Doctor Who: Nothing O'Clock: Eleventh Doctor: 50th Anniversary by Neil Gaiman Page A

went downstairs. Polly, who had
     planned to go up to her bedroom to write in her diary, decided
     to sit on the stairs and find out what was going to happen
     next.
    Standing in the front garden was a
     tall man in a rabbit mask. It was not a particularly convincing
     mask. It covered his entire face, and two long ears rose above
     his head. He held a large brown leather bag, which reminded Mr
     Browning of the doctors’ bags of his childhood.
    ‘Now, see here,’ began Mr
     Browning, but the man in the rabbit mask put a gloved finger to
     his painted bunny lips, and Mr Browning fell silent.
    ‘Ask me what time it is,’ said a
     quiet voice that came from behind the unmoving muzzle of the
     rabbit mask.
    Mr Browning said, ‘I understand
     you’re interested in the house.’ The
For
     Sale
sign by the front gate was grimy and
     streaked by the rain.
    ‘Perhaps. You can call me Mister
     Rabbit. Ask me what time it is.’
    Mr Browning knew that he ought to
     call the police. Ought to do something to make the man go away.
     What kind of crazy person wears a rabbit mask anyway?
    ‘Why are you wearing a rabbit
     mask?’
    ‘That was not the correct
     question. But I am wearing the rabbit mask because I am
     representing an extremely famous and important person who values
     his or her privacy. Ask me what time it is.’
    Mr Browning sighed. ‘What time is
     it, Mister Rabbit?’ he asked.
    The man in the rabbit mask stood
     up straighter. His body language was one of joy and delight.
     ‘Time for you to be the richest man on Claversham Row,’ he said.
     ‘I’m buying your house, for cash, and for more than ten times
     what it’s worth, because it’s just perfect for me now.’ He
     opened the brown leather bag, and produced blocks of money, each
     block containing five hundred (‘Count them, go on, count them’)
     crisp fifty-pound notes, and two plastic supermarket shopping
     bags, into which he placed the blocks of currency.
    Mr Browning inspected the money.
     It appeared to be real.
    ‘I …’ He hesitated. What did he
     need to do? ‘I’ll need a few days. To bank it. Make sure it’s
     real. And we’ll need to draw up contracts, obviously.’
    ‘Contract’s already drawn up,’
     said the man in the rabbit mask. ‘Sign here. If the bank says
     there’s anything funny about the money, you can keep it and the
     house. I will be back on Saturday to take vacant possession. You
     can get everything out by then, can’t you?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Browning.
     Then: ‘I’m sure I can. I mean,
of
     course
.’
    ‘I’ll be here on Saturday,’ said
     the man in the rabbit mask.
    ‘This is a very unusual way of
     doing business,’ said Mr Browning. He was standing at his front
     door holding two shopping bags, containing £750,000.
    ‘Yes,’ agreed the man in the
     rabbit mask. ‘It is. See you on Saturday, then.’
    He walked away. Mr Browning was
     relieved to see him go. He had been seized by the irrational
     conviction that, were he to remove the rabbit mask, there would
     be nothing underneath.
    Polly went upstairs to tell her
     diary everything she had seen and heard.
    On Thursday, a tall young man
     with a tweed jacket and a bow-tie knocked on the door. There was
     nobody at home, so nobody answered, and, after walking round the
     house, he went away.
    On Saturday, Mr Browning stood
     in his empty kitchen. He had banked the money successfully,
     which had wiped out all his debts. The furniture that they had
     wanted to keep had been put into a removals van and sent to Mr
     Browning’s uncle, who had an enormous garage he wasn’t
     using.
    ‘What if it’s all a joke?’ asked
     Mrs Browning.
    ‘Not sure what’s funny about
     giving someone seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds,’ said Mr
     Browning. ‘The bank says it’s real. Not reported stolen. Just a
     rich and eccentric person who wants to buy our house for a lot
     more than it’s worth.’
    They had booked two rooms