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Getting out of the carriage, they stepped into chaos. The platforms were solidly packed with soldiers, most in the militia’s haphazard uniform but there was the odd smart jacket of the Party or the Civil Guards. A straggling line of wounded picked its way through the crowds, holding on to each other. Everyone seemed to be talking, or shouting, or singing songs, the sound roaring upwards and spiralling back from the high metal rafters so that all individual meaning was lost. Train engines thundered as they stoked up ready to leave, or let off clouds of dirty steam as they cooled. Whistles were being blown, although how anyone knew which was the one they should act on Fitz didn’t know. The air was thick, warm with human breath and cigarette smoke. Glancing up, he saw wide red banners hanging down with hand-painted slogans on them. A striped red and gold flag hung high at the centre of the concourse.

He wanted to scream at them all to shut up. After the quiet resignation of the north, after all the emptiness of the mountains and the camaraderie on the train, it was too loud, too smoky. Too much.

‘Fitz?’ Sasha had grabbed hold of his forearm.

‘It’s too much.’

‘Only here, I think. Only in the station. The trains are used to get the men to some of the fronts.’

Fitz wanted a cigarette but he thought he would choke in the atmosphere if he tried to light one here. ‘That’s rather civilised of them. A commuter war, huh?’

Sasha grinned and started through the hundreds on the platform, stepping over the odd sitting or lying figure, turning sideways to get through a gap. Fitz followed. In this madness, Sasha suddenly seemed the best bet, the best guide to get him away from here. The Russian glanced back as they reached the concourse and waited in yet another line to get their papers checked again. ‘You should visit Madrid, comrade. The metro line tunnels run under the front line. You mustn’t miss your stop there.’

Then they were out, into the streets. Still busy, but at least cooler.

‘Now, at last, we part, my English spy. I must report in and take up whatever role they ask of me. I hope you will find your friends.’

They went to clasp arms, then Sasha pulled Fitz into a bear-hug.

‘I still owe you some beers,’ Fitz said into the Russian’s shoulder. Sasha leaned back and laughed.

‘I’ll look for you tonight in Plaça de Catalunya, about nine? I cannot promise to be there but I should at least take my winnings off you.’

Fitz watched the other man walk into the crowds towards the docks. After a few minutes, when the Russian was no more than another indistinct figure, he dug into the lining of his coat and produced a small ball. The size of a gob-stopper. Or that winning marble which had been the pride of his collection until Tubby Johnson had taken it off him with a beating. It had a tiny button on it, a clunky on/off switch. Fitz pressed it and was impressed when the globe actually lit up. He had assumed that it wouldn’t work and he’d be left trying to describe a large blue box in an attempt to find the Doctor. At the very least, the time machine had to be somewhere in Barcelona for the tracking thingy to work.

Estació de França was close by the docks. He headed off to the right of the station, away from the wider avenues of the quays. The flashing slowed, dimmed. He spun about and headed along the wide boulevard. His little marble encouraged him. Now right, into a warren of narrow, high, streets. Cold in the shade, with flashings of the spring sun occasionally splashing down into the courtyards. He zigzagged through it all, often backtracking. Why hadn’t the Doctor at least made this thing properly directional? In one square, he spent five minutes trying to decide if the flashes were more frequent when he faced north or south. He eventually moved on when he realised that he was drawing attention, being watched. Down into a narrow passageway, fronted with boarded up shops. Even with his hand closed tight over