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The man did have a face. There were deep-set, intense eyes, a long craggy nose. A small mouth and cavernous cheeks. But it wasn’t human; it wasn’t right. After his first recoil, the Doctor looked to see what was wrong, what jarred about the face. It was discordant, just like the sampled and stolen voice. Each feature had been picked individually and fitted together. But where the areas met, where on a normal human the skin would gradually shade from the bluish smudge of an eye socket to the red of the nose, there were joins. Lines or blocks. Changes in skin tone. Yet it wasn’t like a photofit. The head was in all dimensions, it had depth and movement. The perspectives were skewed, though, just out enough to confuse the eye.

Now he was looking for it, the Doctor could see the same hints of discord in the clothes, in the whole figure. He wondered who this creature had modelled himself after, assuming a model had been used. There was something not quite familiar, not quite close enough to jar his memory. When the creature looked back at the Doctor, really looked, his expression changed. It was as if a new image of some eyes had been selected, fearful and worried, and slotted in. Then the creature started to scream. Hundreds of overlapping screams, pealing like bells and causing the Doctor to clutch at his head.

‘You! You!’ the creature started to babble. There was the dull thump of feet running down the corridor outside. The creature – the Absolute, was that what it had called itself? – was cringing back, pointing. The Doctor was alarmed to see the hand was flickering: alternating between a finger and a gun, as if unable to decide. Even as he held up placating hands, he wondered if he could be shot by the creature.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, trying to return to even the fragments of conversation.

The door was being pushed aside and soldiers were calling, asking if he was all right.

‘Comrade. This room is unstable. The floor. You should come out,’ one of the militiamen said, gesturing at the worn grey boards. The Doctor made a hushing gesture without turning round, keeping his eyes on the quivering creature.

‘Not without him.’ He took one step forward and realised the soldier was right. The floor felt flimsy, moved slightly under his weight.

‘Who? Comrade, you are the only one here. Please, come back here.’

The Doctor did look round then. He could see the overlapping cells, floating and drifting around the room, obscuring his view. Yet the militiaman stood in the door was looking directly at him, concerned but not confused. Could he even see the contents of the room? The Doctor dismissed it for the moment, turned back to the Absolute.

‘Have you a name?’

‘Impersonal. No, no names. Invisible. Not seen. Enrique. Observers changing observed. All wrong.’

‘Enrique?’ The Doctor’s mind was whirling, slotting the fragmented words into what he knew. He remembered Jueves, standing in Anji’s room. It’s all about perception.

‘Wrong. All wrong. Here. Not here.’ Enrique was muttering, his voices whispering out of the corners of the room. Then the man unfolded from his ball and lunged at the Doctor, screaming. All wrong! All wrong!’

The Doctor tried to sidestep, putting his arms out to try to catch the hurtling body but Enrique was screaming, pushing past.

‘Hey!’ The militiaman was yelling too, suddenly shouting at the Doctor. Only now he was sending a stream of abuse at him. Enrique raced past the man, the cells dancing in his wake. The Doctor started after him but the soldier put up his arm, barred the way.

‘I have to stop him,’ the Doctor said angrily, trying to get past. The militiaman was holding fast though, and the Doctor saw something odd in his eyes. The same frightened and outraged look that Eleana had had in the alleyway.

‘You’re a monster,’ the man told him, jerking an elbow towards the Doctor’s face. He ducked, blocking the arm and getting past. He grabbed the doorframe as he ran through it, using it to brake and turn his run.