadilly," she said simply.
"Oh," he managed, confused. He looked around slowly. "Well then, I'm –"
"That'd be Manchester Piccadilly, of course," she added with a smile.
"Oh! I see!" he cried, relieved. "Well, same-same," he shrugged. "Although… I'd love to know exactly why she brought me here… Oh!" he said suddenly, grinning at her. "You don't sell Yorkshire Tea, do you?"
"Not here, sir, no," she said slowly. "You'd have to go to't supermarket." She watched him digest this and cleared her throat. "So where are you trying to get to, love?" she asked helpfully, leaning over on the counter.
"Oh, well, er, I don't really know. Not now, anyway," he said, putting a hand up and scratching his head. "I'm looking for the origin of a sig-. Never mind," he said quickly.
"Well don't worry, I'm not even going to ask how you mistook the entire county of Lancashire for't London village, love," she grinned, "I'm just going to help you get the right ticket."
"Oh, well, you know how it is," he said, smiling brightly, "they both begin with L, after all."
She giggled at him. "So where would you like to go?"
"Oh! Hang on!" he said quickly, a thought striking him with momentum. "If we're in Manchester, does that mean we're near Jodrell Bank?" He paused. "That could be useful right now," he added to himself.
"The Jodrell Bank Space Observatory?" she asked, confused.
"Is there another Jodrell?" he asked innocently. "Have they still got that forty-two foot alt-azimuth dish watching the Crab Nebula? I could do with some equipment for analysing pulsars."
"Aw, you're a space nut," she smiled with a sympathetic nod.
"Apparently," he smiled winningly. She nodded.
"Well I can get you there, love, no trouble. Only most folks visiting tend to go for Blackpool, it's not far and he'd love it," she said.
The Doctor just looked at her.
"Hmm? Who would?" he asked, his eyes watching her avidly.
She leaned over the counter to see the space directly next to the Doctor's right elbow.
"He would. Oh, he's the spitting image of you, pet. Aren't you, little man?" she gushed.
The Doctor suddenly had a bad feeling. He closed his eyes.
