She thought the canteen would, if nothing else, make a change of scene from the soft interview room.
"Are you hungry?" she asked Jo on the way, smiling brightly.
"Famished. I haven't eaten in twenty two years," replied Jo, who seemed to be more cheery too.
Ramani tugged the resident elastic off her wrist and twisted her hair up into a knot. "Well we might make it before the hot food goes off. I can't recommend it, though, and whatever you do don't order the steak and kidney pie. Terry was throwing up for a week."
"Eeargh, not likely. I only eat simple food when I'm away. I've been to too many places with the Doctor that have very unpleasant - and often not quite dead - ideas about cuisine."
Once she had ordered her food, Jo took out her purse to pay for it - though not before exclaiming "How much?" when she was told the price. She tipped the contents of her purse into her hand, and began to count out coins. To Ramani's discomfort, it appeared Jo didn't have any real money at all - her coins looked like they had come straight out of a Christmas stocking.
Not wanting Jo to be humiliated, she said, "Here, let me," and reached for her wallet.
They sat at a table by the far wall, and Jo wolfed down her food. It was only after she had finished two cheese sandwiches that Ramani had a sudden sinking realisation.
"Could I have another look at your money, please, Jo?" she asked, and Jo - with a half eaten apple in one hand - emptied her purse out on the table.
It was not play money. It was old currency.
Ramani's gaze was immediately drawn to the sixpences. She must have been nine the last time she'd seen one. She picked one up, turned it over on both sides, and felt the weight of it in her hand. There were also oversized 5p, 10p and 50p coins in the purse, and two pound notes folded neatly. It did not escape her notice that all of the coins had been minted prior to 1973, yet many still looked relatively shiny. "Where did you get them?" she asked.
"Oh - the usual places," Jo retorted with a grin, her big brown eyes searching Ramani's face knowingly, hopefully.
Ramani picked up Jo's purse from the table. "May I?" she asked, and Jo said, "I'd rather you did, actually."
There wasn't much in it. No ATM card, no credit card, no video shop or gym membership. There was a piece of paper that declared itself to be a driving licence issued in 1969. There was also an unbanked cheque for three pounds, from a bank Ramani had never heard of, dated 15 February 1973. And a scrap of newspaper with the name 'Mike' written on it beside a seven-digit number that looked suspiciously like a phone number, though the arrangement of digits was unusual.
And then there was the UNIT pass. It was her only photo ID. Ramani scrutinised it at length.
"You know, this driving licence gives your birth year as 1949."
"That's right," said Jo.
"You told me you were twenty four."
"Yes."
"And this UNIT pass was reissued in 1973."
"Correct."
"Which is also when you told me you lived in your most recent house, in Hampstead."
"Just so," said Jo, clearly entertained.
Ramani sighed. "So if you do the maths, it adds up. I mean, in itself, your story makes sense."
"Well, I should hope so. It's the truth, after all."
Ramani sipped some of Jo's tea as she looked again at the documents. Jo watched her do it, and when Ramani looked up again, Jo had a broad cheeky smile and glanced at the white cup in her hand.
Ramani followed her gaze to the cup and immediately put it down. "Oh, god. I'm so sorry, I'll get you another one."
Jo shook her head, "Really. It doesn't matter."
Ramani's hair was already falling out of its knot again, and she pushed it back off her face. "You know what I think?"
"What do you think?"
"I think this is all real. This driving licence, this UNIT pass. This money."
"You know what I think?" replied Jo. "I think you're right." She laughed, and her face lit up again in wicked contagious glee.
Ramani felt immense relief and pleasure at this.
And something else.
A little nauseous swoon of terrible excitement hollowed her intestines. It was one of those moments when her life seemed suddenly, thrillingly, larger than usual, as though she had unexpectedly found herself standing on the edge of a cliff.
She had been wrong. Blinkered, boorish and boringly wrong.
This person - this case number - that she had filed under 'sad delusional victim type A' had morphed into something else entirely. Ramani's initial assessment now seemed pathetically knee-jerk and thin. Perhaps Jo's girlish laugh did not indicate that she was simple. Perhaps her righteous outrage arose from genuine emergency, not psychotic irrational fear.
Jo was actually a mystery.
Ramani saw her in a new light, as a vibrant, confident young woman, who held unknown secrets behind carelessly messy hair and funky clothes. Who had been terribly patient with Ramani's condescension. It was like the light had changed, and before her, staring straight at her, was a person she didn't realise was there before, quietly saying 'boo'.
With an uncertain shake of the head, Ramani spread out her palms before her, giving up, then folded her hands together on the table.
"I don't understand," she said.
Jo smiled at her sympathetically, warmly, genuinely. She placed her hands over Ramani's and squeezed them.
"I know you don't."
For a minute, there was only the movement of searching curious eyes, the firm clammy touch of skin on skin, the warm metal of Jo's rings, the tickle of her fluffy coat cuffs, the clink of tea cups in the background.
Then Ramani's hands gave a little reflexive twitch beneath Jo's. Jo took the opportunity to disengage her hands. Ramani grabbed at them, held them. Smiled breathily, apologetically.
"It's okay," said Jo, and she held Ramani's hands tight across the table. She wasn't letting go.
