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The Doctor felt, rather than saw, the man’s grin broadening. ‘My name is Raphael. My designation is chirurgeon. My augury code is Baby-Pierre-Baby-Tao.’ His voice was cultured, English with a hint of a recently acquired American accent.

‘Name, rank and serial number? How very inspired.’

‘What else would you want to know?’

‘Well, for a start, I was wondering if you could remove this... object.’ The Doctor shrugged, to indicate the steel implement lodged between his shoulder-blades. The scalpel had penetrated his clothing, the tip coming to a halt just below the surface of his skin; no serious damage had been done, but the metal was tickling a paraspinal nerve or two. He remembered that he was still tuned to a human frequency of thought. That meant he had human pain perception, of course.

If he was going to alter his neural processes, now might be the time.

On the other hand, a forced shift of perspectives often left him temporarily confused, absent-minded, or unable to remember what candyfloss was. Not a good state to be in, he pondered, if a maniac was poking a scalpel into your back. Ah, what a dilemma.

‘Perhaps I will,’ said Raphael. ‘Incidentally, if I recall my caillou physiognomy correctly, the blade is currently two inches from a major nerve cluster. I wouldn’t think of moving my arms, in your position. I trust you’re comfortable, however?’

‘Not particularly.’ caillou. Chirurgeon. The Doctor’s attempts to rearrange his synapses were interrupted by the nagging thought that he was missing something. ‘Still, it’s better than having your negative impulses sucked out by an alien mind-parasite.’

Raphael looked blank. Probably.

‘It’s an expression,’ said the Doctor.

‘Oh.’

‘But while we’re on the subject, what makes you think that my physiognomy – and you don’t pronounce the "g", incidentally – is any different to yours?’

‘Oh, I’m sure I know a caillou when one crosses my path.

Though I may not have the finely honed senses of some of our other agents, I can certainly spot an anomaly in a crowd. There are signs. Now, as I am only ever dispatched in time of crisis, I can only assume that in this case you are the crisis, and thus must be duly removed. Correct?’

‘No, actually.’ Agents. Dispatched. The man was a trained assassin. Trained to kill... what? ‘The roots of this madness are planted in Earthly soil, Raphael.’

‘I’m sorry...?’

‘I’m not the one you want,’ explained the Doctor. And again, he tried adding a hypnotic lilt to his voice. The assassin didn’t seem to notice.

‘No? Oh. Never mind.’ Raphael shrugged. ‘All the same, I have my job to do. Professional duty, you understand.’

‘Ah. I see.’

Five minutes to midnight.

Somebody had brought the remains of the ‘attractions’

from Eastern Walk. The tents had been turned into flags, mismatched colours blurring together in the rain, stars and stripes and astrological symbols over Burr Street. A woman was standing on top of a stack of beer barrels, her half-dressed body wrapped in a toga of red, white, and blue, her head crowned with a wreath of playing-cards. She was throwing something sickly and alcoholic over the crowds, which – in Erskine’s view – was a crime in itself. On the far side of a wall of buildings, where the town met the sea, there were strange rhythms leaking from the hold of a cargo ship.

Erskine took a sideways glance at Walter Monroe. He could have sworn he saw the slit-eyes of the man’s mask narrow.

‘Cacophony’s children,’ Monroe hissed, and the words were perfectly audible even over the din of beaten barrels and howling dancers.

Erskine looked around. The other Renewalists – there were less of them now, as some had split off from the main group to take their prisoners for interrogation – were shifting uneasily, fists clenched tight around makeshift weapons. Erskine no longer knew which ones were ‘real’ members of the Society, and which were townsfolk who’d made their own masks and joined the parade.

Then there were bodies moving around him, pushing at his back, urging him forward. Monroe began advancing