Fluorescent Adolescent

3

Rubbish didn't smell too great when it was being heated up by thirty-degree direct sunlight. There was a soggy pizza box Matilda found particularly egregious, its rancid cheese baked to oblivion. That, mixed in with the normal bin stench, made their current situation – crouched behind two large wheelie bins opposite the doors of a block of student flats and between a thin, metal fence – unbearable.

Clara apparently did not mind the smell and was sitting on the floor much too close to a puddle of what was either water or that lesser known, more mysterious elixir, bin juice, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses with one of her Marlboros firmly between her teeth. A cloud of cigarette smoke curdled around her in the afternoon sun. Mattie, not wanting to get the stink all over her clothes, refused to sit down, leaning against the fence. She didn't know what smelt worse, the trash or the fags; it was a close contest.

"And you definitely spent the night with this football guy?"

"Yes, for the millionth time," said Clara, "I dimly remember arguing about the match."

"I just don't have much faith in 'dimly'."

"My time at uni was all kind of a blur."

"You remember stuff about all those books."

"Well, that's… alright, these events seem to be blurrier than most of the others, but I'm still sure I stayed the night with Mike, and this is definitely where he lives." She blew out more smoke.

"How are you a real person? You're such a caricature sometimes. Like a complete parody of what it means to be working class and northern."

"I was also born in a mineshaft and when I was a baby, I didn't eat formula, just diluted gravy."

"Is that when you started smoking, too?"

"Absolutely," she took another drag. The doors to the large block of uni accommodation opened and a familiar figure emerged.

"Crap, I think you're coming out – what do I do?" Mattie glimpsed Clara's younger self for the first time, who looked almost identical to the older Clara sitting in a puddle of grime only with worse hair (and no sunglasses). She was leaving the halls of residence in the company of Mike the Football Boy, as Mattie was calling him.

"Get behind the bin," Clara hissed, stubbing out her cigarette in the dirt next to her and getting into a crouch as well. Though she hated it with every fibre of her being, Mattie did what Clara asked and got out of sight.

Young Clara had spent the night with football boy, but she was still all over him. She was excruciatingly handsy and it was very uncomfortable for Mattie watch, even out of the corner of her eye.

"You're shameless," she said.

Young Clara looped her arms around Mike's neck to say goodbye, hanging off him. "You know I'm right about Argentina," she said loudly enough for Mattie to hear. The summer air was still and unpleasant and there wasn't a lot of traffic; sound carried very easily.

"You're not. You don't know anything about football," said football boy.

"I have a feeling, and I'm never wrong."

"You were wrong last night about how much wine it'd take to get you into bed."

"No, I was being deceptive," she said, then she whispered something that was, thankfully, inaudible, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. This went on for far longer than it should.

"…Sorry," said the Clara behind the bins, "Obviously, this isn't an ideal situation."

"You know what, I never believed people who said you and the Doctor 'toned things down' until now." Mattie was looking at the dirty floor, suddenly finding the bin juice seeping into the oil on the roadside through the fence significantly more appealing.

"In my defence, I was nineteen, and he's hot."

"He's not that hot."

"What? Come on, he's…" she leant around the side of the bin and let her sunglasses slip down her nose, peering over them, "Alright, fine, maybe he's not that hot. But he was quite nice." Young Clara finally detached herself from Football Boy.

"You'll be thinking about me this afternoon, won't you, Clara?" he called after her as she headed to the gates away from the halls.

"At the funeral? Thinking about you?"

"It'll be sexy. Kind of taboo."

"Hm…" she turned back to look at him for a second as he lingered in the doorway of his building, foot stuck in the heavy door to keep it from closing fully. "I'll see."

"But I'm seeing you tonight, right?"

"Steve's party, yeah. I'll need to collect my winnings, so I'll be there. I'm gonna be late, though – I'll talk to you later, Mark." She blew him a kiss and took her leave. He muttered something to himself and looked at the ground, disappointed. Mattie couldn't be sure, but she imagined he meekly corrected her when she got his name wrong.

"You forgot his name already?" Mattie asked Clara. Mike – or Mark – shook his head and went back inside, at which point the two of them were finally free to exit their hiding place behind the bins and move to the side of the bins, as Young Clara ambled down the road alongside Woodhouse Moor.

"No, that's a, um… manipulation tactic," said Clara awkwardly, making sure her sunglasses were on properly as they left the grotty carpark. They crossed the street right away to be less conspicuous. "He's a bit clingy. Who asks if you're going to be thinking about them at a funeral?"

"And was that a lie, too? The funeral?"

"I…" she paused, "I'm not sure."

"You don't know whose funeral we're going to?"

"It'll come back to me. Just like the football." A phone started to ring, and Clara instinctively reached into her pocket; but it was her younger self's phone with a digital, trilling ringtone shrieking out twenty feet ahead of them. "Force of habit." Young Clara took out a flip phone and flicked it open.

"Sandy, I can't talk," she said, "I'm… what do you mean, rejected?" Pause. "You're full of it. That poem was great, and it was to your specifications the last time you rejected one, and the time before that. … I'm starting to think you just don't want to publish my poems."

"Who's Sandy?" asked Mattie as the argument grew more intense.

"Editor of the student paper," said Clara, "Really up her own arse. Although, the poems I wrote when I was nineteen definitely shouldn't have been published anywhere, she was right about that."

"Ketamine?" said Young Clara suddenly, "But I don't care about veterinary students operating a ketamine ring. … Why me? … Oh, wow. I'm not fucking my way into a scoop about student K suppliers. … What else am I good for!?" she shouted, scaring the life out of an old lady walking past carrying her shopping. She dropped her bag. "Stars, I'm sorry," Clara's tone instantly changed, "I have to go, Sandy. … Yes. I'll think about it. Whatever." She hung up and then stopped to help the old lady gather up her groceries, while Present Clara and Matilda also paused and leant against the park's stone wall. They were heading downhill now.

"What was that argument about? It didn't make any sense from over here," said Mattie, "Did you used to take ketamine?"

"She spent quite a few weeks trying to convince me to audit veterinary seminars and seduce one of the students to get the details on an alleged smuggling ring. As far as I remember it was happening, but I never seduced any vets. Well, not for research for a naff story in the student paper." After making sure the old lady was okay, Young Clara set off again.

"I'm honestly surprised you didn't try to sleep with that old woman."

"I'm probably older than she is now. And besides, you've met my wife; very decrepit. A dinosaur."

"Have you ever seen a dinosaur?"

"Yeah, loads of them. We'll take you one day. It's totally safe."

"Just an hour ago you said Leeds was safe, and then you got stabbed."

"Alright, then we won't go, it's up to you," said Clara, indifferent.

"Wait," Mattie began, "Did you say that girl from the paper was trying to get you to shag people for a story?"

"Um… yes."

"That's out of order. Isn't it illegal?"

"No. But I didn't do it. What do I care if people are doing drugs?"

"It seems like the sort of thing you would care about."

"Honestly, unless they're children I'm supposed to be looking after, I'm really not fussed."

"Now you sound like an anarchist."

"Again, you've met my wife. Ah, look – there's a church down here. Must be where the funeral is." The spire of a church was just about visible over the rooftops.

"I can't believe you go straight from a one-night-stand to a funeral. Who does that?"

"I was all over the place," Clara defended herself, "Had a rough year, didn't want to be alone with myself."

"…Because of everything with your mum?" Mattie asked carefully.

"Yeah. But none of that is to say there's anything wrong with having an active sex life."

"There is if the people you're having an active sex life with smack you in public," Mattie pointed out, "And if you have VD."

"Do you really want to talk to me about VD? Think about it very carefully."

"…No," she admitted. She couldn't think of anything she'd want to talk to Clara about less.

"Someday, you'll want my advice on sex."

"That's never going to happen."

"We'll see." Matilda grimaced.

They reached the church a dozen yards behind Young Clara, who vaulted right over the nearest wall because she couldn't be bothered walking a little further to reach the actual gate. It was a small, intimate chapel and a moderate funeral party was already gathering around the graves and flowers, waiting for the service to begin. They didn't notice Young Clara jump over the low wall, and they also didn't notice her doppelganger lingering nearby. There wasn't yet a coffin, so Mattie assumed the main funeral procession hadn't arrived.

They waited on the other side of the wall, partially behind a hedge, for a few moments until Young Clara was far enough away that she wouldn't spot them. Then Present Clara copied her vault – while Mattie walked further up to get to the actual gate – and waited on the other side in the foliage. There was a wooden bench there, slightly overgrown and hosting a water-damaged copy of yesterday's newspaper. Clara picked up the paper, shook it upon, and sat down just as Mattie re-joined her.

"I swear, if you cut eyeholes in that thing…" Mattie began, "You've seen too many James Bond films."

"Do you know what the best Bond film is?" asked Clara.

"The one that isn't racist?"

"…Fair point."

"Do you really not remember whose funeral this is?"

Clara lowered the paper a little to squint over the top through her sunglasses.

"I suppose we'll find out," she said.

"Your memory has never been this bad before. It's actually a bit annoying."

"When you have a wife with chronic, retrograde amnesia, you train your memory," said Clara, "But you're right. I feel like I should remember this, and I'm not sure why it's all so cloudy."

"Could it be the toxin? Helix said it was modified."

"Maybe?" said Clara. Somehow, she didn't think it was the toxin, but it wasn't a bad guess. Young Clara lingered on the periphery of the funeralgoers, not speaking to anybody. Mattie slouched down on the bench longing for some shade; it was midday now and soon the mercury would reach its peak.

"What's the best Bond film, then? In your opinion."

"Goldfinger," said Clara.

"That's the most homophobic one," said Mattie.

"Diamonds Are Forever is the most homophobic one, I think," said Clara, "With the gay jewel thieves. What's your favourite?"

"I don't like any of them. I suppose that one from four years ago about Halcyon was half-decent. But they barely even make sense, like look at From Russia with Love. SPECTRE has a whole stash of latex masks that look like Sean Connery. He's the worst spy in the world." Clara laughed. "What?"

"I never realised that."

"What are you reading, anyway?" Mattie wanted to stop talking about James Bond. "Page three?"

"Ha, ha. It's the headline article, this thing about Harriet Jones' picks for her new cabinet. She's just won the Labour leadership," said Clara, taking the risk of moving the newspaper that was hiding her face to show Mattie the frontpage. There, in full colour on the front of the Mirror, was a splash of a spaceship crashing into Big Ben.

"When did that actually happen?"

"Around three months ago," said Clara, "I slept through it, I'd been…" she stopped midsentence, eyes suddenly fixed on the other side of the graveyard. The funeral cars were there, the sleek hearse crawling through the streets. Quiet, they had just pulled up and the family was getting out. Both Claras had spotted the same person, a girl who had captured their simultaneous attentions. "I was with her."

"What?"

"That girl over there," Clara was transfixed, "That's Nora. This is her dad's funeral. She's the one I was with when the Slitheen invaded – in the morning, at least, until I went back to Blackpool."

"…Is she your girlfriend?" Mattie asked, deducing that she was significant going by Clara's quite intense reaction.

"Not exactly," said Clara, "I was, um… I was totally in love with her. But it wasn't quite reciprocated. We had some 'fun nights', as it were, and I thought – or hoped – it might go somewhere, but she was never in the right headspace. And then her dad died, she took a year out, and we didn't keep in touch."

"If you're so in love with her, why were you with that boy last night? And those waitresses only last week?" Mattie questioned.

"I was taking out some frustrations in an unhealthy way. But we weren't official, she made that clear. It wasn't cheating." Mattie was not sure she agreed.

"It's a bit weird to gate-crash her dad's funeral."

"She asked me to come. To be honest, it was a lot of mixed signals. I mean, she did sleep with me. Repeatedly." Young Clara watched Nora and her family before she tried to talk to Nora herself, hanging around like a gooseberry. "It's strange seeing her again," Clara admitted.

"What're you gonna do? Run away with her?"

"Of course not."

"Just," Mattie began, "She doesn't need to kill you, the Queen. She could orchestrate this girl deciding she wants to be with you. Then you might get married and stay in Leeds forever, you could just never meet the Doctor. Like in Back to the Future."

"That's not exactly what happens in Back to the Future. But honestly, I think killing me is-"

"Shit!" Mattie exclaimed.

"Excuse me?"

"Look! The driver!" she was pointing, suddenly careless about how much of a scene they made – not that any of the mourners did notice them. The driver had just gotten out of the hearse as the pallbearers carried the coffin underneath the beating sun. He was not going to lend a hand, he was heading directly for Young Clara, with a face that was, quite clearly, a hokey, latex mask. "He's wearing a mask. Just like in From Russia with Love."

"Shit," Clara repeated.

"What do we do?"

"Kill it," said a third voice Mattie was completely oblivious to. It was Oswin, reappeared in Clara's peripheral vision.

"I can't just kill it," Clara argued.

"Die then," Oswin shrugged, "Because that's what's going to happen otherwise."

"We need to lure him away," said Mattie, "I should go over, they won't recognise me."

"No," said Clara firmly, "Absolutely not, you're not putting yourself in danger if he has another knife laced with poison." Oswin clapped her hands.

"You need setting six on the sonic," she began, speaking very quickly, "Get him over here, zap him, and you can triangulate where the commands are coming from."

"Alright, I have an idea," Clara said to Mattie, dumping the newspaper on the floor and taking the Eleventh Doctor's old sonic screwdriver from the inside pocket of her coat, switching it to the right setting and handing it to Mattie, "When he's close enough, scan him, and keep scanning. You're going to stay on the bench, don't move."

"What if he stabs me!?"

"Trust me," said Clara, standing up, "I'll never let anyone hurt you." And she went creeping off in totally the opposite direction, around the back of the church, leaving Mattie staring wide-eyed at the android that was about to stab Young Clara in the kidney.

She saw the knife, saw the sun glint off it, but the droid froze up. It began to turn. Clara was hiding behind the church watching the scene very intently, doing something strange with her hand. The droid began to walk stiffly, like it wasn't in control of its own movements – and it struck Matilda that that was true, it wasn't. Clara was commanding it like a puppet on a string, forcing it to come lurching towards them. Everyone was still so preoccupied with the funeral, now filing slowly into the church for the actual service, that they didn't even notice anything was amiss.

The droid's hand unclenched and it dropped the knife in the grass.

"The sonic!" Clara implored. Mattie pointed it at the droid as it came lumbering towards her, hoping the buzzing wouldn't be too noticeable from inside the church.

What happened next was something of an anti-climax. As soon as the droid was out of sight, with no onlookers on the surrounding streets, Clara clubbed it over the head with a big slab of concrete and put it out of commission. Admittedly, Mattie had had the horrible thought that perhaps it wasn't a droid at all and, as Clara brought the slab crashing down, it was going to explode in a cloud of red mist. But it didn't. It was made of glass and clockwork and its uncanny mask was ruined when the shards tore it apart.

"…Fuck," said Clara eventually, leaving the concrete slab on the floor, "I never like… violence is wrong, Matilda."

"How did you lift that piece of concrete?"

"Telekinesis. Did you scan it?"

"Yeah, yeah," she held the screwdriver out to Clara. She herself was unable to decipher its readings but Clara was practised enough after so many years with the Doctor that she could work out what it was saying.

"It's not enough data," said Oswin, "You smashed it too quickly."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I suppose I should've got myself stabbed again," said Clara sarcastically. Mattie stared at her. "Sorry, Oswin's… you know. Look, what do I do?" she turned back to the apparition.

"Find another one. They're being controlled by radio waves, and there's a lot of white noise where you are," said Oswin, "Too much crap on the air."

"You don't get anything from this data?"

"Nothing useful. The commands are coming from somewhere else in the UK as far as I can tell from here. But you probably knew that already. Just try not to kill the next one so quickly."

"And what if there aren't any more?"

"Then you're not at risk of getting assassinated, are you?" Oswin countered.

"You're the one who told me to kill it!"

"Yes, but not that quickly!"

Clara put her fingers to her temples, very frustrated.

"…You know, it's pretty weird watching you argue with thin air," said Mattie.

"She's leaving now."

"Am I?" asked Oswin.

"Yes. Go do whatever it is you spend your time doing when you're not bothering me."

"Wanking, usually," she said, "But don't worry, I'll be sure to keep you in my thoughts." She disappeared.

"You're very lucky you can't hear her," said Clara, shaking her head. "She's gone again."

"Great. And what did you find out from the scan?"

"The commands are coming from the UK. We need to scan more droids to get exact coordinates because apparently, I 'killed it too quickly', even though she just appeared and told me to kill it right away – I didn't even want to, I don't… do you think they can fix it?"

"Probably. I mean, it's just clockwork in there, probably a radio transceiver," Mattie shrugged, "Surely it's all replaceable?"

"Maybe… I don't like hurting people at all," she shook her head.

"It's a robot."

"Nios is a robot," said Clara, "And I wouldn't hurt Nios." She was going to have to talk her unceremonious murder of a clockwork droid out with her wife when they got home. But at the moment, she had other things to deal with. "Okay. Now we need to do something about this body."

"Bury it," said Mattie, "We're in a graveyard."

"I think the people attending the funeral will notice if we dump a headless robot into the only open grave on the property," said Clara dryly.

"You're the seasoned time traveller, haven't you had to dispose of hundreds of bodies?"

"What is it you think we do? You think I'm some kind of inter-temporal serial killer?"

"I'm not saying you've killed anyone, but people seem to get in a lot of trouble when the Doctor's around. They're always dying." Clara just put her hands on her hips and stared at the droid on the floor between them. It looked like they were going to have to keep tailing Young Clara, but she was still busy at the funeral. "We could dig a grave?" Mattie suggested, "It wouldn't have to be that deep, right?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

"Because. You bury dead bodies deep to stop them being dug up by foxes or found by dog walkers," Mattie said, "But that thing's made of metal, foxes and dogs aren't gonna dig it up, are they?"

"…I suppose not. Alright, erm, there are some shovels on the wall over there, we'll have to-"

"Why don't you just, like, phase it?" Mattie suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"Make it intangible and shove it into the ground." Clara only frowned. "You have all these superpowers, and you never use them for anything."

"Walking through walls isn't as useful as you'd think," said Clara, "Besides, I never used to see your mother randomly setting things on fire just for kicks."

"You obviously didn't attend enough of our family barbecues, then. But you'd better do something about it before anyone sees us."

"…Fine, we'll do your idea, since you don't want to help me dig a grave."

"Is that weird? That I don't want to help you dig a grave?" Mattie asked. Clara didn't answer, kneeling down next to the droid and gingerly putting a hand on its shoulder. It was very bizarre watching her force the droid into the ground, steadily turning it intangible. Clara ended up crouched there, elbow-deep in the dirt, and then the thing was finally submerged. Once she let go the Earth sprang up in the vague imprint of a person. "That's totally not suspicious."

"It'll do," Clara sighed, "Besides, when they dig it up it'll just be made of glass, just one of those weird stories. Like when they found that Ferrari buried in someone's garden in Los Angeles."

"Why did somebody bury a Ferrari in a garden?"

"I think it was a tomb, or something," said Clara, "You'd be better off asking the Doctor."

"Right… how do we know there are actually more of those things out there to scan?" said Mattie. Clara stooped to pick up the knife that had been dropped in the grass, the same one that had stabbed her earlier.

"I don't. But if there is just the one, we don't really have to worry about me getting assassinated," she said. She took a packet of tissues out of her pocket and carefully wrapped up the knife, still with a layer of blood caked on, and put it away in her coat. Matilda handed her back the sonic screwdriver and she returned to her spot on the wooden bench.

"So, they want to assassinate you in the past, right?"

"Probably."

"Then why bring you in the present here? Isn't that a bad idea, giving you a chance to work out their plan and stop it?"

"Yes, it is," said Clara, "And very confusing. We'll have to ask her about it whenever she shows her face." Marie Antoinette's plan was obviously a lot more obtuse than it had first appeared. Kill Clara in the past, fine; but bring Clara's future-self there to witness it? Was it just to gloat, to let her know what had happened before erasing her life with the Doctor? Neither of them really had a clue, and even Oswin hadn't offered any theories.

"Do you know what the Doctor did to her? Has she told you?"

"The Doctor doesn't know," said Clara, "Or she doesn't remember. She's pissed off quite a lot of people in her lifetimes, though."

"What about the Master?"

"What about her?"

"Just seems very Master-y. Mum told me about the time the Master took over Earth. Something to do with paradoxes. And this will be a paradox, you said."

"I don't think it's the Master," said Clara, "French droids, ominous messages… and the Master can block my mind-patch."

"Unless it's all a ruse, and-"

"I think they're coming out," Clara cut her off. She didn't want to talk about Missy any further; she was sure that none of this was anything to do with her. After all, Missy was the one who orchestrated Clara meeting the Doctor in the first place – if she wanted to cause a paradox and destroy time itself, she could have just chosen not to introduce them.

Sombre music emanated from inside the church as the doors opened and the funeral party began to file out, promptly followed by the pallbearers. Clara raised her newspaper again to keep her identity hidden. Young Clara exited after the coffin with Nora hanging onto her arm holding a clump of tissues to her face.

"See what I mean?" said Clara, peering over the paper, "She was totally leading me on the whole time."

"By what? Asking for moral support at her dad's funeral?"

"Yes. Exactly. You don't just invite people you don't care about to funerals. Weddings, you can invite anyone, but funerals are a no-go for dates."

"And here I was under the assumption that funerals were incredibly romantic," Mattie said dryly.

"Look, see! She just kissed my cheek."

"I didn't see anything."

"Because you're barely looking."

"Why would I be? It's not that interesting. And I don't like funerals."

"We need to keep an eye out for robots."

"Looking for robots and watching you try and get your leg over are completely different things."

Clara paused for a moment, before beginning, "I don't like you implying that an ordinary person with an active sex life-"

"Oh my god, I don't care how many people you've done it with, I care that you're an arsehole to them," said Mattie, "You just use them and chuck them all, what's that about?"

Clara clenched her jaw, "I was depressed. It's how I dealt with it. And I'm not like that anymore."

"You really are just as bad as Stefani."

"Why do you think I worry about her so much?"

The coffin was now being lowered into the ground and the last rites had been read. But it wasn't too long after the service was just about concluded and people began getting ready to head off to the wake that Nora took Young Clara aside, close enough to Mattie and Present Clara that the latter held up her newspaper very closely and didn't dare lower it. Mattie picked a headstone at random and sat forwards to look at it intently, as if she was visiting the grave. The name was 'Daniel Lawson', and somebody had scratched a profanity above his name; perhaps he hadn't been well-liked. He had died in 1993.

"Listen, I think it's best you don't come to the wake," said Nora through her tears and snot.

"Are you sure?" asked Young Clara seriously, "I'm worried about you."

"Thanks for coming, but I know people are going to ask me questions about us, I'd rather not get involved."

"Questions like what? Like what we are?"

"Don't start now."

"I'm not starting, I just – you really don't want me to come? Usually, acquaintances will go to the wake instead of the funeral, not the other way around.'

"I'm glad you came, but it would be a lot easier for me if you would leave now. Don't make me answer any difficult questions."

"Oh, of course. Can't have people thinking you're not straight, is that it?"

"Shut up," Nora was suddenly very harsh, "You'd bring that up today? Of all days?"

"No, you're just being inconsistent with me. I don't know where we stand."

"We stand with me… I'm grateful for your support. Obviously. But… I really can't do this right now. I've got to go."

"Fine. Have… I mean, not 'have fun', that's…" she trailed off and went silent. "Just fine. I'll go. I'm… I'm happy to be here for you. Whatever you need."

"Yeah. Great. I'll talk to you later. Bye." Nora didn't so much as give her a hug, leaving her standing there listlessly surrounded by the graves of strangers. She didn't know what to do with herself now she'd been iced out of the funeral proceedings. Mattie continued to wonder what Daniel Lawson had done wrong.

Eventually though, as the mourners began to disperse and get back into their cars, Young Clara decided to take her leave. She vaulted back over the wall, only a few feet from her future self, and set off walking towards Hyde Park's many terraces. When she was a suitable distance and had stopped looking over her shoulder to see what Nora was up to, Present Clara folded up the paper and left it on the bench, pushing her sunglasses back up and climbing over the wall. This time, Mattie copied, though she touched a patch of moss she didn't think was very hygienic.

"Where are we going now?" she asked quietly.

"Home, I think," said Clara. "It's not far."

"Are you sure it's safe around here? It looks rough."

"It's fine. People are just poor. It's mostly students and immigrants."

"…She wasn't very nice to you," said Mattie after a pause.

"She's just upset."

"There's being upset and then there's being rude." Clara only sighed because she didn't know what to say. She didn't really want to be interrogated about her exes. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I'm not used to being a tour guide for my own life, that's all. It's a lot to deal with. Let's just keep going, and hopefully we'll be able to leave soon. Right?"

"Yeah. Okay." And they continued their walk in the noon sun in near silence while Clara contemplated features of her past which she didn't think she'd ever encounter again.