FOUR
"Oh look!" he gushed, a large, daft grin on his face. She followed him as he veered off toward a stall. "They've got Fallaxian line-amalgamators," he added, handing her the umbrella and bending down to look.
She looked up at the stallholder, another wide, red being, and smiled gamely.
"Is that good?" she asked, wondering.
"It's marvellous!" he said, greatly amused, picking up a square metal box that fit his palm perfectly. He pulled his other hand out of his pocket and turned the instrument over a few times, then paused and pulled his glasses out of his inside pocket. She watched, shaking her head, as he slipped them on and studied the box with great care.
The red alien made the same guitar-amp buzzing sound and she bit her lip, unhappy.
"No, no, she's with me," the Doctor said, pre-occupied. "Was this made on Fallaxia?" he added suspiciously.
She let her attention wander as the two aliens apparently argued over places of manufacture and price, her gaze taking in the market street idly.
I could be in London, looking at the same old boring streets, the same old boring rain, the same old boring bus-ride home she realised. Her gaze settled and she let her eyes focus properly. She grinned.
"Doctor," she said, putting a hand up and nudging his arm.
"But it doesn't even have a stamp," he said grumpily to the alien stallholder.
"Doctor, look," she said, then turned to him. "Put that down and look," she stressed, her hand closing round his wrist and shaking slightly. He put the box down quickly and looked up, alarmed. "Shoes!" she chuckled.
"What?" he asked, unprepared. She just looked back at him, then pulled on his wrist. She looked at the stallholder.
"Sorry mate, this is a priority," she winked, not caring if he understood her or not, and pulled on the Doctor's wrist. She led him out into the rain, lifting the umbrella hastily as she pulled him on to another stall across the street and down a good twenty feet.
She led him through the rain, her hand tight on his wrist, until she stopped him in front of a new stall. There, under a large canvas awning that held all the rain out admirably, were rows upon rows of his favourite trainers.
"Ooh!" he breathed, impressed, and she let go of his arm as he walked under the awning and pushed the glasses up his nose, bending down to look.
"Doctor, look! They sell beige ones!" she chuckled, pointing.
"Beige? I can't wear beige, my feet will look like a couple of painting canvasses!"
"Well they're certainly big enough. Someone might mistake them for a couple of P & O ferries," she giggled.
"Oi!" he protested.
"Look, pale green ones," she said quickly.
"Green?" he prompted, indignant. "Green?"
"Or look, sky blue," she added.
"Sky blue? With these brown trousers?" he asked, his voice apparently stuck in the high tones.
"You're right," she said, then put her hand to his elbow, pulling him to follow her. "We need a bigger selection. What about in there?" she said, pointing to a large building. He looked up.
"Ah, the proper shopping centre," he said, pleased.
"Well?" she asked, looking up at him. "Or are you scared we might actually find some shoes you like in your size?"
"Do you think they do chocolate?" he asked, his hand going to her back and guiding her onward. She chuckled and they made a mad dash through the rain to the large automatic doors.
Once inside she waited for him to collapse the umbrella. He looked around, taking off his glasses and stowing them somewhere in an inside jacket pocket.
"There," he said cheerfully, walking off. She followed him on to a small shop, quiet and unassuming in appearance. They walked in and a soft 'bong' sounded. She looked up to see another red, dollop-shaped alien watching them.
"Hi," she said cheerfully. "Just browsing, thanks."
They walked around the small space, looking over the rows and rows of shoes. She left him to stare and play with the selection, edging ever closer the shopkeeper, getting a good look at him. She walked back over to the Doctor.
"Now I know what's not right with this place," she said quietly, tugging on his elbow.
"Hmm?" he rumbled, picking up a large trainer and then opening his long overcoat, comparing it the brown suit inside. He shook his head and put it down quickly.
"These people," she managed, wondering over a better word, "they have no feet."
"Well of course they don't, they're Pwrians," he said, pre-occupied.
"So why do they sell Converse trainers?" she whispered hoarsely. He froze, then turned and looked at her.
"What?" he asked, patently confused.
"Well, if they have no feet, who's going to buy trainers?" she whispered. "You know… Do they get millions of tourists a year, the bipedal kind? Or… do they sell them as knick-knacks that people love to buy but never use – like those bottles of dodgy-looking alcohol you get from Greece on a booze-cruise?" she asked.
He fixed her with a speculative gaze, then smiled slowly.
"You just keep thinking, don't you?" he mused, apparently to himself. He sniffed suddenly and looked back at the shoes. "These?" he asked, lifting a left shoe and waggling it at her.
It was deep brown, with electric blue stripes through it. She looked at it, then back at him.
"If you want," she sighed, glimpsing how bored her last boyfriend must have been to wait around their local Monsoon shop while she chose dress shoes for her latest outfit.
"Oh," he said, disappointed, and put it down again. "Oh, now!" he said suddenly, and she looked back at him as he picked up a rather over-sized-looking left trainer, in fluorescent yellow. She smiled, she couldn't help it.
"Well they'd certainly match your personality," she said to herself. He looked at her.
"Do you think?" he asked, grinning. She nodded but suddenly his smile vanished. "Hold on," he said, looking panicked, and handed her the shoe. She took it and watched him lift his left foot, grabbing the width and raising the sole closer to his face, bending down to peer at it.
"You are joking," she stated flatly. "You don't know what size your feet are?"
"Not these," he said honestly, tutting and letting go of his foot. He turned it and then pulled up his trouser-leg slightly, pulling out the tongue under the laces and scrutinising it. At last he let go and let his foot drop back to the floor. He looked over at the shopkeeper, who appeared to be watching them with guarded interest. "Afternoon!" he gushed cheerfully. "Have you got these in a forty-five?"
There came the same buzzing sound and Martha waited.
"Oh, er… Martha Jones," the Doctor said suddenly, "what's that other size for forty-five?" he asked. She stared at him blankly. "You know… Nine? Ten?"
"Oh right!" she said quickly. "Er… Well Leo's a… and that's about… so forty-five is… eleven?" she guessed. "Are you seriously a forty-five?" she wondered out loud.
"Well that's what these say, and they're comfortable enough," he said, looking over her head and waving the fluorescent yellow trainer at the shopkeeper, asking him for the requisite size.
"Well you know what they say – about men with big feet," she said, imagining very well.
"They wear big shoes?" he hazarded, clueless. She grinned but said nothing.
After ten minutes of checking sizes and trying them on, the Doctor and Martha walked out of the shop and into the shopping centre.
"A productive day," she said, nodding. He grinned, tying the laces of the pair of size forty-five-and-a-half fluorescent Converse Chuck Taylor's together and hanging said laces over the index finger of his right hand, swinging them slightly.
"What's that word? 'Cool'?" he grinned daffily, and she nodded.
"Now all we need is a Magic Tree air freshener, and we're off," she said. He laughed unexpectedly, nudging her shoulder, and they turned and walked on through the mall.
He stopped as he heard a regular slapping sound, and turned slightly in the direction of the sound.
Something whipped by them at top speed, snagging the trainers and haring off in a similar fashion.
"Oi!" he shouted angrily, staring after what looked like a young lad. He was speeding off, the new pair of trainers clutched in his grasp. The Doctor didn't even spare Martha a glance; he took off after the young tyke.
Martha blinked, looked around, then took off after them.
"Come back! All I want is the trainers!" the Doctor shouted, barrelling after the figure he appeared to be gaining on.
He might be skinny but he's some Olympic sprinter! Martha puffed, doing her best to keep up. Now I know why he wears trainers…
She followed them across the wide floor of the shopping centre, following the long flowing brown coat and the sound of someone calling in vain. She watched the brown coat vanish round a corner and did her best to find her hidden reserves. She pounded round the corner and into a long corridor of white tiles, finding the going a little slippery underfoot.
She careened down the tiles and turned the corner to find the Time Lord looking around desperately, not happy at all.
"Cheeky blighter!" he cursed at the top of his puffed-out lungs, putting his hands on his hips and finding Martha sliding to a stop next to him in the corridor.
"Well?" she breathed, "Where is he, Doctor?"
"I lost him, didn't I!" he cried, as if it were obvious.
"You lost him?" she dared.
"Rubber soles might be great for not getting electrocuted, but they're sadly lacking in turning corners on a wet tiled floor!" he pointed out indignantly. "And where were you, anyway? You were supposed to be helping me, Martha Jones!"
"Woah, woah, woah," she said suddenly, putting her hands up. "How many people do you know called 'Martha'?" she asked.
"I don't know… two?" he hazarded, still looking around urgently.
"So you don't need to call me 'Martha Jones'," she pointed out. "Trust me, I'll know who you mean if you just call me 'Martha'."
"But that's your name, Martha Jones," he said, confused.
"What if my name was Martha Annie Gladys – er – Guinevere, ah, Ivy – er – Ermintrude Jones?" she challenged.
"Then I'd call you MAGGIE," he pointed out, distracted, and she shook her head. "Look, he must be around here some-"
"There!" she called, looking up and spotting a shape moving behind a ventilation grid.
"The little –" he began, then simply yanked open his coat hurriedly and grabbed his screwdriver. He pointed it toward the next ventilation grid in the ceiling.
"Doctor!" she said quickly. "You're not going to –"
"Oh yes!" he cried vindictively. "I liked those shoes!"
She heard the now-familiar sound of the screwdriver at work. The bolts on each corner of the grid gave slightly. Suddenly there was a creaking sound and the grid gave way, followed by a lump in a pair of jeans and hoodie.
The entire ensemble crashed to the floor. She leapt over and grabbed the shoulder of the small being, turning him over and looking at him. She caught her breath.
She had assumed it was a young human boy. She had been wrong.
The being, another deep red, gelatinous mass, blinked his four round eyes at her and the large opening she took to be a mouth opened.
The familiar sound of a guitar amp floated toward her and she looked up at the Doctor, confused.
"But why?" he demanded, walking round and pocketing the screwdriver. He crouched down and peered at the alien.
The alien sat up slowly, the same low-frequency note emanating from him as he dusted himself off slowly.
"You could have just asked," the Doctor said dismissively, putting his hands out. The alien took them and he helped him to his feet steadily.
"He's got two feet," Martha pointed out. The alien and Time Lord both looked at her, surprised, and the alien said something. The Doctor put his hands in his pockets, looking Martha up and down suddenly with a rather too clinical gaze.
"Yes, I suppose she has," he said, as if something had only just become apparent. Martha looked at the alien and suddenly had a bad feeling. She put her hand to the zip on her red leather jacket and zipped it up quickly. "So what's the story, eh?" the Doctor said suddenly, looking back at the alien. He bleated out a long sequence of noises before the Doctor stopped him by waving his hands. "Stop, stop, stop," he said loudly, drowning him out. "Just hand over the shoes, jam-boy."
"Doctor!" she breathed, shocked. The alien put a hand out, and the Doctor took his new pair of trainers back slowly. He reached inside the right one, feeling around, looking at the ceiling. He stopped and looked back at the much shorter alien.
"Oh look," he said accusingly, pulling his hand out with a small key in his thin, elegant fingers. "So where does this go and why was it in my shoe?"