A Teaspoon And An Open Mind: A Doctor Who Fan Fiction Archive
First Doctor, Second Doctor, Third Doctor, Fourth Doctor, Fifth Doctor, Sixth Doctor, Seventh Doctor, Eighth Doctor, Multi-Era, Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor
The Ten Doctors by JJPOR [Reviews - 18] Printer
Author's Notes:
23.11.2008: Forty-five years ago today, a certain television programme had its very first broadcast, at 5.15 pm on a Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, due to a power cut that affected large areas of Britain, and due to certain events that had taken place in Dallas, Texas the day before, and which tended to hold people’s attention, not many actually saw it. Luckily, the BBC repeated it the following Saturday and the rest, as they say, was history. It seems traditional at moments like this to have a multi-Doctor gathering, and this is my attempt at one. It may be a little pointless and a little self-indulgent, but then that seems traditional too! Obviously, I had to make choices as to which companions to include, and have of necessity had to leave out some old favourites, including some of my own old favourites; sorry! I have to admit that the basic premise of this was largely inspired by this work of genius, by an artist known as *mimi-na: http://mimi-na.deviantart.com/art/Doctor-s-Boys-58481472 Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and as always I do not own Doctor Who or any of its associated characters and concepts; the British Broadcasting Corporation does, silly!


1.

The star Marab was dying; ten billion years old, running on its last drops of fuel. For the inhabitants of the continent of Darvo on the planet Ciceronis, the angry red sun slid below the silver ocean. The edges of its crimson disc rippled visibly as it set; strange yellow and orange shapes danced and roiled across its face. It was the last sunset this world would ever know. In the resort city of Arcadactis, overlooking the Bay of Wounded Hearts, it was a beautiful summer’s evening; the air was still warm, and heavy with the sweet scent of Viridu blossoms. The music had already started as the party got underway; history’s greatest and most famous party.

In the vacant palazzo off Golden Dragon Street, the host watched as the caterers laid out the trays of food and drink in the grand dining room. There were balloons hanging from the ceiling and the picture rail. Compulsively, he checked the ornately decorated fob-watch that he carried in his pocket; almost time.

“This should have been the night I could retire off,” the chief caterer said, apropos of nothing. “Everyone in the city’s throwing a party, and I’m giving this stuff away for free; I may as well, I suppose…” He laughed, and it was a laugh tinged with hysteria, much like the sounds of raucous celebration that could be heard through the French windows that lead out onto the balcony.

“One reason I’ve always loved Arcadactis,” the host said, with a sad hint of a smile. “Other towns would’ve fallen into looting and rioting by now; or, worse yet, found religion. I think you’re the only people in this universe who’d respond to all of this by having a knees-up. You’re brilliant, you know.”

“Should have been here for the Ethnarch’s inaugural ball, last year,” giggled the caterer; his face was shimmering with cold sweat. “Now, that was a knees-up!”

“Go and join the party,” the host suggested. “You and your staff.” He carelessly stuffed a handful of creased banknotes into the caterer’s breast pocket.

“Now, you know your money’s no good,” said the man. “I mean, it literally won’t be, come sunrise tomorrow.”

“Go on, have a drink on me,” the host replied, with a toothy, lop-sided grin that seemed even more forced than the caterer’s laugh. “All of you.” The hired help started to make for the exit, leaving him alone in the centre of the room; the caterer turned as he reached the door, and for a moment just looked at the lonely figure, standing and gazing out of the window at the city’s lamp-lit expanse.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” the man asked. “By yourself?”

“I’m never by myself,” grinned the host. “And besides, they’ll be here soon.”

* * *

The old white-haired man and the dark young girl picked their way carefully through the throngs of revellers; some in carnival costumes, some in grotesque masques; dancing, singing, smoking, snorting, drinking, kissing, living… Raising their collective voice in defiance against the fate they had been dealt, the city’s inhabitants, from the lowest barrio to the highest palazzo, lived their last hours to the full.

“Be careful, now, Susan, hmm?” the old man advised. His cane tapped on the sidewalk as he laboriously inched along it, providing a counterpoint to the flutes and the bells and the drums. “I don’t like the look of some of these, hmm, ruffians.”

“I’ve never been to a party,” the girl mused as she laid a slender hand on the sleeve of his black frockcoat, partially to steady him as he hobbled over a particularly high kerb. “What are they like?”

“Stuff and nonsense, for the most part,” the old man opined, giving her a sharp look. “Youngsters getting overexcited; like these people here.”

“I wish Ian and Barbara had come with us, Grandfather,” Susan said, watching a procession of pipers and lantern-bearers wearing silver as they danced by.

“Well, they wanted some time to themselves,” the old man insisted, and frowned to himself in thought. “Hmm, yes.”

“But they’re missing all of this!” Overhead, fireworks burst like blazing chrysanthemums in the sky; red and white and green and gold.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” The old man stopped by a stone archway, hung with paper lanterns, and peered at the rectangle of paper that he held in his hand. “And, hmmph, I think this is the place.”

The host came down the steps to meet them; he was tall and thin with hair like a brush; he looked young, but he could have been any age from twenty to forty. He looked uncomfortable in black tie; even if the beautifully-cut tuxedo that he wore fit him perfectly, it did not seem to suit him.

“Well then, good evening,” he said, with gusto. “You’re the first to arrive, which is strangely appropriate, if you think about it.”

“And just who might you be, then, young man? Hmm?”

“Young man?” The man in the tuxedo was flabbergasted: “I’m twice your age! And you know who I am.” Susan touched the old man’s arm again, getting his attention:

“Don’t you recognise him, Grandfather?” The old man examined the host closely for a moment before realisation dawned upon his face; for a moment, even he was lost for words.

“Hmm, I’ve never heard of such foolishness,” he said, clutching at the lapels of his coat. “What do you mean by bringing us here against our will?” The young-looking man was incredulous:

“I didn’t bring you here against your will!” he protested, before pulling himself up short: “Well, I might have helped you find your way here, but…” He scratched his head and looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, sorry about that, but I remember the navigational trouble I used to have in those days; just gave your telepathic circuits a bit of a poke; that invitation’s on psychic paper; it established a transtemporal homing beacon with a positive feedback loop; absolutely nothing to worry about.” He blinked. “Probably.”

“So you admit it, hmm?” The white-haired man again considered the invitation in his hand; it had a certain heft to it; thick, expensive paper, gilt-edged. The words were engraved upon it in gracefully swirling calligraphy, silver on black:

”To Who it may concern & Guest(s)”.

The old man’s forehead crinkled in contemplation:

“Hmmph! I will get to the bottom of this, you mark my words!” The host shook his head in amused exasperation and held the front door open for them:

“Oh, come on, lighten up; live a little! Go inside and get yourself a drink…young man!” As they passed him in the entranceway, he turned to the girl and gave her a wistful smile; there was something moist and glistening about his eyes.

“Susan,” he whispered, and drew her into a close hug. “It’s been too long.”

“Grandfather,” she whispered in his ear.

* * *

The next to arrive was a strange little man with a crumpled face and crumpled clothes that did not fit him; his baggy checked trousers gave him the appearance of a genteel hobo. He was accompanied by a sturdy young man with a sheepskin jacket and a kilt, and an expression on his face that dared anyone to comment on the latter item of apparel, and a pixie-faced girl wearing what appeared to be a spangly jumpsuit. The little man took one look at their waiting host and raised one pensive knuckle to his mouth:

“Oh, my word.”

“Evening all,” the host enthusiastically greeted them. “I’m so glad you could make it.” He beamed at the two youngsters: “Jamie, Zoe; it’s so good to see you again.”

“Howd’ye ken who we are?” the young man in the kilt asked, suspiciously. “Doctor, I doesnae like the look o’ this grinnin’ Sassenach.”

“Now, now, Jamie,” the little man replied, “we’re in polite company this evening; we need to be on our best behaviour. This is…well, I suppose I might say he was an old friend of mine.”

“I doesnae trust him, Doctor,” Jamie decided, with a scowl.

“Oh, Jamie, he looks pleasant enough,” Zoe interjected, laying a reassuring hand on the young Highlander’s arm.

“Yeah, that’s me; pleasant enough,” their host eagerly agreed. “Well, the party’s already started; you’d better get in there before they eat all the sausage rolls.” The little man’s heavy brows knitted in concern:

“This really is very irregular, you know; there might be repercussions if anybody finds out that you’ve invited us here.”

“You’re talking about the Timelords?” the host asked.

“The Timelords?” Zoe echoed with a frown.

“Shh!” the hobo admonished them, even glancing upwards in superstitious dread. “Don’t let them hear you!”

“I don’t have to worry about the Timelords any more,” the host said, sadly. “I really, really wish that I did.” For a moment he was silent, gazing at a point on the ground a metre or two in front of him, but then he instantly brightened, even if the brightness seemed a little false:

“Come on, then! Allons-y!” He pushed the door open and ushered the three of them inside.

“’Snae gonna be one o’ thems fancy soirees like they ha’ in Edinburgh?” Jamie wondered. “Haverin’ aboot books an’ fancy music, like?”

“Act yer age, laddie,” the host replied, in a fair approximation of Jamie’s own burr. “It’s just an old-fashioned ceilidh,” he continued in his normal accent. “Just like you have at home; you know, dancing, drinking, fighting —”

“Well, maybe not fighting,” the little man cut in.

“No, maybe not fighting,” the host hurriedly agreed as the entered the spacious dining room. “Well, not until that fella in the fancy coat shows up, anyway.” The little man pulled up short again as he saw the two guests already waiting:

“Susan?” He stood in silence for a moment. “Oh, my…”

“Tha’s a bonnie wee lass there,” Jamie observed; probably, he thought, just to himself. The little man shot him an appalled glance.

“Jamie!” Zoe, for her part, sounded more than a little cross.

“Grandfather?” Susan looked from the little man to the host to the old white-haired man seated beside her.

“Another one?” the old man asked, indignantly. “And just what is the meaning of all of this then, hmm?”

“Oh, this is embarrassing,” the little man said, and indeed looked embarrassed. The host shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other, seemingly at a loss for words. Fortunately, at that moment the doorbell chimed.

“I’ll be right back,” called the host as he hurriedly beat his retreat. “I’m sure you all have a lot to discuss.”

“Well, yes, I’m sure we do,” said the little man, still visibly shaken. “Susan, these are my young friends, Jamie and Zoe. Jamie and Zoe, this is, oh dear, this is awkward… This is Susan, my granddaughter.” Now, Jamie looked embarrassed, as well he might after his initial remark:

“Och, Doctor, ye didnae tell us yer had bairns!”

“It’s something I prefer not to discuss,” the little man replied, softly. “Susan, I thought I’d never…oh, it is so very good to see you…”

* * *

The host opened the front door with a broad white grin that quickly faded as he saw the two male figures standing on the doorstep.

“Oh, er, hello,” he said. “Jo couldn’t make it, then?”

“Sorry, old fellow, Jo had to go to the cinema with Captain Yates,” replied the white-haired man in the crushed velvet smoking jacket and frilled dress shirt.

“I hope I make a suitable substitute,” said the moustachioed man standing beside him; his red mess jacket shone with medals.

“Brigadier!” Their host shook him warmly by the hand. “Well, you’re not as good-looking, but you’re still a sight for sore eyes; it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Has it?” the soldier frowned, visibly puzzled. “I’m sorry, have we met somewhere before?”

“Oh, you know, here and there,” the host smiled. “A couple of times.” He turned to the man in velvet: “Too bad about Jo, but it’s good to see you.”

“I’m sure it is,” the dandy wryly answered. “I didn’t know whether I should bring a bottle, old chap, but here you are.” The host accepted the wine-bottle pressed into his hand, quickly scanned the label:

“Chateau LaSalle, 1963; a good year.”

“Of course.”

“We already have a couple of fine vintages waiting for you in the dining room,” their host informed them as he led the way.

“Our fellow, well, fellows?” the man in the smoking jacket enquired.

“Here they are,” the host proudly announced as they made their entrance. The little group in conversation next to one of the tables all turned as they did so.

“Fancy pants!” the little man exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up again.

“Scarecrow!” the dandy replied. “I might have known that I’d find you here.” Then he saw the little man’s companions and his expression changed; something of his usual assurance and poise seemed to go out of him as his hawklike face softened: “Jamie? Zoe?” He shook his head disbelievingly. “Well, I never…” He shook Jamie firmly by the hand, then pulled Zoe into a fond hug.

“Och, he’s a friendly one, i’nt he?” Jamie commented.

“Yes,” Zoe agreed, looking a little flustered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, you don’t know me,” the velvet-suited man admitted, “but I know both of you rather well indeed.”

“Juist like yon grinnin’ galoot,” Jamie thoughtfully observed as he eyed their host.

“I’d never dared to hope…” the dandy trailed off as he saw Susan standing behind the pair of them. “Am I dreaming?” he asked himself. “Susan, how did you get here?”

“With Grandfather,” she replied. “Er…Grandfather.”

“So, you’re my replacements then? Eh?” the old man asked, acidly. “A dandy, hmm, a clown and a gangling buffoon?”

“Now, play nice,” advised their host, with mock-sternness. “Otherwise there’ll be no jelly and ice-cream for you, kiddo.” The old man was momentarily outraged:

“Kiddo? Hmmphh!”

“Go on, help yourselves to drinks and nibbles,” their host insisted. “I’m going to see if the others are here yet.”

“Others?” the old man, the hobo and the dandy asked almost in unison.

“This is like that Omega business all over again,” the Brigadier murmured to himself. That got the little hobo’s attention:

“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart!” They shook hands with enthusiasm. “You remember Zoe and Jamie, don’t you?”

“How could I forget?” The Brigadier replied. “Always glad to meet a fellow Scot in an unfamiliar setting,” he chuckled as he shook Jamie’s hand in turn. The dandy, Zoe and Susan were huddled at one end of the buffet table, deep in earnest conversation.

“Ye’re a Scot, Brigadier?” Jamie asked dubiously. “Aye, ye might be; a titled laird, mebbe; they all talk like Sassenachs too.”

“I may not talk like a Scot,” the Brigadier conceded. “However, I fancy I can still drink like one.”

“Ah’ve no’ backed doon from a challenge like that yet,” Jamie grinned, reaching for a bottle of single malt. The little hobo eyed them with concern as they tossed back the first round:

“Oh, dear.”

* * *

“Doesn’t look like a world that’s about to end,” noted the Australian girl as she and her companions walked down a boulevard crowded with loudly-partying locals. A string of firecrackers went off like a machine-gun as a conga-line lurched past them, voices raised in raucous song. “This party we’re going to has its work cut out if it’s going to top this.”

“Well, it isn’t my idea of a good time,” said the redheaded youth with the public schoolboy’s uniform and the sour expression on his face.

“Turlough, you don’t have an idea of a good time,” replied the blond man in the beige frockcoat and cricket whites. He stood for a moment in front of a stone archway, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. “Ah yes, I think we’re here.”

“Give me a cup of tea and a good book, any time,” the youth grumbled.

“Come on now,” the cricketer urged them both, “we’re only going to say hello, have a drink maybe. Just to be polite.”

“Hey, forget killjoy here, Doctor,” the Australian girl smiled. “We’ll stay as long as we want, and he can just…”

“We’ll see what happens, Tegan,” the blond man diplomatically responded. “Gatherings of my own people do tend to be decidedly dull, if I’m honest.”

“Yeah, but this is you we’re talking about,” she laughed. “I’m sure you’re a party animal, Doctor; all of you.”

“Well, just don’t expect me to dance,” Turlough muttered as they approached the front door of the palazzo.

“I won’t,” said Tegan. The front door opened and their host bounded long-leggedly down the steps to greet them:

“Hello there!” He animatedly pumped the cricketer’s hand, then Turlough’s, before planting a chaste kiss on Tegan’s cheek.

“Evening, Doctor,” she replied, with a grin. For a moment, just a moment, he looked surprised, before turning to the cricketer:

“You told them what was going on? I wanted it to be a surprise.” For the briefest of instants, he looked something like a sulky child.

“They rather worked it out for themselves,” the cricketer replied. “There was that whole business in the Death Zone, remember.”

“Remember? If only I could forget.” Their host indicated the front door with his thumb. “Well, the gang’s all here; just pretend to be surprised to see them, don’t want to give the game away, do we?” A thought appeared to occur to him as he stood there; he turned to the cricketer again: “Erm, you didn’t happen to pass a big scary sort of fella with a scarf and great big teeth on the way up here, did you?”

“Curly hair?” the cricketer inquired. “Grins all the time? Has trouble taking anything seriously?”

“That’s the one.”

“No.”

“Oh.” Their host frowned to himself. “It would be just like him to be late, wouldn’t it?”

“Now, you know he never turns up for reunions like this,” the cricketer said light-heartedly as he and his companions headed up the steps.

* * *

They wandered past the archway at first, the large blond man in the flowing coat of many colours going at a brisk trot, with the girl in the ill-advised yellow leotard top scampering to keep up. After about a minute, they reappeared, headed in the opposite direction, and paused for a moment.

“I think this is the place,” said the girl, in what sounded vaguely like an American accent. “Number Thirty-Three, Golden Dragon Street, Nine Knives District?” The man had his back to her, and to the entrance, looking around him like a dog trying to pick up a scent.

“Just be quiet for a second, Peri,” he ordered, peremptorily. “If, that is, you are indeed capable of being quiet. I just need to get my bearings; I’m sure that the last time I was here, Golden Dragon Street was over in this direction…” The girl sighed in annoyance, tugging at his garishly-patterned sleeve:

“I’m telling you, Doctor; I think this is the place!”

“And I think your sense of direction is about as badly flawed as your sense of fashion,” he retorted.

“Look who’s talking,” she sniped back. “At least I look like I got dressed with the lights on.”

“Can’t you just shut up for one solitary minute?” The gaudily-dressed man looked around him some more, oblivious to the face she was pulling at him behind his back: “Now, if I’m right — and I nearly always am — we are clearly in Half Moon Boulevard.”

“Oh, are we?” The girl sounded triumphant: “Well, okay then, if you’re so smart, why does that sign have a golden dragon on it?”

“Why does that —?” The large man rounded on her furiously, and came face to face with the tall, thin man in the tuxedo who had just emerged from the archway behind them.

“Er, hello,” he grinned. “Are you here for the party?”

“And who might you be?” The large man looked their host up and down for a moment before confirming his identity: “Ah, I see who you are.” He produced a black rectangle from his coat pocket, disdain written on his face: “I don’t suppose you can explain the meaning of this ridiculous invitation?” The host looked back at him for a longer, more contemplative, moment, and put his hands in the pockets of his dress trousers.

“You’re not a very nice man, are you?” he decided eventually. The large man gave a snort of contemptuous amusement:

“No, I’m not a very nice man. I am, however, a very busy man, with far better things to do than answering these sort of irresponsible summonses.”

“Don’t listen to him,” the girl interjected, rolling her eyes. “He was actually going to go on a fishing trip before he got your invitation.” The large man was indignant:

“It was not a fishing trip; it was a crucial intergalactic disarmament conference, if you must know.”

“You didn’t see this tall sort of bloke on your way up, did you?” their host asked, hopefully. “Teeth and curls?”

“That grinning idiot?” asked the large man. “No, and I hope that I don’t see him any time soon.” The girl shrugged and extended a hand to the man in the tux:

“Hi, I’m Perpugilliam Brown; everyone calls me Peri. The fat guy in the loud coat is the Doctor.” Their host grinned delightedly:

“I know. Good to see you, Peri.”

“Fat guy?” The gaily-clad Doctor gave another snort, before fixing his counterpart with another intense gaze: “So, it’s one of those sort of gatherings, is it? What is it this time? Omega’s back again? The Master’s taking over the universe? What? Oh, don’t tell me Borusa’s managed to free himself…” This time it was their host’s turn to shrug:

“Oh, no, it’s just a…well, a party. You know, I thought you might like to have a couple of drinks, let your hair down…you know.”

“You thought I might like…” The large man sounded outraged. “Do you have any idea of how presumptuous that is? How can you claim to know what I might like?”

“Well…er…I do know you rather well, don’t I?” the host pointed out. “And there’s free food,” he added hopefully. The large man gave it a moment’s thought, before turning to his companion:

“Well, I suppose since we’re here, we may as well put our heads around the door, say hello,” he suggested. The girl smiled at the man in the tuxedo:

“Looks like you just made Porky here an offer he can’t refuse.” The host stood in the archway and smiled fondly to himself as he listened to them bicker their way up the steps and through the front door:

“Porky? And have you looked in any mirrors lately, Miss Brown?”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“I’m just saying that if I had your Rubenesque physique I wouldn’t go around wearing so much spandex.”

“He was right — you’re not a very nice man.”

* * *

The doorbell chimed once more; there was a brief pause and then it chimed again. The host answered it, smiling all over his face, a banana daiquiri nonchalantly clutched in one hand. When he saw the haunted expression of the man standing alone on the doorstep, the smile faded by a few hundred candlepowers.

“Good evening,” said the man, forcing the ghost of a smile. It looked as if it had been a long time since he had had cause to smile about anything. He was a Byronic figure with chestnut-coloured ringlets and a velvet frockcoat; old, old eyes in a young-looking face.

“I’m glad you could come,” whispered the host, sincerely. “Really; I know what you’re going through right now.”

“Thank you,” the man gratefully replied. “It’s been…it’s been a…a long time since I had any sort of break from it.”

“I know,” said the host. “I remember how it was, the War; desperation, despair. Come in and have a drink; forget about it, just for one night.”

“I’ll try.” The man hesitated on the threshold, poised as if about to say something. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t ask, but…how does it end?”

“The Daleks lose,” his host told him, meeting his steely gaze with one even steelier. “That’s all you need to know.”

“Thank you,” the Romantic figure repeated. His hand was shaking, uncontrollably. He thrust it into his trouser pocket, too late to conceal it. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost embarrassedly; his eyes glistened.

“It’s all right,” whispered the host, and looped his free arm around the Byronic man’s neck, drawing him into an embrace. “It’ll all be all right,” he murmured through his own incipient tears. “I promise.”

Together, they walked into the dining room, standing for a moment looking at the gathered throng. Peri was enthusiastically greeting the cricketer and Turlough as if they were old friends, giving the former a particularly fond embrace, as they both politely tried to act as if they had a clue who she was. The man in the velvet coat surveyed the scene, open-mouthed; a sort of happiness dawned in those expressive, wounded eyes, illuminating his face, even if it was only for an instant:

“Marvellous,” he breathed. “I never thought…” He turned to his host.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” the tuxedo-clad man laughed, clapping him on the back. “Go on, enjoy yourself; just for one night.”

“I wish Romana were here,” the man said. “She said she was too busy trying to force that motion through the High Council.” The host sneaked another look at his fob-watch:

“I’m hoping she will be,” he replied. “I thought she’d be here by now, actually…You didn’t happen to see them on your way up, did you?” The Romantic gave it a moment’s thought:

“Tall, curly-haired sort of chap, scarf and teeth? Superior sort of woman; blonde hair, strange clothes?”

“Yes,” the host eagerly agreed.

“No.”

“Ah.” The host made a sweeping arm gesture that took in the whole party: “Well, go on, then; mingle!” The guest did as he was told, wandering into the throng, greeting all that he passed:

“Jamie! Zoe! Brigadier! Tegan! Turlough! Peri!” None of them knew who he was; only the other Doctors recognised him, and saw the pain and anguish in him, returning his greetings with a certain careful kindness:

“Good evening, young man. Hmm?”

“Yes, welcome to the party; my word, this is all rather fun, isn’t it?”

“Have one of these, old fellow; Napoleon Bonaparte taught me how to make them.”

“Ah, yes, well, hello; very pleased to meet you.”

“Who are you? And why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit?” The last remark came from the large man with the psychedelic coat, now holding a plate piled high with various canapés. The velvet-coated man ignored him, making a beeline for one particular guest, currently sipping orange juice at the centre of the knot of Doctors:

“Susan!”

“G-grandfather? How many of you are there?”


2.

“Oi! Open up!” Knuckles rapped unapologetically on the door, pointedly ignoring the bell-pull. “Invites us to a party and then locks the door,” the strident, no-nonsense voice grumbled. “He probably heard you were coming, Jack.”

“Can I help you?” The door opened abruptly, and the trio on the doorstep found themselves face to face with their host.

“Yeah, mate,” said the man with the crew-cut and the leather jacket. “Someone said there was supposed to be a party here; so here we are, the life and soul.”

“Glad you came,” grinned the man in the tuxedo. “Jack, how’s it hanging?”

“Slightly to the left,” replied the man with the long overcoat, the American accent and the white, white teeth; he arched one innuendo-impregnated eyebrow. “Are you single?” he asked, looking the host up and down.

“Hey, that’s me you’re talking to!” the man with the leather jacket protested.

“What, you’re jealous?” Jack grinned. “Dress better and grow some hair, and we’ll talk about it.” Their host had in the meantime shifted his attention to the third of the new arrivals:

“Rose,” he said, in the same wistful, longing tone of voice in which he had addressed Susan. Maybe not exactly the same; there was an edge to it, a tinge of anguish and desire. The blonde girl in the party clothes and the slightly overenthusiastic makeup shifted uncomfortably under his liquid, emotional gaze:

“Er, do I know you?” she asked.

“You will,” he replied. “Well, I say that; you already do, it’s just…well, a bit wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey; you know?”

“Er, no.” She turned to the short-haired man: “Doctor, is this kosher? I mean, he’s not some sort of weirdo?”

“Some sort of weirdo?” he replied in his Mancunian accent.

“Yeah, you know; more of a weirdo than you are.” Rose grinned cheekily at him.

“Thanks!” The leather-clad man turned back to their host: “Have you got booze in there? And grub?”

“Yeah, and music.”

“Music?” Jack again arched his eyebrows, quite wickedly. “And dancing?”

“And dancing,” agreed the host. “By which I mean actual dancing; not any kind of smutty metaphor, if that’s what you’re grinning at.”

“Hey, we’ll see,” said Jack. “The night is young.”

“Is he going to be trouble?” the host asked the Mancunian.

“No,” he replied, giving Jack a pointed look. “He’s going to be on his very best behaviour, aren’t you, Jack?”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

“Well, then, come inside,” urged their host, taking Rose courteously by the hand: “If I may; the party awaits.”

“Er, yeah, lead on,” she suggested, bemusedly. The leather-clad Mancunian seemed to find it all rather amusing. “So, you and the Doctor, you’re like…mates, then?”

“Oh, very old mates,” their host grinned. “Brothers, practically.”

“Yeah, we go way back,” agreed the man in the leather jacket. As he emerged into the dining room, there was another general turning of heads in his direction. “’Ello, there, folks,” he nodded, “mine’s a pork pie and a pint of bitter.”

“Look what the cat dragged in,” replied the man in the multicoloured coat. “And there aren’t any pork pies.”

“Well, not any more, there aren’t,” the American girl snidely commented. The short-haired man sauntered over to them:

“Eh, Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, are we going to have a problem here? Just ‘cause these fellas are too polite to tell you to shut your flamin’ cakehole —” It was Jack who intervened in an effort to defuse the situation:

“Hey, get a room you two,” he advised, before announcing to the room at large: “Relax everyone, I’m here, now; we can get this party started.”

“And just who the hell are you?” the Australian girl bluntly asked.

“Me?” Jack’s grin was blinding. “I’m the good time had by all.” He did a very theatrical double-take as Jamie passed him: “Love the skirt.”

“’Snae a skirt, yer great grinnin’ jackanapes!” Jamie almost went for the skein dhu thrust into his sock, before the little hobo placed a conciliatory arm around his shoulders:

“Now, now hold on, Jamie, remember what I told you before: polite company.”

“Isnae ver’ polite to say ah’m wearin’ a skirt!” Jack was oblivious to the response he had provoked; he was too busy mildly harassing his way down the length of the buffet table:

“I love a man in uniform,” he commented as he passed Turlough and the cricketer. Turlough considered this for a moment before replying, in a very polite, brittle voice:

“Lay a hand on me and I’ll kill you.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the good-looking guys.”

“I can’t take you two anywhere,” Rose told the man in the leather jacket.

“Look,” said their host, a little testily, laying a hand on both Jack’s and Turlough’s shoulders, and giving Jamie a stern, schoolteacherly look; “nobody is killing anybody. Okay? This is a party, as in, let’s party.”

“Like it’s 1999?” asked Rose, brightly.

“Yes, like it’s 1999.” He grinned down at her, once again all puppy-dog eyes and churning emotions for a moment. “Wanna dance?” he asked. “And I really do just mean dance.” He had taken hold of her hand again, and this time she seemed to accept it with equanimity:

“I’d love to.” As they reeled off together into the middle of the floor, the man in the leather jacket exchanged glances with the man in the garish coat:

“What’s ‘e got that I ‘aven’t got?”

“What’s he got that —?” the portlier man contemplated a half-eaten sausage roll. “Where do I begin?”

* * *

The doorbell pealed uproariously for a solid minute before the host made his way to open it: he appeared with another banana daiquiri in his hand, and this time also with a crumpled paper hat rammed onto his thatch of unruly hair. The tall, broad man on the doorstep, with his mop of curls and the maniacal grin, cut in some ways a very similar figure. Of course, he was not wearing a tuxedo but rather a large overcoat and a ludicrously long scarf; fortunately, his companion was; the fact that she was female had only attracted a few glances on their way down the street; Arcadactis was a cosmopolitan sort of town.

“You’re late, you know,” their host informed them.

“Oh no, I’m always on time,” the curly-headed man replied. “You’re lucky I showed up at all, you know; I don’t normally turn out for these sort of things.”

“So I’ve been told.” Their host looked at the curly-headed man’s companion for a long, long moment; once again he had that faraway look in his eye. For her part, she was staring back at him with something close to horror:

“Oh my…” she breathed in startled recognition. “Great Rassilon’s Tomb! Just what is going on here? The Intervention Agency will erase us all if they find out…” The curly-headed man looped an arm familiarly around her shoulders:

“Romana,” he said, “let me stop you right there; consider what you’re saying for a moment.” She was, however, not to be dissuaded:

“The laws are quite strict on the subject of fraternising with one’s own incarnations.” The curly-headed man’s toothy grin only widened:

“Yes, well, you know what I always say; you can’t make an omelette without breaking laws. Now, we could run back to the TARDIS while we still can and hit that randomiser for all we’re worth in an effort to throw the dogs off the scent…”

“It does sound like the most sensible course of action right now,” Romana eagerly agreed.

“Well, exactly,” he said; “we can’t do that — it’s exactly what they’ll be expecting us to do.” She gave that a moment’s puzzled consideration:

“I think you’re wrong, Doctor; Intervention Agents are taught always to expect the unexpected.”

“Yes,” he continued, “but in my case the most sensible course of action is the most unexpected!” Their host’s lips visibly moved as he tried to work out the logic of this finely-tuned argument; eventually, he gave up and knocked back some of his drink. “That settles it,” the curly-headed man concluded; “Romana, you’re a genius!”

“Well, I am, that’s true,” she agreed, “but I still think we should run for it before the erasure squad gets here.”

“Yes, but…” The curly-headed man frowned at her in mild annoyance: “Come on, it’s a free party! You know; free drinks, canapés, that kind of thing. You like canapés, don’t you, Romana?” She thought about it, clearly dubious about the whole subject of party food.

“Those little sausages on sticks?” she asked, thoughtfully. The man with the scarf shrugged:

“I don’t know; I’m not psychic.”

“Of course you are,” she replied. The curly-headed man turned enquiringly towards their host, who was stood watching the whole exchange with a kind of misty-eyed fondness:

“Tell me, mine host — do we have little sausages on sticks?” The question seemed to shock the tuxedo-clad man out of his reverie:

“Well…not as such. We’ve got those little pastry things with the prawns in them.”

“Vol-au-vents?” Romana enquired.

“Language!” the curly-headed man admonished her, with a twinkle in his eye.

“And music and dancing!” their host informed them.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to dance the night away?” the scarf-wearing man asked Romana.

“No, not really.” She considered their host as he continued to gaze at her; he appeared to be constantly on the point of saying something, but seemed to be having difficulty working up the courage. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asked him with characteristic directness. He managed to smile, but it still took him a moment to respond:

“I…I haven’t seen you in a while,” he almost whispered. “And…” He shook his head helplessly, lost for words. “I’m just so glad that you’re here.”

“Well, that’s very flattering,” she replied, or tried to; suddenly, he had his arms around her, holding her close. Helplessly, she stared at the curly-haired man from their host’s embrace, at a complete loss as to what to do about it. He suddenly wasn’t grinning; in fact, he looked nearly as thoughtful and sad-eyed as their host had:

“Go on, Romana,” he advised her. “Hug him back; he looks like he needs it.” Romana did as she was told.

* * *

“And who might you be?” Jack asked the dark-haired girl in the striped jumper.

“I’m Susan,” said Susan, nervously; she was not used to men standing so close to her, or looking at her like that. “Susan Foreman.”

“Well, hello, Susan Foreman,” Jack smarmed, taking hold of her hand and turning his smile up to eleven.

“Oi, mate,” said the short-haired man with the leather jacket, appearing out of nowhere to clap Jack on the back. “She’s family, okay?”

“Okay,” said Jack. “I was just foolin’ around.”

“I’ve seen your idea of foolin’ around; now hop it.” As Jack made off into the throng, the short-haired man turned to Susan, the hostility and arrogance draining out of his face, leaving something else behind; something softer but maybe even more frightening. “Susan,” he said. “Long time no see.”

The Romantic poet with the velvet coat was stood at one end of the long table, absentmindedly clutching an untouched glass of wine. He watched the others eating and drinking and talking; some of them had followed their host’s example with the dancing; Jamie was swinging Tegan around the floor with gusto; she appeared to be loving every second of it. The Brigadier shuffled around the floor with Zoe in a very military-looking waltz. Turlough looked positively terrified as Peri dragged him away from the buffet with a loud “C’mon, it’ll be fun!” Jack was laughing like a drain as the white-haired old man and the brightly-coated gourmand exchanged what looked like cross words and the hobo and the dandy bickered over some historical personage they both claimed to have met.

“I’m not very good at dancing,” said the blond cricketer, appearing at the Byronic man’s elbow. “How about you?”

“I, er,” the other hesitated; every word seemed to come out marinated in pain and regret. “I haven’t danced in…quite some time…”

“Still, it’s nice to get out once in a while,” the cricketer said, with a gentle smile, as if he never did anything exciting; he was sipping what appeared to be mineral water. Over by the punchbowl, the man in the leather jacket was deep in conversation with Susan, with a strange, glistening, sort of expression on his face; she looked taken aback and even a little frightened at all of the attention she was getting. Rose looked on, incredulously; somebody must have told her who Susan was, and it seemed that she was having some trouble getting used to the idea.

“I’ve been getting out rather a lot lately,” the Romantic said, very quietly. “It’s…” he turned to the cricketer, looking him helplessly in the eye. “If you knew…”

“If I knew I’d just do exactly the same again,” said the cricketer. “So, let’s not talk about it, shall we?”

“Of course not,” the velvet-clad man agreed and downed his glass of wine in one long swallow, then made a face. “That’s terrible.”

“Chateau LaSalle 1963, or so the chap with the frills keeps saying.”

“My good man,” the dandy loudly responded to the hobo’s latest remark, “the Marquis de Sade did not throw good parties at all; in fact, he was a complete cad!”

“Oh dear, did I say the Marquis de Sade?” the little man sounded horrified. “I meant the Marquis of Bath…”

“Well, he was a bounder as well,” the dandy replied, giving his own glass of wine a thoughtful sniff. “Sometimes I wonder how I ever used to manage when I was you.”

“All right, there.” It was the man in the leather jacket, having eventually left Susan alone. He was peering suspiciously at the small triangular-cut sandwich he had managed to spirit out from under the nose of the loud man in the loud coat. “Prawns?” he contemptuously asked himself. “What kind of artsy-fartsy Southern Jessie thing is that? What’s wrong with fish paste?”

“Well, apart from the fact that it’s disgusting,” the cricketer began, but the interloper had already turned his attention to the man in the velvet frockcoat:

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, gently. “I…I remember how hard it was, during the…well, when I was you; not much time to yourself.”

“No,” the Romantic agreed, and both the cricketer and the adoptive Mancunian waited for a moment, expecting him to continue. That, however, was it.

“Listen,” said the man in leather, and there was that haunted look in his eye that he had had when he was talking to Susan. “There are things…”

“Please don’t tell me,” the Romantic insisted. “If you...if I knew how it ended, I don’t think I’d have the strength to go on. I…I’m not very brave, you see. I thought I was, but…”

“But then you saw Arcadia fall.”

“Yes.” The Mancunian put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and support:

“You’re braver than me, mate; you did what had to be done; I just ran away after.” His voice caught, and his eyes brimmed for a moment. “I’d lie to you, tell you everything turns out fine,” he continued, after a pause to gather himself, “but I’ll be honest; it gets worse before it gets better; but in the end the Daleks lose; they do lose.”

“I think we’re all going to lose,” the Romantic replied.

“Well, I didn’t say we won, did I?” For a moment, they just stood there, the leather-clad man with his hand on the Romantic, communing silently. The cricketer looked on, equally silent; his face had turned white.

“I need a drink,” he decided, putting down the mineral water. At that moment, the door at one end of the hall opened wide and their host returned, with one arm around each of the two latest arrivals.

“You’ll never guess who’s here!” he excitedly announced.

“Him!” several people said, with various different intonations; the jury appeared to be out on whether his arrival was something to be glad about.

“Good evening,” beamed the man with the scarf and the curls. “Good turnout, I see; glad you could all make it; I’m the Doctor and this is Romana, although I think most of you already know us.”

“Hello,” Romana waved. “I suppose we do enjoy a certain notoriety.”

“Sorry we’re late,” the big man continued, casually helping himself to some wine and a chicken drumstick from a passing tray; he hadn’t yet paused for breath, and most of the people in the room were watching his monologue with something like fascination. “The traffic around the Eye of Orion was murder. Nice place you’ve got here,” he told the host as the white-jacketed figure with the tray continued on his way. “Tell me, do all of your waiters wear such obvious disguises?”

“Waiters?” Their host pulled up short. “There aren’t any waiters!” Without turning to look, he grabbed a handful of white jacket and pulled the figure back towards him. “What’s your game?” he asked, more curious than angry.

“Would you believe me if I told you that the Timelords had sent me to keep an eye on this illegal gathering?” asked the supposed waiter; he had a suspiciously black goatee and an expression that could only be described as a sneer.

“No,” the man in the scarf replied, relieving him of his precariously balanced tray. “Romana, have a canapé.”

“I believe I shall.” She examined the apparent waiter carefully. “Well, he isn’t a Timelord, that much is obvious.”

“The body he’s currently wearing isn’t,” their host said. “I might have known you’d show up,” he told the waiter. “Like a bad penny; so what’s the scheme this time? Eh?”

“Not so much a scheme as a target of opportunity,” the waiter snarled, shrugging off the white jacket to reveal the black velvet ensemble he wore underneath. “I saw my chance to rid myself of you forever, so I —”

“I dunno, what did you do?” asked the host, cautiously eyeing his banana daiquiri. “Put cyanide in the drinks? Plutonium? Aspirin?”

“Nothing so pitifully simple,” the waiter scoffed. “Carefully I laid my plans, slowly putting the pieces into place…”

“Did you actually have a plan?” Romana asked. The waiter looked pained:

“Not as such,” he admitted. “I was going to improvise.”

“Well, stop acting the goat and get yourself a drink and something to eat,” sighed their host. “Go on, then.” The ex-waiter stalked over to the buffet table; in that outfit, you had no choice but to stalk, or look like the universe’s most evil Elvis impersonator. He found himself standing next to the cricketer and the man in the multicoloured coat.

“You?” asked the latter, incredulously. “Can’t I go anywhere without running into you?”

“Believe me, the pleasure’s all yours,” the “waiter” grumbled. “One day, Doctor; one day, I’ll have my revenge!”

“Be quiet, there’s a good fellow,” said the cricketer. “And if you think you run into him a lot,” he told the man in the gaudy coat, “you should spare a thought for me.”

“Oh my God, what’s he doing here?” Tegan asked at the sight of the man in black.

“Enjoying the party like everybody else,” said the host, with a smile, but with an edge to it that suggested he would brook no disagreements. She shrugged and continued on her way over to the curly-headed guest, who was grinning insolently as he shook the Brigadier’s hand.

“Hello,” Tegan ventured, to receive an insolent grin of her own.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he replied, “but I’m sure when we do we’ll get on like a house on fire. I’m the Doctor.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m Tegan Jovanka, and I saw — oh God, I saw you…”

“Well, whatever it was, don’t tell me; I love surprises. Romana loves surprises too, don’t —” he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Romana had wandered off somewhere. “She’s always doing that,” he told the Brigadier.

“So you’ve got that much in common,” the Brigadier smiled.

Romana was mingling; or trying to. She appeared all too conscious of the fact that half the eyes in the room were following her, and the other half were wondering who she was to draw such stares. The Romantic poet had turned a pale shade of green at the sight of her, and gave every sign of trying to hide behind the salad bowl; the cricketer was just standing with his hands in his pockets, apparently deep in thought.

“Excuse me,” she politely asked the ruffled dandy, “but you wouldn’t happen to have seen some vol-au-vents around here?”

“I think they were over there, my dear.” He gestured vaguely. “Nothing like a good vol-au-vent.” Romana picked up a small pastry case and looked at it:

“You’re right,” she said. “This is nothing like a good vol-au-vent.”

“I say,” said the dandy, “do we know each other?”

“In what sense?” she wondered. “Can anybody ever truly be said to know somebody else, in all aspects?”

“What pretentious nonsense,” the large man in the colourful coat declared. “You finally decided to stop patronising the people of E-space, I see?”

“Patronising? E-space?” Romana was nonplussed. “I’m pleased to see you as well,” she told the large man.

“Pleased to see me? I couldn’t wait to see the back of you, quite frankly. Over-educated —”

“That, my good fellow, is no way to speak to a lady!” the dandy sternly interjected. “Apologise, immediately.”

“No need to apologise,” Romana sniffed, haughtily. “My Doctor may occasionally be rude, but at least he’s funny.”

“Doctor!” Peri, just releasing Turlough from their enforced reel around the dancefloor, looked mortified: “Why do you always have to be like this whenever we’re with other people?” The man in the multicoloured coat simply gave a pained shrug as if he did not see what everybody else’s problem was.

“Romana?” It was the man with the short hair and the leather jacket; he looked as if he had seen a ghost. “Romana, is that you?”

“Er, yes?” she stared back at him in horrified fascination; he was looking at her the way their host had on the doorstep, but even more intensely.

“I…” He took her by the hand, shaking his head desperately and grinning all over his face; it looked ghastly. “It’s fantastic to see you,” he managed. “Fantastic.”

“I’m…very glad to be here,” she awkwardly replied.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “Sorry for everything.” And then, just as the other man had, he threw his arms around her, crushing her in his embrace. Romana looked around her, somewhat embarrassed, trying to look for all the world as if having random party guests grabbing hold of you and burying their faces in your shoulder was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“I never thought…” he was saying, over and over: “Never thought I’d see you…I can’t…” He sounded as if he might be about to burst into tears.

“Who’s she when she’s at home?” Rose asked anyone who cared to answer, shooting visual daggers at both Romana and the man in leather.

“Oh, that’s just her way,” grinned the man in the scarf, sidling over to Rose and still carrying the tray he had stolen from the purported waiter. “Frightfully over-familiar, if you ask me; I keep telling her, the way you throw yourself at men…” he realised Rose was too busy watching the other two to pay his repartee much heed. “Chicken drumstick?” he enquired. Rose looked at him as if noticing him for the first time:

“What? Oh, no thanks.”

“Jelly baby?” he asked, producing a paper bag from his coat pocket. “Have a green one; they go with your eyes.”

“I don’t have green eyes,” she replied. He just grinned and walked away. She returned to glaring at her Doctor, who was oblivious to her, still hanging onto Romana as if he was never going to let go.

“Cheer up,” suggested the host, putting his arm around Rose’s shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “It may never happen. Well…”

“Hey, keep your hands to yourself,” she said. He did not seem to hear her; he was too busy looking around the room with a confused frown on his face, as if trying very hard to remember something he had forgotten.

“We’re still missing somebody,” he suddenly realised.

“Glad to see the party’s in full swing,” said a light, lilting voice from somewhere behind them. The host spun around, not giving Rose much choice but to do the same. It was a short, unassuming man in a brown jacket and a Panama hat, emerging from what appeared to be a cupboard on the far side of the room. There was a girl with him, small, with a black bomber jacket glittering with badges and patches.

“Pleased you could make it,” said the host.

“I got here six hours ago,” the short man replied. “I was just getting my bearings; spying out the lie of the land.”

“You’ve been hiding in a cupboard for six hours?” the host asked, plainly amazed.

“Yeah, six bleedin’ hours,” complained the girl. “Gordon Bennett, I’m starving.”

“Six hours?” Rose asked.

“When I received your invitation,” said the little man to his host, “naturally I assumed it was a trap.”

“Naturally,” said the host, as if his guest were stark staring insane.

“So, obviously, I waited to see whether you were genuine before I made my move.”

“Obviously.” The host blinked. “You know, you can take all of this meticulous plotting and counterplotting too far sometimes.”

“You can never be too prepared,” said the little man; he had an umbrella which he swung like a swagger stick as he walked. A thought suddenly occurred to him: “Ace, you’d better disarm that booby trap.”

“Way ahead of you, Professor,” replied the girl in the bomber jacket, fiddling with what looked like a radio control.

“Who are you?” asked Rose.

“I’m the Doctor, and this is my friend Ace.”

“You’re the Doctor?” Rose glance over her shoulder at the short-haired man, still wrapped around Romana. “But he’s —”

“It’s best not to think about it,” said Ace. “Your brain might explode. London girl?” she asked, with a grin.

“Yeah,” said Rose. “Powell Estate.”

“Perivale.”

“Oh, the posh end?” Rose returned the grin, her jealous mood momentarily forgotten.

“Where are the drinks, then?” Ace asked; together, the two girls headed for the table.

“Ace,” called the man in the Panama hat.

“What is it, Professor?”

“Soft drinks, remember.”

“Right you are, Professor.” She mumbled a covert aside to Rose: “Yeah, right, soft drinks; sometimes it’s like going out with your dad!” Left more or less alone for the moment, the little man with the umbrella and the tall man in the tuxedo took a moment to size each other up.

“When you have a moment,” said the little man, eyes glittering, “you can explain to me what all of this is about, and why you chose this particular venue.”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you,” the host replied, without hostility, but with perhaps a certain steeliness. “I will, though; later. Right now, let’s just enjoy the party.”

“I always enjoy a good party,” said the little man, visibly brightening. “I’ll just pay my respects to Susan and the lady Romana; well, if he ever lets go of her.”

“I didn’t want to,” the host murmured to himself.


3.

The doorbell chimed again; the host looked up in confusion:

“But everyone’s here already,” he muttered to himself as he made for the front door. When he opened it, the man on the doorstep took a pace backwards; a suspicious person might think he was trying to stay out of the light for reasons of concealment.

“Special delivery,” he announced, in a smooth, suave voice, masking inner steel. The host looked at him as if he were completely mad:

“Special delivery? I haven’t ordered anything.”

“Special delivery,” the shadowy figure adamantly insisted, holding out a gift-wrapped box at arm’s length; the host noticed that the apparent deliveryman was wearing black leather gloves. He removed a slim silver cylinder from the pocket of his tuxedo and waved it across the top of the box; it buzzed and emitted a blue glow; wisps of smoke started to rise from the wrapping paper.

“What was it?” the host wearily asked, putting his sonic screwdriver away again. “A bomb? A mind-control device? A just-add-water tyrannosaur?”

“A bomb,” the “deliveryman” sheepishly admitted.

“Well, not any more.” The host turned to go back inside, waving the “deliveryman” in ahead of him. “Come on, stop acting like an idiot and come and get a drink; this is a party!” The deliveryman tossed the box away and did as he was told; he was a shortish, compact man with a black Nehru jacket and a black goatee turning to silver. When he arrived in the main room, a sizeable proportion of those present stared at him with a mixture of hostility and disbelief.

“I knew you’d get here sooner or later, you old scoundrel,” said the be-frilled dandy, with not quite as much hostility as a lot of the others. “You seem to be everywhere else I go.”

“Good Lord,” said the Brigadier, reflexively reaching for a sidearm that wasn’t there.

“Good evening, everybody,” smiled the latest arrival, taking his cigar case out of his jacket, and appearing to relish the looks of disapproval he was attracting. “It looks as if I got here just in time.”

“Are you another one of him?” Tegan asked, incredulously, indicating the cricketer and the man in the scarf, and the little hobo; the “deliveryman” laughed, and it was not a particularly pleasant or reassuring sound:

“Perish the thought,” he said, and, taking Tegan’s hand, courteously bent to kiss it. Tegan, for once in her life, was speechless.

“I dunno what his problem is,” Rose was telling Ace while continuing to glare at the man in the leather jacket, now talking at Romana a mile a minute. “Is she like his ex or something? He’s practically drooling on her.”

“I think someone the Professor’s age probably has exes all over the place,” Ace decided, handing Rose another drink. “Why; jealous?”

“Jealous?” Rose tried very unconvincingly to look casual. “Nah, don’t be daft.”

“Oh,” said Ace, innocently. “It’s just, the way you’re glaring at him and her, I thought that you and him must be —”

“What?” Rose appeared horrified. “Me and —?”

“I’m just saying.”

“What? No; what gave you that idea?” Rose desperately tried to change the subject: “I mean, what about you and your Doctor?” Ace nearly choked on her drink:

“What? Me and the Professor? Do me a favour; what kind of sick freak do I look like to you?”

“Sorry. I was just saying.” Jamie wandered past, perhaps somewhat the worse for drink.

“Now, he’s a bit of all right,” Ace commented. “Lovely knees.”

“I can’t say I think much of your party,” the large man in the garish coat informed the host. He nodded at the “deliveryman”, currently deep in passive-aggressive conversation with the dandy and the Brigadier. “Not a very exclusive guest list, is it?”

“You seemed to think quite a lot of my party food, though,” the host retorted. “And of course it isn’t an exclusive guest list; do you think any of us would be invited if it was?” The man in the leather jacket finally separated himself from Romana and went to get himself another beer; as he passed, the bright-coated man cast a spiteful glance in his direction:

“Finished slobbering over Little Miss Smart-Alec?” he asked. “Personally, if I never saw that little prig again, it’d be too soon.” The leather-clad man slammed the beer bottle down on the table, hard, and pivoted as if by magic to face the other man:

“Right, that’s it,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I’ve had enough of your backchat, Fatso; time to take out the trash.”

“Fatso?” the large man was furious.

“Doctor…” said Peri, warningly. The leather jacket man was squaring up to the large man, a threatening gleam in his eye:

“All right, then, mate; wanna dance?” It was the cricketer who intervened, physically pushing them apart and keeping a grip on the man in the leather jacket:

“No need for that,” he told him, calmly. “Violence never solves anything.”

“Violence almost never solves anything,” the man corrected him. “This is one of the other times.”

“Let them fight,” suggested Turlough, sardonically. “It might be quite entertaining.”

“Excuse me,” said the curly-haired man with the scarf, unceremoniously butting in. “I couldn’t help noticing that you chaps were having some sort of altercation over here; looks like fun. Can I join in?”

“Private business,” growled the man in the leather jacket. The curly-headed man grinned delightedly:

“Yes, between me and me.” He turned to the large man in the outlandish coat. “Hello; I believe I just heard you saying something unkind about my friend Romana.”

“I said something true about her,” the large man replied. “If it was unkind, then that’s hardly my fault, is it?”

“Yes.” The scarf-wearing man’s grin was suddenly gone; he jerked a thumb in the direction of the front door: “Outside.”

Romana had just exchanged pleasantries with the little man in the Panama hat, and was concernedly watching her Doctor leaving the room with Peri’s, when a throat was politely cleared behind her, indicating that somebody else required her attention:

“Hello,” said the Romantic poet with the velvet coat. “I…Well, hello.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” she said, taking the hand that was offered to her.

“You’re so young,” he said, somewhat distantly. “Just like you were when…” He reached out and brushed some of her hair back from her face, captivated. “Just like I remember you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, uncertainly. “Are you all right?” she asked, carefully.

“I am right now,” he replied. “And that’s the best any of us can hope for, isn’t it?”

The man in the Panama hat sidled over to the nearest table, apparently searching for something.

“Can I help you?” the crumple-faced hobo asked. “I must say, this is a very enjoyable party, isn’t it?”

“My friend Ace would probably say it was wicked. Aha!” The little man found what he had been looking for; two large silver tablespoons. Deftly, he threaded them between his fingers, back to back, and experimentally hit them against his other hand, producing a rhythmic clacking noise. “Tell me,” he said, “you wouldn’t still happen to carry that recorder with you?”

“I think I have it here somewhere,” said the hobo, searching his voluminous pockets; he piled various items onto the table as he did so; a yoyo, a slingshot, some coins, a ball of string, a toy Batmobile, a small mechanical spider… “Oh yes, here it is!”

“Excellent.” The man in the Panama hat pulled up a chair and put one foot up on it. “Jamie, turn the music down will you?”

“Aye; ‘tisnae a proper ceilidh without live music!” declared Jamie, as if there was any other kind of music in his home era.

“And a one,” said the little man, “and a two, and a one, two, three, four…”

“Gordon Bennett,” Ace said to Rose, “he’s playing his spoons again!”

The little man bounced the spoons off his hand, his knee, his forearm, his elbow, his shoe, and any other object that came within arm’s length; a manic, staccato rhythm. The spoons became a metallic blur, reverberating with impossible speed and complexity to the thin, haunting accompaniment of the little hobo’s recorder.

“Yeeee-Haaaahh!” screamed Jamie, or something like that, as he twirled around in a dervish-like Highland reel; he caught hold of the Brigadier and twirled him around too, their arms linked.

“Yeee-Hawww!” yelled the Brigadier, sounding like a true Clansman, as Jamie released him and he in turn linked arms with a startled-looking Tegan, spinning her around in a mad pinwheel. Jamie had moved on to Ace, grabbing her out of the throng and reeling her around the floor with more shrieks and yells. The little hobo paused at just the wrong moment in his recorder-playing; just as Jamie was releasing Ace and she in her turn was grabbing a laughing Rose by the hand.

“C’mon, Doctor!” called Jamie, linking arms with the hobo and dragging him onto the dancefloor. “I’ll make a Highlander o’ yer yet!”

“Oh, my giddy aunt!”

The man with the scarf walked back into the room at this point, painfully shaking his hand:

“Goodness me,” he said, to nobody in particular. “I’ve got a jaw made of concrete; like punching an anvil!” Seconds later, the large man in the colourful coat tottered in, one eye starting to swell and clutching a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

“Doctor!” Peri ran over to him and started fussing over him; he waved her away with characteristic irritability:

“Get your hands off me! It’s fine, it’s fine! Stop flapping at it!”

“And suppose,” said the dandy in the frills, as casually as possible, and certainly not casting shifty glances over his shoulders as he did so, “suppose I wanted to override a randomisation block, placed, for example, and purely hypothetically you understand, on a spacetime navigation computer?”

“You’re talking about Voegel’s Trinominal Theorem?” Zoe screwed up her face in thought for a moment, recalling the babble of long-ago indocto-tapes.

“You know,” said the black-clad “deliveryman”, puffing on a fine Havana cigar and sipping cognac from a crystal balloon, “there’s probably a special Hell for people who use innocent child-savants to circumvent the terms of their enforced exiles. Even I have my limits.”

“If you do, old fellow, nobody knows what they are,” the dandy retorted.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Zoe, perkily. “It’s quite simple, in fact; the way I was taught to solve it was by using Quantum Vacuum Calculus; you cross-reference the hyper-valences of the two variables and —”

“Well, I suppose you can do it that way,” Romana cut in, a glass of white wine held poised halfway to her mouth. “If you want to go all the way around the houses. I’d just use simple Heisenbergian Logic Equations; a much more elegant solution.”

“Well, how do you deal with Uncertainty Leakage?” asked Zoe, intrigued.

“You set “x” to stand for the Planck Constant, of course,” Romana replied, as if it were perfectly obvious. “I learned that in my first term at the Academy.”

“I see.” Zoe couldn’t take her eyes off Romana. “You’re very…highly educated,” she said, and blushed like a schoolgirl.

“I do have my uses,” Romana replied, staring back into Zoe’s eyes. They may even have leaned slightly towards each other, before a querulous, elderly voice broke into their reverie:

“You young people today, think you invented spacetime manipulation, don’t you? Hmm?” Everyone in the little group turned to look at the old man with the long white hair.

“Now, Grandfather,” said Susan, nervously.

“We practically did,” said Romana. “In your day, you were still labouring under the misapprehension that dimensional folding was a practical system. Warp engineering is taught as standard nowadays.”

“Warp engineering!” scoffed the old man. “Were we ever that arrogant?” he asked the dandy. The dandy had the good grace to give a sheepish sort of smirk:

“I fear we still are,” he commented, thoughtfully rubbing the back of his neck. “Still, I rather like her.”

“You’re not the only one,” sneered the deliveryman, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke in Zoe’s general direction. Zoe turned an even deeper shade of pink. At that moment, their host emerged from the chaotic Highland reel, involuntarily staggering towards them after the Brigadier released his arm.

“Isn’t it brilliant?” he asked, face shining. “I haven’t enjoyed myself this much since…” His eyes alighted upon Romana, who still regarded Zoe with a combination of apprehension and curiosity. “Since…” He took a moment to rearrange himself, buttoning his jacket, straightening his bowtie and pointlessly running a hand through his dishevelled hair, before approaching her with a kind of adolescent edginess. The dancing had broken up, amid much laughter and general back-slapping; the manic spoon concerto had momentarily subsided, and a slower, sadder sort of tune was playing as somebody turned the sound system up again. “Romana?” asked the host, uncertainly. “Would you do me the honour of the next dance?” She looked at him for a long moment before replying:

“I’d be happy to.”

And so they danced. It wasn’t quite a foxtrot and it wasn’t quite a tango, and the music they danced to was mournful and strange. They held each other closely, familiarly, as if they had danced together a hundred times; their bodies seemed to fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. And as they danced, the room watched, entranced. The old man watched, as his granddaughter fondly embraced him from behind, and the little hobo watched with a kind of brooding soulfulness in his dark, compelling eyes. And the young Scotsman watched, rubbing his chin appraisingly at the sight of the tallish blonde girl in the man’s tuxedo; and the pixie-faced girl in the spangly jumpsuit watched with a sort of adoring fascination as the host twirled his partner at arm’s length before drawing her into an even closer clinch. And the dandy watched, humming along to the music under his breath, as did the soldier with the stiff upper lip and the stiffer moustache, and the man with the black jacket and the greying goatee, and the tall man with the curly hair and the improbable scarf, who grinned proudly as the blonde girl wrapped herself around the tall man in the tuxedo. And the cricketer watched, still wearing a distant, thoughtful expression with his hands firmly planted in his trouser pockets; and the loud Australian girl and the young man who looked too old for his school uniform also watched, with a kind of bewilderment. And the man in the rainbow-coloured coat watched, a little irritably, as the buxom American girl pressed an icepack to his bloody nose, and also watched, over her shoulder, and the man with the black goatee and the flamboyant dress sense looked on with quiet disdain. And as the dancers spun around and around like figure skaters, the small man with the Panama hat watched with grey, unreadable eyes, leaning heavily on his red-handled umbrella, and the girl in the black bomber jacket whispered a comment in his ear. And the man in the leather jacket and the buzz-cut watched, his chin resting on his hand, while the blonde girl with the aggressive makeup snaked an arm around his shoulders. And the man in the velvet coat and the Byronic ringlets watched, and as he watched he smiled, for the first time in a long time, and looked like a man falling in love all over again.

And suddenly, the music ended and so did the dance; the man in the tuxedo swept the blonde girl into an embrace, and leant in for the kiss, and she accepted it, one slender white hand clutching at his back. Then they tottered apart, both breathing hard; her chest rose and fell captivatingly as she looked up at him with a kind of fear and longing.

“Man,” said Jack, appreciatively; “that was hot.”

And then, she hurriedly made her way back to the nearest table, passing the man in the scarf, who was almost laughing with delight:

“You’ve gone all red!” he guffawed. “My word, I never knew you had it in you.”

“It’s just a little warm in here, that’s all,” panted Romana, and picked up a glass of something amber-coloured from the table, knocked it back, and coughed.

* * *

And still the party went on; late became early and night became morning and the pace slowed. Less dancing and more conversation, and nobody noticed, or acknowledged that they noticed, the more familiar forms of fraternisation, or whether a couple of the party guests disappeared for longer than it should have taken them to get to the toilet and back.

“See you later, sailor,” said Jack as he emerged from one of the disused bedrooms on the upper floor, smoothing his hair and grinning even wider than usual. Turlough emerged moments later, straightening his tie; still too flustered to say anything.

Ace was not quite as discreet about it; sitting in a shadowy corner of the room, she looked as if she was trying to suck Jamie’s tooth fillings out. Of course, they had not yet invented tooth fillings in eighteenth century Scotland, so she had to keep trying, and trying.

“Ah dinnae think ah’ve e’er met a lass like you,” he gasped when she eventually came up for air.

“You’d better believe it, mate.” In the few seconds before she latched onto him again, Jamie nervously glanced around him; it became apparent after a few minutes that he was trying to ascertain whether or not Zoe was looking at him. He need not have worried; she was on the other side of the room, swapping riveting tales of theorems proved and proofs solved with Romana.

“So, er,” Zoe smiled bashfully, “the Doctor says that you…your people, are very, er, open-minded about, well, certain things.”

“Open-minded?” Romana considered it. “Well, the Doctor’s mind’s so open you could probably fly a starship through it.”

“He said you were always open to new experiences.”

“I’ll try anything once,” said Romana. “Within reason.” Zoe’s face lit up:

“Oh, I think you’ll like this,” she said, grabbing Romana’s hand and leading her towards the stairs; they almost ran into Jack who was just coming down them.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ladies,” he said. Which was, to be honest, a very, very short list.

A little while later, their host stood up at one end of the room, loudly chiming a fork against his glass to get their attention.

“Speech! Speech!” the Brigadier demanded; he wasn’t really slurring his words; not that much, anyway.

“Well, er, hello everyone,” said their host, a little uncertainly at first, but gradually getting into his oratorical stride. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you here tonight.”

“Well, it had occurred to me,” said the man with the scarf and the curls, “but you don’t want to sound churlish when there’s free food and drink, do you?” He indicated the man in the Panama hat: “If it was him for instance, or the little chap with the recorder, I’d assume they had some dark ulterior motive, but that’s just my suspicious mind.”

“I’m glad my reputation precedes me,” said the Panama hat man, inscrutable as ever.

“Anyway, moving on,” their host quickly continued, “I asked you all here, because…well, because I haven’t seen most of you in much too long. It’s nice to have a get-together now and again, I think, and…” he hesitated, looking past all of them at something else for a moment. “And it’s no fun being by yourself, is it?” There was a general murmur of agreement around the room at this. “So,” he went on, switching on the suspiciously cheerful smile again, “it’s good to see all of you again; you’re all brilliant, even him in the bright coat.”

“Oh, thank you very much,” the guest in question sarcastically replied, voice muffled somewhat by the handkerchief he still had held to his nose.

“Well then, here we are, all old friends; even a couple of old enemies. And, well, what I was going to say was that there are quite a few other friends who couldn’t make it.” And again, his gaze shifted off somewhere into the distance and he looked lost in thought for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, absent friends,” he almost whispered, then seemed to notice all of them again: “So, er, raise a glass and we’ll have a toast, to friends, present company included, and especially to the friends who aren’t here.” On the table in front of him, he had filled a couple of dozen glasses with something pale yellow and slightly fizzy, and now started handing these out to all present. Romana and Zoe re-entered the room just in time to get a glass as well.

“You two enjoying the party?” asked their host, apparently oblivious to Zoe still zipping up her jumpsuit.

“It’s had its moments,” conceded Romana, flicking her hair back and looking even more flustered than she had immediately after their dance.

“To friends,” suggested their host, raising his glass; everyone present echoed his action, even the two men sporting goatees, which was rather ironic if you thought about it:

“Friends!”

“The Queen!” announced the Brigadier, a little out of the loop by now. The party fell back into a low hubbub of conversation and occasional laughter; the host took his opportunity to step out onto the balcony, standing there alone for a minute or two and breathing the cool early-hours air. The whole city was spread out before him; still the fireworks burst and the lanterns burned and the revellers danced in the streets; here and there police sirens wailed and broken glass tinkled, indicating that even the famously party-minded Arcadactins were starting to feel the strain a bit by now.

“Why did you choose this place, of all the places you could have chosen?” asked a voice behind him. He turned to see the man in the Panama hat emerge onto the balcony beside him; he had his full glass of yellow sparkling wine in one hand and a small, chirping electronic device in the other. The host shrugged, awkwardly:

“It’s history’s greatest and most famous party.”

“And also a great and famous tragedy; you know as well as I do what happens here, tomorrow; today, actually, by now.”

“At about noon local time,” said the host, “the star Marab finally turns supernova; ten minutes later, the shock front reaches Ciceronis, and sterilises it of all life. I know.”

“To somebody with a particularly morbid or self-pitying frame of mind,” said the little man, “there’s a vicarious attraction to visiting places like this; to other people, it’s just an interesting story; on the last night before their world died, they threw a party.”

“What were they supposed to do?” asked the host. “They’re only a level five civilisation; they have just enough technology to know what’s about to happen, but not enough to actually save themselves. It seems as good a response as any.” The little man nodded; it was hard to tell whether he actually agreed or not. He held the little device over the top of his wineglass; lights blinked and the chirping grew even more intense.

“Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”

“That’s a Mandanaean Poison Snooper,” the host pointed out. “You really are as Machiavellian as I remember me being.”

“Always think two moves ahead, as I keep telling Ace.” The little man frowned at the tiny readout display. “And the device says that this wine has been tampered with; some sort of broad-spectrum mnemonic suppressant. Very intriguing; the isotope analysis says it was manufactured on Earth, of all places.”

“It’s called Retcon,” admitted the host. “It’s a very small dose; its effects will come on gradually; by tomorrow, this party, all of this, will just seem like a distant, half-remembered dream; you won’t believe it really happened at all.”

“I don’t dream,” said the little man. “I don’t dare.”

“Me neither.” The host looked out over the city again, then down at his own glass. “I’m not completely irresponsible, you know,” he said. “It seemed like the best way to avoid any fallout from all of us meeting like this; paradoxes, spoilers, that kind of thing.” He casually tipped his glass over the edge of the balcony; the drink streamed out of it, a glittering string of diamonds disappearing into the darkness.

“You spilled your drink,” the little man pointed out. The host gave him a bitter smile:

“Tonight, the memories of it; I need them more than you do.” The little man looked at him for a moment, sadly considering him, before raising his own glass to his lips:

“Well, bottoms up.” He drained it in one.

And then came the saddest part of any party; saying goodbye. They came as they went; the old man and his granddaughter were first to leave; the host stood at the front door, waving them off.

“Thank you,” said Susan, very sincerely. “We both enjoyed ourselves very much.”

“See you, Susan,” said their host, kissing her on the cheek. “I promise.”

“Yes, it turned out to be very, hmm, enjoyable, young man,” said her Grandfather. “Good to see my future’s in such capable hands, hmm?”

“I’m glad you think so,” their host replied.

“And merry Christmas to all of you at home!” the old man cackled.

“What?” The host turned to Susan: “Better get this young whippersnapper back to the TARDIS; sounds like it’s way past his bedtime.”

“Goodbye,” said the hobo, effusively shaking the host’s hand. “I’d say I hope we meet again soon, but this sort of gathering is generally best avoided, I think.”

“You may be right,” the host smiled. “Goodbye, Jamie; and you too, Zoe.”

“Ahhh’vvv’mmmwhassaaayergreatgrinninsassenach!” Jamie slurred and nearly fell over.

“Oh dear,” said the hobo. “Help me to carry him, Zoe.”

“Yes, Doctor. Goodbye!” she called over her shoulder as they manhandled Jamie down the passageway.

“Wonderful party, old chap,” said the dandy on his way out. “Watch out for this blighter; he’ll steal the silverware.”

“Goodbye Doctor,” the “deliveryman” told both of them with his usual avuncular menace. “Next time we meet, things will not be so…cordial.” He had his arm around the “waiter”; together the two bearded men reeled off down the alleyway. “Now, listen to me,” the “deliveryman” was saying, “two heads are better than one; together, we can rule this pathetic universe…”

“Sad, isn’t it?” asked the host, watching them go.

“Seems to keep him amused,” observed the dandy. The Brigadier staggered out of the door at that moment, coming to rest with a hand on the dandy’s shoulder:

“Know what?” he asked, a little unsteadily. “Know what? I, I, I, I, I, I, I love you, Doctor…all of you!”

“Come on, Brigadier,” said the dandy, “Sergeant Benton will make you a cup of coffee when we get back.”

“Give Jo my regards!” the host called after them. “And the rest of the gang!”

“Must be off,” declared the cricketer, with a smile. “It was very…eventful, wasn’t it? Come on, Tegan! You too, Turlough!”

“G’day, mate!” Tegan said. “See you later!”

“I hope so,” their host replied. Turlough said nothing; he had a strange, thoughtful expression on his face, but then he always had been a strange one.

“We’re leaving!” announced the man in the Technicolour dreamcoat, dragging an embarrassed-looking Peri after him.

“Bye!” she called out as they receded into the distance. “Nice party! Sorry about him! Hope we can do it again some time!”

“So do I,” their host whispered to himself.

“I…I suppose I should be leaving,” said the Byronic Romantic, hovering for a moment on the doorstep. “Duty calls.” And his fragile smile disintegrated again, revealing an expression of hopelessness and despair. “I don’t want to go back,” he confessed, in an agonised whisper.

“Stay strong,” his host urged, giving him another comradely embrace. “You’re the strongest out of all of us; you do what none of the rest of us could; you save the entire universe.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier,” the Romantic replied.

“No, it doesn’t.” the host admitted. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” He said it with a sense of finality, a sense that this really was goodbye; then, he visibly pulled himself together and marched off, chin held high, ready to meet his destiny.

“It was all right,” said the man in the leather jacket as he too prepared to take his leave. “Bit fancy for me; next time we’ll go down Rose’s local boozer; they put on a fantastic spread, you know; tenner a head.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” their host politely answered.

“Hey, no goodbye kiss for me, big fella?” Jack asked, mock-petulantly.

“I would,” said their host, “but I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“I’m just sorry we never got the chance to dance,” Jack said. “Next time, huh?”

“Next time.” Their host turned to Rose, giving her another crushing hug before he let her go: “It was brilliant to see you,” he told her, quietly. “Really, it was.”

“See you soon,” said Rose, and the three of them headed off back to their TARDIS.

“You will,” their host agreed. “Sooner than you think,” he added when they were out of earshot.

The curly-headed man and Romana left the same way they had arrived; fashionably late.

“Well, it’s been nice, but the fat lady’s singing,” the man in the scarf announced.

“That’s no way to talk about Romana,” their host grinned.

“I heard that,” she told him. “It has been a very pleasant occasion,” she went on. “I wasn’t sure I was going to enjoy it, but…” she blushed, obviously thinking of something that she preferred not to share. “Yes, very pleasant.”

“I’m glad you could come,” the host told her, giving her another squeeze. “Truly, I am.”

“Well, come on then, Romana,” said the man in the scarf, “I know a little place where we can get some fried dormice and sauerkraut, just around the corner here.”

“Doctor, this planet blows up in a matter of hours,” she pointed out. “Don’t you think we should get out of here?”

“First things first, Romana! The overriding priority after a night’s wild revelry is some unhealthy takeaway food; everyone knows that! Did I ever tell you about the time I went drinking with Kit Marlowe and Will Shakespeare?”

“Several times.”

“Ohoh, now they were a pair of hellraisers! Let me tell you —”

Their host stood on the doorstep and watched them until they were out of sight. Then he gave a deep, sad sigh and went back inside to look at the remains of the party; dirty dishes, empty glasses, general debris. He turned off the music and took a moment to gaze once more at the view from the balcony, alone with his thoughts. The man in the Panama hat and his friend Ace had disappeared the same way they had arrived; mysteriously and completely unnoticed. For a second, the host considered whether he should tidy up; in light of what was going to happen in a few hours, there did not seem to be much point.

And all over that part of the city, as the guests made their respective ways home, a strange sound filled the air; a groaning, wheezing, grinding sound, coming from many different nooks and crannies and back alleys. Blue lights flashed in the slowly lightening darkness, and things that had been there one moment were suddenly not there the next; nobody noticed them go, just as nobody ever noticed them come and go. Just as nobody had noticed the old man hobbling along, arm in arm with his granddaughter, or the little hobo and the girl in the spangly jumpsuit, carefully manoeuvring the young man in the kilt along the pavement, or the smoking-jacketed dandy and the drunk man in the mess uniform, or the two men with black goatees bitterly fist-fighting on a street corner. And nobody had noticed the cricketer and the Australian girl and the young man in the school uniform as they made themselves scarce, or the man in the garish coat stamping along with an annoyed-looking young woman following several paces behind, or the man in the leather jacket and the blonde girl and the loud man with the American accent as they rolled down the street with their arms around each other, shouting and laughing. Just as nobody had noticed the lone figure in the velvet coat walking along with his head bowed, and nobody at all had seen the little man in the Panama hat and the girl in the bomber jacket as they made their stealthy exit. And absolutely nobody had observed the tall, curly-headed figure and the girl wearing a man’s dinner jacket pause in the pale cone of an iron streetlamp to share a tender kiss.

The sky in the east was a deep, dark blue now, and the air was cold; always coldest before the dawn. It was nearly sunrise, the last sunrise this world would ever know. And down a cobbled alleyway, a tall scarecrow figure in a dishevelled tuxedo stumbled towards a weather-beaten blue box, hands in pockets and all alone. And as he stumbled along, he sang; only to himself:

“I could have danced all night; I could have danced all night…”

END
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