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It's four o'clock in the morning and you've been driving for hours. Part of you thinks you're running away but most of you knows you are doing what's right. The bruises on your ribs ache in affirmation. You've checked the rearview mirror a thousand times since you tore out of the car park leaving rubber on the tarmac. The sounds of his fists battering the bonnet still reverberate in your ears and the cold sweats have not abated making your hands slip on the thin steering wheel. It's four o'clock in the morning and you are miles from anywhere.
You check the mirror again catching sight of blue eyes, red from crying, and pale white skin turning blue on the left cheekbone below which the signs of stubble are pushing through. You look a mess. Its early January 2004, everything you own is in the boot of a 20-year-old white, rusty, Ford Fiesta and you're driving along crazy country roads in the pouring rain listening to the mix tape you stole from your sister's room the day your father kicked you out of his house. It's four o'clock in the morning, you're miles from anywhere and you've nowhere to go.
There's a storm raging. A gust of wind pushes the car sideways for a second and bright blue light flashes through the dark sky. You swerve back onto your side of the road and watch the strange lightening bounce across the sky before vanishing upwards. Attention diverted, the front wheel hits a pothole and you miss landing in the hedge by inches. You curse and, before you know it, your face is wet again. You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket clearing them in time to see your headlights shining into the face of a man. A man stood in the middle of the road. Your right foot slams on the break pedal and you skid to a halt with the nose of the car brushing velvet coat tails.
Neither you, nor he, move. He does not appear to have seen you at all. He is tall, well built, with dark short cropped hair, exposing large ears, and his clothes draw your attention. At an earlier point in the evening he must have been exquisitely dressed. A fine velvet jacket covers a waistcoat with intricate embroidery, a dated but immaculate neck-tie sits in the neck of a precisely pressed shirt, each item appearing scorched and shrunken by at least two sizes. He doesn't react to the car, you, or the icy rain that is pouring across his hardened, angular features. His stare goes straight through you to a point a million miles away. He looks like the loneliest man in the world.
Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt clip and you stumble out of the car realising that your legs have turned to jelly.
"Hey, mate, I'm sorry, I didn't see you. Are you all right?"
He doesn't respond, still staring at the same invisible spot. Despite the cold you can not see his breath in the air. Is he even breathing? You close the door and stagger round the bonnet towards him. Icy water covers the road and seeps through your trainers.
"Hey, mate. Are you okay?"
His head snaps round in your direction and he looks at you with piercing eyes.
"Where am I?"
You shrug. "I don't know. I'm lost. Are you okay? That was pretty close."
"Not close enough."
His voice is northern and so thick with emotion you almost question if you heard him right. There's an awkward pause and you realise the rain pinging on the metal body of the car has become harder and louder. Hail stings your face. You into the distance searching for another vehicle, a house. He must have come from somewhere, but there is nothing as far you can see.
"Where are you from?
His reluctant gaze returns to you. "Nowhere."
"Where are you going then?"
"Nowhere to go."
Empathy runs through you. "Me either."
He is looking right at you now, searching your eyes with his. You're not sure if he finds what he's looking for as you break away and walk round him to open the passenger door.
"Come on, get in. We'll both catch our deaths out here."
He doesn't respond and you move to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Flinching at the touch he shoves you roughly away, stumbling as he does so and landing on his knees on the wet street. He could be crying, you're not sure, but his voice is ragged as he shouts into the night.
"Leave me alone!"
You're not sure if he is talking to you or the whole world. Either way it doesn't matter. His head is hanging, chin against his chest and his shoulders heave as he draws deep breaths to control whatever emotions are consuming him. You can't stay there for the rest of the night and you won't leave anyone, stranger or not, at the side of the road. He doesn't focus on you at all as you crouch beside him and haul him upright, wincing at the pain in your own chest as you shove him into the passenger seat of the car.
You drive through dawn following road signs to towns you have heard of in the general southerly direction. Something is pulling you towards the place you grew up. Around seven thirty you pull up at a roadside cafe. Neither of you has spoken since you got back into the car. He follows you into the grey port-a-cabin without a word but when you push a yellow mug of tea into his hands, he looks up and thanks you.
"I hope you take sugar," you say with a half smile, "I thought you could use it. For the shock."
He takes a tentative sip the steaming liquid as though he's never tasted tea before in his life.
"It’s fine. Thanks."
"I'm Dean, if you're interested."
"Hello Dean."
You're not sure if you've ever met a man so difficult to talk to.
"What's your name?"
He looks away again. "It doesn't matter."
You hold back a sigh and try again.
"I can't just keep calling you 'mate'."
He doesn't speak for a while. You stare out of the window stroking the stubble that is now prominent and ginger on your chin. The rain has subsided to leave a grey morning sky, the kind of monotonous blanket of grey cloud that, once set in, remains for weeks without relenting. Other cars pass by with increased frequency. In the cafe you are alone except for the proprietor who listens to the radio in the kitchen. Without thinking you catch the bruise on your cheek and wince. He notices and looks at you with something approaching concern.
"That'll heal in a couple of days."
"How would you know?" Fatigue has caught up with you and your response shoots back more acidly than you intended.
"I'm the Doctor."
"The Doctor? You make it sound like you're the only one."
His face darkens again. "I am."
"Right," you say, weariness and disbelief clear in your tone.
The Doctor sits up a little straighter, struggling against the tight clothes. You can see his face clearly now. His brow furrowed, eyes deep set and though blue in colour it feels like they hold every speck of darkness in the world. They are lifeless eyes; the kind you've only ever seen on the television in famine victims or war refugees. He unfastens the collar of his shirt and removes the neck tie with funereal reverence. In daylight you can see that his clothes are thick with dust. The once elegant jacket is more burnt than whole and the waistcoat is split at the seams. The trousers, equally scorched, cut a tight line at the crotch, the leg length two inches shorter than required. You study him as you eat breakfast, neither of you making much headway with the greasy food.
"What's your story?" He pokes fried bread around his plate making patterns in the runny egg yolk.
You shrug and feign nonchalance. "Who says I've got one?"
"The ribs you've been holding since we sat down and the car full of belongings for a start." He is watching you now, harsh eyes mellowing a fraction.
"It was time to move on," you say. Then something pushes more words from your lips. "My partner was... aggressive. So I moved out. Last night. I meant to be gone before he got back but I didn't quite make it."
He nods, non judgemental. "Where are you going?"
"London, I guess. Anywhere really. I got in the car and drove. I've nowhere to go. Lost all my friends when I moved in with him and my dad doesn't approve of my lifestyle."
You shake your head to clear your thoughts and focus on remaining as impassive as possible.
"What about you? What's your story?"
He's avoiding you again. "Who says I've got one?"
"You're stood in the middle of a country road at four in the morning in flame grilled clothes."
"Touché."
He sits back and you think he has clammed up again. Something makes you keep the silence and after a moment he speaks.
"I lost control of my vehicle, got flung out when the door opened. Woke up on the road looking like this."
"What happened to your car?"
The Doctor isn't looking at you as he gives a non-committal shrug and says, "I dunno. Maybe joy riders."
You don't believe him but consider the options and decide not to press the subject. The surreality of the situation is becoming overwhelming. You are a homeless 24-year-old lad with a car full of belongings, sat in a cafe in the middle of somewhere with a fancy dress wearing stranger who won't tell you his name, driving to a city you haven't lived in in 3 years.
You realise the words are not thoughts at all but are falling out of your mouth, domino fashion.
"I mean I've no idea who you are. You could be a mass murderer and I'm driving you across the country with Jack the Ripper!"
You snap shut your mouth and stare at him. The Doctor doesn't appear phased by your outburst. Instead he drinks the last of his tea and gets up from the table.
"I'm not Jack the Ripper."
You wonder why he didn't deny the mass murder part too and realise that you are following him to your car where he opens the door without a key although you are sure you locked it earlier. Watching him struggle to bend your remember your clothes on the back seat rifle through until you find a sweater that looks near enough the right size. You offer it hesitantly and he accepts with gratitude. The jacket is too tight for him to remove on his own and you help peel off the layers of damp clothing. Beneath the fine white shirt mottled, deep, bruises cover his hairless chest, shoulders and arms. The Doctor says nothing and makes no sign that he is in any pain. You avert your eyes, the temptation to question him on the cause of the marks burning on your tongue. From the corner of your eye you see his shoulders relax, relieved to be spared the inquisition.
The road sign says London, 106 miles, and the Doctor asks why are you doing this?
"You're right, I could be a mass murderer."
You glance in his direction, unsure if he is joking.
"I guess that's the kind of guy I am."
A forced grin crosses his face. "Save the world type are you?"
"Maybe," you say, "I've never really thought about it."
"Well, thanks. For picking me up and stuff."
The Doctor appears a little sheepish and you tell him he's welcome.
"What will you do? When you get to London?"
You ponder for a moment. "I don't know. My mum's been gone a long time and my sister lives with my dad. I don't suppose he'll let me in."
"You should try," the Doctor's voice is insistent. "Family's important. You never know how important until it’s too late."
"He's an idiot."
The Doctor frowns. "Of course he is, he's your father. Doesn't mean he doesn't care."
That was true you suppose. He had called once but Paul had answered the phone. There had been a one sided conversation, monosyllabic and aggressive. At the time you thought Paul was protecting you, now you're not so sure.
"We both said some pretty terrible things." You are ashamed to admit this and focus your eyes on the motorway ahead.
"You're human, it's expected."
There is something in his tone that makes you feel he isn't part of the human race at all.
"What about you? If I go to my Dad's I guarantee he won't let me in with another man beside me. He'll think you're my boyfriend."
He snorts. "I've got to find my vehicle. My whole universe is inside that thing."
"Sounds familiar." You give him an encouraging smile. "How are you going to do that?"
Your eyes bulge as, from the pocket of his too tight trousers, he produces a pen shaped device which flashes blue on the top. He is staring at it with concern but relaxes when the light steadies to a regular pattern.
"Tracking device. Looks like she's landed in London. She's been drawn to a power source. Bit odd though. I've not been there in years. Still, I suppose it’s as good a place as any to get lost in the crowd."
You raise an eyebrow in his direction. "Landed? What are you driving? A rocket?"
"Sort of, yeah."
You shake your head. "What are you, some kind of alien?"
"Some kind of."
"Right." You pause. "You didn't escape from an institution did you? A place with padded cells and locked doors?"
"Not lately." The Doctor grins at you with a flash of real humour.
"I'm strangely not comforted by that."
His grin widens. "Run for your life!"
You laugh and he is pleased. There's is a comfortable silence as you drive. His icy edges have thawed and despite his continued lack of name and initial coldness you are enjoying his company.
You leave the motorway and turn into busy London streets. The blue flash of the tracking device has become brighter and you are sure you can hear a faint beep emanating from it. You talk of your home, your family. Tell him about Paul and how you thought you loved him and always thought he would change. The Doctor asks few questions, just listens. He is good at that. You talk about your Dad, all the great stuff you did together before you brought home your first boyfriend at 19, then remember the arguments and how your sister cried every night begging the two of you to see sense.
"You should go home." The Doctor's words are heavy. "Give your father another try. If you don't you might regret it."
You think he speaks from experience. You ask him about his family and he remains illusive.
"I don't have any. Not any more."
You tell him you're sorry but he doesn't seem to hear you.
The Doctor asks you about your dreams and at first you shrug off the question. What was the point in dreaming when everything ends in tatters? But he pushes the right buttons and you find you're telling him that you want to make a difference. You want to change the world. He says that's 'fantastic' and beams as though the weight of the universe had been lifted from his shoulders.
"It's always about the little people," he says, adopting the air of a sage. "They are the most important people in the whole universe. Change one life and you change the world Dean, my boy."
You smile, confused but pleased with his enthusiasm.
He asks you to pull over at the corner of a small park and gestures to an old Police Call Box across the road.
"This is my stop," he says, his face darkening again.
"Will you be all right?" you ask, watching the shadows spread across his troubled face once more. "It doesn't seem right, just leaving you here."
He gets out of the car and looks back in through the open window. A small, determined, smile crosses his face.
"I'm always all right. Besides, my rockets over there. I've got to sort out my belongings, see how much of my life is still inside."
You accept his bravado because there is nothing else you can do.
"Good luck then."
You offer your hand to him across the passenger seat.
"You too." He takes your hand and holds it for a moment as though you are the last man on earth and he is clinging to you for survival. "Thanks, Dean, for everything. You're fantastic. Truly fantastic. Now, go change the world!"
You watch him walk away. Cross the street and stand beside the battered old Police Box. Turning, he waves goodbye and waits until you are almost out of view before stepping inside. For a second you think you see a golden glow pushing its way out of the box, but you turn the corner and he is lost from view.
Pulling up outside your father's house your stomach ties in knots. You turn off the engine and stare at the red painted front door, worn down by the elements. You can see through the living room window from across the road and, as you watch the house in trepidation, you realise someone is watching you from inside.
Suddenly the front door flies open and your father steps out. He doesn’t pause, rushing down the stone steps, arms outstretched, calling your name. He is crying and smiling at the same time and you tumble out of the car running towards him.
A police car, sirens blazing, hurtles down the street.
You shout a warning but he doesn't hear you.
"Dad!"
The world turns into slow motion as you run knowing your father has not seen the car and that you cannot reach him in time.
A man in a brown pin stripped suit is running down the steps behind your father. You watch as he catches your dad and drags him away from the road as the police car flies passed.
You reach your father a second later and he pulls you into his arms. The skinny pin striped man looks you up and down and pats you both on the back.
"That was pretty close," he says.
You stare at him, relieved and grateful.
"Thank you. Thank you so much. You saved my dad."
He grins widely and slaps your back. "One good turn deserves another."
You frown, confused. "I don't think we've met..."
"Be fantastic, Dean my boy," he says with flourish and spins on his heel.
Your father hugs you again and when you look up the man is gone. Your father wraps his arm around your shoulders leading you into his house and as you turn to close the front door you see an old, battered, blue Police Call Box disappearing into nothingness on the corner of the street.