Trigger Warning

‘Completely impossible. You can’t take over a Level 5 planet. Unless you do it legitimately.’ On the TARDIS control panel something whirled and something else went ding. ‘We’re here. It’s the nexus. Come on! Let’s explore 1984.’

‘You’re enjoying this,’ said Amy. ‘My whole world has been taken over by a mysterious voice. All the people are extinct. Rory’s gone. And you’re enjoying this.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said the Doctor, trying hard not to show how much he was enjoying it.

* * *

The Brownings stayed in the hotel while Mr Browning looked for a new house. The hotel was completely full. Coincidentally, the Brownings learned, in conversation with other hotel guests over breakfast, they had also sold their houses and flats. None of them seemed particularly forthcoming about who had bought their previous residences.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ he said, after ten days. ‘There’s nothing for sale in town. Or anywhere around here. They’ve all been snapped up.’

‘There must be something,’ said Mrs Browning.

‘Not in this part of the country,’ said Mr Browning.

‘What does the estate agent say?’

‘Not answering the phone,’ said Mr Browning.

‘Well, let’s go and talk to her,’ said Mrs Browning. ‘You coming with, Polly?’

Polly shook her head. ‘I’m reading my book,’ she said.

Mr and Mrs Browning walked into town, and they met the estate agent outside the door of the shop, putting up a notice saying ‘Under New Management’. There were no properties for sale in the window, only a lot of houses and flats with SOLD ON them.

‘Shutting up shop?’ asked Mr Browning.

‘Someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,’ said the estate agent. She was carrying a heavy-looking plastic shopping bag. The Brownings could guess what was in it.

‘Someone in a rabbit mask?’ asked Mrs Browning.

When they got back to the hotel, the manager was waiting in the lobby for them, to tell them they wouldn’t be living in the hotel much longer.

‘It’s the new owners,’ she explained. ‘They are closing the hotel for refurbishing.’

‘New owners?’

‘They just bought it. Paid a lot of money for it, I was told.’

Somehow, this did not surprise the Brownings one little bit. They were not surprised until they got up to their hotel room, and Polly was nowhere to be seen.

IV

‘Nineteen eighty-four,’ mused Amy Pond. ‘I thought somehow it would feel more, I don’t know. Historical. It doesn’t feel like a long time ago. But my parents hadn’t even met yet.’ She hesitated, as if she were about to say something about her parents, but her attention drifted. They crossed the road.

‘What were they like?’ asked the Doctor. ‘Your parents?’

Amy shrugged. ‘The usual,’ she said, without thinking. ‘A mum and a dad.’

‘Sounds likely,’ agreed the Doctor much too readily. ‘So, I need you to keep your eyes open.’

‘What are we looking for?’

It was a little English town, and it looked like a little English town as far as Amy was concerned. Just like the one she’d left, only without the coffee shops, or the mobile phone shops.

‘Easy. We’re looking for something that shouldn’t be here. Or we’re looking for something that should be here but isn’t.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Not sure,’ said the Doctor. He rubbed his chin. ‘Gazpacho, maybe.’

‘What’s gazpacho?’

‘Cold soup. But it’s meant to be cold. So if we looked all over 1984 and couldn’t find any gazpacho, that would be a clue.’

‘Were you always like this?’

‘Like what?’

‘A madman. With a time machine.’

‘Oh, no. It took ages until I got the time machine.’

They walked through the centre of the little town, looking for something unusual, and finding nothing, not even gazpacho.

* * *

Polly stopped at the garden gate in Claversham Row, looking up at the house that had been her house since they had moved here, when she was seven. She walked up to the front door, rang the doorbell and waited, and was relieved when nobody answered it. She glanced down the street, then walked hurriedly around the house, past the rubbish bins, into the back garden.

The French window that opened onto the little back garden had a catch that didn’t fasten properly. Polly thought it extremely unlikely that the house’s new owners had fixed it. If they had, she’d come back when they were here, and she’d have to ask, and it would be awkward and embarrassing.

That was the trouble with hiding things. Sometimes, if you were in a hurry, you left them behind. Even important things. And there was nothing more important than her diary.

Polly had been keeping it since they had arrived in the town. It had been her best friend: she had confided in it, told it about the girls who had bullied her, the ones who befriended her, about the first boy she had ever liked. It was, sometimes, her best friend: she would turn to it in times of trouble, or turmoil and pain. It was the place she poured out her thoughts.

And it was hidden underneath a loose floorboard in the big cupboard in her bedroom.

Polly tapped the left French door hard with the palm of her hand, rapping it next to the casement, and the door wobbled, and then swung open.