Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [44]
From the doorway, the judge Ce Xochitl said, ‘My sons are dead. Get out.’
‘Ce Xochitl –’ began Ace, but the Doctor touched her arm.
‘We’re going,’ he said, very quietly. ‘No more words.’
* * *
‘You can’t smoke in here, señor.’
‘Lo siento,’ said Macbeth, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall.
‘Can I help you at all?’
The intern came out from behind the desk, folding the downy arms that protruded from the short sleeves of his uniform. A no‐nonsense man. ‘I was looking for someone who would take money in exchange for information,’ Macbeth said, straight‐faced.
The intern ran emotionless eyes over the foreigner. ‘You are from the press?’
‘Yeah,’ said Macbeth. ‘The public has a right to know, eh?’
‘Right,’ said the attendant.
‘For a while now,’ said Macbeth, ‘strange things have been going on in your hospital. Electrical failures. Odd behaviour from the mental patients.’
‘Nothing strange there, señor.’
‘Things going missing and turning up where they’re not supposed to be. Perhaps even mysterious deaths.’
That caught the man’s attention. ‘If you know all this,’ said the attendant, ‘what more do you need to find out?’
‘Details,’ said Macbeth. ‘Dates. Paperwork. And there are some photos I want you to look at.’
He pulled a snapshot out of his pocket and held it up.
The man’s expression was delightful. Macbeth wondered if that was what he’d looked like when el Jefe had shown him the police photo. ‘Have you seen this man?’ he grinned.
‘Sí,’ said the attendant. ‘I think he killed a friend of mine.’
‘Is that so?’ said Macbeth. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said the attendant. ‘He walked out of the morgue.’
Macbeth’s mouth came slightly open. He lowered the arm holding the photo.
* * *
Ace followed the Doctor through the streets of Tenochtitlan. The air was thick with the sour smell of rotting blood. They passed small groups of people leaving the city, their servants carrying bedding and cooking utensils on their backs. They would return when the killing was over and the air was clear again.
At the temples, the sacrifices were into their third day. A pall of quiet hung over Tenochtitlan, as though the city were exhausted, waiting to rest once its duty was completed.
They walked in silence for a while, Ace trying to cold‐start her mind. Not only was the Doctor not dying, but it was as though he had never been ill.
At last she asked, ‘So, what happened?’
He turned around to look at her. ‘You tell me.’
‘A couple of bystanders brought you back to the house.’
‘Before that.’
She blew out a breath between her teeth. ‘Iccauhtli and I got caught up in a fight.’
He nodded, eyes troubled. ‘So you don’t know what happened. You didn’t see.’
‘Doctor, if you don’t know what happened, no one knows what happened.’
She reached into the duffle bag and brought out his jacket. He took it from her, looking at it curiously, as though it were an old photograph that he couldn’t quite place. Speckles and splashes of blood ran down the left lapel and shoulder. His hands wrung the material, wanting to extract the memory.
‘I haven’t learnt anything,’ he said. ‘All I’ve managed to do is kill Iccauhtli and Achtli. And almost you.’
‘You what?’
‘That wound in your side,’ he was saying, and Ace glanced down at the bandaged cut, invisible under her jacket. ‘You might have been killed fighting those warriors.’
She shrugged. ‘They weren’t anything to write home about. Anyway, they came to kill you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He looked around at the street, the water, a stray chicken flapping in the morning sun. ‘Enough of this. We’re going back to Mexico.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘All right? Me? Yes. I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be all right? It’s everything else that’s wrong!’
He gestured with the bloodied jacket at the universe in general. ‘The time is out of joint. Someone has interfered again. Something’s changed. Something changed. And I can’t remember. I can’t remember what.’
* * *
It was a fine afternoon in Mexico City, sunlight filtering through the dusty air. The TARDIS ground into existence in the alleyway, startling a