His grandfather sat chin in hand, gazing at the toy. “Well. What you just said about not being in control. That’s one possible explanation for what happened on the street. That attack. It might not have been an attack. Not from outside, I mean. There’s a chance you might be doing it to yourself. Playing with things you don’t understand, making ripples. Opening doors. You said the heads you saw were all him. The, ah, tall man.” The old man sighed heavily. “He only had custard creams.”

“Huh?” Alex blinked.

“Chap who runs the café.” His grandfather nodded to the counter. “Nothing left but custard creams. On the biscuit front. Never was much of a fan of the custard cream, but any port in a storm, eh?” He crunched one and offered the plate. Alex scowled, shook his head, and sat straighter, listening for his chance as his grandfather went on.

“So, yes. It could simply have been a nightmare you conjured up for yourself, Alex, and you gave it the tall man’s face because his face has been on your mind. On the other hand, if it was from outside, it seemed relatively weak, maybe directed at you from afar, or . . .” He broke off, pursuing a thought, then put down his biscuit, only half-eaten. He tapped the robot and smiled sympathetically.

“Really should have chucked it in the river, Alex.”

“Yeah. Well, you can do that now. Just take it back over there and get rid of it.”

“Hah, yes.” His grandfather pulled at an earlobe. “Well, that would be the long-term plan, certainly. But, thing is, Alex . . .”

“Everyone thinks it was destroyed, anyway. That night,” Alex continued, barely listening. He stared at the toy, weighing the idea of never seeing it again. Not a bad idea at all.

“Mmmm. Well, I had my suspicions. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about you, Alex. Some kind of glow. When you’ve been around this business long as I have, you develop something of a sixth sense for it. Might have been what David’s great-grandmother picked up on tonight. But I felt you’d been through enough without a grilling from me there and then. Alex, I really meant to have this out with you long before now, but my plans got . . . derailed. It was a lot to leave you with. I truly am sorry about that, old chap.”

“It’s okay. I—” Alex couldn’t go on. Memories from that night on the bridge in Prague were washing over him again. “After all that,” he whispered, “how could you just leave me to . . . ? He jumped, he . . . I killed him. Both of them. Him and the girl. Zia, he called her. Her name was Zia.”