Fluorescent Adolescent

5

A Frankenstein speaker system was set up throughout the flat. Wires snaked across the floor, underneath chairs, over feet, to clump together at the foot of a nest-like iPod dock. The iPod itself was resting high and mighty, pumping out the tunes the partygoers were bobbing along to.

"Mike!" shouted Clara across the room while 'I Predict a Riot' by the Kaiser Chiefs played over the system. It was Mike's friend's party, and Mike's friend lived in a small flat on a grey, brutalist estate. It was repurposed social housing built in the sixties and bought, at some point, by the University. Despite the flat's modest size, it was swarming with people, and though the sun was finally beginning to fall it was still obscenely hot. Probably not a good night to hold a party, in truth.

Clara pushed her way through a cluster of girls, careful to give them her nicest smile (just in case), to get to Mike himself, the centre of the party because he was always the loudest in a room.

"Hey, baby," said Mike, grinning, putting an arm around her as she approached, much to her chagrin. He was talking to some girls himself, clearly trying it on. "This is Clara," he introduced her while she shrugged his arm off, "Clara, these are my new friends. They're in the, eh, geography department."

"Anthropology," one of the girls corrected.

"You study people?" said Clara, nudging Mike and indicating the table behind him where drinks had been laid out. He handed her a can of Strongbow. "What do you learn about them?"

"It's a lot of graphs…" said the girl, "And it's only me. Jas does sociology."

"I consider myself a student of people, too."

"What does that mean?"

"That I'm trying my best to be charming." That was a bad line, she thought, and it evidently wasn't working. She bit the inside of her cheek by mistake, but they didn't notice.

"You're here to collect, then?" said Mike loudly, his voice booming over everybody else. "Clara here made a bet with me about today's fixture – can you believe she won? She wouldn't know a football if someone kicked it into her face."

"You're a sore loser."

"And you're really going to take money from an unemployed person? With your cushy, high-powered, white-collar job?"

"What do you do?" asked the girl who studied anthropology.

"I'm a barista," said Clara.

"You see what I mean?" said Mike, "Elitism. Lording it over me. Here." He handed her some cash; she didn't bother to count it, just put it away.

"Is that a dress with pockets?" asked the girl who studied anthropology.

"Oh, I sewed them on myself," she explained, "Hopefully, you can't tell. But, yeah, pockets." A homemade dress with pockets was, she had learned, an excellent icebreaker in her dalliances with other women. For men, it was letting them talk to her about sports and pretending she both didn't know what they were talking about and was exceptionally interested. "Hey, so what's your-" She was about to ask the girl her name when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She flipped open her Razr mid-conversation, incredibly rudely, and saw she had a text from Nora, hours and hours later.

Cn we tlk?

"Are you listening?" Anthropology Girl interrupted.

"Uh… sorry, um… I'll just be two seconds, this is urgent."

She smiled very uneasily at Mike and ducked away, slipping back through the people – this time with some alcohol to tide her over – and outside to the complex's bare, concrete balcony. Immediately she called Nora up, and Nora answered very quickly.

"Hi," she said, her heart racing in her chest, "You wanted to talk to me?" Being outside didn't do anything to calm her nerves. She knew what Nora was going to say deep down, but she didn't want to admit it. There were almost a dozen people out there milling around and smoking various substances.

"Yeah, Clara, it's… I'm sorry."

"What do you mean?" She felt sick. The night air wasn't helping her at all.

"I know I said… I said I'd think about us, but… I don't see it working at the moment. I'm not in a good place, really."

"Right."

"You understand, don't you? My dad-"

"Yeah, no, don't worry about it. Your family is more important." Clara knew her father was an excuse. She'd been hot and cold for weeks, never committing, never even entertaining the thought.

"I just want you to know… I like you. I really do. But it's not going to work out long-term."

"Okay."

"And we both know you're not really a long-term kind of person, anyway. You're the opposite of me like that." That stung.

"That isn't true. I can do long-term, Nora." She could hear how desperate she sounded but couldn't stop herself. I can have a relationship and not-"

"I know you were with a boy last night."

"Because I told you that, because I asked if you were okay with it, and you said you were."

"And I am. I don't want to trap you in something and have you resent me."

"Right…" Clara was frustrated and scrunched up her face. "Is this about your dad, or do you really just think I can't commit?"

"It's both, really."

"If it's your dad, fine, I get that. But if it's all because you think I can't handle a relationship, you're – you're wrong. I can."

"Clara, I'm sorry. And I'm going back home tonight."

"What? You're going back to Eastbourne?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't tell me earlier."

"I know, I… it's spontaneous. Mum wants me at home."

"Fine. Have fun going back to… whatever county Eastbourne is in, I don't know."

"East Sussex."

"What's the point of being from Sussex and not being in Brighton?"

"Clara, I need to go." Clara bit the inside of her cheek again. "I don't want to use up all your minutes, anyway."

"I don't care about the minutes – I'd use up all the minutes in the world just to talk to you."

"You're too intense sometimes."

"Oh, another of my many flaws."

"Have you been drinking?"

"No," she lied.

"I'll speak to you soon, alright? And it is about my dad. I need to be with my family right now."

"Yeah, yeah… okay, b-" Nora hung up before she could finish saying 'bye'. In shock, she stared at her phone. She shook her head and didn't know, now that she'd claimed her winnings, whether she shouldn't just give up and go back home – back to Nina, though the idea of spending more time with her made Clara's stomach turn.

Wounded, she returned to the party and downed her can of Strongbow on the way, picking up another from the table as she went past. Anthropology Girl and her friend – Jas – were still talking to Mike Townes, who was particularly interested in the friend.

"Are you alright?" asked Anthropology Girl, "That didn't look like a fun phone call."

"Were you watching me?" Clara asked, glancing over to see if the window was visible from where they were; it was. Anthropology Girl blushed, which told Clara everything she needed to know. "It wasn't fun, I was getting dumped."

"Dumped?" Mike overheard, "By who? Not that girl?"

"Yes, that girl." She may have spent quite a while last night complaining to him about her struggles with Nora.

"Well, that's her mistake," he grinned, and then went right back to trying to pipe Anthropology Girl's friend.

"You got dumped over the phone? That's not right," said Anthropology Girl.

"No, I suppose it isn't," said Clara, who hadn't thought about that, "She's about to go back home to the south, anyway."

Anthropology Girl tutted, "Southerners." Clara smiled a little.

"Where are you from?"

"Durham."

"Ah, you're more northern than me, then. I'm from Blackpool."

"I've heard it's grim there."

"It's got a certain romance," said Clara, "It-" Next to them, Mike finally made his move and went in for a kiss with the friend; it was very successful on his part. "…Do you want to go sit down, maybe?"

"Uh, yeah. I'll just be over there, Jas." Jas did not respond. Clara gently touched Anthropology Girl on the elbow and led her to a different spot in the flat. There was not, incidentally, anywhere to sit; everything was already occupied because the party had been going on for a while. There was a spot to lean on the wall between the window and the front door, though.

"What's your name, by the way? I'm Clara."

"I know, Mike already introduced you." Clara nodded; she had totally forgotten. "I'm Dolores. Dolly, people call me."

"Really? That's very cute. And not a name you hear much anymore."

"I've never met anyone called 'Clara', either."

"Touché," said Clara, who got that a lot despite the fact she thought she had a relatively normal and common name. The iPod was still playing the Kaiser Chiefs' debut. "Somebody needs to hang the DJ, what's this loop?"

"What do you expect from Leeds?" Dolores joked, "You can't have a party without the Kaiser Chiefs."

Clara laughed, "I suppose that's true. You're not going back to Durham for the summer, then?"

"Only for a week at the end of August, I don't like going home too much," she said uneasily. Clara didn't press her on this.

"Yeah. I prefer staying here, too."

"Where are you living, then? Are you in halls?"

"No, just moved a few weeks ago," said Clara, "Shared house now. It's, uh, sort of…" she feigned like she was trying to work out which direction the house was in, "You know what? It'll be easier if I show you where I live later on." Again, Clara thought Dolores blushed, but it was very dark in there. "What about you? Halls?"

"Yeah, I'm staying into second year," she said. "Moving to second year accommodation, though."

"No freshers? That'll be a relief," said Clara, though until that September, it seemed she and Dolores were both still freshers.

"And we'll still get the cleaners, you don't get that in shared housing, right?"

"No, unfortunately, we have to clean our own toilets." Dolly laughed, though Clara didn't think she had said anything too funny.

"So, um, why did you get dumped?" she looked embarrassed to have asked this question.

"Why do you want to know?" asked Clara, leaning a little closer, "That's a little tactless."

"S-sorry, it's just-"

"Apparently, I can't commit," Clara told the truth, though hoped she'd be able to stop before she spilled the contents of her heart; it was always off-putting when people did that. "I suppose I wasn't dumped if we weren't quite official. Just rejected."

"I can't imagine anyone would reject you."

"Really? Why's that, then?"

"You're, um, uh…" she had to look away. "You're pretty, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Dolores said nothing. "I'm joking. Thanks. You're very pretty, too."

"Is that who you were coming here with tonight?"

"Who?"

"The girl who rejected you, was she supposed to be here?"

"Oh, no. Technically, I think I'm here with Mike, but he seems to be busy. Apart from him, I don't know many people here," she shrugged. She didn't; they were all Mike's set, and she'd only met him a few days ago. "What about you?"

"Just Jas, it was more her thing, she asked me to tag along," Dolly explained, "She's been trying to get with one of the uni footballers for ages."

"I suppose she finally succeeded, then. But what about you? Didn't you come here hoping to get with someone?"

"Not really. Low expectations are the key to happiness."

"That's depressing," Clara inched even closer, leaning against the wall with one arm, "Maybe I can raise them, though."

"Uh… can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you flirting with me? Or just being nice?"

"I thought I was flirting, maybe I should be more explicit?" she asked. Dolly said nothing. "Sorry – you're straight, aren't you?" She said this, but she didn't believe it for a minute.

"No, I'm pan – but where I'm from, there weren't many… I mean, I've never, you know. Not with a girl. Not yet, anyway – maybe one day."

"One day soon?"

"You're very forward."

"One minute you can't tell I'm flirting, the next I'm too forward?" she jibed.

"No, I knew you were flirting-"

"Didn't seem like it."

"-I just wanted to check. I'm not good at reading – whoa." Clara had decided to take her chances and went in to kiss Dolores, who was so shocked she leant away and nearly fell over. Immediately, Clara was embarrassed; she wasn't used to people refusing to kiss her.

"Sorry," she said sincerely, "I must not be

good at reading people, either."

"I can't, um… there are a lot of people around here."

"Oh. I don't think anybody saw that."

Dolly lowered her voice, "One of my friends was attacked in town six months ago. Someone saw him kiss another boy outside a club." Clara had heard about that incident.

"So, if we were alone, you would have kissed me?"

"I don't really know you. And you don't really know me."

"We can change that."

"I think you're already drunk."

"Only had a can and a half," she said.

"And you're trying to use me as a rebound."

"Come on. You're not really gonna let me get rejected twice in one day, are you?" said Clara.

"That's a manipulative thing to say."

"Maybe. Do you want to talk outside? Where it's a bit cooler, fewer people?" There probably wouldn't be fewer people because so many were coming and going from the estate, but it would be cooler without so many bodies packed in together. Not that Clara had a problem with bodies packed together. "I'll warn you, if you don't, I'll probably just go home." She was telling the truth.

"Mm… okay. But just to talk."

"Absolutely."

"I literally can't think of anything worse than following you around some old-timey student house party," Matilda complained as they walked, now under cover of night (just about) towards the block of poached social housing music and teenagers were spilling out of.

"We all have to do things we don't like sometimes, sweetheart," said Clara, still decked out in oversized sunglasses and covered in her own blood.

"Yeah, like fill in annoying forms, or go to the shop to buy milk, not stalk your past-self around Leeds in the middle of the night."

"No, no. This is great preparation for your exams."

"How does that work? Is someone at the party going to ask me a boring question about covalent bonds?"

"Oh, covalent bonds are easy," said Clara, "You just have to imagine they're shagging."

"They're-? Excuse me?"

"The atoms. That's why they're sharing all those electrons. Shagging."

"I don't think I can write that in my mock exam."

"Cameron will probably give you full marks," Clara advised, indifferent. "Alright," she paused under a severe, concrete staircase. A few feet away a drunk student was peeing on the steps. "You go up there and scope it out."

"And won't people notice I'm underage?"

"No. They're drunk and it's boiling hot."

"Great," she rubbed her eye, annoyed.

"Don't do that," Clara grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"I'm stressed!" she protested.

"I know, but it's bad for it, you'll burst a blood vessel."

"Maybe you should try having a lazy eye and a squint and refuse to rub it when it plays up. And look, what am I supposed to say when I'm up there? I can't blend in with students. I don't even blend in at school, everyone thinks I'm weird."

"Everyone's weird, darling, don't worry about that," said Clara, "What you do is tell them you're studying maths. Nobody will ask you about maths, even people who do maths, because you can't really talk about it at all. And even if someone does, just act offended and say you're trying to have a good time at a party."

"And what if someone offers me a drink? Some creep?"

"What you do, is take the drink, but don't actually drink anything they've got up there. I doubt there's any water."

"Clara," Mattie implored, "That's a party full of drunk, rowdy students."

"I know. And I'm right out here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We'll come up with a code word."

"This is ridiculous."

"Or phrase. The phrase is, uh, 'there's a cockroach'."

"Excuse me?"

"Trust me, if you ever want a clear a big group of people in a tiny room, make a big fuss and pretend there's a cockroach. Or a rat. As loud as you can, cause chaos, I'll definitely hear it, and I'll be right there."

"Great. Fine. Fine!" she threw up her arms in frustration, "I suppose I get to sneak around because 'the Phantom' isn't talented enough."

"Exactly. You'll do a great job."

"Just one thing," said Mattie firmly, giving her coat to Clara to hold, "I'm only doing this because I know mum wouldn't want you to get stabbed and murdered. But I don't think my dad would be too fussed, for the record."

"Totally fair. Now, help me save my own life, please?"

And so, Mattie was left to trudge the concrete stairs, avoiding the pungent streaks of urine, and try to fight her way into the party. She had never actually been to a party before, outside of family ones – but they'd become a strange affair after the time she'd been kidnapped by Daleks. This was not how she envisioned her first one.

The flat was absolutely rammed, and even without her coat she was drenched in sweat in a matter of seconds. Almost immediately, someone put a half-empty can of Stella (Clara's lager of choice, incidentally) in her hand, which she ended up keeping hold of out of her desire not to litter or seem rude. The smell of weed was rife on the air, mingling with the stagnant odour of bodies and vomit. She wasn't sure what they were celebrating; surely not that Argentina had beaten Serbia in the football?

Matilda decided in those long, sweltering minutes she spent roaming somebody else's cluttered, damp living room that she did not like parties. She had always suspected she didn't like them, but until that moment had no concrete evidence. Now she knew it for certain: she didn't like parties. Nor did she really like the idea of a party or understand its appeal beyond spending time with only one other person – two at a push.

"Hey!" some guy said, stepping in front of her while she searched for any sign of Young Clara, "What's your name?"

"Don't speak to me," she said, trying to get around him. He didn't let her.

"What does that mean? It's, like, foreign, right?"

She stopped, "Excuse me?"

"I saw you across the room and was wondering where you're from."

"I'm from Devon," she said firmly, "What's wrong with you? Asking people where they're from?"

"It's a polite question!" he was aghast.

"Piss off," she elbowed her way right past him and found herself face-to-face with the bathroom. The door was wide open, blocking off half of the toilet in a very poorly designed interior layout, and two people were in there getting off with each other. For a second, she thought the girl was Clara, but then they caught her looking at them and stopped what they were doing.

"Can I help you?" asked the girl, who was certainly not Clara, bluntly.

"N-no, sorry, I thought you were my friend for a second, I'm just looking for someone."

"Don't give me your life story, I don't care." She then ordered the boy she was with to close the bathroom door; he couldn't get it shut all the way because there was a used towel curled up on the floor blocking it, but it was good enough for them to go back to what they were doing. The racist boy who'd tried to talk to her had also vanished, presumably to try his luck elsewhere.

Matilda continued to battle through the flat, which was definitely bigger on the inside, and managed to break through the crowd onto a trio of people draped across one of the sofas. One of them had a hardback book in their lap and was separating very small lines of a pale powder. She stared at them and they realised she was watching.

"What's up?" one boy asked surprisingly politely, "Do you want a line?"

"Uh…"

"It's Special K."

Mattie paused, remember something from earlier, and asked, "Are you a vet?"

"Can't betray my supply chain like that," he said simply, "Do you want cutting in, or not?"

"No, thanks. You're alright." Going by everything she'd ever been told in a drug talk, she expected to be subjected to monumental peer pressure to now take drugs in an unsafe situation. But that turned out to be very far removed from the truth. The dealer just shrugged and went back to his lines, and the others ignored her.

By this point, she had just about completed about one full circuit of the flat and hadn't spotted Clara at all. If she didn't know where Clara had gone then she couldn't stop her from getting murdered by a robot, so this didn't bode well and only made her more stressed than she had been already. And the heat was really starting to get to her. She was now covered in an unpleasant amount of sweat and was going to leave the flat stinking of BO and weed, much to her disdain. She felt like calling the police so that they'd all clear off, but she ultimately had too much integrity to call the police about anything at all.

There was only one other thing she could think to do, besides keep lingering in the stinking hot party like a wallflower: find football Mike and ask him if he'd seen her around. Luckily, football Mike was the life of the party. Though he already had a girl attached to him – a girl who also was not Clara –he hadn't snuck off to a dark corner where she couldn't interrupt him. He was having an argument with another boy about the upcoming fixtures.

"No, you don't understand; the Swedish squad is playing terribly so far," Mike was saying, "What about that nil-nil last week? Shocking. And now Trinidad is out."

"You have too much faith in England," his friend argued.

"And why are you being anti-English all of a sudden?"

"Obviously I support England, but I'm being realistic. We barely beat Paraguay; it was an abysmal performance."

"But we did beat them!"

"With an own goal!"

"Come on, Steve, we've got Beckham."

"And he's done fuck all so far."

"Hey, excuse me," Mattie interjected finally, because if she stuck around for any longer, she wouldn't be able to resist getting involved in a football argument.

"Oh, hi," said Mike, frowning at her, "Do I know you?"

"Um, no, I'm a friend of Clara. Clara Oswald."

"Ah," he nodded, "Clara has a lot of friends."

"Right… I was just – have you seen her? I heard she'd be here."

"She ran out of here a few minutes ago with a mate of mine," said the girl Mike had his arm around who was, for whatever reason, putting up with a debate about David Beckham's weaknesses as a footballer.

"Out of here? Out of this flat?" asked Mattie.

"Well, yeah, that's what I said."

"Great, thanks," that meant she could leave, "And, um, my money's on Gerrard to score in the next match. Sweden, right? I think that'd be a good bet."

"Finally, someone who talks sense!" Steve declared.

"No, no – you really think Gerrard is going to score before Beckham? Before Lampard? You're insane." With that, Mattie took her leave, pushing through the crowds as quickly as she could and treading on quite a few toes until she burst back out into the night air. Never had that June evening felt cooler to her; it was an indescribable relief to be out of the apartment. But now she needed to find out where Clara had gone.

That question was answered for her easily enough when she saw the butt of a cigarette tumble through the air in front of her; somebody had flicked it away from the final level of the social housing block, directly above her. She heard a feminine laugh and, though there were surely plenty of women smoking around the block that evening, it was the best lead she had. She headed off to find the staircase up, which also smelt of urine like the one below, and crept higher.

There was Young Clara. She had fled the party to come to the top floor, far more secluded, making conversation with whatever random girl she had picked up. Mattie could scarcely believe she'd pulled that quickly.

"So, anthropology," Clara said, "Isn't that a bit of a doss?"

"And 'English literature' isn't?"

"Literature teaches you all sorts of things. I hope to pass on that knowledge someday."

"Meaning what?"

"Well, I'm gonna do my PGCE in two years."

"Really? You're gonna be a teacher?"

"Don't you think I could?"

"I'd have concerns."

"Oh, really? Like what?"

"Won't the boys find that a bit distracting? And some of the girls?"

"What you're really telling me, Dolores, is that you find me distracting."

"No, I'm paying very close attention."

Mattie didn't know what the etiquette was of hanging around two people flirting excessively when one of them was soon to be assassinated. She knew she couldn't leave, but she had to act like she was there to do something before they noticed her standing there like a weirdo. It was the first time in her life she'd ever wished she had a cigarette because at least then she had an excuse to loiter around outside like an arsehole. And she also couldn't sit on the steps because of their light dusting of piss. In the end, she did the only thing she could think of and leant on the same concrete balcony much further down so she could pretend she was getting some air (which was sort of true). All she had to do was not draw too much attention and look out for any tall weirdos with knives.

"What do you want to do, then? Teach anthropology?" Clara asked.

"No, I'll… well, I don't know. It sounded interesting. I heard you can work in HR."

"HR? Lofty ambitions."

"Wow."

"What?"

"The girl who wants to teach English in high school thinks I'm unambitious?"

"I want to inspire people! The next generation of layabouts who want to become English teachers."

"You've seen Dead Poets Society too many times."

"Alright, maybe I have, but it's a good film."

"I've never actually seen it all the way through."

"I've got it on video, we could always watch it?" Clara suggested, "I'll warn you, though, it's not a good date movie."

"Oh, a date?"

"I'm just reading the room."

"We're not in a room."

"We can be if you want. I told you, I don't live too far."

"You don't stop, do you?"

She lowered her voice a little, "Do you really want me to?"

Mattie didn't know what to do when they started kissing, though she thought that was probably an ideal time to try and kill someone; Clara wouldn't see it coming. But it the rules of social etiquette meant she also couldn't keep an eye on them or she'd look like a voyeur, and she'd already been accused of that once in the last ten minutes. So, she tried to keep Clara visible out of the corner of her eye while looking at the people below.

A lock clicked behind her. A door to one of the flats between Mattie and Young Clara creaked open. An irate young woman stepped out brandishing an anatomy textbook.

"If you lot are attending that party downstairs, you can piss off from outside of my window," she said angrily, but she directed this at Matilda, who had not said a single word since coming upstairs, "I'm a fifth-year medical student, alright? I have finals. It's bad enough that you twats are having a party at all."

"It's not my party," said Mattie quickly.

"But you're attending it, and now you're dossing about up here."

"I'm really not doing anything."

"Do you know how hard a medical degree is?"

"I have some idea." Her mother, of course, had done a medical degree, and since her own goal in life was to become a surgeon, she knew all the steps she had to take to get there.

"What course do you even study?"

"Um… maths."

"Bullshit subject. Try doing what I'm doing."

"To say you want to be a doctor, you don't have a very good beside manner." Young Clara, to Mattie's surprise, had decided to step in, leaving Dolores out in the cold.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you'll be pretty tired after all those long shifts," Clara went on, "I'd hope you don't talk to patients that way. And for the record, it was me who was the one talking, and I'm in attendance at the party, so you can have a go at me."

"Just go down there and tell them to keep the bloody noise down or I'll call the police again."

"The police? Nice. Just put some earplugs in and stop being an arse," said Clara.

"An arse? My finals-"

"Aren't gonna revise themselves if you're out here, are they?" she countered, "Look, I'll talk to them, and you're free to be as much as a wanker as you want, aren't you?" The girl glared at Clara and then turned and went back into her flat, slamming the door.

"Fucking pricks," she grumbled when the door closed.

"Um, thanks," said Mattie incredibly awkwardly. Young Clara frowned at her.

"Haven't we met?"

"I don't think so."

"No, I'm sure we have," Clara insisted, "Weren't… I saw you earlier today, you were in the cemetery while I was at a funeral." Mattie hadn't thought she'd been noticed at the funeral.

"I don't think so."

"I'm sure it was you. Why are you here, too? Wait – are you following me?"

"No, of course not – why would I be? I don't even know you."

"Then why are you up here at all? You're not smoking, you're not talking to anyone."

"Just getting some air from the party."

"You were at the party, too?"

"A lot of students are at this party," she said, "I'm a student. I'm studying maths."

"You look a bit young."

"I promise, I'm not following you, and we've never met."

"Look, if you want my number or something-"

"Erm, no," she said quickly, aghast, "I definitely don't want your number. Thanks."

"Then what are you still doing here?"

"Clara," asked Dolores behind her, "You've been drinking, are sure you recognise her? Maybe you're getting her confused with someone else."

"I haven't drunk that much, and I'm good with faces," Clara insisted, "There's definitely something going on here."

"Absolutely nothing is…" at the far end of the balcony, behind both Clara and Dolores but directly in Matilda's line of sight, a tall man dressed in all black with his hood pulled tight to hide his face stepped out from behind the wall of the flats. The balcony levels of the social block had more than one staircase, and apparently, the older Clara below had been keeping an eye on the wrong one.

"Wait," said Clara, "Weren't you hanging around the bins when I left the flat I was staying at this morning? And then – that was you – you were in the shop earlier when I was back home. You are following me!"

Mattie froze. She was not good under this much pressure. And then she remembered what Clara had told her.

"Oh my god," she exclaimed, pointing at the ground behind the two girls, "Do you see that giant cockroach!?" she said it as loud as she could in the hope that she would be heard, since she certainly couldn't fight off a robot armed with a toxic knife.

"What cockroach?" asked Clara, looking around, then she asked Dolly, "Did you see a cockroach?"

"I didn't see anything."

"No, no, there was definitely a cockroach, I bet that bloke saw it. You saw it, didn't you?" she said this directly to the advancing android, which stopped in its tracks upon being noticed.

"Are you, like, alright?" Clara asked, "You seem a bit… shouldn't you be getting home?"

"Believe me, I wish I was at home, you have no idea," said Mattie, "Right now, though, I'm just worried about these cockroaches – oh, fuck!" The android decided it didn't care that she was trying to distract it. It elbowed Dolores out of the way, luckily not injuring her, and made straight for Clara. "He's trying to kill you, move!"

"What? Kill me?" Obviously, Clara didn't believe her.

"Yes, listen to me," Mattie dragged her away by her elbow with as much force as she could, "I'm following you, alright? Because people are trying to kill you!"

"No, this doesn't make any sense – mate, you're not going to stab me, are you?" Again, the android stopped, and now cocked its head to the side in an unsettling way. His face was totally obscured. Then Clara noticed the glint of his blade in the moonlight.

"What the-?"

Before she could finish her sentence there was a puff of thick, black smoke in front of them and Present Clara appeared between Mattie and the android.

"You looking for me?" she said. The android cocked its head to the other side now, clearly confused, "I thought so. Well, I'm right here if you want me." Dolly, who was now a little behind the droid and of utterly no interest to it, squinted at the interloper.

"Clara?" she asked. Mattie had been right; the sunglasses were not a good disguise, and especially not at night. The android advanced, going for the Clara that was closest.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. The android didn't hesitate to plunge the knife towards her, right into the same part of her gut that she'd taken the blow to that morning. Except this time she was ready for it, this time she did – for once – remember to turn intangible. The knife sailed through her and in the kerfuffle she pushed the robot to the side. With the aid of telekinesis, she produced so much force that he was blasted off the side of the building as if he'd been hit by a truck. He went tumbling through the air and there was a loud crash when he landed. All four of them hurried to the edge to look over.

"He landed head-first," said Mattie, "Look at all the glass."

"Now that's how you kill a cockroach, Matts," said Present Clara.

"Sorry, but what the hell is happening?" Younger Clara asked.

"We need to get down there and get the data quickly," said Clara, moving away.

"No, what-"

"Do not touch me," said Clara sharply when her younger self tried to touch her arm. She took off her sunglasses and Young Clara's jaw dropped. "You'll cause a temporal paradox."

"I'll what?"

"We need to leave. Come on."

"Uh, bye," said Mattie uneasily, stepping around Young Clara.

"No, come back! Where are you-"

Clara grabbed Mattie's elbow again and teleported them both. It was one of the most desperately unpleasant things Matilda had ever experienced, feeling a heavy pain in her head akin to a sudden migraine, which lasted until they re-materialised on the pavement next to the clockwork man. She touched her forehead, eyes watering.

"Sorry," said Clara, "It's grim, I know."

"Does it feel like that every time you do it?"

"Yep, and I can rarely choose where I want to go. Hence why you never see me take advantage of my incredible ability to teleport thirty feet in any direction." She crouched down and took out her sonic screwdriver, scanning the android to mine the information they needed.

"She's gonna follow us," said Mattie, "I thought you didn't want to get seen?"

"This is why I put the Retcon in that cider," said Clara, "I remember Dolores enough to know she will go home with me. Think I actually went out with her a bit, you know, non-casually. If they share the cider, which I think anyone would if they've just seen their future self, they'll forget everything. I think I got it, let's hide."

"Hide? Hide where?"

"In here," she approached a random flat.

"We can't just go into-"

"Hurry up." Clara again took her arm and phased them through the door. Either the flat was vacant or its residents were already asleep because the living room was dark and empty. Clara held the screwdriver up to her ear and it hummed quietly. She frowned, took out her phone. "Helix," she whispered, "Translate the coordinates the screwdriver has found for me, please. Quietly." The screen on Clara's phone flashed green for a second and Helix did not speak. "Oh my god. Look at that." She showed Mattie the map that Helix had summoned with a location marker on it.

"I don't know where that is."

"It's the Viaduct."

"So?"

"So, it's a drag bar in the gay quarter," she explained as quietly as possible, "And where else can somebody dressed like the Last Queen of France blend in? A bar full of drag queens!"

A voice came from outside, "Where did they go? Did you see where they went?" Young Clara had arrived at the droid's body.

"What are we going to do about all these robots?" Mattie whispered.

"It's 2006, people should be used to it so far."

"And what about Dolores?"

"What about her?"

"What happened with you? Why did you break up?"

Clara sighed, peering through the net curtains, "She was too nice to me. I didn't think I deserved anyone who was nice to me."

"That's… you know, Rose says you're a narcissist."

"I'm not. Martha always thought I had untreated post-traumatic stress. I suppose she knew me well enough for that diagnosis to count. I shouldn't have really been in a relationship at all at this point in my life, not until I sorted myself out."

"How long did it take you to do that?"

"Things were mending a little just before I met the Doctor. And he helped me a lot. I think they're leaving now."

"Somebody's gonna call an ambulance for that robot, I bet," said Mattie. There was a click and a sliver of light appeared underneath a door on the far side of the flat. It was just beginning to open when Clara phased them back to the outside, knowing exactly where they needed to go next.