Following a much faster beep, I am trying to lead Amy to the Thief again.
"That was way too close," she says, drowning out the beep.
"Ssh," I tell her.
"No, really, Doctor, I could see the hairs on the back of his neck; it was very literally too close. I'm not allowed to talk to him and I could have counted follicles, given the chance."
"Well, Amy – Left! – I wouldn't ever have recommended to you – Left again! – hanging around long enough to do any counting of any kind. It's just we were – Right! – waiting for River to get in, weren't – Left! – we?"
It's not that we can't die in a horrible flaming car crash, all burnt up and seared into the seats of the Favourite Car, just because Rory is in control of the program to some extent. We could. If we crash, that is very much a possibility. It's just that she's driving far too quickly to safely comply with my instructions. There's lots of screeching involved, and a human car is not like a Tardis; noise is very much a bad thing in a human car.
And poor Daddy's Girl is in the back seat, sliding up and down and yelping on each and every one of those corners.
"Right!" I shout to Amy. She turns especially hard, and the cry from the back seat is especially ear-splitting. "No, wait," I say, "We're going to have to let her out somewhere."
That makes Amy slow down. Not quite standing on the brake, but enough to jolt us all forward. Daddy's Girl falls over my seat and wraps her arms around my neck. "Oh," she says, with something like a smile, right in my ear, "Hi there, Mister."
"Where do you live?" I ask her.
She takes it entirely the wrong way, and lifts an eyebrow. "Fifth and Alameda, Mister FBI." Oh. Of course she does. Everybody lives at Fifth and Alameda. Honestly, Rory; Wiltshere, Rodeo, Venice, everybody knows street-names for LA, don't they?
"Pond?" I say, "Fifth and Alameda, please." She shifts the car into first and creeps the few feet to the next corner.
"No," says Daddy's Girl, slow and uncertain, big lower lip stuck out. "This isn't it."
"Yes it is," I say, and sonic her down to the core of her code. Her face goes blank and she climbs out of the car. "You have to go. I think your mother wants to talk to me."
"My mother?" she says, from the kerb, "Why, you'll have to go to Fifth and Alameda if you want her place, Mister."
I would answer her, only Amy cuts in. "Oh, we'll find it," she says. In the same moment, she puts her foot down so hard that this time it throws the two of us back. The beeping from the code-reader becomes frantic. "You keep giving directions." That's not her ultimatum tone, by the way. That's not even an order. She isn't even asking. She is letting me know what she expects. "I'm going to talk, for once, and for once you're not going to treat me like I'm stupid for doing it."
I would tell her that I've never for a moment ever thought she was stupid, not even all those times she ran to get her phone so she could have her photograph taken with some alien race like a low-rent time tourist, but this doesn't seem to be the time. So I say, "Alright, Pond."
"For reasons I can't even-"
"Right!"
"-Begin to fathom, you've gone all mean." Neither is this the time to argue, so I let that go too. "Now, being the sweet and trusting person that I am, I'm willing to believe that-
"Left!"
"-Those reasons are good, and that while they may remain hyour own that they are working to my benefit. Remember that, Doctor, because-
"Left!"
"If they're not I'll be very angry. And I am, after all, your mother-in-law, so don't underestimate my ability to make your every waking moment hell."
"Stop!" I say.
"No, I'm not finished."
"The car, Amy, stop the car."
She does it. Emergency-style, which is not strictly necessary. But a stop's a stop. Stops and glares at me then, which is really most unbecoming too her. And yes, I'm aware of how often I say that, of just how much it must seem I find unbecoming in her, but really, beyond smiling and fawning and that occasional glimpse of unquantifiable strength, very little does suit that precious face of hers.
Shock. She's very good at shock. And fear, not that I'd ever say that to her face.
"What?" she wants to know. "What's the matter with you?"
"Listen." Little trilling noises, coming from everywhere. From inside the buildings, from inside little boxes on the street, from inside the top pocket of her shirt. "The phones," I explain. "All the phones are ringing."
Rather than go for Amy's mobile, which is rather delicately poised between getting punched by Rory and not getting punched by Rory, I climb legs first out of the car and go to one of those little glass booths on the street. A telephone box. I close myself inside and answer.
"Hello?"
"Hello, sweetie."
"And just when I thought it was safe to drive free in the Program…"
"Is that any way to greet your wife?"
"I was going to ask where you're calling from, but I suppose the answer would be everywhere, what with you calling to everywhere and all."
"You really must stop stealing my lines, my love."
"It's not my fault I'm always a step ahead of you, River. You're just not quick enough."
Far away somewhere, she sighs. "You old meanie." I can't help it. I look out through the booth, back to the car, back to Pond, shouting into her phone, wondering why nobody answered her. "You're looking for the real Thief," she tells me, "So you can have your big old Poirot moment."
"And you're going to tell me where to find him?"
"Just follow the phones, dear. Kudos, by the way. Real stroke of genius, using that darling Ghost of yours as an unknown factor." Which makes me wonder when she's calling from, and I ask her. River laughs down the phone, "I wouldn't worry about that. You'll understand when you get there." She hangs up then, with a hard, old-fashioned click of the dying line. There's something about that noise, and the dial tone after it, that just scares a feeling heart. Just makes it empty and alone in the world. Makes it hollow and yearning and sore.
'You'll understand when you get there'. She said something like that to me before.
I'm thinking about that when, two blocks down the road, another phone box suddenly lights up neon, and the phone inside is ringing. I run back to the car and jump in. "Pond! Follow that noise!"
When we creep up behind him, the Thief is trying to talk to somebody on one of the payphones. It must be his link to outside, this certain payphone. On instinct, without really thinking, I look up to the street-signs, to make a note of where it is. Fifth and Alameda.
When we get out of here, I vow to myself, I'm going to go right back to the founding of this city and ban those two streets. Those names shall never be placed, shall never happen, shall never haunt this particular biocomputerized nightmare. Ladies and gentlemen, I have a dream, and for now, that is it.
I raise a hand for Pond to wait, and put my ear to the glass.
"No," he's saying, "I've only got one of the four." There's a pause, and a voice on the far end. He tries in vain to interrupt it, and really, who could blame that person? One out of four just isn't kosher, or even meatloaf.
Four. Four is an interesting one. There's Mad Upstairs Doctor, Movie Star Pond and Daddy's Girl River. Which is three. What's four?
But from what I can tell, from the stumps of sentences the Thief manages to get out, he wants very much to 'go home'. I presume the program was explained to him as a destination more so than what it really is. Why didn't I think of that? Who put him here that's cleverer than me at explaining things down to a human level?
Who's on the other end of that line to know I'm there, and instruct him to turn around? I can tell he's been instructed. That comes with practice, you know. You start to recognize that particular expression, the pursed mouth and wide eyes, that simultaneously indicates fear of the unknown and knowing what's probably there.
Pity he hangs up before I can get that phone from him and find out. And he opens the door of the booth, knowing he's absolutely trapped there and that whacking me one with the Reader won't work this time.
"Hello," is how I begin. I have discussed before the importance of proper manners, even when under such enormous strain. "Now, I know all you want to do is go home, Mr…?" He folds up his big, wrench-friendly plumber's arms. He has piercings in a little row down the left ear. Plumbers have piercings, don't they? Isn't that how they recognize each other? Anyway, my point is, he's being uncooperative.
So I reach out to Pond, who hands me back my own code reader, and I pick his details up out of the program.
"Mr Liam Reilly, of Leeds, twenty-third century. Well… good to know Leeds is still there, anyway. Leeds is good, isn't it?"
I just complimented his place of origin. In terms of intergalactic diplomacy, this is entry-level and even trite in most circles. Apparently, however, twenty-third century Earth still isn't all that brilliant when it comes to intergalactic diplomacy. It is, I suppose, nice to know that some things never change. Gives one a sense of constancy in a world which is rarely more than stable and never less than perplexing.
No, like I say, Mr Liam Reilly does not reply. Stands there like I'm going to go away if he ignores me.
"Listen, long story short, my friend, the person that was on that phone will not extract you until you can present all three items of interest, yes? And you will not get those three items, because I will not allow it. So your only possible way out of here, and trust me, you want to get out before I do, is to come with me."
Mr Liam Reilly breathes in deep, rubs his chin as he considers, as if he has a choice. Eventually, "What are you planning, then?"
"Tea and scones," I tell him, truthfully. "Or the Future-Forties Brain equivalent."