CHAPTER 15

The Wrong TARDIS

Amy sprinted north along Olympic Way, her heart pounding. For the umpteenth time since leaving the stadium, she checked over her shoulder. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone – or something – was following her. But, as far as she could tell, she was still alone.

She didn’t slacken her pace, though. Even if she wasn’t being pursued – for a change – she was still up against the clock. The Doctor’s plan would only work if they could put it into action before the Vispic larvae transformed. Which meant they only had until the end of the match. Time was running out fast.

Amy reached the junction with Fulton Road and turned right on to its south-side pavement. The main road, which had been so busy earlier, was now deserted. Her route along Olympic Way had been eerily quiet too. Anyone who wasn’t actually at the match was tucked away inside somewhere, following it on the radio – or, if they were lucky enough to have access to one, watching it on TV. London’s streets had never been so empty.

Amy jogged along the pavement, then crossed to the other side of the road again. She passed the news stand where she, Rory and the Doctor had stopped off earlier. It was locked up and unattended.

She was beginning to get a stitch. But it wasn’t far now. Albion Way, where the TARDIS had materialised, was just up ahead. She put on a final effort to keep up her speed, determined not to let the Doctor down …

PC Sanderson’s good intentions of listening to just some of the match hadn’t quite worked out – the game was now in its ninetieth minute, and the policeman was still shut away in his call box, listening intently to the gripping commentary on his borrowed radio.

‘ … and as Emmerich strides forward to take this last-ditch free kick, a nervous silence has fallen over the England fans …’

‘Miss it, miss it, miss it,’ muttered Sanderson. He was perched on the edge of the box’s bench seat, with a forgotten cup of tea cold in his hand.

‘Emmerich’s shot is blocked by Cohen and – oh! Dear me! It’s a goal! Weber scores for Germany!’

‘No!’ Sanderson let out a groan of despair and slumped back against the wall of the box.

‘There are appeals from the English players for handball! But the referee waves away their protests! The goal stands. The West German centre-back has snatched a last-minute equaliser …’

Sanderson couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could England have let West Germany score now, when they were so close to victory?

‘ … and there’s the whistle to signal the end of the second half! So, it’s all square at two-all. Both teams will need to summon the energy to play another thirty minutes to decide this epic contest. England, who only moments ago seemed destined to lift the World Cup here at Wembley, now find themselves still with everything to do to win th–’

Suddenly Sanderson stood bolt upright, spilling his tea. Someone had just burst through the door of the police box.

It was a pretty young woman with long red hair. She was breathing fast. She looked as surprised to see Sanderson as he was to see her.

‘Ah …’ She looked around the box’s cramped interior as though it wasn’t what she had expected to find. ‘Sorry … my … mistake …’ she panted. ‘Wrong TARDIS!’

She took another second or two to get her breath. Sanderson was still too taken aback to speak.

The stranger flashed a smile at him. ‘Sorry if I startled you, officer.’ She glanced at the radio set, which was still chattering away. ‘Been following the match?’

Sanderson looked a little sheepish. ‘I was … erm … just listening to a few minutes, yes, miss.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Not well. It looked like we had it won, but the Germans just equalised. It’s going to extra time.’

The young woman looked delighted. ‘Yes!’

Sanderson frowned. He failed to see how Germany scoring could be good news. ‘But surely you don’t want Germany to win?’

‘No,’ said the redhead. ‘No, I don’t want Germany to win. I don’t want anyone to win just yet. Extra time is absolutely what we need.’

Sanderson was finding this unexpected conversation increasingly confusing. He decided to start again. ‘May I ask your name, miss?’

‘You go first.’

‘Very well. PC Sanderson of Harlesden Police Station at your service.’

‘First name?’

‘William. Bill.’

This wasn’t going as Sanderson had intended. Somehow, he seemed to have ended up answering the questions.

‘Bill.’ The girl smiled. ‘As in “the old Bill”. Good name for a copper. That and Bobby.’

Sanderson once again tried to take charge. ‘And you are?’

In response, the young woman pulled a slim, shiny rectangular object from her pocket. She stared at its smooth surface for a moment, stroking and tapping it several times with her finger. Sanderson was amazed to see tiny luminous pictures flit across the device’s glassy face. The girl held it up in front of him.

‘Agent Beckham, Special Branch.’

Sanderson stared in disbelief. It was a miniature display screen, not altogether unlike a tiny television. It showed a picture of the redhead’s face, with the text MY PROFILE above it. There was more text underneath, but before he could read it the young woman withdrew her hand.

‘What … what is that thing?’ stammered Sanderson. ‘It’s amazing!’

‘Standard-issue Special Branch equipment.’

‘So, you’re with the Met? Like me?’

‘Uh-huh. But plain clothes, assigned to anti-terrorist stuff.’ She moved closer to address him earnestly. ‘We have a serious situation on our hands, PC Bill Sanderson. A Code Thirteen.’

‘Code Thirteen?’

‘Extraterrestrial invasion,’ stated the young woman without flinching. ‘How do you fancy helping to save the population of London, Bill?’

‘Extraterrestrial inva–’ Sanderson pulled a face. ‘Is this some kind of joke, miss?’

The young woman’s expression didn’t falter. She was deadly serious, he could see.

‘You’re suggesting … aliens?’ said Sanderson. ‘But that’s not possible!’ He hesitated. ‘Is it?’ The magical technology the young constable had just seen in action had turned his idea of what was possible upside down. ‘I mean, they don’t exist, do they?’

‘Oh, yeah. They exist all right. And right now they’re out and about here in London. Big scary people-eating ones. I could use a little help dealing with them.’

Sanderson was finding this surprise meeting most unsettling. Once more, he tried to get a grip. ‘You say you’re from Special Branch?’

The young woman nodded.

‘Were they behind setting up that second call box?’ asked Sanderson. ‘The one next to this one? Has that got something to do with all this?’

Agent Beckham’s eyes lit up. ‘It has, Sanderson. Smart guess. And a quick look inside there should change your mind about the whole “impossible” thing.’ She turned back towards the open door. ‘Come on – I’ll show you around.’

The bewildered police officer found the idea of being shown around a five-square-foot box slightly odd – but, then again, everything about this meeting had been odd. Deciding to save his questions for the time being, he followed the young woman out through the call-box door and then into the other box alongside.

Amy watched PC Sanderson’s face as he struggled to take in his surroundings. She remembered her own reaction to the TARDIS’s mind-bending interior the first time she had seen it. Sanderson was going through the same sequence of emotions – total shock, shifting to amazed delight, then on to utter bafflement.

‘But …’ His voice trailed off. He continued to gawp uncomprehendingly at the vast, cavernous interior of the Time Lord craft.

Amy grinned at him. ‘Loopy, isn’t it? Bet you never realised Special Branch was that special!’

She hurried up the ramp towards the central circular platform, then made her way round the console to her left, peering down at the floor.

‘Now then … third segment round, clockwise, from the ramp. That’s what the Doctor said. One … two … three!’ She dropped to her knees beside a rectangular panel in the floor. ‘Top-left corner …’ muttered Amy, reaching across it. She made a fist and gave the floor a good hard thump. The opposite ends of the panel suddenly seemed to shrink back slightly, and its surface became scored with narrow concertina folds. Amy slipped her hand into the gap that had appeared at one edge. She slid the panel aside to reveal a crammed storage hatch below.

Amy hastily began rummaging through the hatch’s contents. She lifted out a strange contraption that looked like someone had covered a small fire extinguisher with sink-plunger suction cups. Amy laid it to one side, then fished out another equally bizarre-looking piece of equipment. Then another. And another.

‘Who’s the Doctor?’ Sanderson was still staring about, wide-eyed, but he had regained the ability to speak.

‘Er, a fellow Special Branch officer,’ Amy replied without leaving off her search. ‘Agent Lineker. What is that?’ She impatiently cast aside yet another peculiar device. ‘He’s running this operation. The Doctor is sort of a code name.’

‘Right.’ The constable nodded numbly.

‘He’s our Code Thirteen expert,’ Amy went on. ‘Knows loads about aliens and stuff.’

‘I see.’

As she drew her next find from the hatch, Amy gave a triumphant cry. ‘Gotcha!’

She was holding a pair of very large crocodile clips, locked together by their sprung jaws. They had handle-grips made of colourful rubbery material. Both had one red handle and one yellow.

Amy got to her feet, and hurried back down the ramp.

‘What are they?’ asked PC Sanderson.

‘Connectors. Together they’re a cordless extension lead, apparently. The Doctor – Agent Lineker, I mean – thinks they might help us with the save-the-city thing.’

‘How?’

Amy made for the TARDIS door. ‘I’ll explain on the way.’

‘Where?’

Sanderson followed her back out on to the pavement of Albion Way. He was beginning to feel embarrassed by his one-word questions.

‘Wembley Park Tube station,’ Amy told him. ‘We need to get there as fast as possible – which is where I was hoping you might be able to help. Do you have a bicycle I could use?’

‘Not a pedal bike, no,’ said Sanderson. ‘But I could take you there on the back of my patrol bike.’

He quickly led Amy round the back of his own police box. Parked against the kerb was a gleaming black motorcycle. It was a 650cc Triumph Thunderbird, the standard patrol bike of the Metropolitan force and Sanderson’s pride and joy.

‘Would that do?’ he asked.

Amy looked at the immaculate motorcycle admiringly. It was a truly classic machine. As a teenager, Amy had had a poster on her bedroom wall of a young Marlon Brando – in her opinion the most gorgeous male movie star of all time – that had been taken from the film The Wild One, and showed Brando sitting astride a bike just like this one.

Amy gave Sanderson a broad grin.

‘Absolutely, constable,’ she purred. ‘That’ll do very nicely indeed.’