They pa.s.sed a post office with its familiar red posting box outside, a ma.s.sive GR on the side which Polly found rea.s.suring. Ben had wandered on ahead but Polly was making time to take in the strange things she saw. Granada Rentals, proclaimed one shop. In the window, a group of televisions - but there the resemblance ended. Sleek, black, with flat screens and no visible means of turning the volume up or changing channels, the pictures were so sharp and, above all, in colour. Uncle Charles had once said that he had seen colour television in America. 'It'll never catch on here,' he said. 'Colour's best left for the cinema.' So much for Uncle Charles. He had probably got a houseful now, if he were still alive . . . No, that kind of thinking wasn't worth getting into. Under each set was a thin box, also black.

VCRs according to a sign. A pile of 'video tapes: 5.99 for three' were placed at one side. Could these VCRs be some kind of tiny tape-recorder for recording television pictures?

But surely they would have to be huge? Then she 78 remembered Carfrae's compact disc. Obviously anything was possible in 1994. 5.99, though. A fortune! People in c.u.mbria must be very rich to afford those.

She then looked into the window of the Happy Shopper and gasped at the rows of food, people with trolleys and some kind of electronic checkout tills. The rhythmic bleep of items being pa.s.sed over a square of gla.s.s fascinated her but Ben's tug on her arm distracted her. 'A man in a uniform was staring at us,' he whispered. 'Probably thought you were casing the joint.'

'Casing the . . . what?'

'Never mind. Let's just keep going.'

'Oh, Ben, it's Smith's! W. H. Smith's. Oh please, can we go in? Look around. It's something familiar. Something to . .

. to hold on to.'

Ben nodded and they went in. Polly went straight for a rack of newspapers and grabbed The Times The Times. She found the Society Notices and flicked through the obituaries but there were no names she knew. The same with Births, Marriages and Deaths. Suddenly she realized Ben was not with her.

Fighting a surge of panic she dimly remembered from being separated from her mother in Fortnum and Mason's when she was six years old, she carefully replaced the paper and looked around, trying not to be obvious and draw attention to herself. Slowly she walked into the bowels of the shop, past the paperback books (Barbara Cartland was still churning them out?) and stopped as she saw Ben at the biographies. He was flicking through a large paperback. He saw her and pa.s.sed it over.

' River Phoenix: A Short Life River Phoenix: A Short Life by Brian J. Robb. So what?' by Brian J. Robb. So what?'

Ben smiled tightly. 'So much life has pa.s.sed us by, Polly.

Who was River Phoenix? He made some movies and the author compares him to James Dean. He died young but had a promising future. We've never heard of him. Never seen a film of his. He was born after we went off with the Doctor.

This time travel is doing my head in.' He tapped his forehead. 'I'm not sure I'm cut out for traipsing through our future. Daleks, Cybermen, I can cope with. Even those 79 smugglers in Cornwall, but this - this is more alien than anything we've seen so far.'

'Are you frightened, Ben?'

Ben coughed. 'Well, I wouldn't say "frightened" exactly, but, hey, I'm just a bit thrown by it all.'

Polly slipped her arm around his and placed the book back on the shelf. 'I'm sure it's a fab book, but yes, it frightens me too. Let's get some food.'

They left Smith's as quickly as possible and Ben pointed at two similar restaurants in front of them. 'Here, Pol, what's a pizzer?'

'I think it's p.r.o.nounced peetzah. Italian I think. Obviously very popular nowadays, they're both packjammed.'

'McDonald's?'

'Sorry?'

'Over there? McDonald's. It looks busy but that queue is going down quickly. Let's look.'

They wandered over to the restaurant and Polly pointed at a sign that asked them to pay for their food before finding a seat. They both shrugged and went in.

After standing in a queue for a few moments they realized that a young girl in a red cap was smiling at them. 'Can I help you please?'

Polly was first. 'Yes, I'd like a. . . no, two hamburgers, please. I'm hungry,' she added for Ben's sake.

'Anything with that?'

'Er . . . what?'

The girl's smile faltered. 'Fries?'

Polly stared at her for a second, trying not to panic. 'Well, I don't think I want them blue.' She nudged Ben for help and he leaned against her, keeping his eyes firmly on neither her nor the McDonald's girl.

'Chips,' he hissed. 'I just saw someone asking for fries.

They're chips.'

'Oh, fries. I see. I'm so sorry. I'm from nineteen-six- I'm from London,' she said to the girl, hoping that explained everything. She had seen foreigners do it in bars and cafes back in Knightsbridge. 'Yes, I'll have fries.'

80.'Regular, medium or large?'

'Medium.' Polly hoped that would be satisfactory. It evidently was.

'Drinks? Shake? c.o.ke?'

'c.o.ke please. With ice . . . d'you do ice here? Or lemon?'

The girl stared at her. And forced a smile. 'No lemon.'

'Ah. Oh well.'

'Eat in or take out?' The girl placed a c.o.ke on the counter next to the burger and fries. She reached in front of Polly and took a straw from the container and laid it across the top.

'Out,' muttered Ben. 'And I'll have the same. And I'm paying.'

A moment later the two of them were standing in the street, brown bags and c.o.ke in hand, looking which way to go. 'Ben, this is so undignified. I can't possibly eat in the street. It's so . . . so American!'

'So, I think, is McDonald's. Besides, d.u.c.h.ess, they're all doing it.'

Polly looked at the people in the street munching burgers, and slurping drinks. 'I bet this is the Kennedys' fault. Uncle Charles always said they were too liberal to be Presidents. I bet Bobby Kennedy sold us McDonald's.'

'I bet he never became President.'

'Shall we find out? That could be fun . . . no, perhaps not.'

Ben smiled. 'Yeah. Perhaps not, eh?'

Polly took a bite out of her hamburger and squirted tomato sauce on to the street. More ran down her hand and she felt it around her mouth. Her eyes flicked towards Ben who was hiding, badly, a grin behind his own burger. 'I think,' she mumbled, 'I'd like to go back to the TARDIS now. Can we get to the Grange, pick up the Doctor and go?'

Ben agreed and they wandered back the way they had come. 'Food tastes like cardboard. Nothing changes.'

The Doctor was stroking the book he had found. Peter was finishing his work on the bolt for the door. Carfrae was setting up four acoustic dampers in each corner of the room 81 and Simon found himself setting up a feedback loop of white noise.

'Any idea what frequency, Doctor?'

The Doctor failed to look up from the book. 'Oh, your usual, Chesterton, your usual. Now, I wonder where Barbara and Susan have got to.'

Simon looked as the other two turned and looked at the strange little man. He shrugged at them. 'Doctor, I'm Simon Griffiths. From Castle Hill, New South Wales. Remember?

Who're Barbara and Susan?'

The Doctor still did not look up. 'Sorry, Steven, m'boy.

My mind was wandering.'

'Simon. Not Steven.'

Carfrae reached out to the Doctor and he turned sharply.

Involuntarily she stepped back.

'Oh, do be careful Dorothea. . . sorry, Dodo!' He stared at her. 'No, it's not Dodo, is it? Hair's wrong, too long. Vicki?

No . . . Carfrae! Got it at last. Carfrae Morgan. Simon Griffiths and Peter Moore. I'm in c.u.mbria. I remember now.' He put the book down and smiled at the others rea.s.suringly, as if putting inappropriate names on people was an everyday occurrence. 'It was the book's fault. Or rather the RTC - made my mind wander back to my previous self. He used to get very confused, poor fellow.

Couldn't remember people's names even when they were there, let alone when they'd gone for a walk. Now, are Ben and Polly back yet? I want to get them inside the Ex-Area before we switch on.'

Simon decided it would be best to ignore the Doctor's ramblings but before he could say anything Carfrae suddenly gasped.

'Doctor, who repaired your coat?'

The little man frowned. 'What?'

'Your coat. The hole in the pocket and that stain on the lapel. They've gone. Been repaired or cleaned. But I saw the tear a few moments ago. That little red book you took from the library was poking through.'

82.Peter groaned. 'Typical. We're hunting ghosts and mad Teutonic mugs with guns and you're worried about a spot of needlepoint.'

'No!' The Doctor jumped up and yanked the red book from the repaired pocket. 'No. Carfrae's right to be alarmed.'

He waved the pocket book at them. 'This was the only other one I could find with RTCs on it. And it's altered my coat, time-warped it. That's why I was being strange. Both books in close proximity. No wonder we got rid of them.'

'Rid of who?'

'What. Got rid of what. Books coated in RTC. The libraries on . . . at home used to have a few. Our leaders decided they were too dangerous and banned them. Oh, my giddy aunt, this is bad news. I must keep these books apart.'

With almost comic reverence, the Doctor gingerly picked up the large book and carried it to the door, next to Peter but still within the area outlined by Carfrae's acoustic dampers.

Then he crossed back and placed the pocket book diagonally opposite it, near where he was sitting. 'Let's hope that opposites don't attract or we could find ourselves caught in a time storm of sorts.'

'Yeah. Let's hope not, eh,' said Peter warily. Unseen by the Doctor he made a twirling motion with his finger next to his head and Simon grinned.

'And no, Peter, I'm not mad.' The Doctor turned and grinned. 'Just alien.'

'Alien?'

'Yes, Carfrae, alien. Like your Ms Thorsuun. Not from the same planet of course, but nevertheless we're both not from around here.'

'Like not English?'

'Like not human.'

Simon swallowed hard. This was ludicrous. This man was telling them he was from another planet. And Ms Thorsuun.

What was more ludicrous was that he believed everything the Doctor was saying. 'Ghosts?'

'No. Ghosts as such don't exist. Not ghosts as spirits of the dead. Ghosts are a far more scientific reality - after 83 images if you like. Like tea stains on wallpaper that won't disappear no matter how hard you scrub. Your ghosts are etched into walls, floors, everything as sound and picture bytes. The correct resonance or electricity in the atmosphere can bring them back. That's why you don't get ghosts in brand-new buildings. Unless they're from the future and that's a quite different sort of ghost. And I'm not a ghost.'

All Simon could think to say was, 'Oh.'

'What about the woman I saw?' asked Peter pointing to his bandaged arm. 'That seemed real enough. And she saw me.'

'No, she saw something,' corrected the Doctor. 'Roughly where you were standing but back in Victorian times. And it must have been quite alarming because old Mrs Wilding wasn't a woman easily frightened.'

'Who?' chorused the three students.

The Doctor pointed at the pocket book. 'I flicked through Mrs Wilding's diary there. She was the housekeeper and nurse to a Richmond Dent who owned this house. I suspect she was also far more in charge than Dent would have liked.' He stopped and stared at the three teenagers who were staring at him. Or were they?

He stood up but they did not blink or flicker. The Doctor walked towards them but they were frozen, staring at where he had been. Suddenly he felt his leg tingle and found he was having difficulty breathing. 'Treacle,' he muttered. 'It's like treacle.' He managed to step back and the tingle went.

The book. Mrs Wilding's diary. The Doctor scooped it up and dropped it back in his pocket and walked forward, carefully going between the students. This time nothing stopped him. He reached out for the door but his hand went straight through it.

'Or maybe I am a ghost after all.'

The wind from the sea blew into their faces and Polly shivered. She grasped Ben's arm tighter. 'Why did we come back this way? It would have been quicker up the path, past the Gatehouse.'

84.'Yeah, but I wanted to check the TARDIS was OK, and it's down by the railway line on the beach, remember?' Polly nodded and pointed. 'Hey, who's that?'

Ben followed her line of vision. A man in a brown duffel coat was digging a hole - or filling one up - on the clifftop.

'h.e.l.lo!' called Ben.

The wind s.n.a.t.c.hed his voice away but the man heard something because he looked around him before seeing the two time-travellers. He looked back down at his hole and patted the hurriedly replaced soil before Ben and Polly got any nearer.

'My name's Coates. Charlie Coates. I work for your Ms Thorsuun,' he replied to Ben's introduction.

'As in Smithers and Coates. I heard Kerbe mention you,'

said Polly.

'Sounds like a revolver to me,' laughed Ben but Charlie Coates did not smile back.

'If you'll excuse me, I got work to do.' He swung his shovel over his shoulder, tipped his cap's peak to Polly and walked away.

'Strange man,' said Polly. 'I wonder what he was doing.'