The other man froze, his entire body still, before replying irritably, ‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything, Doctor. I asked why you came here; please tell me.’

Alf was staring at the Doctor, trying to communicate with him without speaking. She wanted out of there. Now. She had the feeling if they stayed much longer, violence would happen - whether because she did something, or that reverend, she wasn’t entirely sure. The Doctor seemed to understand; he said to Chasuble, still in that quiet tone, ‘Never mind, sir; I think I have all the information I need. Thank you for your time; I’m sorry we troubled you.’

‘No matter,’ Chasuble replied coldly. He stayed by the fireplace, watching as Alf strode to the door and flung it open. She was out on the landing before she realised the old woman that owned the house was standing at the top of the stairs and had clearly been standing there for some time. She had an odd, calculating grin on her face, and for an instant Alf had been bizarrely sure the woman’s eyes glowed red. Must’ve been a trick of the light.

‘Make a habit of eavesdropping, do you?’ Alf asked, in no mood to put with any crap. The Doctor had just stepped out of the room behind her; he stared at the old woman.

‘Impudence!’ The woman had quickly regained her disapproving sniff. ‘Really, Doctor, you should teach your ward better manners.’

The Doctor took Alf’s arm. ‘I quite agree, ma’am. I think I’ll get started on it straightaway. Thank you for the tea; it was lovely. Good day.’ He led Alf out of the house at speed.

‘That accomplished nothing,’ Alf said once they were on the street.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I found Dr Chasuble interesting, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

The Doctor gave her a concerned look. She ignored it, concentrating on avoiding other people as they walked. ‘Yes, I noticed that. He had a very… menacing air about him, didn’t he? And did you see how he froze when I asked him how long he’d been in Paris? As if it wasn’t in his script and he couldn’t improvise an answer. Time we visited Basil Hallward, don’t you agree?’ He held up the card that Wilde had given him, grinning cheerfully as he marched ahead of Alf.

She watched him go, biting the inside of her lip in thought. Making a decision, she ran after him and called out his name. The Doctor paused to look back at her inquiringly.

‘Let’s go back to the hotel first, yeah?’ she said. ‘I want to check up on them.’

‘Why?’ the Doctor asked, confused. ‘I’m sure they’re fine.’ He grinned. ‘Nick’s probably having the time of his life!’

‘I don’t trust Wilde,’ she stated flatly. ‘It’s his characters that are coming out of the woodwork, and he was holding something back when we talked to him. I want to check up on Nick.’ She stumbled over the name, as at that exact moment her shoulder twinged unexpectedly and painfully. She refrained from swearing.

‘Alf, I’m sure Oscar has nothing to do with this,’ the Doctor was telling her. ‘He’s a good man who’s allowed himself to be led down certain paths, but that doesn’t mean he’s the one creating real-life versions of these characters. How could he be? He’s only human; he doesn’t have that kind of power.’

‘How do you know?’ Alf shot back. ‘How can you be sure of anything? How can I be sure of you? You say you’re the Doctor, but why should I believe you?’ She breathed in deeply, regaining control of herself.

The Doctor stared down at her, his expression almost as blank as Chasuble’s had been when asked about his length of stay in Paris, and then he turned away. ‘Come,’ he said simply. She couldn't read his reaction. ‘We’ll go to the hotel.’

They walked back to the hotel without speaking. When the Doctor inquired about speaking again with Monsieur Melmoth, the concierge told him the writer had left some little time ago with a young man, the one who had come with the Doctor earlier.

Alf glared up at the Doctor accusingly. ‘So now what do we do, Doctor?’ she asked.




‘Give me the head of Jokanaan!’

As Nick struggled to retain his grip on his own identity, Oscar and Satine - Herod and Salomé - argued about the reward the beautiful woman demanded. No matter what riches, even the offer of half Herod’s kingdom, she would not be swayed from her murderous intent. She was one vindictive bitch!

He had to do something to break the structure of the scenario, to throw a spanner into the works of whatever power was controlling things. Nick opened his mouth to call out to Oscar, but no words would come. It mustn’t be his turn to speak, but waiting for a cue could be fatal.

And then it struck him. Something nobody had any true control over.

He raised arms above his head and brought them down hard on his legs, right over where he knew the Martian implants were. The pain, though excruciating, was welcome, and Nick opened his mouth and howled it out to the heavens above.




The Tetrarch Herod looked at his wife, Herodias, and her daughter Salomé. In the sky above, the moon had become red, an enormous pool of blood.

Somehow it had come to this: he had kept the prophet, Jokanaan, safe from the many who would slay him because he was a holy man, one who had seen God. And the man’s supporters called for his release. Having such a prisoner allowed him to play one group against the other and thus control them both.

But now he had sworn an oath, in the name of his own gods, to grant Salomé whatever she would wish in return for her dancing for him.

The seven veils had been danced, and Salomé had demanded the head of the prophet. To obey would weaken his control of the warring factions of Judaea, but to repudiate his oath would be blasphemy. Either path weakened him.

It was certain that the mother and daughter were seeking revenge for his murder of his brother, Herodias’ first husband and Salomé’s father. All women become like their mothers. That is their curse.

Herodias looked gleeful, the glow of the moon reflected in her eyes, making them resemble twin pools of fire.

He had no choice; he must fulfil his oath.

And then a cry of utmost agony echoed forth from the cistern, dragging the Tetrarch’s attention away from the two women before him.

Oscar Wilde suddenly stood up. ‘Nick?’ he called, his voice full of concern.




To Nick what happened next was as if a stone had been cast into a reflecting pool. From where Oscar stood, or somewhere very close by, the layer of reality that was the court of Herod rippled in widening circles, with its trappings dissolving and leaving behind only the layer beneath. The Moulin Rouge.

The writer was on his feet, trying to fight his way through the milling, boisterous crowd to Nick’s side. He wasn’t strong enough.

Suddenly, on the trapeze above them all, the woman Satine gave a choking gasp. As the revelry continued below her, she stared fixedly into the distance, and then her eyes closed and she fell backwards.

Everyone stopped, watching the plummeting form in silent shock, save for a muscular black man who ran toward her, catching the unconscious singer before she could strike the floor.

While the crowd watched solicitously as Mlle Satine was carried away, Oscar forced his way to Nick. Oscar put an arm around Nick and lifted him to a standing position with a surprisingly strong grip. As he helped a dazed Nick towards the entry, behind them a large man in a red coat and a top hat was whipping the crowd into a frenzy, calling Satine’s name over and over again.