Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [6]
Cristián put down his fork and clasped his hands. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘What colour were the Hallowe’en Man’s eyes?’
‘Blue.’
‘And have you had that spirit here since 1969?’
Cristián rubbed his eyes with his good hand. ‘Twice.’
The Doctor sat down at the table with him. Despite Cristián’s grey hair, the Time Lord seemed far older. ‘Bernice, Ace,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘Why don’t you two go shopping?’
‘I don’t believe you just said that,’ said Ace, around a pancake. Bernice just arched an eyebrow.
‘I’m serious. There’s nothing to eat in this flat. Besides, I’m sure Ace has a few things she’d like to buy for herself.’
Bernice raised her other eyebrow.
‘What do they use for money?’ said Ace, swallowing her mouthful.
* * *
Perhaps the TARDIS was alone.
It stood unnoticed in a narrow canyon between two buildings. The air was thick with the yellow shimmer of exhaust fumes. Brightly coloured washing hung between the two buildings, flapping slowly in the warm morning air. The alley was dusty with November drought.
Perhaps no one noticed the TARDIS at all, just another bit of junk like the cardboard boxes, the smashed refrigerator lamenting its fate amongst the trash. Perhaps the chilangos passed it on their way to the subway or the market without a second glance.
Perhaps alien fingers raked across its surface in a paroxysm of recognition, feeling every atom of the illusion of blue paint. Ghost fingers, hidden from the city.
Or perhaps the TARDIS was alone.
* * *
Cristián wasn’t eating.
‘You have to tell me everything,’ said the Doctor. ‘I can’t help you unless I have facts. Information. Something to chew on.’
Cristián said nothing, tracing elaborate patterns in the maple syrup with the tines of his fork.
‘Why are you afraid?’ said the Doctor.
‘Afraid,’ said Cristián. ‘I’m always afraid. When I wake up in the morning, I get scared before I get out of bed. The sunset triggers it, and flowers, and moving vehicles. I’m frightened when I eat and I’m frightened in crowds. Any time you see me, you can assume I’m afraid.’
The Doctor did not take his gaze away. ‘You suffer from chronic panic attacks.’
‘Yes!’
‘Are you on any medication?’
‘I don’t –’ Cristián stopped short. He pushed his plate aside.
‘You don’t trust doctors.’
‘Not any more,’ Cristián said at last.
‘Then why did you ask me to come here?’
‘Because I thought – because you’re the only person to have any understanding of this situation. But you don’t. It hasn’t even happened to you yet.’
‘Cristián,’ said the Doctor carefully, ‘there’s a chance that things will come out differently the second time.’
Cristián looked at him slowly, letting the import of those words sink in. ‘Do you want to know your future?’ he said.
‘At the moment. I’m not as interested in my future as I am in your past. I need to know more.’
‘But I can’t remember. It’s…’ The Indian cast around for words. ‘When I try to think about it, my mind just slides off. Like a drop of water on an orange peel. As though someone does not want me to think about it. Only… I think that person is myself.’
‘I can help you remember.’
‘How?’
* * *
Preston had been sitting in the complimentary lounge for twenty minutes, trying to work out if the girl was looking at him or not. She wore the kind of mirrored sunglasses that Californian cops wore; she ran that reflective gaze over the souvenir shop junk, taking in piñatas, pet cacti, leather goods. And occasionally turning in his direction, the shades showing a distorted view of the hotel foyer. She was wearing a leather jacket, black skirt, fingerless gloves.
If Preston hadn’t been so bored, he probably wouldn’t have had the courage to get up and walk across the foyer, his shoes shuff‐shuffing on the red carpet. The girl turned as he came towards her. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Er. You a tourist?’
Brilliant opening, Casanova. But the girl was smiling, good teeth between glossy lips. ‘Yeah. Looking for something to take home to my mother.’ Her voice