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Ace had showered and pulled on jeans and a denim jacket. She had been surprised by how cool it was in Mexico. When she was ready she meandered back up to the console room, where the Doctor was standing with a glum look on his face. He had taken away his jacket and tie and cleaned them somehow‐or‐other.

‘How is she?’ Ace asked.

‘Sulky,’ said the Doctor. ‘Very sulky!’ he shouted at the console, flicking a bit of dust off one of the controls.

Oh, great, he was seriously worried. She could ask him about it, of course, for all the good that would do her. Keeping the lid on was a bad habit that he needed to lose. Sometimes, though, he just wanted her to work things out for herself.

She had already come up with two more nasty possibilities. Had he cut some kind of deal, and was faking amnesia? Had someone done something to him, and then wiped out the memory?

She eyed him, looking for little changes, anything that might give away his mental state. She had to be ready in case anything major was wrong.

The Doctor marched out of the TARDIS. Ace gave the console an understanding pat on her way out.

Outside, the TARDIS shimmered once and stayed in its police box configuration. The Doctor scowled, looking as though he wanted to kick it. ‘Cristián’s flat.’

‘Is he?’

He turned his gaze on her, and she found herself being scrutinized with that alien intensity again. What are you looking for?

She pulled out her sunglasses, flicked them open, and slid them onto her nose, matching his blue stare.

After a moment he turned to hail a pesero. But she’d seen it, just for a second: there was something wrong, and the Doctor didn’t know what it was.

Yeah. The situation was bad this time.

She followed him to the taxi, her teeth massaging her bottom lip, and wondered what she was going to do about it.

Macbeth watched them go.

He clutched a half‐eaten take‐away taco in one hand, fingers shattering the fragile shell into flak. Red hair clung to his forehead, sticky with sweat, trying to climb into his eyes. He pushed it out of his face, leaving behind a streak of tomato sauce.

He and the TARDIS faced one another across the alleyway. A couple of laughing children raced between them, their shouts echoing from the decayed surfaces of the buildings.

Mortal Ken might have looked for a rational explanation for the presence of a London police box in a Mexican alleyway. Hank Macbeth had his explanation ready‐made.

He came closer to the thing, letting go of the forgotten taco. He tripped over a trash can lid that was lying in the dust. The clattering split the air.

He put his face close to the police box, and listened.

After a moment, he heard it. The humming.

He sat down in the dust, his heart stammering and chattering, all the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

And deep inside him, something Blue was itching, something Blue was wrapping itself around him like a shroud. It was possible, even probable, that he was not aware of it. But the Blue was there, an unnatural colour, a spreading stain in the soft greyness of his brain.

He checked in his pocket for his gun. It was still there. No mysterious forces had spirited it away.

This time he would be able to wrap everything up neatly.

* * *

They sat on the floor of Cristián’s apartment, eating take‐away and feeling drained.

The Doctor sat with his back to Cristián’s lounge, arms resting along the seat. ‘You first,’ he said.

Bernice and Cristián started talking at the same time. The Indian broke off, looking around agitatedly.

‘Fitzgerald tried to kill me,’ said Benny levelly. ‘I killed him.’

‘She was ill,’ said Cristián. ‘She was having fits, calling out meaningless things. When she awoke, she was sure that you were in danger.’

‘The worst thing,’ said Bernice, ‘is that I don’t remember any of it. It feels as though someone’s dusted the blackboard. Nothing left but smudges.’ She pressed tense fists against her eyes. ‘Did you do any better?’

‘No,’ said the Doctor.

Ace chewed slowly on a burrito, not sure of whether she should