Brighton Rock
4
"Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey!" the Doctor shouted, throwing open the slightly mouldy, yellowing curtains to let what little sunlight there was that dreary morning shine into the boarding house bedroom they were renting for a meagre fee. It was after nine in the morning which, them being teachers, was a lot later than either of them usually stayed in bed. Not that the Doctor had slept a wink, oh no, she had been scheming, leaving Clara to her own, dreamy devices while she crept out in the early dawn to run a handful of nefarious errands. Clara certainly didn't appreciate being woken up. Out of a reflex she flailed her arm uselessly in the air to try and turn off her non-existent alarm clock. The Doctor seized the opportunity to grab her hand and tug on it gently to try and get her up. She groaned.
"It's five in the morning, Budd…" Clara complained.
"It's not. It's half-past-nine. We're got places to go, people to meet, things to see. Up and at 'em, cutie-pie." She clapped her hands over Clara's head; they really did have somewhere they needed to be, though.
"Fine, fine, fine!" Clara hit at her hands, but then buried her head in the pillow and shut her eyes again. Thirteen cleared her throat and crossed her arms.
"I'm very sceptical about the last time those sheets have been washed." That did it. They had definitely slept in some bleak places in their time, and a working-class boarding house meant for poor tourists and students certainly wasn't the worst, but it was enough of a bad thought to get Clara to finally drag her sorry self out of the lumpy, sweat-stained bed.
"I hate you," she said, blinking in the sunlight and rubbing her eyes. She squinted at Thirteen and yawned, then asked, "Why are you so pretty today?"
"I've been out," she said, then she did a twirl in front of Clara, showing off a brand-new dress she had 'acquired'. "What do you think?" Clara stared at her, unaware her mouth was lolling open in her woozy stupor. "It's my new Rear Window look, inspired by listening to Mika yesterday. Only, near the end of Rear Window. The climax. And purple. And less sheer. With more flowers. And I found some hairspray – it certainly wouldn't be the 1960s without hairspray. Good morning Bri-igh-ton," she sang for a moment, then cleared her throat, "Syllables don't really fit…"
"Don't get me wrong, I love the whole slutty-housewife, Betty Draper vibe – but you definitely didn't have that dress yesterday," Clara was blatantly suspicious, and with good reason.
"No, well, I mean…" she faltered, then indicated the back of a door where a second dress was hanging up, "I got you one, too."
"I was wearing one yesterday."
"But it got dirty from the rain, and it's bland."
"Bland?"
"I – it's fine – but we're going somewhere special today. Sort of. And we're on a tight schedule, so hurry up, make yourself presentable, there's some dry shampoo and cereal bars in the backpack."
"I thought we'd get a cooked breakfast at least…" Clara muttered.
"We'll have a fish supper to make up for it," the Doctor tried to placate her, though Clara did sometimes get very fixated on having a cooked breakfast. Something to do with her being English, Thirteen assumed. "Now come on, get dressed, it's Saturday morning and the races kick off at eleven."
"Oh. Oh. I cannot believe that the Doctor is dressing up for the races."
"Why not? I used to wear a suit every day, you know. Waistcoat, suspenders, tie – the whole shebang. It pays off to put the effort in every now and again," she defended herself. Just because she very rarely wore dresses did not mean she was particularly averse to them, she just shared her daughter's concerns for their impracticality. It was why she wouldn't be seen dead in high heels, and despite the dress was still wearing a pair of faded, pink Converse.
"They won't let you in without a fascinator," Clara said, rifling around in the bag to find the can of dry shampoo the Doctor had already used that morning. She dug it out eventually, and a hairbrush.
"It's not the Ascot, Coo. It'll be fine. I'll smile at them."
"Uh-huh," said Clara, unconvinced, going to stoop in front of a dirty mirror hanging by one screw on the wall, lopsided. "Why, exactly, did you decide to go shoplifting and drag me out to the races? I'm not a big fan of horseracing, you know. What if the police come after you?"
"It'll be fine. I took the dresses from the store room before anybody opened up. Didn't break anything. We can always return them. Maybe. Or at least give them the money."
"You? Money?" Clara questioned.
"I'm gonna place a bet. On a horse."
"Am I losing the plot? What've you been up to? Stealing dresses, placing bets?"
"Alright, so," she began, sitting down behind Clara on the foot of the bed, "I was thinking to myself last night when you went to sleep, why would Baby-Faced Fletch want to kill Bertie Fink? How does killing one sweaty, middle-aged family-man help him seize control of Brighton's criminal underworld and the country's infrastructure? If we understand that, we can understand how to stop him. So, while I was thinking about that, I remembered what I read in the article about his murder, the old version of today's paper. It said that Bertie Fink worked for the Golden Stalls."
Clara made a disgruntled face, "Sounds like a company who make toilets."
"It-? No! It's a bookmaker. Deals half in legitimate business, and half in… less-legitimate business. Operated from the top by Archie Speyer, who I told you yesterday was-"
"A friend of Dorothy?" Clara quipped wryly. The Doctor put her hands on her hips.
"Apart from that. War hero, crime boss, renegade entrepreneur – a capitalist, but I suppose I can forgive a little bit of capitalism here and there."
"Capitalism with a human face, eh?"
Thirteen laughed, "Good one. Like I said yesterday, after the war, Speyer began building a gambling ring throughout London and Brighton; Golden Stalls so named after the stalls on a racecourse. Golden because he's loaded thanks to a healthy combination of good horse breeding and illegal fixtures. Speyer is in control of Brighton's crime right now, Baby tries to kill one of Speyer's bookies the night before a seemingly unimportant race but," and now she picked up yet another newspaper, that morning's revamped copy of the Argus with a headline about The Beatles allegedly playing the Palace Pier in summer (which they wouldn't), "If I flip to the sports section here it all becomes very suspect."
Clara stood up from the mirror and examined the page where the Doctor pointed it out to her; the odds for the eleven o'clock race that morning. She squinted, reading through them.
"What am I looking at? Which bit?"
"It's fixed, Coo. Today's race. That horse is called Depth Charge, odds submitted by Golden Stalls. And don't you remember I told you Archie Speyer is a war hero? 1944, HMHS Victoria is bringing wounded soldiers back from Gibraltar and gets attacked by a German U-boat. Elsewhere, HMS Ulysses is about to set off back into the Arctic Circle for another escort mission sending supplies to the Soviets on the Eastern front, but as a matter of urgency is sent down to the Bay of Biscay. However, this is the coast of occupied France, and the reason a U-boat was out there in the first place was protecting some Nazi construction site – who knows what they were doing, but they were there, in secret, along the route HMHS Victoria was going to get home. But this is where it gets interesting; as the ship sank it drifted closer to France, ended up in a minefield. Ulysses heads down there, Victoria is right on the edge, and do you know what Midshipman Archibald Speyer did? He free-dove down there and defused the sea mine. Won too many medals count. Like I said, war hero.
"So, Baby-Faced Fletch figures that Speyer's fixing races, not so hard to work out when you're involved with the rackets too. Bertie Fink, the bookie, knows which horse is fixed. Knows which horse to bet on. Tricky to figure out otherwise because, well, sea mines and depth charges are different things, and the odds aren't super-extraordinary. They're decent for an underdog, anyone following the sport will know that Depth Charge is pretty average but not likely to win. But someone who takes that gamble will come out on top, and I'll bet you Archie Speyer has money put on his own horse. Speyer will definitely be there, and he'll know who his competition is. He's our route to finding out about Baby and what makes him tick; he's working towards the future we enjoy, against everything we saw in our alternate reality – which is still fluctuating, by the way."
"Yeah… okay, I get that, but why does finding out which horse in one measly race is fixed help anyone take over the city? We know which one's gonna win and it's not going to help us becoming criminal overlords."
"Oswald! Back to the Future! Marty McFly goes to 2015, gets the sports almanac. In 1955, old Biff gives teen Biff the almanac stolen from the DeLorean, Biff gets rich betting on races and turns Hill Valley into a crime-ridden, dystopic nightmare in 1985. He'll find out what the fixtures are, bet on them, make enough money to hire the man power to start stealing Archie's rackets out from under him. Organised crime 101. So, we're gonna high-tail it to the racecourse, put a pony on a horse, and psychic-paper our way up to the boxes to get a private meeting with one Mr. Speyer, the gay Vito Corleone of Britain's seaside. And we're gonna look super-cute while we do it. Sound good?"
"Forgive me for being too forward, but I think I want to marry you."
"Old girl's still got it. Who needs google? I'm a walking encyclopaedia."
"Mm, there's nothing sexier than a good page-turner. Zip me up." Throughout her explanation of why, precisely, they had to hurry to get to Brighton Racecourse for eleven o'clock that morning, Clara had actually succeeded in getting dressed somewhat quickly (for once.) The Doctor went to her aid and carefully helped her zip up the back of the dress. "I need a beehive, don't you think? You're looking a bit old-hat with the wavy blonde."
"Darling, wavy blonde is never going to go out of style. Beehives, on the other hand? Major faux pas. This is why nobody asks you for fashion tips. You've got a zit on your back, by the way."
"I do? Eurgh. I'm an elderly woman, I shouldn't be getting spots anymore," she complained, fixing her hair again. "Where's the makeup?"
"We didn't bring any makeup."
"We didn't bring any makeup? You expect me to believe that? You and your painted face?" Clara stared at her.
The Doctor shifted uncomfortably, "There's no time."
"Oh, I see, so you get to wear makeup, but for me there's 'no time'?"
"What do you care? You look okay."
"Okay!?" That was not the right thing to say.
"We're in a rush!"
"To get to the races! I'm not going to the races without putting my face on, woman. Go and find me the eyeliner and some lipstick or you can stick your races up your-"
"Alright, already! Jeez! Women!" she shook her head, annoyed, and went to retrieve a handful of cosmetics she herself had been using that morning. "You know it's still basically fine for people to beat their wives in this decade?" she said when she handed Clara the products.
"I'll beat you in a minute," Clara muttered, ignoring her in favour of the mirror.
"Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eyes, And all my soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so grounded inward in my heart," the Doctor commented.
"Methinks no face so gracious as is mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chapped with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read; Self so self-loving were iniquity," Clara retorted. "You're not going to win a Shakespeare battle with the head of the English department, sweetheart."
"I really think you're contributing to the unrealistic expectations women have to deal with every day by your inability to go outside without a layer of paint."
"I'm this close to throwing you out of the window. We're not going to be late. Feminism means I can wear whatever I want, and nobody can have a go at me about it. Including washed-up, old aliens."
"Whatever you say, Narcissus."
"How much money did you pickpocket to bet on this horse, anyway?"
"Four shillings, or thereabouts. Should get about a pound in returns. More than enough for you to have fish and chips later. Oh, I forgot – your phone kept going off in the night."
"Really? Who was it? Was it my sister? You should've woken me up."
"It was only Sarah. But at least her ability to actually send a text means the timelines still haven't been corrupted to their full extent… it's promising for us."
"Did she say anything juicy?"
"Screenshots of some message Kyle sent her. She was asking you what it meant."
"What did it say?"
"It was the word 'fancy' with a question mark."
Clara frowned, pausing while she applied her mascara for a moment, "How cryptic. Dunno why she likes him. I mean, she'd deny it if you asked, but she definitely does. Personally, I don't think he has any redeeming character traits whatsoever. Then again, maybe I'm biased," she shrugged.
"Biased how?"
"Not everybody gets to marry someone as wonderful as you, I suppose," she said.
"I don't know. It's subjective, there's no scale."
"I just can't work out how much of that mutual-resentment thing they have going on is because of sexual repression or because they're incompatible. Maybe she has the right idea by being such a tease," Clara sighed. "Can't believe she was bothering me about that."
"In her defence, I didn't even know he knew how to send texts. It's a bit like getting something delivered by carrier pigeon. Although, I think he does keep those pigeons, doesn't he? You'd think he was from the 1960s he's such a prude. And that's me saying that. I'm no Casanova."
"Marilyn Monroe would disagree."
"Very funny. Are you done with your colouring-in yet?"
"Yes," Clara said, glaring at her, "No need to be a dick."
"I wasn't – I just wanna meet this guy, okay? I have a lot of respect for Archie. And I'm concerned about what Baby might be up to. Could be scheming to kill some other poor schmuck for all we know. We gotta find out a way to get to him, stat." Clara didn't reply now, she went about putting her shoes on.
"Wish you stole some garters and stockings while you were out, it's a bit nippy today with that rain."
"Yeah, yeah, any excuse for garters with you." The Doctor crossed the room to start packing away what little remained of their things, very conscious of the time; she was a Time Lord, after all.
"She was asking about you, actually. The other day."
"Who?"
"Sarah. And the arguing. Because you know how they argue all the time? She was asking me about us arguing."
"Our banter?"
"Exactly. She's like, 'doesn't she make you want to strangle her sometimes?' and I was quite concerned by her saying that, so I didn't even make a joke. I said no, you're my wife and I adore you. I'm just very sceptical about the viability of that level of resentment before they've even admitted they like each other."
"They're probably bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Well, y'know. They're both kinda old. And still single," the Doctor shrugged, slinging the backpack over one of her shoulders the same point that Clara finally fixed her shoes and stood up. She retrieved the umbrella from where it had been propped up against the wall drying the previous night. "Got everything?"
"Uh… haven't got any pockets…" she muttered, "See? This is why I like my dress from the future. Pockets. Clothing revolution. Do you have my phone?"
"It's in this bag," said the Doctor, "Just like your keys, your receipts, your e-cigarette and your gum."
"Can I have the cigarette?"
"No. They haven't been invented yet."
"I'll just have to get some real cigarettes, then," Clara said, "I'm sure they're not that hard to find around here." The Doctor rolled her eyes. "Could I have the gum, at least?" Sighing, Thirteen unzipped the bag again (desperate to leave) and fished out Clara's chewing gum she took everywhere to deal with her nicotine cravings. She didn't even know if Clara was quitting at that moment or not, it seemed to change on a day to day basis.
"Can we go now?"
"Yes, chill out," said Clara, opening the door, taking the keys out of the lock.
"I just don't want to get stuck in crowds of rowdy, drunken Brits."
"You're going to a race in Brighton on a Saturday in the 60s and you think you'll be able to avoid drunk Brits? I wish I had your optimism, sweetheart," Clara joked, smiling, holding the door open and then making sure to lock it behind them. The cheap boarding house really was quite squalid; narrow, wonky, rickety, it felt as though it was going to collapse at any moment because of loose screws or mildew – or perhaps even just disintegrating from the foot traffic it saw. But in a way, it did have character, which the Doctor always enjoyed.
The meek reception desk was still empty that time on the weekend, so Clara merely dropped the keys on it (having paid upfront late last night) and they went about their day, returning to the cloudy skies and the rain. She almost missed the climate-change-induced heat of 2064's late-May.
The streets already had a selection of race-goers middling about, dressed up as though they were guests at a wedding, all heading northwards just like the two of them. There was quite a bitter wind that morning which threatened to ruin the Doctor's perfectly-styled hair; she walked closer to Clara so as to stay underneath the umbrella.
"She asked me how I knew I wanted to marry you," Clara began. "Sarah, I mean. In the staff room a few weeks ago."
"Did you tell her you eloped without thinking?"
"No, I said you were such a good shag I couldn't let you go," she smirked. The Doctor was unconvinced.
"Really? You told her that?"
"No, but I can't tell her the truth, that it was when I nearly died and you used your regeneration energy to heal me. That was when I knew I wanted to be with you forever. Plus, you did propose for real immediately afterwards. But sadly, Sarah has no idea that you're an alien."
"So why did she ask you that? Wanted to know if she subconsciously thinks Kyle is 'the one'?"
"What she needs to do," Clara began with the air of somebody who only thought they knew what they were talking about, "Is just sleep with him and see if she still likes him afterwards."
"I really like your high moral fibre. She seems to ask a lot of questions about us, though…" A few more Vespas slid past in the cool rain, as well as a selection of vintage cars the Doctor loved to watch glide along in their own time period – completely unaware of what a novelty they were.
"I don't mean to brag, but I like to think we have a really great relationship. Don't you?"
"Of course I do!" Thirteen was offended that Clara even had to ask.
"She just wants to know what makes us tick."
"A thousand years of self-sacrifice, then fifty years of hard work, trauma, and commitment."
"Yeah," Clara nodded, "And the sex. That's the main one. Which is why she needs to shag Kyle."
"Not so sure, I heard a rumour from Ida that somebody is on the roster to be reprimanded for 'unprofessional conduct with a fellow member of staff' – and it's not either of us. She told me because she didn't want us to worry that we were in trouble, since she likes us. You know, because we make her tea a lot." Ida was the headmistress's secretary and head of the office staff.
"That's not about Kyle and Sarah," said Clara, "I heard a rumour from Freddy Howe-"
"What? In Year 10?"
"Yeah. I heard a rumour from him, which he was very openly sharing with the rest of the class when they were meant to be doing joint essay plans, that somebody caught Terrance and one of the dinner ladies in the PE supply room."
"Oh my god. The plot thickens. I can't say I'm surprised. I wonder which dinner lady?"
"I don't know, but Freddy said it wasn't the hot one."
"There's a hot one?"
Clara shrugged, "According to one hormonal fifteen-year-old boy, yes. He said she's a milf."
"Teenage boys think every woman under the age of forty is a milf."
"I think you're a total milf. But I honestly can't say I'm crushing on any of the dinner ladies, personally. I don't know that Terrance is particularly fussy about who he cops off with, though," Clara continued to gossip to fill the time walking towards the racecourse. "Besides, you're the one who always makes my lunch, I never eat in the canteen." Clara avoided hanging about in the canteen like the plague, constantly wary of the teenage boys who tried to talk to her if she stayed in there. "You're my personal dinner lady milf."
"Congratulations, Clara, you've just won the award for the least sexy thing anybody has ever said."
"Ooh, what do I win?"
"A new wife who can stand you."
"This new wife better be Terrance's dinner lady side-piece. Otherwise I'll be seeing you in court for a very messy divorce."
"The PE supplies room smells gross, I don't know how they could be getting up to anything in there. And it's dirty. Plus, how old is Terrance?"
"Forty-something."
"Eurgh, this is putting the worst image into my brain. How are any of these people qualified to teach in a school? I'm not qualified to teach in a school and I have a hot wife who also works in said school, and I still wouldn't lower myself to the PE supply room," the Doctor said, turning her nose up at the thought. It was getting a bit windier now, a slight chill biting at their skin. "It wouldn't even take me half as much effort for me to get you to take your clothes off as it must have taken him to trick that dinner lady."
"Hey, I'm a professional. I can resist your wiles for long enough during the school day, especially if my job's at risk."
"Not true. What about the time there was that special assembly because there was the guest speaker, and we had two hours free, so we snuck out in the car and-"
"Yeah, alright, maybe that did happen, once, but we were not on school premises."
"And we didn't get caught."
"That's not that main thing." The Doctor shrugged; she thought it was the main thing. "It really shouldn't happen again."
"Oh, come on. Don't you wanna feel young?" she asked wryly, the bustling racecourse looming ahead of them now. Not as big a crowd as the Doctor had been anticipating, "Bunking off school to get lucky in the middle of the afternoon?"
"Maybe it was fun, but it's not necessary. We have a nice house and a nice bed-"
"And briefly we also had a nice Ferrari."
"Yeah – I wouldn't necessarily advise screwing someone in a sports car, I did get cramp in my leg."
"Urgh. Why do you only ever remember the bad stuff?"
"Someone has to be there to stop you from doing something stupid more than once, sweetheart," Clara said, "Like that time you nearly fell off Tower Bridge into the river a few years ago. I'm not having you drown on me twice in a row."
"And yet, here we are, living in our cushy, domestic little world right on the coast."
"Where I keep a very close eye on you."
"And here I just thought you fancied me."
"Not remotely. You're just naïve."
"Glad we've cleared that mess up."
"You better get out the psychic paper," Clara prompted. They had drawn right up to the racecourse now, which was closer to the town centre than their actual house was in the future (which hadn't been built yet.) Clara carefully holding the umbrella, the Doctor searched through the backpack, taking her turn to lament the lack of pockets in feminine, mid-century day-ware.
"I do love it here, though," she said, retrieving the battered, black wallet.
"In Brighton?"
"In the 60s. '64. Good year. Beatles mania, Mod aesthetics, counter-culture, Civil Rights – it's my jam. Let's swing by London on the way home and maybe catch a protest against the Vietnam War."
"We can't go to a protest, we haven't got any Pepsi," Clara joked.
"I'm serious, though. I feel a real kind of… affinity. Do you know what I mean?"
Clara shrugged, "I suppose I feel a bit of an affinity for, I don't know, 2004?"
"2004?"
"Lost my virginity in 2004. And it's when Britney Spears released 'Toxic' as a single."
"Of course that's the year you pick."
"2013 is okay, I suppose." The year they had met.
"I'm glad you think that the most important year in our lives is 'okay.'"
"Don't make me choose between you and Britney. It's Britney every time. Besides, we can't go to a big anti-war protest, what if we got photographed? You're teaching the Vietnam War this term. How would it look if one of the kids finds a picture of us dating back to 1960-something holding big 'make love not war' placards?"
"It would totally look like we have our priorities in order!" Thirteen argued, "And there's plenty of pictures of us from all over the shop. We're darn lucky none of the kids have found any yet."
"Esther's good at her job, what can I say?" said Clara. For fifty years Esther Drummond had been their personal cyber-security detail, still paid a generous salary courtesy of the eternal billionaire Adam Mitchell. "You did spend a lot of time in the 60s when you were younger," Clara, who sometimes seemed to recall more about the Doctor's life than the Doctor herself, said. "Didn't, uh, whatshername – your granddaughter – she hung about in the 60s, yeah? And didn't you get trapped here for ages working for UNIT?"
"Susan," said the Doctor, "And I suppose you're right." The details of that period were quite foggy to her now.
"Could just seem familiar. The TARDIS is a 1960's phone box, after all. With an old-fashioned telephone in the door."
"I'm a sucker for retro vibes."
Getting into the racecourse was easier than the Doctor had anticipated. They weren't even asked for the psychic paper; she supposed that if they didn't look as though they were going to start any riots, they would be allowed through the gates (to that effect, she spied a group of leather-clad bikers loitering nearby with a collection of flashy motorcycles to counter the scooters of the Mods.)
"Rejected Wild One extras over there," she said quietly to Clara as they shuffled through the crowds into the race course.
"Police milling about yet again," Clara said, noticing a handful of bobbies in the area. "And – oh wow – speak of the devil," she pointed something out and smirked. A bright blue police box standing near the mouth of the race course with a bored copper leaning against it.
"The one time the TARDIS would actually blend in on the street, and the timelines are too fragile to bring her down. Oh, the irony," she joked, "Now, then… which is the bit where all the rich people hang out here?"
"Top of the stands, with the function rooms," Clara said, "Out of the rain and the cold. That, or with the jockeys and horses. If he owns the horse, he'll be allowed down wherever they keep them. I think. What do you reckon? Stables or stands?"
"Uh… not sure… what do you think?"
"I was just asking you what you think."
"Okay… escalating gang violence, risk of riots, sensitive race, tons of police who I don't think he pays off… must be in the stands. For this one, at least."
"Then that's this way," Clara grabbed her elbow and pulled her off to the left, out of the stream of people heading towards the stairs into the wooden, damp stands and towards a door into the underside of the seats. This area, too, had a decent amount of people, all there to place bets on the horses. Clara was finally able to closer the umbrella as they headed towards a cordoned-off area with a pair of clean-cut but sketchy-looking young men on either side; bouncers, it must be. Gangsters from Speyer's crew making sure nobody intruded upstairs. "Alright, we're gonna say that you're a rich, American heiress looking to invest a ridiculous amount of money in horseracing, alright?"
"We're – what?"
"Say you're a Vanderbilt."
"I hate the Vanderbilts, I've met them. Horrible people."
"Then I guess you're a horrible person, look – you're a lesser-known, Vanderbilt cousin who's just been given access to your trust fund looking to spend it all on something rebellious and outrageous."
"Then who are you?"
"I am your… I don't know, assistant, or something. I drive you around and get you coffee."
"Oh, you mean like in real life?"
"Shut up. Go on," Clara nudged her in the small of her back. She sighed and took out her psychic paper, approaching the two sharp-suited guards. As soon as they spied her, they looked sceptical.
"I'm looking for who's in charge around here," she said, trying to produce an air of class and self-importance – which she was not very good at.
"Oh, aye? In charge of what, miss?" the taller of the two asked. The other was not paying much attention, keeping his eyes on the people placing bets, looking for trouble. Clara lingered at her elbow looking relatively cute and harmless.
"I'll cut a long story short; I'm looking to invest some money, thought I'd visit Britannia and turn a meagre couple-million dollars into a small fortune. Something to keep you warm through the winter, you know? But my family, see – who I can't really name, but I'll tell you they have a long history with the railroads – have a nose for business. Your bets are just chump-change compared to what I could be making if I was pointed in the direction of your shot-caller. Train a few horses, maybe build a few restaurants – I don't know if you've heard of the McDonalds', but they're looking to make waves in the next few years. Cross-continental expansion. Burgers for the common man. I'm friends with Ray Kroc."
"You said you have a few million dollars you want to funnel into businesses here?"
She scoffed, "Only if there's enough business to be had. I've heard a few rumours about Eastbourne having a lot of potential…"
"You don't wanna go to Eastbourne, miss…?" he prompted her for her name.
"Stephanie Vanderbilt. Oh, shoot – I wasn't supposed to say the 'Vanderbilt' part…"
"Vanderbilt? I, erm… the boss will want to see you."
"Of course he does. And my maidservant, of course," she indicated Clara, "I don't go anywhere without her. Who else is gonna clean the mud off my shoes?" Clara just smiled.
"He's in a meeting. You'll have to wait outside for him to finish. But best you're up there than down here, Miss Vanderbilt."
"Technically it's Lady Vanderbilt, thanks to some tactful marriages just before the war. But you're good. I'm glad you've made the right decision; I'm sure you'll be rewarded for your initiative. Come along now, you." They lifted the chain from across the private stairs up into the rooms above the stands and let Clara and the Doctor passed, Clara smiling sweetly at them as she did.
"Your maidservant who cleans your shoes?" Clara hissed once they were out of earshot, ascending the narrow steps in single-file.
"You did clean my shoes two weeks ago," the Doctor pointed out to her.
"I was just cleaning all the shoes…" Clara mumbled. "Is Stephanie Vanderbilt a real person?"
"If my knowledge of the big business family trees holds up, no. I pulled that one right out of my butt."
"Nice. And nice butt, too."
"Thank you kindly."
The Doctor had been right about one thing; Brighton Racecourse was certainly no Epsom Downs. The upstairs VIP area wasn't the kind of place you went to hobnob with the snobs and had only one meagre function room with a rusty dumbwaiter in the corner intended for lower-middle-class weddings or the wakes of seasoned gamblers. A tattered pool table stood in the corner. There were sounds coming from a poorly-labelled meeting room on the left-hand side.
"Business meeting…" she muttered to herself, making a beeline for the door. Clara grew distracted by the windows aimed at the racecourse below, people gathering along the track to watch the horses. The race was supposed to be starting shortly, at eleven o'clock on the dot.
Thirteen had made a lot of mistakes in her life. Leading various alien hoards to attempt to conquer planet Earth; losing her companions through stupid follies and schemes she hadn't thought through properly; putting one of Clara's favourite dildos in the dishwasher where it melted – the usual. But this one really took the cake, as she barged in on two men (one of whom was Archibald Speyer) fornicating in the meeting room. Archie sat in a chair with an expression of pure bliss on his face, smoking a cigarette, while someone younger knelt in front of him. The Doctor was mortified, and though she didn't really see anything, she saw enough that the image was going to be burned into her brain forever, retrograde amnesia be damned.
"Just give me five minutes," Archie didn't even open his eyes as he waved her away, perhaps assuming she was just one of his underlings. Silently, she left, closing the door. Clara was still looking out at the track while the Doctor was frozen in place.
"What's wrong?" Clara asked, "Is he busy?"
"Oh, he's definitely busy…" she said, crossing her arms tightly and shuffling away from the door.
"…What?" Clara implored, "Are you alright?"
"…It's not that I'm a prude, okay? I'd just like some warning before… and here I thought walking in on you watching that kind of thing in the bathtub was bad enough…"
"Is he screwing someone in there?" Clara lowered her voice.
"Oh, he's, erm… he's…"
"Just say it, sweetheart."
"He's getting head."
"Good for him. Wish I was getting head right now," she turned to wistfully look out of the window some more, "I'm sure he'll be done soon. Boys don't last long. If that was us in there, on the other hand-"
"Oh, god…"
"It'd be like, can you go catch a film and come back in a few hours?"
"Ha, ha."
"Bring us some popcorn while you're there."
"I could go for some popcorn… can you believe he's not watching the race?"
"I don't think I'd care much about some race if I was getting sucked off," Clara shrugged, indifferent, "Can't believe you walked in on that. That's hilarious. I can't wait to tell my sister."
"Great…"
"Did you see much?"
"No, his head was kind of blocking the, uh… 'main event.' Not that I was looking."
"What do you think of racing, anyway? You forgot to place your bet."
The Doctor shrugged, "Can always pickpocket some more cash. I'm sure we can get dinner with four shillings – there's no overfishing crisis causing seafood prices to rise way back when. It's all locally sourced and in abundance. But horseracing? I, uh… I mean, horses are designed to be good at running. It's natural selection. But I guess, on the other hand, they do tend to, y'know, die during races. Or if they suffer any kind of leg injury they get shot – which is kind of fair enough because it's really super difficult to heal a broken horse leg. I guess I don't have much of an issue with it on principle, but it can lead to potentially fatal extremes."
"How do they even, like, fix races?" Clara inquired, still observing the crowds through the window, "I've never understood that."
"Pay off jockeys, drug rival horses, drug your own horse to make it go fast – I don't know, the same ways you fix any kind of sporting event. Oughta ask Jenny, she's the mobster. Probably knows the ins and outs of how to run a successful gambling ring."
"You must be so proud," Clara quipped.
"That's the word…" Thirteen muttered. She glanced back at the door to the meeting room. "Do you think the guys downstairs know what he's up to?"
"Maybe. Who knows?"
"He didn't seem super fussed about being walked in on. Didn't even open his eyes. Just said 'give me five minutes.'"
"Must be getting a bloody good seeing to."
Eventually, the meeting room door opened and the young man who had been kneeling hurried out.
"Terribly sorry about that," he mumbled on his way past. He burped, and the Doctor thought she wanted to curl up and die. And then Archie himself came swaggering out with a fresh cigarette between his teeth, his trousers held up by suspenders, but the fly still completely unbuttoned. It was like living with Captain Jack Harkness again. In fact, she would bet a fair amount of the change in her possession that Jack and Archie had 'liaised' at least once. At least he had his underpants on. He frowned when he saw them.
"You don't work for me. Who let you up here?"
"Oh, we just snuck in," said the Doctor, "To have a word."
"Snuck in? With the police crawling around out there? What's this word about? What I do within the privacy of my own… publicly-owned racecourse… is my business."
"Oh, we're definitely not with the police, and we're here to talk about business," said the Doctor, "We're not gonna get you in trouble for that."
"We're together," Clara interjected, trying to ease the atmosphere, "Me and her. Practically married. Even bought rings."
"Oh, really?" he said, then smiled and sat down in one of the many chairs in the function room, putting his feet up on the table and blowing out a stream of cigarette smoke, "Couple of perverts after my own heart, then?"
"Something like that," said Clara, transfixed by the cigarette.
"Two lesbians looking to talk to me about business during an important race of my season. Well. Don't ever let it be said that I'm not a good host – I've got some champagne up here. Would either of you care for a cigarette?" he took a packet out of his trouser pocket, a packet of Marlboros no less – Clara's brand of choice. And they didn't even have any gory pictures on them.
"Yes please," Clara said immediately, losing all semblance of willpower in the face of an actual, lit cigarette. It was one thing trying to quit in a hundred years' time – hardly anybody smoked anymore in the 2060s, and certainly not the faculty of a school in the country's most liberal city – but in that decade, it wasn't even ten years since the first studies linking smoking to cancer had been released. Everybody smoked. And now Clara had fallen off the wagon again. Thirteen didn't even consider trying to argue with her about it as she gladly took a cigarette from Archie, who lit it on the end of his own. Clara's face became a mask of relief.
"Do you know Albert Fink? Bertie? Personally?" the Doctor asked Archie, who narrowed his eyes.
"Funny. Midnight last night, Bertie gives me a bell from a phone box and says someone just tried to carve him underneath the pier when two birds saved his life. He's a mathematician, we met during the war. He was just a seaman, but he had a knack for poker. He does most of my odds."
"Your odds on Depth Charge?" the Doctor asked. Archie laughed.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the Doctor. This is Clara. Practically my wife, like she said. And you're right, it was us who saved Bertie Fink. The kid who tried to kill him is dangerous. He's trying to take over your rackets and Bertie's the way to do that."
"And why should I believe you?"
"Because we want what's best for the city," the Doctor said, "You must know something about the run who's trying to move in on your territory. We'll go deal with him for you."
"You? 'Deal with him'?"
"We're more than capable," said Clara, smoking. "We snuck up here, didn't we?"
"That you did. But why don't you tell me what you know first?"
"It's some up-and-comer called Finley Fletcher, Baby-Face," Clara said, "He wants to control Brighton and make it into some gangland hell on earth. We just need to know how to find him."
"He wants to find someone who can tell him which horses to bet on so that he can get rich and muscle you out of Brighton and London," the Doctor continued, "But Clara and I live a pretty swell life down here by the coast – less questions asked about our 'lifestyle choices', as I'm sure you're aware. We know the kid has… different views. Wants to remodel the whole city to fit with his agenda and ruin it."
"I didn't consider him much of a threat."
"Well, obviously, that works to his advantage. You're underestimating him, and us," said Thirteen, "We want to help stop him, but all we really know is his name. What really need to know is how to find him, so we came to look for you hoping you'd have at least some handle on your competition."
"And what do you want in return for your 'help'?"
"Nothing. Just for Brighton to carry on being a great place to live, I guess," said the Doctor, "Good deeds are their own reward. Plus, I'm kind of a fan of yours – I've heard about how you defused that sea mine in the war."
"Ah – so that's how you worked out which horse is the lucky one," he said, nodding, "You've done your research."
"You're a hero. And you're helping people. Helping Britain through its golden age. I'm a fan – hence why I, uh, don't live in the States anymore…" She still sometimes forgot to come up with some excuse or reason for her accent. "I know you have the best interests of the people at heart. Just help us get rid of Fletcher to stop him going after Bertie."
"…Well. I suppose I owe you girls one, for saving his life yesterday to begin with. And with the threat of riots at the moment, I can't really spare the manpower to deal with it myself."
"I'm sure you're a big fan of 'manpower', eh?" Clara joked. He looked at her.
"You're embarrassing us," the Doctor told her. "Just… smoke your cigarette." Clara glared at her but took another drag regardless.
"It's not on me if Baby carves you, though. Let's get that clear. Anything happens, it's not my fault. You asked for this."
"Sure thing," the Doctor waved away his concerns.
"I don't know an awful lot. He stays in the shadows. All I've heard is that he has a girl. There was a heist a few weeks ago, nobody involved with me, but I've got a bobby on my rotating schedule-" of men he slept with, the Doctor realised, "-and he says something about them trying to convince the girl to testify to make a connection between the boy and a small-time bank robbery a few weeks ago. But the police haven't made any progress with her, and they don't have enough evidence to charge him without someone grassing. The girl's your way in, if you can get more out of her than the police."
"That's good, because I've found my way into a lot of girls," Clara said.
"Could you stop? What's the matter with you?" the Doctor snapped. Then she figured it out – Clara clearly thought Archie was hot. She was doing that nervous, awkward thing she usually kept bottled up unless the likes of Sally Sparrow or Fyn Kyris were about. Fyn was also tall, dry-humoured, and incredibly gay. Typical Clara. "I'm sorry about her. She's not always so… urgh." Clara was hardly even listening. "Who's this girl?"
"First name's Lily. She's a waitress, in Cathy's. It's a greasy spoon a stone's throw from the pier. She knows more than she thinks, but she's loyal as a dog. Supposedly they're getting married, and then the coppers definitely won't be able to arrest him for anything. Can't force a wife to testify against her husband in court."
"Lily, Cathy's, near the pier, gotcha," the Doctor nodded, tapping Clara's shoulder, "Thanks for the information. We'll be sure to get out of your hair now."
"I'd appreciate it. I've got another meeting after this race," he said wryly. Another hook-up, more like. It was a miracle Archie found any time at all to run his criminal empire when he was getting laid so much.
"C'mon, Coo," the Doctor picked up her bag again. Clara didn't move. "I said, come on, Coo." Nothing. "Clara!" she poked Clara in the side of her face. "We're leaving to go bother a heterosexual waitress."
"I suppose when you put it that way," Clara said, though she stumbled slightly when she got out of her chair, "Thanks for the cigarette. I'm much obliged."
"Yeah, yeah," said the Doctor, "You're such an embarrassment, honestly." She dragged Clara out of the room.
"Bye!" Clara smiled brightly and waved at Archie, who only raised his hand in return, shaking his head at them and lighting another cigarette. But at least he had helped, and at least they had a lead. It was back to the seafront for them now.
