Trigger Warning

They had booked two rooms in a local hotel, although hotel rooms had proved harder to find than Mr Browning had expected. Also, he had had to convince Mrs Browning, who was a nurse, that they could now afford to stay in a hotel.

‘What happens if he never comes back?’ asked Polly. She was sitting on the stairs, reading a book.

Mr Browning said, ‘Now you’re being silly.’

‘Don’t call your daughter silly,’ said Mrs Browning. ‘She’s got a point. You don’t have a name or a phone number or anything.’

This was unfair. The contract was made out, and the buyer’s name was clearly written on it: N. M. de Plume. There was an address, too, for a firm of London solicitors, and Mr Browning had phoned them and been told that, yes, this was absolutely legitimate.

‘He’s eccentric,’ said Mr Browning. ‘An eccentric millionaire.’

‘I bet it’s him behind that rabbit mask,’ said Polly. ‘The eccentric millionaire.’

The doorbell rang. Mr Browning went to the front door, his wife and daughter beside him, each of them hoping to meet the new owner of their house.

‘Hello,’ said the lady in the cat mask. It was not a very realistic mask. Polly saw her eyes glinting behind it, though.

‘Are you the new owner?’ asked Mrs Browning.

‘Either that, or I’m the owner’s representative.’

‘Where’s . . . your friend? In the rabbit mask?’

Despite the cat mask, the young lady (was she young? Her voice sounded young, anyway) seemed efficient and almost brusque. ‘You have removed all your possessions? I’m afraid anything left behind will become the property of the new owner.’

‘We’ve got everything that matters.’

‘Good.’

Polly said, ‘Can I come and play in the garden? There isn’t a garden at the hotel.’ There was a swing on the oak tree in the back garden, and Polly loved to sit on it and read.

‘Don’t be silly, love,’ said Mr Browning. ‘We’ll have a new house, and then you’ll have a garden with swings. I’ll put up new swings for you.’

The lady in the cat mask crouched down. ‘I’m Mrs Cat. Ask me what time it is, Polly.’

Polly nodded. ‘What’s the time, Mrs Cat?’

‘Time for you and your family to leave this place and never look back,’ said Mrs Cat, but she said it kindly.

Polly waved goodbye to the lady in the cat mask when she got to the end of the garden path.

III

They were in the TARDIS control room, going home.

‘I still don’t understand,’ Amy was saying. ‘Why were the Skeleton People so angry with you in the first place? I thought they wanted to get free from the rule of the Toad-King.’

‘They weren’t angry with me about that,’ said the young man in the tweed jacket and the bow tie. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘I think they were quite pleased to be free, actually.’ He ran his hands across the TARDIS control panel, patting levers, stroking dials. ‘They were just a bit upset with me because I’d walked off with their squiggly whatsit.’

‘Squiggly whatsit?’

‘It’s on the . . .’ He gestured vaguely with arms that seemed to be mostly elbows and joints. ‘The tabley thing over there. I confiscated it.’

Amy looked irritated. She wasn’t irritated, but she sometimes liked to give him the impression she was, just to show him who was boss. ‘Why don’t you ever call things by their proper names? The tabley thing over there? It’s called “a table”.’

She walked over to the table. The squiggly whatsit was glittery and elegant: it was the size and general shape of a bracelet, but it twisted in ways that made it hard for the eye to follow.

‘Really? Oh good.’ He seemed pleased. ‘I’ll remember that.’

Amy picked up the squiggly whatsit. It was cold and much heavier than it looked. ‘Why did you confiscate it? And why are you saying confiscate anyway? That’s like what teachers do, when you bring something you shouldn’t to school. My friend Mels set a record at school for the number of things she’d got confiscated. One night she got me and Rory to make a disturbance while she broke into the teacher’s supply cupboard, which was where her stuff was. She had to go over the roof and through the teachers’ loo window . . .’

But the Doctor was not interested in Amy’s old school friend’s exploits. He never was. He said, ‘Confiscated. For their own safety. Technology they shouldn’t have had. Probably stolen. Time looper and booster. Could have made a nasty mess of things.’ He pulled a lever. ‘And we’re here. All change.’

There was a rhythmic grinding sound, as if the engines of the Universe itself were protesting, a rush of displaced air, and a large blue police box materialised in the back garden of Amy Pond’s house. It was the beginning of the second decade of the twenty-first century.

The Doctor opened the TARDIS door. Then he said, ‘That’s odd.’

He stood in the doorway, made no attempt to walk outside. Amy came over to him. He put out an arm to prevent her from leaving the TARDIS. It was a perfectly sunny day, almost cloudless.

‘What’s wrong?’