Chapter Three – Cardiff, Again

This time, it'd be right. This time, he'd walk out that door and find Rose . . .
. . . he hoped.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He double and triple checked the coordinates this time. Twelfth of May, 2070, Cardiff. Or to be more precise, Cardiff Bay. A current of energy ran through him, so palpable that he unconsciously ran his hand through his hair to be sure it hadn't risen on end. Standing in front of the door, the Doctor rolled his shoulders, stretched onto his toes, and then blew a long breath out. This was it. He wiggled his fingers one last time, then opened the door.

Rain, again.

"Oh, come on," he said, giving the sky a dirty look and receiving a face full of water for his trouble. "At least I know we're in the right place: it always looks the same in Cardiff, no matter when you arrive."

Accustomed to giving a running narration to his human companions, the Doctor continued to air his thoughts aloud as he attentively looked in each direction and ignored the constant drizzle. "All right. Here we are, in Cardiff. Thanks to my brilliant ship we've landed right smack dab in the middle of Harbour Drive, but unfortunately we haven't got an address. I suppose I could do a scan for alien tech, but where's the fun in that? Be a lot more interesting to walk around, get to know the natives, investigate the area. Solve the mystery the old fashioned way!"

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "If I remember correctly, somewhere around here is a shop that sells rather marvellous chips. Ooh, maybe we should pick some up for Rose. She always did love her chips, and it might save me a slap for not finding a way to bring her home."

The Doctor took two steps in the direction of the shops then stopped and snorted. "Who am I kidding?" he said, and dug around in one of the pockets of his overcoat. "Rose is out there somewhere—let's not waste time. Ah! Here we go, that's more like it. Now we can see who doesn't belong here."

Triumphantly he pulled out a device that looked rather like a mobile phone from the early twenty-first century. He held it up into the air and let it scan. After a few seconds, it beeped, and a map of the area appeared on the tiny screen along with a blinking red dot. "Gotcha! What have you found?"

He wiped the raindrops off the screen and squinted at the energy readings. "Oh! Well, would you look at that! A tiny little perception filter, no bigger than—oh, I dunno—a key?"

With manic joy, the Doctor laughed and took off running.

The energy signature led him along the harbour road to a high-rise flat with a splendid view of the bay. Or, it would have been splendid if not for the clouded skies and steady rain that limited the view. The building stood tall above him, all steel and glass and modern curves, with sheets of water streaming down the windows. It reminded him of the glass waterfall above Jack's hub, at the Millennium Centre.

"Looks like this is the place," he said, but he stopped a few metres from the entrance. A sudden moment of panic struck him. Of course he wanted to see Rose again, more than anything. But the possibility of it happening, after all these years, sent his hearts racing so hard that he found it difficult to breathe.

"Y'like to come in from the rain, mate? Not a day to be out walking, that's for sure."

A lone doorman stood just under the entrance canopy, offering a friendly smile.

The Doctor had to blow out a long breath before he could remember how to smile back. Might as well join the man under the canvas shelter and get dry while he summoned courage. His gaze dropped to the man's name tag. "Tell me something, Mitchell. That's your name, right? So, Mitchell, have you worked here long?"

"Seven years, give or take. Something I can help you with? Thinking to buy a flat, perhaps? I could introduce you to the manager, if y'like."

"No, no, no. Nothing like that." He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the water out of it. "Actually I'm looking for someone: Rose Tyler. I think perhaps she lives here."

Mitchell frowned thoughtfully. "Tyler? There's a Mr Taylor, up on the third floor, if that's who you mean. But there's no Tylers here."

The Doctor felt a cold rush and his hearts plummeted. Supposing it was all a joke? A huge, disgusting joke on the universe's last Time Lord.

But the doorman continued, "There's a Rose, though. Lives in the penthouse, up top. Sweet thing, she is. Been living here for ages, long before I came around. Her grandson owns the place."

"No, that couldn't be her," the Doctor answered, his momentary hope falling. He felt as though his hearts had broken all over again, and out of habit he forced the pain so deep inside that he only felt a cold numbness. Right now he wanted nothing more than to leave, to crawl into a black hole somewhere. Still, he supposed he ought to investigate, see who had themselves a TARDIS key in this time and place.

"You sure?" the doorman asked. "Grandson's name is Harkness."

The Doctor jerked. He spun to face the doorman. "Jack? Jack Harkness?"

"Aye, d'you know him, then?" He smiled broadly. "Ah, I knew it. She's the one you're looking for. Too bad you didn't come a couple of weeks ago—they celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday like I've never seen. She was too ill to attend, but they gave gifts to all the staff."

"I don't celebrate birthdays. Lost track years ago," the Doctor answered vaguely. His mind spun. Nothing about this made sense. A woman named Rose Harkness? With a grandson named Jack? No doubt distant ancestors of the Jack he knew—or possibly descendants, if the immortal Jack had stayed in Cardiff and had a family. That made more sense. Jack might've named a daughter after Rose, after all, and she could have kept his name in the family.

But why would either of them have a TARDIS key? He couldn't imagine Jack passing the key down to his children as an heirloom. Most of his companions kept their keys until they died—and Jack would never die.

It occurred to him that the key might actually be Jack's, that the man might still be living in Cardiff. But Jack would be taking a terrible risk to stay in the same city, surrounded by people who might notice that he hadn't aged a day in seventy years.

The Doctor sighed. Nothing for it but to go up and find out.

"The penthouse, you say?"

"Aye, that's right. They keep the whole top storey for themselves. The grandson, Jack, lives with the old lady; takes care of her like I can only dream my son'll take care of me when I get on in years. He's got a handful of kids himself, though I can never keep them sorted. They're an odd sort of family, living up there at the top of the world. Nice as can be, though. You won't hear me complaining about my pay, that's for sure, and they're a considerate sort of folk, generous with my yearly bonus and no hesitation to give me time off if I need it."

"Fine, that's fine," the Doctor interrupted, unnerved to find someone with as much of a gob as himself. "Listen, would it be all right if I went on up?"

"Well, normally I'd have to call up and get permission to send you up, but we've been having trouble with the intercom, and what with you being a friend of the family and all, I'm sure they won't mind if I let you in. They'll be pleased to see you, no doubt."

"You're very kind," the Doctor said quickly, before the man could think to ask just exactly how he knew the Harkness family. Come to that, he didn't exactly know how he'd explain himself to this Rose-not-Rose or her grandson, Jack-not-Jack, should he meet them. With any luck, they'd be too busy to see him and he'd be able to sweet talk the maid into letting him have a quick look around. He'd find the TARDIS key easily enough, once inside the flat.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

To his surprise, no one answered the door. Surely the doorman would've said something if the family had gone out, yet the Doctor knocked twice with no response. He glanced up and down the hallway to ensure no witnesses, then pulled out the sonic screwdriver. A quick high-pitched buzz later and the door opened.

The faint melody of a classic opera floated out from one of the back rooms, but not loud enough for him to recognize, and he heard no other sounds. Perhaps the old woman and her grandson had decided to visit one of the neighbours. He would have a quick look around and be gone, with no harm done. Decided, he slipped into the foyer and shut the door behind him.

These people had money, certainly. His trainers made no sound as he walked across a polished floor of expensive lunar marble, complete with milkworm swirls. He ducked into the first doorway and glanced around the parlour, curious about the inhabitants of this rich flat. On the outside wall hung curtains of silk, puddling beneath the wide windows. All around stood smooth walls the colour of sunrise on Europa, interrupted by the occasional piece of furniture—all in beautiful taste, understated and elegant. These people didn't flaunt their wealth, but neither did they go out of their way to hide it. The Doctor liked them already.

A tall bureau of gleaming redwood beckoned from the far wall. The sonic screwdriver shrilled as he drew close, indicating close proximity to his goal. With a nod of satisfaction, he pulled open the top drawer. But to his consternation, inside lay not one, but two TARDIS keys.

"What have we here?" He held one of the keys up to the light and squinted at it, then repeated the action with the other key. Both appeared genuine, both gave off the faint signal that he'd followed here. Mystified, he shook his head and pocketed both keys. He now had what he'd come for, as far as finding the signal and retrieving a TARDIS key from someone to whom it obviously didn't belong. But finding two keys had only deepened the peculiar situation.

Someone named Rose. Someone named Jack Harkness. Impossible that it could behis Jack and his Rose—not with this Jack being the grandson of this Rose. And yet . . . two TARDIS keys. One could have belonged to the real Jack, but the other? And what about the astonishing newspaper advertisement that had led him here? That discovery had been the divergent point, and had locked him into this timeline. When it had happened, he'd assumed he'd taken the best possible route between the wildly fluctuating timelines. Now, though, with no sign of Rose. . . . What did it mean?

The next room over held less formal furniture and perhaps served as the family's living area. After a cursory glance around, the Doctor walked up to the fireplace and examined the curious objects lined up on the smooth wooden mantle. In between a number of framed photographs sat a pepper pot made of glass, which, if one squinted, resembled a miniature Dalek. He tapped it with bemusement, nudging it back in place, then picked up one of the photos. It showed two grinning boys, both with tousled hair and a strong family resemblance to Jack. His great-grandfather and great-uncle? Or grandchildren?

Now he recognized the strains of Puccini's Madama Butterfly, specifically the famous aria from the second act. Oddly enough, the voice sounded like the original soprano, Rosina Storchio. He'd met her at the opera's second premier in 1904 and had always meant to go back to the first premier at La Scala to compare the two performances. Perhaps he could take Rose. . . . He closed his eyes to listen to the music, the beauty of the piece at odds with the traumatic memories it evoked. He'd once died while listening to "Un bel dì vedremo", after all.

For a moment, the rise and fall of the music surrounded him with a choking feeling of sorrow. The Doctor couldn't help but remember his death, but it seemed as though the soaring notes fell about him in a cloak of grief, warning him of another death—one more costly than the last, one that he could neither hide from, nor escape by regeneration.

Deliberately, he opened his eyes and set the photograph back on the mantle. If he could find no further clues here, then he should leave. The shattered hope of finding Rose would haunt him for a long time. No need to linger here, getting maudlin.

The Doctor was halfway to the front door when he stopped. He frowned and jiggled the keys in his pocket. Something worried at him, a niggling unease, like something seen out of the corner of the eye and not fully processed. He returned to the second parlour and looked slowly around. The fireplace caught his attention. Pictures on the mantle, neatly lined up. The unusual pepper pot ornament. It really did look like a Dalek, he thought. But that wasn't it. Photographs? He hadn't really looked at them, other than the one featuring the two boys.

He let his eyes scan the pictures, looking for anything out of the ordinary. And he found it: a double-hinged gold frame with a photograph on each side. His hearts began to beat out of synch, a pounding rhythm that left him gasping for breath. He tried to control his pulse, to slow the throbbing ache that radiated from his chest, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at the photographs—one of Jackie and Pete Tyler on their wedding day, the familiar date engraved below; the other of Rose Tyler and Jack Harkness, likewise with a date cut into the lower edge of the gold frame: 14 June, 2015.

Nine years after the Battle of Canary Wharf.

(To Be Continued. . . .)