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Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.
A Random House Group Company

Copyright © Naomi A. Alderman 2011

Naomi A. Alderman has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.
Executive producers: Steven Moffat, Piers Wenger and Beth Willis

BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

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ISBN 978 1 849 90233 5

Commissioning editor: Albert DePetrillo
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Series consultant: Justin Richards
Project editor: Steve Tribe
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Production: Rebecca Jones

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This book is for my brother, Eliot Alderman.

Because Doctor Who has always been the place we share.

And for my cousin Samuel West, whose request that I should write something for him to read was where this book began.

Apollo 23 by Justin Richards

Night of the Humans by David Llewellyn

The Forgotten Army by Brian Minchin

The Glamour Chase by Gary Russell

Nuclear Time by Oli Smith

The King’s Dragon by Una McCormack

Dead of Winter by James Goss

The Way through the Woods by Una McCormack

Hunter’s Moon by Paul Finch

Touched by an Angel by Jonathan Morris

Paradox Lost by George Mann

Borrowed Time by Naomi A. Alderman

‘Compound interest is the most powerful force in the universe.’

Albert Einstein (allegedly)

‘Only in mathematics will we find truth.’

Cardinal Borusa

The view on the monitors was dark. Occasionally, a line of numbers scrolled past, faster than any human eye could have followed them. But mostly, it was dark. It was dark, in a sense, all the time. But then, ‘all the time’ is a relative concept. A lot can happen in a slice of time too infinitesimally small to be measured on any human scale. So, occasionally there was a burst of frenetic activity. But mainly, it was dark.

The monitors were mounted on the walls of the large, high room, facing in towards a central well, which was empty. Well, mostly it was empty. Occasionally, for an infinitely tiny period of time, it was more full than would have been possible if some very advanced trans-dimensional physics weren’t being used.

If you’d stood in the middle of that empty central well for an hour, you would have been fine, on the whole. Bored, even. You would have stood there staring at the dark monitors, letting your eyes adjust to the gloom. You would have looked up at the huge glass domes still radiating a tiny amount of light, just enough to see by, and the enormous tall arched windows with their thousands of individual panes, and the curved marble walls and ceiling vaulting high above you and you’d have been impressed by the grandeur of the building but nothing more. You’d have tried to see out of the windows which are too tall for anyone of human stature to see anything from but the stars and the moons. You might have looked at those three blood-red moons for a while, appreciatively or apprehensively, depending on your temperament.

But in that hour, there would have been a single sliver of time. Let’s round it up and say that it would have been one-hundredth of a second. In that sliver of time it would have seemed to you that all your senses were being hammered on at once. That, suddenly, the lights were too bright and too strangely coloured and the place was full of steaming, smelly bodies and there were angry shouting voices in a thousand languages you couldn’t understand, and the monitors were alive with flickering numbers and letters and an image of a man in a tweed jacket bound hand and foot, and the thing would have been so overwhelmingly terrifying that you would have screamed out.

And found you were screaming in an empty, dark hall. You would have whirled around, sure that something terrible had just been done to you. Your heart would have been pounding, your pupils dilated, your skin prickling with terror. But the hall would still have been quiet, and empty, with only the thin grey light from the globes high above you and the blood-red moons outside the windows. There would have been nothing else to see, or touch, and no way to understand what had just happened to you.

Unless, of course, you’d been able to slow down time. And then you would have seen something else entirely.

Chapter

1

Mr Symington and Mr Blenkinsop entered Andrew Brown’s life on possibly the worst morning of his career.

It hadn’t been, up to that point, a particularly stellar career. Andrew Brown wasn’t a high-flier, more of a low-glider. He wasn’t a big shot, more of a small fry. He’d got a good degree from a good university and hadn’t known quite what to do with himself after he left. The man at the careers service had dipped a digestive biscuit into his tea and pulled a flyer apparently at random from a pile next to him.

‘Lexington International Bank are holding a recruitment day next week,’ the careers adviser had said, failing to bite into his biscuit before it disintegrated, and then failing to catch it before it collapsed soggily onto the floor. ‘Oh damn,’ he said, trying to wipe up the mess.

‘But I…’ Andrew had said.

The careers adviser tried to scrape the biscuit up with some papers before apparently noticing that they were important and trying to scrape the biscuit off them instead. It seemed to Andrew that he’d half-forgotten him already as he said:

‘Try Lexington, blue chip company, good place to work, worth a go.’

Andrew Brown wondered sometimes if his life would have been totally different if the biscuit had been a bourbon instead. They take longer to dissolve in tea.

He tested well, that was the thing. Put him in front of a problem and he’d try to solve it. Put him in front of an exam and he’d try to ace it. Put him in front of a ladder and he’d try to climb it – without necessarily looking at what that ladder was leaning against or working out whether he really wanted to be up at the top of it. He’d sat down in front of the Lexington International Bank aptitude test and tried hard to solve every question. He’d worked hard at the corporate recruitment away-days on building a raft out of tyres and troubleshooting an imaginary failing business. He got on well with most people. He was an excellent team player – this had been noted on the letter Lexington Bank had sent him offering him a job.

That had been ten years ago, though, and he was still climbing that ladder. After starting as a graduate trainee, he now worked at Lexington International Bank as a financial analyst. Mostly, this meant that he read about companies, put some numbers about them into spreadsheets, and made random guesses about whether they’d make more or less money over the next six months. He sat in front of a computer for twelve hours a day trying to impress the people higher up than him so that they’d advance him one more rung on that imaginary ladder and give him the money that he’d convinced himself made it all almost worthwhile. The thing about the Lexington International Bank ladder was that it was very long, and climbing it was very exhausting, and so Andrew Brown didn’t have a lot of time to think about whether he really wanted to get to the top of it – and besides, since so many other people were climbing too, the view from the top must be worth it.

So he kept going. He worked hard. He put his heart and mind and soul into it. There was an opening for a position half a rung higher than he already was. With a promotion, he might get two hours a week of a secretary’s time. He’d go to more important meetings, with more senior people, and have the opportunity to impress them, and if he did he might be promoted again and then… well, of course eventually he’d be running the whole office. It’s important to have a dream: otherwise you might notice where you really are.

Today’s meeting was particularly important. The new head of the London office, Vanessa Laing-Randall would be there. She was notoriously hard to please, but if he impressed her then his career would take off. Only one serious rival stood between him and that promotion: the always aggravatingly well-prepared Sameera Jenkins. She’d been snapping at his heels all year, she always had just one more fact at her disposal, had worked just one extra hour on a project. But he had her this time, he knew it. No one could have been better prepared than Andrew Brown. That promotion was his: he could taste it.

He woke up on the morning of the important meeting feeling well rested and calm. He could hear birdsong through his window, the quiet sounds of the suburban street outside and… wait a minute. Well rested? Calm? A sudden horrifying terror gripped him.

He sat up and, almost unable to bear it, forced himself to look at the 5 a.m. alarm he’d set on his mobile phone. The phone’s face was blank. Dead. Had it broken? He looked again, a terrible hollow feeling opening up in his stomach. He’d forgotten to plug the charger in. It had run out of battery. Heart pounding, breathing hard, he leapt out of bed and dashed out to look at the clock in the hall. It was 6.45 a.m. Andrew Brown swore loudly, and at length.

But it was OK, it was all right. He’d intended to get into the office very early, by 5.45 a.m. to give his presentation another run-through, to check his photocopies were all in order. He could leave now, eat his toast on the way to the station, and be at the office with half an hour to spare before the 8.30 a.m. meeting. It’d be fine.

He dashed back into his bedroom, stubbing his toe hard on the bedside table but that didn’t matter, no time to deal with that blinding pain now, and oh God was his toe bleeding? Should he put a plaster on it? No time, put on socks, pants, shave quickly, but not too quickly wouldn’t want to turn up with a lacerated face. Right, OK, shaved, now put on the suit he’d laid out specially the night before and… what the hell was that?

He blinked at his suit, laid out efficiently on a chair by his bedside table which now had a spreading water patch over the trousers. It took him a full thirty-eight seconds to realise that when he’d stubbed his toe on the bedside table he’d also knocked over his glass of water, which had fallen on his trousers.

Could he wear another suit? But this was his best one, the one his sister Sara said made him look both dashing and professional. Iron, then. Where did he even keep the iron? He looked in four different cupboards and found it. He switched it on. He touched it to see if it was hot. He burned his hand. He ironed his trousers until the wet patch disappeared. His phone rang. Had the meeting started early? Were they calling to find out where he was? He answered it as he tried, one-handed, to hop into his trousers.

‘Andrew, it’s Sara. I know it’s early but I knew you’d be awake.’

‘Hi, sis, I’m…’ He had half a piece of toast in his mouth. He had one leg in his trousers, and was gripping the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

‘Yeah, I know, Andrew, I know, you’re really busy, you’re running late…’

As he tried to manoeuvre his foot into the trousers, he lost his balance, collided with the ironing board, the iron fell off onto the carpet and the phone bounced onto the floor. He managed to pull his trousers up, pick up the iron, sustaining another small burn to his hand, do up his belt and then put the phone back to his ear in time to hear his sister say:

‘So do you have anything to say to me, Andrew?’

‘I, um…’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘I really am very late, actually. I really have to… I’m really sorry, I have to go.’

‘So you don’t want to wish me Happy Birthday or anything?’

‘I….’ Andrew looked at the place on the carpet where the hot iron had made a dark burn. He sighed. He should have remembered. He’d meant to send flowers. And a card. He’d meant to buy a present.

‘I’m sorry, sis, I’m really sorry. Happy Birthday. I’ll make it up to you, OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah, sure. And I’ll tell your niece and nephew you’ll definitely see them before they’re 40, OK?’

He looked at his watch. It was 7.03 a.m. There was a train at 7.11 a.m. that would get him into the office a full twenty minutes before the meeting was due to start. The station was a ten-minute walk away. He ran. After five minutes, the station was in sight! There was a train at the platform! The train was early! He put on a burst of speed. But as he hurtled through the barrier, the train pulled away from the station. He checked the sign. That wasn’t the 7.11 a.m. It was the delayed 6.48 a.m. The trains were running twenty minutes late.

He called his office from the payphone at the station, and tried to make things better. He left messages but no one picked up. They wouldn’t postpone the meeting for him. When he finally got onto a packed train, his heart was pounding ceaselessly. He gripped the rail he was clinging to as if he could make the train go faster just by mentally commanding it to.

From the station he ran all the way to the office. His best, ironed suit was sticky with sweat. He realised his shirt couldn’t have dried properly when he last washed it, because the sweat was making it smell of mildew. He kept on running. When he saw that the lifts were jammed, he even ran up the stairs to the seventh floor. He arrived, sweating and panting, and smelly and with a stain on his crotch that he realised looked suspiciously like something wet had been there.

He was just in time to see Sameera Jenkins, flawless, elegant Sameera, come to the end of her presentation. To hear the round of applause from his boss, and his boss’s boss and Vanessa Laing-Randall herself. It was all Andrew Brown could do not to burst into tears.

He did try to give his presentation. Even after they told him that really the meeting was over. There was no more time. He persuaded them to give him just five minutes to show what he’d done.

But he hadn’t had enough time to try out his presentation on the computer in the conference room. The slides didn’t work properly. Where he’d thought there’d be a chart of Fiscal Growth there was only a note saying ‘Fiscal Growth chart goes here’. Where he’d hoped for a burst of rousing music to finish off his presentation, the computer used the wrong sound file and there was a long loud slow low note. It sounded like a fart. He felt tears starting in his eyes and thought nothing could possibly be worse than showing his emotions in front of all these senior people – not to mention Sameera Jenkins, smirking like a cat – so he thanked them, in a strained voice, for their time and walked back to his desk.

He sat at his desk and stared blankly at his rows of files, seeing nothing but the pitying faces of the people round that meeting room table.

And then, without his ever subsequently being able to remember how it had happened, Mr Symington and Mr Blenkinsop were in his office.

They were two middle-aged white men, dressed in neat, identical black wool suits and white shirts with a faint blue pinstripe. One of them wore a dark green tie, the other wore a dark blue tie. They had the kind of totally ordinary, clean-shaven, innocuous faces that you’d forget the moment they left the room. Andrew Brown hadn’t heard them knock, or invited them in. But he forgot that as soon as they were there. They seemed like the kind of people you didn’t have to invite in. They probably belonged everywhere.

‘Good morning,’ said the slightly shorter, thinner one with the dark green tie. ‘I’m Mr Symington. This is my associate.’

‘Good morning to you, Mr Andrew Brown,’ said the slightly taller, stockier man with the dark blue tie, ‘I’m Mr Blenkinsop.’

‘Good, er, morning,’ said Andrew Brown.

‘Although, in fact, we hear you’ve had a bad morning, Mr Brown,’ said Mr Symington.

‘Yes indeed,’ said Mr Blenkinsop. ‘We’re sorry to mention it, really, sorry to bring it up at all, but you know, Mr Brown, we all have a bad morning sometimes.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Mr Blenkinsop,’ said Mr Symington. ‘Bad mornings are a very common event. That’s why the service we offer is so valuable.’

‘Service?’ Andrew couldn’t help himself asking.

‘We’re glad you asked, Mr Brown, very glad indeed,’ said Mr Symington. ‘Aren’t we, Mr Blenkinsop?’

‘That we are, Mr Symington. Because you see, we represent a consortium, Mr Brown, that’s right, a consortium of like-minded businesspeople, people with time, as you might say, on their hands. People who have more of it than they rightly know what to do with, isn’t that right, Mr Symington?’

‘Certainly is, Mr Blenkinsop, it certainly is. Yes, you see our colleagues – that is to say the consortium of highly leveraged businesspeople we represent – are able to make you an offer today which is beyond your wildest dreams. That’s right. Quite literally, beyond the wildest dream you have ever dreamed, even after a dinner consisting only of Brie, Camembert and Wisconsin Sharp Cheddar.’

The two men laughed in perfect unison.

Mr Symington continued: ‘How would you feel if you could get an extra hour any time you liked? That’s right, an extra hour to play golf, to polish up that report for your boss, to spend time with your girlfriend or indeed boyfriend – we don’t want to appear prejudiced, do we, Mr Blenkinsop? – or just to sleep late? Think what that could do for you – an extra hour! Can’t you just imagine it, Mr Blenkinsop?’

‘Why, yes I can, Mr Symington. Just think of it. Every businessman or businesswoman knows that, sometimes, an hour before breakfast is worth three hours in the afternoon. Take today, for example. Wouldn’t you happily, eagerly, give up the rest of the day just to have had two extra hours this morning? Imagine if you could manage your time like that!’ Mr Blenkinsop nudged him in the ribs sharply. ‘There’d be no stopping you climbing up the career ladder then, would there, Mr Brown?’

Andrew blinked at the two men. There was something a little odd about their appearance – not their clothes, which were ordinary, conservative business suits – but their very being. They were fuzzy at the edges. When he tried to focus on their faces, they became blurred. It really was a most disturbing sensation.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got so much work to do, and the day’s gone horribly wrong already. Do you have something to sell me? A book on time-management, is that it?’

Mr Symington and Mr Blenkinsop smiled at each other and turned back to Andrew.

‘Better than that.’

‘Far, far better than that.’

‘Mr Brown, we can loan you time.’

‘That’s right, Mr Brown. We can lend you as much time as you need. As much time as you can handle. As much time as you could ever desire.’

‘We can lend you enough time to get all your preparation done for this morning’s meeting. The time to spend with friends and family. The time to get ahead of… what’s her name, Mr Blenkinsop?’

‘Sameera Jenkins, Mr Symington. Nasty little upstart. Unlike our friend Mr Brown.’

‘Deserves what’s coming to her, if you ask me. And Mr Brown will give it to her. He just needs a little help. Now of course, Mr Brown, that time will have to be paid back.’

‘At what we think you’ll agree,’ muttered Mr Blenkinsop, just a little too fast for Andrew to fully catch, ‘is a very reasonable rate of interest.’

‘Imagine what it could do for your career. All the time you want, Mr Brown, at the touch of a button.’

They paused. The men turned to Andrew and looked at him, as if daring him to call them liars. And suddenly, Andrew Brown felt very angry. Here he was, on the worst day of his life, and these two jokers were playing him for a fool.

‘Loan me… What on earth are you talking about? Look, how did you get in here? Who are you? You’d better show me some identification, or I’m going to call security!’

‘He doesn’t believe us, Mr Symington.’

‘They so rarely do, Mr Blenkinsop.’

‘I think a demonstration is in order, Mr Symington.’

‘Certainly is, Mr Blenkinsop.’

And from his back pocket, Mr Symington produced his demonstration. And then everything became very clear indeed to Andrew Brown.

Chapter

2

The sunset, it seemed to Amy, had been going on for about five hundred years. She stared at it some more. Rory’s arm was around her shoulders, they were snuggled up together on a picnic blanket. They were on a beach covered with white-gold sand. Tiny blue-green iridescent crabs scuttled at the water’s edge. Fifty-first-century Earth had certainly cleaned up since her day – there was no litter anywhere in sight. Out at sea, a dolphin occasionally crested the surface of the ocean, leaping for the pure joy of being alive. The sunset was ochre and amber, a glorious warm light spreading across the sky and reflected ripplingly in the water. Even the scent of the place was gorgeous, all coconut and tropical flowers. It was, as far as she knew, literally the most romantic place in space and time. And she was bored.

‘How long has this sunset been going on now?’

Rory flinched.

‘The whole point is not to think about time, Amy. Just –’ he breathed in deeply and breathed out slowly – ‘relax. Drink it in.’

Amy wriggled her shoulders. Stopped staring at the sunset. Stopped watching the tiny crabs frolicking at her toes. Turned instead and stared at Rory.

‘But seriously,’ she said slowly. ‘How. Long?’

She stared into his eyes, unblinking. It was a game they’d played since they were children. Seeing who could go longest without blinking. She always won.

Rory blinked. He hadn’t even been trying.

He looked down at the Super Lucky Romance Camera: Capture the Moment!™ on the picnic blanket next to him.

‘Um,’ he said, ‘I think it’s been about three hours? This sunset? About three hours?’

‘Three. Hours?!’

Amy stood up and stalked over to the edge of their Super Lucky Romance Bubble, the place where the air shimmered slightly. She kicked at it. The Super Lucky Romance Bubble wobbled, making the view of the infinitely prolonged sunset wobble too. The Bubble was about twenty metres wide and about forty metres tall at its highest point. A lovely large space to play in. If you weren’t already very bored.

‘And how much longer is it going on for?’

Rory consulted the Super Lucky Romance Camera.

‘Doesn’t say. It’s… I think it’s supposed to be a surprise?’

Amy let out a growl and flung herself onto her back on the picnic blanket. Rory stretched out a consoling hand.

‘It’s supposed to be romantic… You, me, a single moment of time prolonged for several hours so we can fully experience it here in our little bubble… and… didn’t mind so much the other day when we…’

Rory’s brain finally got the message to his mouth that he should Just Stop Talking. Amy looked at Rory’s hand hovering just above her shoulder. He wondered if she was literally going to bite him.

She sat up.

‘No, Rory, I didn’t mind it the other day. And it was interesting when we paused that shoal of flying fish in mid-flight, and it was exciting when we used it mid parachute-jump, but I do mind a sunset that goes on for Three Damn Hours. OK?’

‘Yes,’ he said, miserably.

The Super Lucky Romance Camera: Capture the Moment!™ clicked away another minute of perfect, preserved time. It brought up a little image of its advertising on its screen. ‘Want to make your precious times last longer? The Super Lucky Romance Camera, with its patented Time Bubble technology will make every minute seem like a day! With a guaranteed reliable Eternity Perpetual cosmic radiation battery, it never needs to be recharged. Take it to the beach! Underwater diving! Even to the top of New York’s Ascendancy Tower! It’s certified to 2,750 metres above sea level! Your moments are too precious to slip by. Really experience them, with the Super Lucky Romance Camera, invented on Earth in 5044, and now used on over thirty planets, galaxy-wide. Super Lucky Romance Camera: Capture the Moment… For Ever.’

Taking a romantic holiday on fifty-first-century Earth had seemed such a good idea when the Doctor suggested it. Should give them time to get acquainted with the future of their species, he’d said, which was surely the purpose of the whole – he’d waved his hands abstractly – love business anyway? He had a few things to do, he’d come and pick them up in… ohhh, three weeks sound all right?

Three weeks hadn’t sounded long enough by half to Rory – they were on future Earth, on holiday, with no monsters chasing them. Surely they’d need more time than that just to get used to driving flying cars and breathing unpolluted air. Not to mention spending time with each other, away from the Doctor. So when the smiling, friendly girl behind the desk – very friendly indeed, to both him and Amy, that seemed to be the way here in 5087 – had said there was a way to prolong their stay as long as they liked, Rory had snapped it up.

That had been six days ago. In external time, that is. But every time they used the Super Lucky Romance Camera, it created a time bubble around them. The way the agent had explained it, time inside the bubble speeded up, so that relatively, things outside the bubble seemed slowed down. Hence, skydiving that seemed to take thirty minutes to reach the ground, scuba diving for hours with fish that glided past in super-slow speed. And now, the sunset. The very, very slow sunset.

Amy kicked at the sand while Rory flicked through the electronic guidebook to Your Vacation on Scenic Earth they’d given him at the tourist information desk. The cities of Earth were all documented, the mountains and lakes and the wonderful smooth beaches of Old Tokyo. Hmmm. He hadn’t spotted this section on ‘dangers of the beach’ before. He started reading. Eight tiny crabs ran over his leg.

‘Amy…’ he said after a few minutes, ‘what does that sign look like to you?’

He pointed at a sign about 200 metres down the beach. Amy peered at it. There were a few small blob-like shapes on the animated sign, moving inside a red circle.

‘It’d be a lot easier to see without this bubble in the way!’ She kicked at the bubble again.

‘Does it look like… a lot of little crabs, to you?’

‘Oh yeah! That’s what it is!’

In a hollow place by the end of their picnic blanket, thirty tiny jewelled crabs were swarming.

Rory showed Amy the page in the guidebook.

‘Mutant reproducing crabs,’ it said, ‘a beautiful but occasionally tiresome addition to the beach, left over from rampant genetic engineering in the last century. The crabs were created to gnaw out the otherwise indestructible hulks of marine vessels used in the Fifth World War. They live on silica, which makes the beach their natural home, and are generally harmless. However, in an enclosed space, they will begin to reproduce extremely rapidly, their numbers doubling every five minutes. It is important not to erect a tent on a crab nest – if you find that you have done so, dismantle the tent immediately or risk a nasty bite from a swarm of the crustaceans.’

As Amy finished reading, Rory pointed to the little nest of iridescent crabs. They watched it together. Every now and then one of the crabs would grow an extra claw, then two claws, then a lump off its body, and then a whole new crab – conjoined for a second before finally splitting off.

‘They’re doubling every five minutes?’ asked Amy

Rory nodded.

One of the crabs unfolded the shell on the back of its body to reveal a pair of wings, like a ladybird’s, and took off into the air.

‘They can fly?’ said Amy.

As if in answer, six or seven more of the creatures took off and began to buzz noisily around the time bubble. One of them hit the edge of the bubble and immediately split into two crabs.

‘When is this bubble going to open?!’ shouted Amy.

In the nest at the end of the picnic blanket, fifty jewelled crabs had become a hundred. Or two hundred. More were taking off every minute, bumping into the side, doubling. One of them buzzed towards Amy. She batted it away with her arm and shouted with pain – it had left a long laceration.

A swarm was airborne now, flying angrily, buzzing into the walls of the time bubble.

‘Rory!’ shouted Amy, above the loud annoyed hum, ‘when is it going to open?’

‘I don’t know!’ shouted Rory, as the swarm wheeled round and headed for them.

Rory picked up the beach umbrella and tried to fend them off. The sharp, silica-shredding claws, instantly ripped the top of it to tatters.

Amy rummaged through her beach bag, at last finding her mobile phone.

‘What are you doing?!’ Rory shouted.

‘I’m calling the Doctor!’ said Amy.

‘Wait, but… we can…’

The swarm bounced against the side of the bubble again, doubled again.

He’d been about to say they could work this out themselves. It was usually his job to convince Amy of this: she always had some reason to call the Doctor: they’d lost their way, she was too tired to walk back down the hill, the planet was being invaded by giant sponges, the ship was going to explode in an hour…. They had a rule; before she got to call him, they had to talk about it first. But in a situation like this…

‘This is supposed to be our holiday…’ was all Rory managed before the swarm was on him again. He beat them off as best he could with his beach blanket, but it got shredded to pieces. Two more doublings, maybe three, and there wouldn’t be a swarm at all any more, just a bubble filled with angry jewelled crabs with nothing to eat but them.

‘All right! Call him!’

Amy hadn’t even had time to dial the number yet, but there was the sound anyway. It was inside the bubble with them, reverberating and making the trembling walls vibrate.

Vworp, vworp, vworp.

‘Did you call him?!’ shouted Rory.

The swarm was in the space where the sound was coming from. The crabs confusedly tried to fly upwards to get away from it.

‘Maybe he’s got a sensor,’ she shouted back, ‘that tells him when I’m really terrified.’

And with a final wheezing groan, the TARDIS materialised. The swarm of jewelled crabs attacked its structure with gusto. Rory wondered how many milliseconds that would keep them occupied.

The door opened.