Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [2]
‘Cristián Alvarez?’ said the silhouette in the doorway.
‘You’re here,’ said Cristián, very nearly smiling. ‘I knew you’d come.’
The Doctor came into the room, followed by Professor Summerfield and Ace. Cristián closed his eyes for a moment, comparing them to his mental photograph. The Doctor with his squashed hat, his penetrating blue eyes. The Professor in white slacks and blouse, her short dark hair hanging in a fringe. Ace in some sort of green military jacket and pants, wearing a black T-shirt that said Hard Rock Café Svartos.
The clothes were different, but the faces were the same. They hadn’t changed at all.
Cristián opened his eyes. They hadn’t changed at all.
For a terrible moment he thought he was imagining them. That he would wake up, and the room would be pale green and empty.
Then the Doctor said, ‘UNIT passed your letter on to us.’
Cristián sat down on the bed, feeling vulnerable in his tatty blue pyjamas. Three pairs of eyes looked at him. Ace’s were invisible behind her sunglasses.
‘May I call you Cristián?’ continued the Doctor.
‘What else?’ said Cristián tremulously. He felt his heart start to kick irregularly. ‘Don’t you remember me?’
‘We were having a holiday in Switzerland in 2030 –’
‘Holiday?’ said Bernice. ‘I wouldn’t call that a holiday –’
‘– when we dropped into UNIT HQ in Geneva. They passed your note on to us.’
‘Just like in Back to the Future,’ concluded Benny.
Cristián just blinked at them. ‘Why don’t you remember me?’ he said. ‘How can you not be any older?’
‘When was the last time you saw us?’ asked Bernice, sitting down on the bed next to him.
Cristián found himself pulling back from her, uncertainly. ‘December the eighth, 1980, in New York. And before that, January the thirtieth, 1969. In St John’s Wood.’
‘London,’ said Ace from behind her shades.
‘Let me try to explain,’ said the Doctor.
* * *
Cristián Alvarez lived by himself in an apartment building squashed between two other apartment buildings. The front was white, but dirty rainwater had eaten great streaks of grey into the paint. Flowers, blue and red, exploded in earthenware pots on the balconies.
Bernice found herself helping the Mexican up the stairs. He moved slowly, like someone who had been ill for a long time, and he still smelt of hospital. ‘Muy amable,’ he mumbled, fumbling with the door keys.
A tabby came bounding out of the kitchen and tangled itself in Cristián’s ankles as Benny manoeuvred him to the sofa. ‘Hola, Ocelot,’ he said, tickling the cat under its chin. ‘Did Seflora Caraveo look after you properly?’
The tabby purred its assent. Then it jumped into the Doctor’s lap, curled up, and went to sleep.
Ace sat on the floor, looking around the flat. There was a PC on a white card‐table next to the phone, a couple of sofas, a wall‐hanging with an Indian design. No sign of a television. A photo sitting on a coffee table caught her eye. Then it caught her mind.
It showed the Doctor and Bernice at what had to be a party – there was a streamer caught in his hair, and part of a sign read MAS in the background. Ace realized she was sitting behind him, on a sofa, looking up from a bowl of noodles. Caught in mid‐lunch. Her shades were white with the flash.
‘My memento,’ said Cristián. Once again he almost smiled.
‘Weird,’ Ace said. ‘This photo is part of your past, but part of our future.’
Cristián said, ‘It should have occurred to me that you might receive the note even before you had met me.’
‘Occupational hazard of time travel,’ shrugged the Doctor.
‘How much should I tell you?’ said Cristián. ‘About your future, I mean.’
‘As much as you think we need to know,’ said the Doctor seriously. ‘Obviously nothing catastrophic happened to us, or you wouldn’t have expected us to come.’
Cristián opened his mouth and shut it again. ‘Where should I begin?’
‘Why not start with why you wrote the note?’
* * *
It was October 31, 1993, when Cristián went shopping in the tiangui.
He should have gone to the cine. He should have gone to