The Pub.
Three months later, an elderly man by the name of John Symonds started to cross the road.
He was a man of simple tastes. For this reason, he spent the majority of his weekdays hunting out the best pubs in the centre of his city; ones in which he could sit in uninterrupted thought, with a drink. He had been a banker before he'd entered the world of retirement. He stuck to the more expensive side of town.
At this moment in time, he was heading towards a rather grandiose Victorian pub by the name of the Old Joint Stock.
But something stopped John Symonds for a moment that day.
Exactly what stopped him was the sight of a blue 1930's police box popping into existence, quite quietly, with no fuss.
John was about to pass the whole thing off as a definite symptom of elderly delirium, but his excuse was rather rudely dispelled by the appearance of a man from within the box - who promptly conjured up an odd-looking stick and held it above his head, pulling bewildered expressions.
Like an embarrassed witness to a terrible social faux pas, John felt that he should get about his own business. His eyes and his feet, however, were glued in place out of perverse curiosity.
The man stuck his head back into the police box and called indignantly, "Oi! I asked you for somewhere diverting! This is just another city - on boring old planet earth!"
He then took a quick look around, making a note of the surrounding shops, and yelled over his shoulder again.
"Ted Baker? Louis Viton? What are you trying to suggest, that I need to update?"
He looked down at himself suddenly, and his eyebrows rose in apparent revelation.
"Maybe I do need a bit of a re-style..."
At this point he abruptly spotted John, who stood transfixed on the pavement. John watched this man amble towards him with the quiet terror of a hare under the gaze of a gigantic and hypnotic fox.
"Hullo!" the stranger called with an enthusiastic grin, clicking his fingers - the police box doors snapped shut! "Sorry, talking to myself again! Could you point me to the nearest site of danger?"
What an unusual way to begin a conversation.
"Excuse me?" was all poor John could manage.
"That is a lovely pocket handkerchief. I may use that next. Although - not certain about the polkadot. No offence."
"Why... none taken." John managed, fingering the familiar silk as though fondling the remnant of his sanity. Just making sure it was there.
"Now, John," the man stood at more or less the most socially uncomfortable distance from him, still grinning manically, "I need you to do me two favours, and tell me quickly! One! Tell me if there's been anything unusual going on around here lately."
"Well - not that I can think of. Jean at The Shakespeare was fired yesterday, she had a very loud row with a cust-"
"Okay, we'll leave that for now," the stranger interrupted, lilting in a surprisingly well-to-do English accent for his age. "Two! I would like you to help me choose a new suit. You seem good with that sort of thing. What do you say? Ted Baker or Moss Bros?"
"Erm..."
The man beamed in a frighteningly affable manner - "Come along then, you old treasure!"
John found himself being marched on an invisible leash towards the open doors of Ted Baker, in wake of this man-shaped force of nature.
"Ahh, what's your name, my boy?" he asked, trying his hardest to appear at ease.
"People call me The Doctor."
"Oh. Where did you graduate? You seem rather young."
The Doctor didn't answer his question. Instead, he darted altogether inappropriately into the shop, looking over the rows of pristine clothing at a lighting rate. John felt rather as though an uncomfortably fast-moving rollercoaster ride had simply picked him up from out of the sky, and he was now holding for his life, wondering when on earth it would be time to get off again.
It took the Doctor roughly four minutes to pull out a tightly fitted grey jacket, light blue shirt and mahoganny leather shoes.
"Back in a tick. Don't go anywhere."
John was too taken aback to consider the possibility of movement, in the thirty seconds it took for the Doctor to re-emerge from the changing room. He was frowning deeply.
"Trousers don't go." he complained, picking at his old pair, "I don't want these, anyway. I want... what do I want?"
He moved away, skimming along like a hummingbird towards the more casual garments.
"Aha!" beaming triumphantly, he held aloft a pair of fitted black jeans, "Casual! Makes me feel young."
This comment did not make sense to John. He was readying himself to make for the door and be rid of this strange fellow.
However, the Doctor was already pulling him towards the ties.
"Colour, I need a good colour."
"Your bow tie was... very suited already." John mumbled.
"Yes. Bow ties are cool." he agreed thoughtfully.
He rushed towards the handkerchiefs instead, and dug through the boxes until he suddenly retrieved, like the sword from the stone, a wonderful dark maroon specimen.
He paid immediately, throwing notes at the assistant from some pocket of his old tweed jacket which lay folornly on the floor, and then began the process of arranging his bow tie and folding his handkerchief. Tags were ripped off, and there he stood - a new man.
John wouldn't have chosen the jeans, but he was, overall, rather impressed with the gentleman's good taste.
"Now," the Doctor paused, and then politely said, "- your name."
"John."
"John, yes! John -" the Doctor took him by the shoulders and steered him out of the shop, "Take me to this Old Joint, if you will."
"Ah, yes, well. I was just going there myself. It's this way." John blanched. The plan had been to get rid of this bemusing character.
Together they entered through the gargantuous oak doors - "Do doors even need to be that big?" - and crossed the deep red patterned carpet, to the glossy black marble of the island bar at the centre of the room.
"Look up for a treat." John suggested, smiling. Now he was in his element. Now they were on his turf, and lord knew he was going to enjoy a beer in peace.
The Doctor looked up.
"Glass dome ceiling. Very nice. Love the curtains - and busts! What sophistication."
"It was a library when it was built."
"And a very nice library, too." the Doctor assured him condescendingly, "May I buy you a drink?"
"A London Pride would be appreciated."
The Doctor strolled up to a free section of the bar and twiddled his thumbs while he waited.
A fantastic arrangement of pinned-up, hazel-brown curls caught his eye as it breezed towards him. Beneath it hovered a pale heart-shaped face set with sparkling blue eyes, a button nose, and a pair of full smiling lips.
"What can I get you?" her voice was coated with accomodating sweetness.
"A London Pride, and... Shakespeare's County, please. You lot do take nostalgia to the limit. Deary me!" he sighed, but with a smile.
"Deary me? What century are you from?" she smirked, pulling the first pint and glancing at him from under her long eyelashes.
He laughed ironically, and then stopped.
"Speaking of centuries, which are you from? You look like a pre-Raphaelite painting -"
"Sure, yeah. I've heard that before." she rolled her eyes.
"La Belle Mano. Or the Bath of Psyche."
"That's six pounds ninety." she held out her hand, ignoring him now. Her abruptness took him aback.
"People don't usually reject my compliments," he observed with a crooked smile.
"I'm used to compliments, thanks. I'm just surprised that you're notmiddle aged and married." she observed cynically, but kindly.
He dropped the coins into her palm, but motioned that she should stay where she was.
"What's your name?" he asked, with all seriousness.
"Alice." she looked as though she were expecting less welcome questions to arrive next. A frown began to threaten her brow.
"Have you seen anything unusual around here lately?" he murmured confidentially, "Around the street, or in the pub..."
He glanced up to the balcony and noticed a sign that read Theatre 2nd Floor. "Or up there?"
"I don't go up to the theatre. But some people say it's haunted. Hannah hates locking up, she says there's noises and stuff. But that's normal - for a theatre."
"Sure." he pretended to agree, "Well, thanks. Goodbye."
"Enjoy your drinks."
Then he went and sat down with John.
Alice glanced at him more than once, in the next hour that he sat at the small oak table, inspecting from a distance every visible inch of the pub.
He only openly looked back when she was approached by an worried looking co-worker. There were few words exchanged, but enough to spread an anxiety from one girl to the other.
It was all he needed to see.
He jumped up and dived back to the bar, waving impatiently at her.
She served more people while he attempted to cut in, obviously used to this kind of nuisance, and only halted in front of him once the bar was empty.
"What did she say to you?" he asked, voice low and thrilling as he held her eyes.
"Hannah's not come in for her shift. She isn't answering her phone." she kept glancing down and up again, as though she were trying to ignore his charm.
"When did anyone last hear from her?"
"I saw her night before last, when she was locking up."
"Yes. Of course."
He turned on his heel and ran.
"Wait, you're not going up there!" she commanded, making to go after him as he neared the doors to the staircase.
He stopped, and looked back. She was poised to jump after him, despite the bar slowly filling up with customers again. Her eyes were wide and stern.
He flashed her another crooked smile, and jerked his head invitingly.
"Are you coming or not?"
Then he took off again, and it was all she could do to run after him.