The Doctor limbered up comically, then slapped his cloth cap back on his mop of hair. "Let's get going," he smiled waving at Craig. He had thrown his jacket and bowtie to one side, but he was still wearing his shirt.

"Who's that idiot?" said Parkinson as he threw his work shirt with its grey collar onto a pile of clothes on a nearby barrow. "He's not on our side." He sounded dubious.

Craig was already feeling self-conscious about taking off his own shirt, and rubbed his upper arms in a reflex of modesty. "He's alright. The Doc is with us." He was unconvincing.

"Not with a shirt, he's not. And friends are not veg sellers. He can piss off." Parkinson went to rally the dozen or so other half-clothed individuals who grumbled and murmured like trouble was in the air. "Get in goal, Fatso," he shouted. "Don't let anything in."

Craig looked around, then over at the expectant face on the Doctor. "Just wait on the side for now, Doc," he mouthed. "You can be a sub or something."

"No subs," shouted Bentley, one of the overly clean fruit sellers. "Everyone on the field." Craig was already walking backwards to his notional goal line, but he could see Bentley gesture to the bemused looking Doctor. The Doctor turned to Craig and waved both fists in the air like a pleased child. He seemed to mouth "I'm fruit," then ran off to join the white topped opponents.

"That's not right," said Craig to himself. "The Doctor's got a mean right foot."

Parkinson walked up to him, slapping his hands to gether. "Quit your mumbling. Get into them and finish this quickly. Anyone comes near the goal, you knock 'em down with that belly of yours.."

"Yes boss," he mumbled. A general shout went up and both teams piled into each other, mostly with elbows and knees clashing. Craig could not see where the ball was until it erupted at shoulder height from the mêlée of agitated figures. He ran forward to punch it with his fists, but felt a shoe snagging his right heel. He stumbled forward, waving his arms to find his balance and ran face first onto the speeding ball. There was a sickening thud as his face twisted one way and his head turned the other. He felt shoulders and elbows batter his arms and a cry of "goal!" before he could steady himself and focus again.

"Are you alright?" asked the Doctor, patting his arm. "Sorry, I felt I had to kick it between the posts. Play the game and all that." He looked a little sad.

Craig scowled and walked back to his goal. The Doctor hesitated and turned to Craig. "We need to talk. There are some big decisions that you've already made. I'm not so bothered about the timeline ones. They can be rectified. Maybe. It's the personal choices that destroy us more completely."

Craig looked up as the ball came in again. "Mind your head, Doc," he shouted then ran into the crowd of advancing men.

:::

"What's the score?" Craig shouted as the veg team fell back to protect him. He could see the Doctor pulling apart an orange on the sidelines, clearly out of breath. Beside him a young boy of about fifteen was slumped against a dirty barrel, a cut above his eye bleeding down over his face.

"Who gives a toss?" said Williamson, the porter. "Ten each, maybe? Shut up and punch anything that heads your way."

The Doctor returned to the middle of the playing area. His shirt was now hanging out and had dusty marks on it. He looked left and right in a bit of a daze. Two of the fruit handlers patted him on the back and ran to their places by their goal.

Craig drifted out of his goal area and milled around with the jostling figures. He purposely bumped into the Doctor. As the Doctor turned, Craig knocked him again. "Move over Doc. Men at work," he shouted. The football curved over their heads and landed close to Craig's left foot. He tapped it onto his right foot and blasted it at the gap between the opposing trash-cans.

"Is this the same game, Craig?" said the Doctor rubbing his arm. "There's a lot more shoving than I remember in our last game. Reminds me a lot of the Vikings. And the Ogrons."

Craig turned and squared up to him face to face. "It's street style, Doc," he said, nodding. "Kick the ball, or get out of the way."

"Oh," said the Doctor, taken aback. "This seems a bit more serious. Have we stopped being friends?"

Craig kept looking at the Doctor and felt his nostrils pulsing. Then he turned and went back to his goal.

The ball was booted into the air again. The Doctor looked to his team and found that he was the only person who could intercept the ball. He closed his eyes and whispered "Geronimo." He ducked his head and ran forward to make the easy interception, but Craig was also running for the ball. Craig's spread-out palms clamped on the ball about ten inches above his head. His swiveling elbow connected heavily with the front of the Doctor's face and they both fell to the ground.

The Doctor lay panting in the dirt at the edge of the cobbles. Craig lay flat across him, the football firmly gripped in his hands. "We could talk now, Craig," whispered the Doctor. "While we're both catching our breath. I just want to advise you against anything foolish."

Craig sighed and raised himself up on one elbow, then steadied himself with a knee in the Doctor's belly. "It's all talk, Doc. Just let me be," he said as he got stiffly to his feet. Three of his team mates were commending him on his spectacular save.

Craig stood up and bounced the ball on the ground beside the Doctor's head. "That game's over, Doc. Just let me live this life here." He kicked the ball away and returned to his goal.