The old man looked up at him suspiciously. ‘Which city?’

‘Yes. It’s er … a cognitive reasoning test. You know, just to make sure you aren’t loopy or anything. And even if you are, no matter. Some of the best people I know are, you know … a little bit sideways. Take Isambard Kingdom Brunel, for example. Mad as a box of frogs. He only built all those bridges because he was afraid of walking at ground level. Claimed pixies were biting his ankles.’

The porter scowled. ‘Are you sure you’re a doctor?’

‘Quite sure!’ beamed the Doctor. ‘In fact …’ He rummaged through his jacket pockets and produced a stethoscope, which he hung round his neck. ‘There, see!’

‘So what’s wrong with me, then?’ demanded the old man.

The Doctor whipped out his sonic screwdriver and ran a quick diagnostic scan over the man’s body. ‘Kidney stones,’ he pronounced, examining the results. ‘Drink plenty of fluids and you’ll be right as rain in a few days’ time.’

‘Nothing serious, then,’ said Clara, bending to offer the man her widest grin. ‘Can you tell us which city we’re in, now?’

‘You people make me sick!’ barked the old man. He turned to the porter. ‘Get me out of here!’

‘Have I got spinach in my teeth, or something?’ Clara demanded.

The Doctor snatched a newspaper from the porter’s back pocket as the patient was wheeled away. ‘If only it were that easy to brush off,’ he said, studying the front page.

‘Well, something’s made this lot go out and buy a one-way ticket to Grumpsville!’

‘I think it might be this,’ the Doctor said, handing over the newspaper. It was the Dallas Morning News.

The front page displayed a photograph of a man Clara remembered from her school history lessons, with a single bold headline above. She read it aloud. ‘ “Kennedy Slain on Dallas Street”.’ She gasped. ‘But that means …’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor, indicating the date at the top of the page. ‘It’s 23 November 1963. We’re in Dallas, Texas – the day after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.’

Chapter 2

Mae Callon pushed the pile of paperwork to one side, folded her arms on her desk and rested her head down in one last attempt at sleep. It had been a long night – the longest she could remember in her five years working at the Morning News. A night she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried. But, like before, sleep wouldn’t come.

The images and sounds assaulted her, just as they had every time she had closed her eyes since yesterday. The bright sunlight streaming down over Dealey Plaza as people cheerfully awaited their first sight of the motorcade. President Kennedy, his wife and Governor Connolly waving to the crowds. Mae herself, standing on tiptoe to get a better view of the President – her pencil scratching over the surface of her notepad. Then a flash – far off to the right, and high up. Seeming to come from the School Book Depository. A crack – like that of a whip. Then another flash. And another. And the screams. Dear God, the screams.

Mae forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. She hadn’t seen the bullets hit the President or Governor Connolly herself – there were too many people crowded in front of her – but she’d spoken to many people who had. The things they had described were horrific. Things she’d had to transcribe for her report in the morning edition. Now they were seared into her mind just as if she had witnessed them herself, and she wasn’t alone in her grief. From around the office came the sound of sobbing as the full impact of yesterday’s events hit home.

She slid her chair back. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well work. There was an article to write on Lyndon B. Johnson’s first twenty-four hours as President and if she was going to tackle it without sleep, that meant coffee. She crossed the office, trying to avoid looking at Kennedy staring up from the front page of the paper – a copy of which sat on each of her fellow reporters’ desks. Perhaps if she didn’t look at the picture, the images in her head might subside a little.

Coffee acquired, she made her way back to her desk – skilfully avoiding yet another ‘isn’t it terrible?’ conversation with one of the sub-editors. She placed her coffee onto the same spot she always did, adding yet another ring to several years’ worth of stains marking the wood, flipped over her newspaper so Kennedy could no longer look at her, and pulled her typewriter closer.

She’d got as far as typing the title, ‘Oath on Aircraft’, when a large brown envelope dropped onto her keyboard. ‘Forget the Johnson piece,’ said her editor, Ben Parsons. ‘I’m giving it to Jim.’

Mae glanced up at her boss in surprise. ‘Jim?’ she queried. ‘Doesn’t he have enough to do with the sports pages?’

Ben sighed. ‘You think anyone’s gonna do more than glance at those for the next few days?’

‘I guess not.’

‘Jim’s a good kid,’ said Ben. ‘He wants to make the move to the news floor. Taking the Johnson story will help.’

‘So what’s this,’ asked Mae, making to open the envelope. Ben rested his hand on hers to stop her.

‘This … isn’t pleasant,’ he said. ‘They’re stills from cine footage taken by some guy called Zapruder. He was on the opposite side of the street from you yesterday – and he caught everything on film. Everything.’

‘What? How did you get hold of them so quickly?’

‘Life magazine had Kodak do a rush job on developing them,’ said Ben. ‘They plan to publish them in this week’s edition and, so long as we don’t steal their scoop, I got permission from a friend there for you to use them as well. He flew them down this morning.’

Mae looked surprised. ‘Why me?’

‘Look around you,’ Ben replied. ‘I can’t trust any of these hacks not to go to town on these pictures. Make a big, gory deal out of them. But I trust you.’

‘That’s … very kind,’ said Mae.

Ben chuckled. ‘I’m not doing it to be kind, Mae. I’m doing it because it’s my job. You’ll treat these with respect, and that’s what people need after a damn mess like this – a little respect. Not some god-awful creep show.’

Mae waited until Ben had left before taking a sip of coffee and opening the envelope. She slid the photographs out upside down, their plain white backs showing first. After a moment or two, she took a deep breath and flipped them over.

They were everything she had dreaded they would be. A genuine, second-by-second record of the murder of President John F. Kennedy. She flipped through the pictures with trembling hands. President Kennedy waving to the crowds. President Kennedy raising his hands to clutch at the front of his throat. Jacqueline Kennedy leaning in to her wounded husband. Then – oh, dear Lord – President Kennedy’s head. It just … It …

Mae tossed the photographs aside, her eyes flooding with tears. She reached for her coffee, took a big gulp and was about to put the mug down when something unusual caught her eye. The coffee stain on her desk. She’d never really looked at it closely before. But now she did. Now that it had the newest smudge from her current cup of coffee – the stain made a face. The face of her late grandmother.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Mae set the coffee aside at the other edge of her desk and studied the stain. The likeness to Grandma Betty was astonishing. The brown smears in the centre of the blemish were just like her eyes – kind, warm and mischievous. And the curved lines at the top, which she knew were nothing more than part rings made by spilled coffee – they formed the curls of her hair. She always had it cut and set the same way, once a month without fail – just like that! And the mouth. The mouth had to be Betty’s. Pursed lips, smiling and scolding at exactly the same time. Just as ready to praise as to criticise.

Mae clasped her hand to her mouth and laughed. If she hadn’t stopped attending church shortly after Grandma Betty passed away, she’d have called this a miracle. Now, the only name she had for it was … well, she didn’t have a name for it, other than weird. She had to get Phil to fetch his camera and come take a shot of—