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Cristián had long since gone to bed, and Bernice was dozing on a mattress in the kitchen. Ace was wide awake. She was jet‐lagged, or TARDIS‐lagged, or something. The space‐time vessel had failed to synchronize their arrival time properly. Obviously. But she also had the nagging feeling that someone ought to keep watch.

She held the photo in her lap, trying to pull more details out of it. St John’s Wood, Christmas, 1968. Bernice was wearing a caftan over a pair of battered jeans. Ace was wearing a leather jacket. They looked relaxed, enjoying themselves.

There was a small turntable in one corner of Cristián’s living room, with a single rack of LPs underneath. She thumbed through them. Most of the groups she hadn’t heard of: Cream; Yes; the Byrds; Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich. Ah – Sergeant Pepper. Her mother had a prized copy of that, with the little bit of gibberish in the pick‐up track.

Cristián lived in a world of his own, behind his wooden door and his black curtains. He rarely went out. In the day a newspaper sent him stories through the modem and he sub‐edited them on the PC‐compatible. At night he stayed home and – did what? Read, or listened to his old LPs, or watched Mexico City out of the window.

She had been watching him in the taxi. His hands had been shaking. Between whatever had happened in 1968 and the Hallowe’en Massacre, Cristián Alvarez had become one of the walking wounded.

She suddenly realized that the coffee table was a TV hidden under a tablecloth. She lifted its skirts and watched Star Trek: The Next Generation in Spanish until she fell asleep.

* * *

The attendant nearly spat coffee all over his newspaper. ‘Señor!’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘You frightened me almost to death.’

‘My apologies,’ said the visitor. His Spanish had a continental lisp. ‘I would have thought that, working in a place such as this, you would need very strong nerves indeed.’

‘I’ve grown used to the presence of the dead,’ said the attendant. ‘I just wasn’t expecting to meet the living.’ He glanced at his watch; it was almost one in the morning. ‘What can I do for you, Señor?’

‘Doctor,’ said the visitor. ‘I want to look at your records.’

‘Do you have a permit?’ said the attendant, sitting up in his seat.

El Médico leaned across the table and looked him in the eyes. ‘That isn’t important,’ he said.

‘No, I suppose not,’ said the attendant. His mouth hung very slightly open as he waited for el Médico to ask him something.

‘Just tell me one thing. No, two things. Were you on duty when they brought the Hallowe’en Man in?’

‘Sí.’

‘And you took a good look.’

‘I… sí.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’

* * *

Cristián awoke in his own bed. He sighed and stretched, his toes poking against the tabby curled on the blanket. It was good to be home.

Ocelot bounded into the kitchen, preceding him. He felt alive again; no longer amongst the sick, once more amongst the living. Well, almost: according to the kitchen clock it was three in the afternoon.

He discovered the Doctor doing creative things with maple syrup. Bernice sat at the kitchen table. Ace was curled up on the sofa, snoring gently.

The Doctor smiled and passed Cristián a stack of pancakes. ‘Otiquihiyohuih,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Buenas tardes,’ he translated. ‘Just curious. How much do you know about your ancestors?’

‘The Mexica? Mostly what my grandmother told me. The Aztecs ruled this country for over a century. Then the Spanish came.’ He sat at the table, eyeing the fat tortillas curiously.

The Doctor said nothing, watching Cristián’s face as he continued. ‘Grandmother told me a lot, when I was a child. But I haven’t kept the old stories, the old ways of life.’

‘Difficult, in a big city like this.’

‘Yes. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’ve even forgotten most of the Nahuatl language she taught me. She made me go to school, learn good Spanish so that I could work in the city. And she made me learn English, in case I had the chance to emigrate to the United States.’

The Doctor started pouring milk into