the wardrobe crashed into place. Rory moved over to help her heave it onto the top.
'This isn't going to hold them five minutes,' Amy panted.
'Well, I'm out of other ideas,' Rory responded. 'They don't seem to appreciate having their disguises destroyed though; maybe they'll take the time to devise an approach which doesn't involve them losing half their skin.'
He was interrupted by the steady clump of feet from the other side of the barricaded door as the husband's heavy gardening boots made their way across the landing.
'Then again...' Rory held up his hands. 'I'm 105
DOCTOR WHO
probably wrong.'
There was the squeak of a door handle being turned and the pair froze, eyes fixed on the silver bar of metal. But it remained stationary.
'Next door.' Amy breathed.
She was right. There was a soft thud as the bedroom door to their left was closed again gently, then the footsteps resumed until they shuffled to a halt right in front of the terrified couple.
Another squeak, and this time the handle moved. It angled downwards slowly and there was a solid thump as the door encountered the wardrobe a second later. It rattled in frustration for a second, then the handle slipped slowly back into its original position.
Rory sighed as the footsteps began to retreat down the stairs once more. 'Then again...' He mimicked his previous gesture. 'I could be right after all.'
'Why do I always panic a little bit whenever you say things like that?' Amy's tone was chiding, but she wriggled under her fiancé’s arm and held him tightly.
'I hope you're not talking about those frozen pies we had in September,' Rory replied half-heartedly.
'Because if you are, it's your fault for throwing the packaging out before I had a chance to read the cooking instructions.' He paused. 'And 106
NUCLEAR TIME
you were only sick for a day - I had to take the week off work.'
Amy grunted in reply as her attention was diverted by Rory's arm, hung lazily over her shoulder. She grabbed it with both hands and examined it animatedly. 'Babes, you're bleeding!' she cried.
Rory looked down. 'Oh yeah,' he said, inspecting his arm as if seeing it for the first time. The striped sleeve of his shirt had been shredded by fragments of the television and beneath the tattered fabric his forearm was criss-crossed with gently weeping red scratches. 'I didn't notice that before.' He screwed up his face. 'It hurts like hell!' He winced as he gently drew the cuff away from his arm and licked his thumb in a half-hearted attempted to clean himself up.
Amy batted his faltering fingers away and took over. 'We haven't got time for you to play the squeamish nurse, Rory. Grit your teeth and imagine you're bandaging up any other patient - and do it quickly!'
Rory raised an open palm and made a face as if she were stupid. 'And what exactly am I supposed to tie it up with?'
In response, Amy grabbed a handful of his shirt up near his right shoulder and yanked hard, ripping off what was left of the sleeve in 107
DOCTOR WHO
one smooth stroke. She pressed the improvised bandage into his hand. 'There, maybe now you'll stop considering grass stains to be a big issue.'
Rory slumped to the floor to tend to his wound as Amy slotted her head through a gap between the desk leg and the wardrobe to listen at the door. He grunted as he tugged the bandage tight and began winding it quickly around the bloodied area.
'Is that you?' Amy asked suddenly.
'Is what me?' Rory looked up.
'That smell.'
'What? No!' He paused. 'Wait, what kind of smell?'
Amy wrinkled her nose. 'It smells like...' She mulled the scent over for a second. 'Burning,' she decided finally.
Rory hopped to his feet and strode over to her, quickly grabbing the edge of the wardrobe and tugging it away from the frame by the tiniest of fractions. A sinister grey curl seeped out from under the door.
He ran to the window. 'Blimey. They don't muck about, do they?'
Amy joined him. 'They've set fire to the house. The whole
'This isn't going to hold them five minutes,' Amy panted.
'Well, I'm out of other ideas,' Rory responded. 'They don't seem to appreciate having their disguises destroyed though; maybe they'll take the time to devise an approach which doesn't involve them losing half their skin.'
He was interrupted by the steady clump of feet from the other side of the barricaded door as the husband's heavy gardening boots made their way across the landing.
'Then again...' Rory held up his hands. 'I'm 105
DOCTOR WHO
probably wrong.'
There was the squeak of a door handle being turned and the pair froze, eyes fixed on the silver bar of metal. But it remained stationary.
'Next door.' Amy breathed.
She was right. There was a soft thud as the bedroom door to their left was closed again gently, then the footsteps resumed until they shuffled to a halt right in front of the terrified couple.
Another squeak, and this time the handle moved. It angled downwards slowly and there was a solid thump as the door encountered the wardrobe a second later. It rattled in frustration for a second, then the handle slipped slowly back into its original position.
Rory sighed as the footsteps began to retreat down the stairs once more. 'Then again...' He mimicked his previous gesture. 'I could be right after all.'
'Why do I always panic a little bit whenever you say things like that?' Amy's tone was chiding, but she wriggled under her fiancé’s arm and held him tightly.
'I hope you're not talking about those frozen pies we had in September,' Rory replied half-heartedly.
'Because if you are, it's your fault for throwing the packaging out before I had a chance to read the cooking instructions.' He paused. 'And 106
NUCLEAR TIME
you were only sick for a day - I had to take the week off work.'
Amy grunted in reply as her attention was diverted by Rory's arm, hung lazily over her shoulder. She grabbed it with both hands and examined it animatedly. 'Babes, you're bleeding!' she cried.
Rory looked down. 'Oh yeah,' he said, inspecting his arm as if seeing it for the first time. The striped sleeve of his shirt had been shredded by fragments of the television and beneath the tattered fabric his forearm was criss-crossed with gently weeping red scratches. 'I didn't notice that before.' He screwed up his face. 'It hurts like hell!' He winced as he gently drew the cuff away from his arm and licked his thumb in a half-hearted attempted to clean himself up.
Amy batted his faltering fingers away and took over. 'We haven't got time for you to play the squeamish nurse, Rory. Grit your teeth and imagine you're bandaging up any other patient - and do it quickly!'
Rory raised an open palm and made a face as if she were stupid. 'And what exactly am I supposed to tie it up with?'
In response, Amy grabbed a handful of his shirt up near his right shoulder and yanked hard, ripping off what was left of the sleeve in 107
DOCTOR WHO
one smooth stroke. She pressed the improvised bandage into his hand. 'There, maybe now you'll stop considering grass stains to be a big issue.'
Rory slumped to the floor to tend to his wound as Amy slotted her head through a gap between the desk leg and the wardrobe to listen at the door. He grunted as he tugged the bandage tight and began winding it quickly around the bloodied area.
'Is that you?' Amy asked suddenly.
'Is what me?' Rory looked up.
'That smell.'
'What? No!' He paused. 'Wait, what kind of smell?'
Amy wrinkled her nose. 'It smells like...' She mulled the scent over for a second. 'Burning,' she decided finally.
Rory hopped to his feet and strode over to her, quickly grabbing the edge of the wardrobe and tugging it away from the frame by the tiniest of fractions. A sinister grey curl seeped out from under the door.
He ran to the window. 'Blimey. They don't muck about, do they?'
Amy joined him. 'They've set fire to the house. The whole
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