The pulsing whine of the TARDIS filled the dank cell from floor to ceiling.

Almost before it had finished materialising, the door opened, and Doyle staggered out, clutching at his head. He swung around, still groggy, but the Doctor barred his way and planted a palm in his chest, shoving him to the floor.

"Where is this?" he managed, then turned aside and spat lightly on the floor. The Doctor grinned.

"Catalonia, 1937, smack in the middle of the Spanish Civil War," he said, brightly. "You escaped from here about thirty seconds ago. Seems longer, does it?" Doyle paused in the midst of raising himself onto his elbows and froze solid. His eyes widened.

"They were coming to execute me," he said, wanting to shout, but finding his voice weighted down with horror.

"I know. They'll be here any minute," the Doctor told him. "Anyway, must dash, you know how it is. Have fun," he said, and slammed the door.

Doyle launched himself off the floor, galvanised by a speed born of terror, and tried to hammer on the TARDIS. His fingers brushed the wood for one fraction of a second before it faded beneath his touch, leaving the memory of its texture behind.

"No," he said. In his mind, it was a shriek. In the enveloping darkness, it came out as a strangled croak. He dropped his head into his hands.

Behind him, the cell door rattled, then creaked open.