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He opened his eyes. A room resolved itself, somehow grandiose without being impressive. Four people behind a table, a fifth standing beside them. The hairs on the back of the Doctor’s neck told him that there were at least two others behind him, probably the ones who’d clubbed him down. He tried to turn, but couldn’t. He concluded that he was tied to a chair. The knots were biting into his hands.

‘Is he awake?’ whined a woman’s voice. One of the seated.

‘About bloody time,’ mumbled another.

‘You’re sure this is the man who’s responsible?’ A third.

‘I’m usually the man who’s responsible,’ said the Doctor.

‘Except, of course, when I’m the man who’s irresponsible.’

There was a shocked silence.

‘I’d like to call this in terview to or der –’ began the woman.

‘Never mind that. Is he a diabolist? Ask him if he’s a diabolist.’

‘Diabolist?’ The Doctor made sure that he sounded offended. ‘I was under the impression that this was the age of reason. Is this supposed to be a witch-trial?’

Suddenly, there was a tangible sense of embarrassment in the room. ‘Umm,’ said one of the men. ‘Umm. It might be.’

The Doctor tutted. ‘Human beings have two notable characteristics,’ he muttered, recalling a lecture he’d once attended. ‘One, they’re extremely intelligent. Two, they’re very very stupid.’

‘Are you a servant of the Devil?’ the woman trilled, formally. She spoke slowly, as if talking to a child. Or a foreigner.

‘No,’ said the Doctor, cheerily. ‘But I may be a relation.’

And as he spoke, the fifth man stepped forward, his shoes tick-tocking on the not-really-marble floor. The Doctor peered up at him suspiciously.

‘Our course of action is clear,’ the man said, and the air turned grey on contact with his voice. ‘We have a responsibility to Reason.’

The Doctor frowned.

The boy’s name, as far as Roz could gather, was Daniel Tremayne. He crouched behind the stack of crates – Roz made sure that neither of them could be seen from Paris Street –

with his face cradled in his hands. He wasn’t crying, he was just trying to cover his face, as if he had an instinctive desire not to be seen. Not to be noticed.

‘Still in my head,’ he was saying. ‘Can hear it. Like it’s singing. Won’t let me leave.’

‘Daniel?’ Roz crouched down beside him ‘Daniel, I want to help you. Do you understand me?’

His head snapped up, and suddenly he was staring right into her eyes. ‘Don’t trust you,’ he said.

‘Oh.’

‘But you’re a witch.’

Roz sighed. This was as much as she’d been able to get out of him in ten minutes. The problem with Adjudicator interview techniques was that they only worked on people whose heads functioned at thirtieth-century speeds. ‘If you say so.’

Then, unexpectedly, Daniel began to laugh. A nervous, coughing laugh that somehow sounded older than the rest of him ‘Don’t believe in witches,’ he said. ‘But you’re a witch.

Help me.’

‘All right, let’s start at the beginning. What is it that won’t let you leave?’

‘Thing.’

‘What thing?’

‘In Catcher’s basement.’

Catcher. Roz clacked her tongue, remembered the name.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me what it looked like.’

‘Can’t. Didn’t look like anything. Just felt it.’ Daniel’s eyes began to water, and Roz realized that he hadn’t blinked in over a minute. ‘Felt. Like whispering. All over my body.’

Something clicked. Roz reached over and took Daniel’s arm, gently tugging him to his feet. He looked puzzled.

‘Come on,’ said Roz.

‘Where are we going?’

She put a forefinger to her lips. ‘To reclaim some lost property. Now, shhh.’

Find the Negress. Find the witch-woman.

The whisper stretched along Paris Street, and out into the alleyways. Where the Renewal Society walked, people watched, hearing the word of the lore. Erskine Morris felt the crowds staring at him as they marched onto Eastern Walk, and felt like screaming at them, what in the name of bloody Christ are you looking at? , but he didn’t have the energy even to glare. He wanted to be somewhere else. He couldn’t even recall why he was here. He guessed this state of mind had something to do with ethanol deprivation.

When Monroe