In the distance she heard the sound of high heels running. Someone was in a hurry.

Kate whizzed round the corner on to the village green as she had done a million times before, sending a rinsed milk bottle left by somebody’s front gate flying. She could hear the bus’s engine off to the left and knew in her heart she was too late, but still she kept running.

A big ball of bitterness, caused only partly by the croissant she had just eaten, formed in her stomach. Was this it? A year ago she’d been in London, selling her flip-flops in Camden Market, so confident about repaying her business loan to the bank that she was using her credit 7

card to pay her rent. She’d thought she was just getting started. What if she’d already finished, had crashed and burnt? What if she was just useless? What if life was useless?

She saw the back of the bus, on the other side of the green by the pub, rolling smugly away. She crashed to a halt in the middle of the road. A fraction of a second later a bright red sports car zoomed round the corner and smashed into her.

She had one tiny moment to realise that she was about to die. The credit card bill was never going to be paid off. She would never walk down the long muddy lane in heels, catkins catching on her jacket.

Serena would never tell her off for being two hours late. She’d never get to do any of the wonderful things she’d planned. This was the end of it all. A stupid, silly accident.

She thumped down on to the hard tarmac as the car screeched to a halt. The milk bottle jingled by.

The dull smack of metal on flesh caught at Rose’s heart. There was no other sound like it – like a soul leaving the body. Her head full of thoughts of her dad, she sprang from the bench and raced across the green.

The driver of the sports car was standing, stunned, by the body of a red-haired young woman. ‘I didn’t see her,’ he called to Rose in a dead voice. ‘She just ran out and stopped. . . ’

‘Call an ambulance!’ shouted Rose.

The driver got out his mobile and started dialling.

Rose knelt by the young woman and took her hand. The woman’s eyelids were fluttering. There might still be a chance. She remembered watching a first aid video from her old job; after an accident, you have to keep the person talking. ‘Listen! Talk to me. My name’s Rose Tyler. What’s your name?’

The woman said faintly, ‘Kate. . . ’

‘What’s your second name? Kate, what’s your surname? Talk to me!

Everything’s gonna be fine. There’s an ambulance coming.’

Rose clenched the hand in hers, but the middle of Kate’s body was horribly twisted, and a deep purple stain of blood was colouring her 8

blouse.

Rose squeezed her hand hard, so hard it hurt. ‘Kate!’

Her eyes rolled. ‘Yates. . . I’m Kate Yates. . . ’ Then Rose saw the light go out of her eyes.

Suddenly something stung Rose’s hand. She flinched and drew it back. At the same time, Kate’s body twitched and shook. Her back arched. A green aura spread out from the wound, rolling out to cover her whole body. Rose swallowed. The air around Kate had the tang of a thunderstorm; she was crackling with power.

The aura disappeared as quickly as it had come, as if flicked off by a switch.

Kate’s red hair was now blonde.

Rose leaned forward. ‘Kate?’

Her blouse still stained, Kate calmly stood and picked up her bag.

Rose looked down at where she’d lain, at the pool of fresh blood.

‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m fine,’ said Kate.

9

CHAPTER THREE

THE DOCTOR LOOKED UP at the grinding central column of the TARDIS. As soon as he’d touched the controls, the doors had shut and the craft had decided to take off. ‘Hello! There should be two passengers on this ship!’ he cried.

He crossed to the scanner screen, which was filled with a strange set of symbols he hadn’t seen before. He knew one thing for sure, though: the TARDIS was not under the control of an outside influence. It had changed course from the moon and brought them to Earth. Now it was taking him somewhere else. Even after nine centuries of travel through space and time, it could still surprise him.

‘What are you trying to tell me? Don’t go all cryptic. Can’t you just say? And where are we going now – Northampton?’ He flicked a few buttons with no result. ‘Stop, stop!’

A second later the column shuddered to a halt, the big room tilting and knocking him off his feet. He switched the screen to an outside view of his new location. It showed a dark, empty concrete chamber.

He stripped off his spacesuit and took his pinstripe suit jacket from a peg. Putting it on, he grabbed a torch from a locker, then swung the doors open and strode out. Wherever the TARDIS had taken him, and for whatever reason, it had only been in flight for a few seconds. He couldn’t be very far from where he’d left Rose.

It certainly looked and smelt very different from the last stop. The air was damp and decayed, with that special flat coolness you only find underground. The beam of his torch pierced through the pitch blackness. It passed over bare concrete pillars to settle on a metal sign with AREA 3 written on it in stark, official lettering. Next to it was a bracket where a fire extinguisher would once have fitted.

Beside that was a huge studded dark green metal door, swung wide open. He walked through it into a long, bare corridor. ‘Hello. Any-11

one about?’ he called, not expecting an answer. The place seemed deserted, abandoned.

He walked a little further down the corridor and turned into another room. The torch lit up two lines of old, rusting iron beds. On the wall by the door was a phone; the Doctor lifted it and listened.

It was dead. The sole of his shoe scuffed against something on the floor. He knelt down and picked up a tattered booklet with the title

‘Protect and Survive’ and a date of 1980. ‘“Eat only tinned food,”’ he read from it.

‘“If you live in a caravan or other similar accommodation which provides very little protection against fall-out, your local authority will be able to advise you on what to do.”’ He laughed to himself.

‘Hello. It’s the council and we advise you to run like hell.’

So he was in a nuclear bunker, a disused one by the look of it. But why had the TARDIS brought him here?

Before he had time to think about it any further, he heard something he was not expecting. He strained to listen. Yes, he was right.

Somebody, somewhere in this bunker, was listening to the radio.

He set off in search of that person.

Frank Openshaw sat back proudly in his chair, watching the dig, tapping his toes to the song on the radio. The slow, patient business of his greatest project yet was spread out before him. Volunteers, mostly students from the local farming college, were working carefully down in the pit, which was lit by several huge lamps. He took a swig of coffee from the cup of his thermos flask, feeling secure and successful.

This site was going to make his name. He didn’t care too much about the fame, but the security of guaranteed work was another matter.

He’d never let Sandra down again.

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, can I borrow your phone?’ asked a voice in a slightly odd, London-but-not-quite-London accent.

Frank looked up. The owner of the voice was too old to be a student; he was tall and very thin, dark-haired, dressed in a slightly scruffy suit. Frank blinked. It was as if someone had switched on 12

a bright light. The stranger shone with confidence and enthusiasm, and he found himself handing over his mobile phone without even thinking about it.

‘You won’t get a signal down here,’ Frank warned him.

‘Bet I will,’ said the stranger. He took a slender metal tube from his pocket, flicked a switch on its side and held its tip to the side of the phone. Then he dialled.