CHAPTER FOUR
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Sarah Jane Smith drove her battered up car that her aunt had loaned her the money to purchase to the office where she freelanced. Spare me from these jobs! The young beginning journalist thought. She wished that, just for once, she could stop writing articles on traveling and other fluff pieces and sink her teeth into some real, hard hitting news stories. Of course, when one didn't have money, one had to do whatever it took to survive. The raven haired woman drained the last of her coffee in the cup holder and ate the last bite of her Egg McMuffin. Sarah Jane stepped out of her automobile presently as she pulled up at an angle in front of the huge DC office building where, she hoped, she would gain a real job as a reporter. Checking to be sure that she was at the right office, she was met with some people bringing furniture out.
"Scuse me," she told one mover. He didn't pay her any attention as he carried his end of a sofa out. Sarah Jane adjusted her hat which was slightly askew and, taking out a compact from her purse, checked her makeup. Satisfied that everything was in place, she went to the office marked The Washington DC Globe at the end of the hall. Her hand shook a little as she took in a deep breath. She knew she had to impress the editor, Peter Marks, with her writing skills. Her keen skills of observation took in another mover carrying out some more furniture. Beyond the burly mover, a man sat at his desk, not looking like his usual thin and wiry self, but more gaunt, as if part of his soul left with the pieces of furniture the men carried out. Peter stacked some pieces of paper on his table and went to type something into his computer before he realized it was gone. It was then that he saw Sarah Jane.
"Smith," he said, looking at her with hollowed eyes. His Texas boom had become more like a whimper as he had said his greeting.
"Mr. Marks," Sarah Jane greeted back. Seeing the chair by the tiny window with ground in coffee stains being taken out gave her a sinking feeling in her stomach. She gasped as she saw the last of her finances crumble around her.
"No," she breathed, but Peter nodded with absolute certainty.
"Yes," he said, "sorry, kid. But you know the breaks in this business, especially in this town. Big wigs do their politicking and viola! Someone closes you down, just like that. I saw it coming, tried to deny it, and you got caught up in it."
Sarah Jane shook her head, saying in a hurt voice, "But I needed this chance! You told me that if I did do the fluff piece you called me about you'd also have a real story for me!"
"Well, like I said, 'thems the breaks'," Peter told her. He put a hand on her shoulder saying, "Don't worry about it! You're only in your twenties; you can bounce back. Me, I can't. Good thing I got other prospects in Texas, though."
"I don't suppose you'd consider taking me with you," Sarah almost pleaded, "though I like DC very much."
"Sorry, but I don't think you'd fit in as a manager of a gas station," Peter said. He thrust a brown fedora on his almost bald head and ushered Sarah Jane to the door. The young woman hid her tears as she walked outside to her beat up Toyota, but once she got into the automobile, she moaned, allowing herself a good cry.
How had she gotten into this mess? She wondered as she started the engine. At the tender age of twenty two almost five years ago, Sarah Jane had left her Aunt Lavinia, her only family, in merry old England to get her start in the United States and try her hand at securing the American Dream. She could have gotten a job, she supposed, right in London like her aunt had wanted her to, but there was something about becoming a political journalist for Washington that suited her palate. So, after majoring in journalism and politics, the go getting girl took the pounds she had been saving most of her life and set sail for the US.
She managed to secure the first part of her master plan: she had gotten an apartment, a small efficiency in Falls Church, and she had gotten a great deal on the decade old car (mostly because the dealer was eager to get 'that eye sore' as he'd called the automobile off his lot). Work wise, she supported herself by working freelance journalism jobs and teaching part time at a school for the blind. It wasn't a great start, she knew, but a lot of famous reporters had started out with a lot less. Through it all, her aunt had encouraged her, through phone calls, letters, emails, and even some financial support. Sarah had managed to write some travel articles for some major papers, like the Post and the Times, but they weren't hiring full time employees, particularly those with no experience they'd told her. So, she had thanked them and given them a business card, and oftentimes went to her flat and stared into the computer screen, thinking up the next story that could turn things around. She was about to return home to Croyden with her tail between her legs when the inevitable happened: her car's engine conked out.
"C'mon…c'mon," she muttered, hoping that she could coax the engine into submission. After several moments, she gave up trying to restart the car. She was about to get out and take the Metrobus when she noticed a man with ginger colored hair and some of the most intense eyes she had ever seen in front of her windshield. Thankful that at least her power window had been rolled down before her car had given out, Sarah regarded the man.
"Excuse me, I think my battery's dead," she told him. "Might you be able to jump start it?"
The man smiled, though the grin did not reach his eyes. "Perhaps," he responded. "I'll see what I have." He proceeded to walk back a few feet so that she couldn't see him pull two cables out of his expansive pockets. The little man returned, telling her to pop open her hood. Sarah Jane did so, overjoyed that someone could assist her.
After tinkering with her engine, the man said, "You don't really need jumper cables. The ones I have will do." She heard the rattling of metal as the stranger worked on her car.
"Do you need any help?" Sarah Jane asked after several moments.
The man pulled back from the hood, snapped it closed, then shook his head, saying, "try it now."
Sarah Jane switched on her ignition. The engine purred like a kitten. She leaned out of her front window and said, "Thanks so much, Mr…?"
"Liam Sullivan, at your service," the man answered. "And you are?"
"Sarah Jane Smith," she replied, wondering why she had broken one of her cardinal rules about introducing herself to strangers. For some reason, the little man inspired warmth and complete trust. She pulled herself back inside, checking her rear view mirror and her gear to see that it was in 'park'. Sullivan studied her with an appraising look that she failed to notice. Sarah Jane popped her head back out her window.
"I was wondering: do you need a lift?" she offered, still wondering what it was about this man that had her eager to help him.
"Why, yes," Sullivan said, adding, "I'm not going far, so I hope it won't be too much trouble to drop me off."
"Get in," Sarah Jane responded, opening the back door on the curb side. Sullivan got in, studying the interior of the vehicle. The carpet had some grease spots on it despite its having been vacuumed, and the faded, navy seats needed upholstering. He saw that her dashboard was several years out of date, and had only a cassette player with the radio on it with archaic writing.
"Forgive the heat, but I wasn't able to get air conditioning," she said apologetically as she pulled off.
"Quite all right, Miss Smith," he said. Starting a conversation, the stranger asked, "Live on your own?"
"Yes, I do," she responded, querying, "and do you?"
"For now. I am here from Ireland," Sullivan responded.
"I gathered that from your accent," Sarah commented. "You're from the Northern part of Ireland, aren't you?"
"Very good," Sullivan praised. "Not many people can spot that. To them, I'm just Irish."
Sarah Jane laughed, feeling so comfortable driving him. "Well, I get a lot of that, too, from Americans who don't know England," she replied. "To them I'm 'that British girl'". They both chucked just then, as Sarah realized she had not asked him where he was going.
"Where to?" she questioned.
"Wherever you're going," Sullivan answered. "I can take a Metrobus the rest of the way."
"Nonsense," the raven haired journalist declared. "I'll take you home."
"That's very civil of you, Miss Smith," he said, smiling. After he gave her the address, Sullivan asked, "I don't mean to pry, but it seems that you're having tough times, am I right?"
Sarah nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. Sullivan said, a sympathetic tone in his voice, "By all means, do bend my ear."
The young woman found herself unveiling her life story to the sad leprechaun, revealing even her most guarded feelings. Sullivan "hmmed" throughout Sarah Jane's tale of woe, and when she'd finished, he offered, "Maybe I could help you. I am very influential in certain circles. I could, maybe, put the word out that you're looking for a more permanent position as a journalist." When she stopped at a red light, Sarah scrutinized her passenger. His face revealed no secrets, however. He just looked at her with a tranquil expression.
"What's in it for you?" she asked.
"Really, Miss Smith!" Sullivan cried. "I'm highly insulted! Can't one person offer to help another person in obvious trouble without it costing anything?"
Sarah Jane tried again, saying, "I appreciate it—really, I do—but I don't want to be owing anything to you."
"Consider this a chance for both of us," Sullivan explained. "You see, I am trying to start a paper of my own, and I need a great writer to help me. In exchange, you would gain the experience you so desperately need, and I would gain what I want."
"And what's that, Mr. Sullivan?" Sarah asked, turning left.
"Why, a chance to help mankind. I believe in making a difference in the world, for the world," Sullivan told her. Sarah mulled over his offer. She still didn't know why she was agreeing on a handshake to help the little stranger, but she found herself capitulating to his request. Sarah Jane pulled up in front of a non descript apartment building. The budding journalist parked and let him out. He handed his card to her through the window, and she drove off, humming to herself and thanking her lucky stars for her good fortune.
Sullivan's look grew cold as he watched her drive away, and his mood changed from sunny to stormy. Humans! He mentally criticized, calculating his next move.
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Rose and Daniel sat on some hard, tiny chairs at her favorite fish and chips restaurant. Daniel picked at his food, not really concentrating on his chips. Rose looked at him, and then when she couldn't stand his picking any longer, asked her boyfriend what the matter was.
"Sorry…" Daniel apologized. "So, how's work been so far?"
"Mind numbingly, coma inducingly borin'," Rose replied. Her cell phone rang, and as the message center picked up, Rose glanced at the number displayed. "Mum," she said.
"It isn't enough for her to bother us when she's here, now she's gotta haunt us from out of town?" the human Doctor muttered.
"Oi!" Rose yelled. "That's my mum you're talking about!"
"And what a frightful ghost she'd make," Daniel rejoined, to which Rose snorted in reply.
"There's just no talking to you sometimes!" Rose quipped, returning to her food. After eating another bite of fish, she dialed Jackie's number.
"Mum!" Rose greeted. As she heard her brother's squeals in the background, Rose said, "How's Tony, and how's Sheepshead Beach?"
In the bungalow Peter Tyler had rented in Sheepshead Beach, Jackie Tyler winced as she felt the effects of a sunburn. "It's great if you like bein' a tomato!" She complained, to which her husband replied, "Well, you were the one who wanted to lie out in the sun all day!"
"Shut up, you, our daughter's on the phone," Jackie whispered to Pete. She handed Anthony to her husband's waiting arms. As he took the baby out of the room, Jackie returned back to her conversation.
"How are things, sweetheart?" Jackie wanted to know. "How's Dan?"
"He's fine, mum," Rose answered, to which Daniel murmured, "how's the old sea hag, anyway?"
"Stop," Rose mouthed back as she covered the phone's mouthpiece. When Daniel ate a chip, the young woman said, "Did you try putting some ointment on it?"
"Not yet," Jackie said. Daniel tugged on Rose's sleeve. Rose said, "Hang on, mum…" she put the phone down, but not before they heard Jackie's remark, "Is he bein' a pest again?"
"That's your department," Daniel said softly, but not before Jackie heard him.
"Takes one to know one, I'd say!" She bit back. Daniel fell silent once more, his expressive brown eyes looking up at Rose with curiosity.
"Mum's got a sunburn," Rose whispered. She picked up the phone once again, as the half-human Gallifreyan said, "You see? It isn't just me! Even the sun can't stand your mum an' it has an axe to grind."
"Uh, look, mum, I'll call you later. Something's come up," Rose said to Jackie. "Just put some ointment on it an' lie down, and you'll be fine."
"Yeah, well, when Mr. Appendage leaves, maybe you'll be free to talk," Rose's mother told her. Daniel practically lunged across the table for the phone as though he could reach through it to strangle Jackie. Rose held the phone back with one hand, and tried to shove the human Time Lord back in his seat with the other. Daniel sat back down. Rose told her mother good bye and hung up the phone.
"She knows I hate it when she calls me that," Daniel grumbled.
"You started it!" Rose complained, to which Daniel muttered, "No, the universe started it when it designated her to be your mother!"
"You're gonna have to deal with it, you know, especially once we get married," Rose commented as she waved the waiter over for their check. Daniel started letting his mind wrap around what she'd just said: once we get married. He could hardly keep from taking her in his arms and kissing her senseless as she paid the check and they left the restaurant.