He counted eighteen of them, on the platform in their neat little black or grey mackintoshes, caps on their

heads, gas masks on their belts,

some clutching rope-bound

suitcases, some just satchels, a

few others with nothing more than

paper bags. All shared a big, wide-eyed expression, a mixture of

trepidation, fear and bemusement.

A few hours earlier, theyʼd been

grouped at Paddington Station in

London, saying bewildering

goodbyes to parents and

guardians, brothers and sisters,

friends and strangers. Then theyʼd

been bundled onto the steam train

and delivered to Cardiff. To

somewhere safer, away from the

bombs.

Even Cardiff had its moments

though. Just a few months back,

part of Riverside - Neville Street if

he remembered correctly - had

gone in a German raid, so really

nowhere was totally safe. Just

safer than London.

At the top of the steps leading

to the ticket hall below, a group of

strangers moved forward as one,

grabbing at the kids, pulling and

pushing, checking names scrawled

on manila labels. Every so often, a

nametag would be recognised and

the child claimed, separated from

the others and bundled away. One

by one the displaced evacuees

were going down the stairs, to

begin new lives, never knowing if

they would go home again, or when

the war would end.

Jack Harkness looked at his

watch. ʻIn about three and half

years,ʼ he muttered to no one. And

then he smiled. There was one kid

on the platform, freckled, red-haired, gap-toothed, ears sticking

out at absurd angles. A more

caricatured evacuee he couldnʼt

believe existed.

He stepped forward to the boy,

holding out a hand to reach for his

nametag, but the boy stepped

away.

ʻOo are you?ʼ the lad said.

Jack told him his name. ʻAnd

you are?ʼ Jack got hold of the

paper tag. ʻA NEIL.ʼ Jack frowned

for a second, then laughed. ʻOh,

very droll. You guys.ʼ

The boy cocked his head. ʻGor

blimey guv, leave it out, apples anʼ

pears, strewth, ʼowʼs yer father?ʼ

Jack shook his head slowly.

ʻYou donʼt have a clue, do you.

Cool accent though, give you that.

You nailed it right down. Never

quite got the East London one

right, myself.ʼ

ʻLuvvaduck, mate, I ainʼt got no

clue as to wot on erff your sayinʼ,

me old china.ʼ

ʻYeah, whatever, "Neil". Come

on, we need to get you home.ʼ

He took the ʻboyʼ by the hand

and led him down the steps, turning

right to leave by the rear entrance.

They emerged into the August

sunlight. Parked a few yards across

the road was a sleek black Daimler.

The driverʼs door opened, and a

grey-suited chauffeur stepped out,

offering a salute. Jack waved it

away.

ʻNone of that, Llinos,ʼ he said.

ʻRuddy Nora,ʼ said the boy,

ʻyouʼre a bit of awright anʼ no

mistake.ʼ

Llinos smiled and removed the

chauffeurʼs peaked cap, letting her

long red hair cascade down her

back. ʻCharmed,ʼ she said and

opened the rear door for the boy to

clamber in. Jack went in after him.

As Llinos got back into the

driverʼs seat and replaced her cap,

Jack leaned forward and kissed the

back of her neck. ʻThe Hub, please,

and donʼt spare the horses.ʼ

The Daimler eased forward, as

Llinos reached down, plucked a

Bakelite telephone receiver from

the dashboard and passed it back

to Jack.

ʻHarkness,ʼ he said simply.

Then, after a beat, ʻI see. Thatʼs not

my problem. You asked me to

locate and identify him for you.

Done that, delivering him to the

Hub - then Iʼm out of here. Thereʼs

a party in the Butetown docks

tonight with my name on it.ʼ

He passed the phone back.

Llinos took it and replaced it

without ever taking her eyes off the

road, turning right into Bute Street

towards the warehouses that

littered the mud chutes by the

basin, across from Tiger Bay.

After a few moments, the

Daimler pulled up outside a row of

Victorian buildings and Llinos

emerged, opened the doors again

and smiled at her passengers as

she let them out.

Jack hadnʼt let go of ʻNeilʼ at

any point, and he was virtually

dragging him towards the

warehouses, a determined grimace

on his face.

He heard Llinos drive away to

park the Daimler in the Square,

round the corner. All those

resources, and still no underground

car park. One day, someone was

going to steal that car and find it

had a few little refurbishments that

the average wartime Daimler didnʼt

have, and then thereʼd be hell to

pay.

He rapped on the wooden door

of Warehouse B, waited exactly

eight seconds, and then rapped

again.

The door opened almost

immediately, and a uniformed

young man - naval today, made a

change - let them in.

ʻLooking good, Rhydian,ʼ Jack

winked at him.

The young Welshman adjusted

his glasses, but said nothing, as

always. He crossed to an iron-gated lift and yanked the door

back. Jack and ʻNeilʼ entered, and

Rhydian closed the door behind

them, pressing a button that sent

them twenty feet beneath the

surface of the Oval Basin.

Jack watched as the concreted

shaft slowly went by and then

blinked as the harsh lighting in the

Hub greeted him. Enough

electricity to power most of Cardiff,

and luckily hidden from the surface

- no leakage to draw German

bombersʼ attentions.

The lift door was wrenched

open by one of the two personnel

in the Hub, Greg Bishop. He smiled

at Jack and then looked down at

ʻNeilʼ.

Jackʼs heart raced slightly at

seeing Greg. It always did. He was

dark-haired, blue-eyed (oh God,

such beautiful eyes), cheekbones

you could rest a coffee mug on and

a toothy smile that had greeted

Jack on more than one occasion as

the sun rose.

Greg was the reason Jack did

anything for Torchwood these

days. And he was a damn good

reason.

Behind Greg, a severe

unsmiling woman raised her head

from a big in-tray of documents.

ʻYouʼre late,ʼ she said.

ʻAnd good evening to you,

Tilda,ʼ Jack said. He pushed ʻNeilʼ

before him. ʻMeet an alien. Or "A.

Neil", if you prefer. Torchwood

London have such a perverse

sense of humour.ʼ

Tilda Brennan shrugged. ʻSo?

Youʼve done your job. You can

leave now, Mister Freelancer.ʼ

Jack smiled at Greg. ʻSuch

charm, such a way with the guys.ʼ

He gestured towards a contraption

at the centre of the Hub. ʻHad a

visit from Turing?ʼ

Greg smiled back. ʻCalled it a

Bronze Goddess. Says you know

what itʼs to say thanks for.ʼ

Jack nodded. ʻSo, does it

work?ʼ

Tilda looked up at the

machine. ʻSupposedly itʼll predict

Rift occurrences. Youʼll have to

take it for granted, Harkness, that,

as itʼs tainted by your involvement,

I neither like it nor trust its

accuracy, reliability or usefulness.ʼ

She looked back at Jack. ʻYou still

here?ʼ

Jack ran his finger down

Gregʼs cheek. ʻWhat happens to

Neil?ʼ

ʻLlinos will put it in the Vaults

until we find out why itʼs here and

how to get it somewhere else.ʼ

Greg looked at the alien. ʻWhy

didnʼt Torchwood One want it?ʼ

ʻDunno. I was just asked to get

him to you guys. Job done. See

you.ʼ

And Jack turned away from the

Hub, Torchwood Three and the

alien. Then he turned back again.

ʻOh, and Tilda?ʼ

ʻDoctor Brennan to you.ʼ

ʻWhatever. I donʼt want to find

Neil over there turning up in a

fishermanʼs net in a weekʼs time. If

Iʼd been willing to accept his

execution, I wouldʼve left him to

stay in London.ʼ

Tilda Brennan sneered at him.

ʻItʼs alien rubbish, Harkness.

Whether it lives or dies, gets

dissected or just forgotten and

frozen in the Morgue - all my

decision, not yours. Now go.ʼ

Just as Jack was about to

leave, he heard a noise and looked

at the alien.

ʻFank you,ʼ it said. ʻAnʼ I look

forward to our next meeting. Innit.ʼ

This surprised Jack. Not just

the gratitude, or the suggestion

theyʼd meet again, but the fact it

had spoken such a long sentence,

and one that made sense.

ʻSure thing,ʼ he said, giving a

tap on the side of his head with a

finger, then out, by way of a salute.

And he left Torchwood Cardiff,

or Torchwood Three as it now

called itself, and went back out into

the cold Welsh night air.

He stood on the dockside,

looking first out across the water,

then back across the mudflats that

formed the Oval Basin. One day, all

this land would be reclaimed,

redeveloped, become a thriving

modern area of shops, apartments

and tourism. And there, right there,

by that big drain, would be a water

tower, a sculpture; and a machine

would be there for a short while

and would create a permanent rent

in the Rift that crossed Cardiff.

Then, once in a blue moon, the

thing Jack was waiting patiently for

(well, OK, not that patiently) would

materialise and heʼd get away from

Wales. From Earth. Back out

amongst the stars, back out where

he belonged...

Except, damn it, he actually

felt drawn to Cardiff now. How

easily heʼd come to call this place

home.

Pulling his long coat around

him to keep out the chill, he

wandered away from the water, out

towards Butetown and the small

area beyond known as Tretarri.

No railyard, no bus link, no

shops; just a couple of dismal

streets of workersʼ cottages built

about eighty years earlier. Dark,

foreboding and run down, the

houses were mostly empty. Not

even the tramps and bums of

Cardiff lived there, and the last few

times Jack had had reason to go

heʼd felt... weird.

And Captain Jack Harkness

and ʻweirdʼ werenʼt great buddies -

it needed further investigation. And

hell, he had nothing else to do for a

couple of hours.

TWO

The room was incredibly dark - not

just the dark of a late night, but the

dark of somewhere that light just

seemed to evaporate from, as if

something was actually sucking it

out, like air from a leaky tyre.

It may have had something to

do with the wooden box at the

centre of the room, on the floor next

to a table. About the size of a

shoebox, but crafted elegantly from

redwood, with intricate designs

across the surface. Not that they

could be seen right now. But they

were there all the same.

If you listened closely enough,

you might be forgiven for thinking

the box was sighing. Or breathing

deeply. Or perhaps, something

inside it was.

The box wasnʼt alone in the

room. Beside the table was a

leather armchair, a Queen Anne, in

tan. A bit worn, showing its age,

creases and even a minute tear on

one wing. On the table, a small

glass of dark sherry stood on a

white doily.

On the wooden floor in front of

a cold fire hearth was a tan rug,

which matched the armchair. The

fire looked as though it hadnʼt been

lit in many years - spotlessly clean,

the Victorian tiling painted black,

the wrought-iron implements in a

dark coal bucket next to a grate.

Facing all of this was the door

to the room, wooden, stained dark,

an iron key in the lock. To the right

of the door and the chair was a

window. Long, heavily covered with

a dark olive velvet curtain.

That was it. Just a dark room

filled with dark furnishings.

And the odd sigh from within

the box. Probably.

After a couple more sighs, a

tiny pinprick of light seemed to

seep out from the box, not enough

to illuminate the room, but enough

to break the dark mood.

Seconds later, the leather

chair rustled, almost as if someone

was moving in it and sure enough a

figure gradually materialised out of

nothing. Almost as if it were

crossing from one plane of reality

to another, in which identical rooms

existed, with identical chairs.

After a few more seconds, the

figure solidified into a small, thin-featured old man, wearing an

evening suit, bow-tie, cummerbund,

a small red rose in his buttonhole,

as if heʼd been attending a night at

the opera.

Ignoring the darkness, almost

as though he could see as clearly

as if it were broad daylight, the man

reached out for the sherry glass.

He flicked through the pages of a

broadsheet newspaper which had

been lying on the floor. Each page

was blank, yet he seemed to be

reading something on it.

He grimaced at the sherry and

muttered, ʻI prefer Amontillado.ʼ

The sherry seemed to glow

briefly at this. When the glow

faded, the sherry was marginally

paler than before.

The man glanced at the

newspaper. ʻWhere am I?ʼ

An empty page was suddenly

illuminated. A word appeared on it,

scored in a white light that then

turned ink-black.

CARDIFF

ʻWhen?ʼ

18 AUGUST 1941

ʻWhat a popular year. And

where in this dreary place might

one find the divine Captain Jack

Harkness today?ʼ

TRETARRI

The old man clapped his

hands with a giggle. The

newspaper folded itself up and

came to rest on an arm of the chair.

ʻDelightful. Queenʼs Rook takes

Queenʼs Knight, I think.ʼ He looked

about the room. ʻLight.ʼ

The transformation was

instantaneous - the fire was lit,

electric lights on the walls were a

low-voltage, incandescent yellow,

the rug and curtain become cream-coloured, and some framed

pictures blurred into existence

along the walls.

Photographs, mostly

monochrome, showing Cardiff over

the previous fifty years.

ʻThatʼs better. If Iʼm going to be

in this dimension for a while, I

might as well be comfortable.ʼ He

bent over and scooped up the box

- his body as supple as that of a

man a third his apparent age.

He crossed to one of the

photos.

ʻThat is 1923, if I recall,ʼ he

said to the box. ʻAnd there, in that

ridiculous coat, with that smug

expression - there is our target.ʼ

He patted the lid of the box. ʻJack

Harkness he calls himself. Not his

real name, of course, but a guise

he once adopted and has

continued to use. To all intents and

purposes, it is whom he believes

himself to be. And you and I shall

have some fun with him.ʼ

He crossed to another picture.

Again Jack, this time dated 1909;

he was inside a railway carriage in

Pakistan, with a troop of soldiers,

laughing. ʻTake a good look at our

enemy,ʼ the old man purred. ʻThis

is going to be a long game with a

very unpleasant outcome.ʼ

From within the box, a louder

sigh than before emerged, and

another flicker of harsh white light

seeped from the crack between its

lid and base.

The old man nodded slowly.

ʻYes, the God-slayer. And we really

donʼt like him much, do we?ʼ

The box sighed again.

The man clicked his fingers,

and the newspaper flipped open to

a blank page.

ʻSend a message: My dearest

Doctor Brennan. Matilda. My

respects to you and Torchwood.

The time has come to rid ourselves

of the vermin that calls itself

Harkness. File TW3/87/BM. Read it

and follow the instructions. Your

servant, as always, Bilis Manger,

Esquire.ʼ

The newspaper closed, and

the old man smiled.

ʻIt wonʼt work, of course. But it

will be an amusing diversion, a

chance to see how alert the good

Captain is.ʼ

He sat back in the chair,

sipped more sherry and suddenly

yanked open the lid of the box. A

massive flurry of bright, fierce

halogen white light almost roared

out of the box, straight up, through

the ceiling and was gone.

And Bilis Manger laughed as

he imagined the trauma he was

about to inflict, indirectly and

untraceably of course, on his...

nemesis.

ʻNemesis? Oh I like that,ʼ he

said to the newspaper. ʻI would

have settled for "enemy". "Mortal

foe", even. But "nemesis" - oh, but

thatʼs delicious.ʼ

Jack Harkness stood at the end of

a long road. At the far end was a

huge brick wall, creating a cul-de-sac of Wharf Street. Off Wharf

Street, four other roads to the left.

The right of Wharf Street was just a

solid row of Victorian terraces.

The four roads were also lined

with identical two-up, two-down

terraces. All workersʼ cottages, built

for the dockworkers in 1872. Back

then, the land had been owned by

one of the local businessmen,

Gideon ap Tarri, who wanted his

men well housed with their wives

and kids.

At the other end of the four

side roads, a street identical to

Wharf Street called Bute Terrace.

Six streets of houses, creating

a neat square of land.

And all the houses empty. Just

as they had been in 1902 when

heʼd first been drawn here. And all

the other times. 1922 - thatʼd been

a good year. And in 1934, that old

woman who threw things at him...

Unchanging. No sign of wear

and tear. Just... there.

Jack was about to step forward

when something that hadnʼt

happened on his previous

incursions suddenly occurred.

A dog, a small brown cocker

spaniel, lolloped towards Wharf

Street from behind him, panting

slightly. It brushed past his leg and

into Wharf Street. Momentarily it

stopped and cocked its head, as if

listening, Jack thought. Hearing

something on a frequency that

dogs can but humans canʼt. Then it

carried on moving, and then turned

left into the second linking road.

Jack had no idea what the street

was called; if it had a sign, it was

on the facia he couldnʼt see from

where he stood.

The dog was gone, completely

out of his field of vision, so he

moved left to look down Bute

Terrace. The dog didnʼt re-emerge,

so he assumed it had found

something to amuse itself with in

the side road.

Anywhere else, of course, he

might just have wandered in to see

what the dog was doing.

But this tiny block of streets

known as Tretarri was off-limits to

Jack. It always had been. Ever

since 1902, when heʼd first

stumbled on it, drunkenly one night.

(Oh, that was a good night. That

showgirl. And the sailor.

Together...) Heʼd tried going in but

had woken up flat on his back,

exactly where he stood now. And,

for the next two days, heʼd played

host to King Hangover of the

Hangover People.

Same on his other visits - he

physically could not get into

Tretarri. If he tried, he felt sick.

He stepped forward. Nope,

tonight was no different, the

nausea was wrenched up from the

pits of his gut in a split second -

maybe a bit stronger, a bit more

nauseous, but always the same

sensations. He tried to ignore it, to

force himself forward. If he was

going to throw up, so what? He

was still going to try.

He put an arm out but, just as

heʼd found the last time, something

stopped him. Like a barrier - an

invisible barrier.

He tried to fight the wave of

hot and cold washing over him,

tried to ignore the churning in his

stomach. He was Jack Harkness,

fifty-first-century Time Agent. Heʼd

fought monsters for Godʼs sake.

How could a crappy little block of

streets in one city on Earth give

him this much grief?

Then he staggered back.

ʻI give up,ʼ he muttered to no

one in particular.

One day, heʼd break through

this. It was a mystery, and Jack

didnʼt much like mysteries. Well,

not insoluble ones. Not insoluble

ones that made him want to bring

his lunch up. And yesterdayʼs

lunch. And probably the last weekʼs

worth of lunches.

He turned away from Bute

Terrace and tried to focus on that

party going on down by the docks.

But no, even thinking about

drinking, gambling, girls and boys

couldnʼt convince him to head

there.

He needed rest. Sleep.

And annoyingly, like last time,

he knew itʼd be three days before

heʼd be fit and ready again.

He wandered into the

darkness, trying not to stagger and

lean against the lamp-posts as he

headed back to his den.

If heʼd taken one last look

back, he would have seen the

spaniel standing at the edge of the

street, its eyes glowing bright with

an unearthly white halogen light.

He might have seen what could

also only be described as a smile

on its face.

But normal, Earth-based dogs

canʼt smile, so heʼd have dismissed

that as a by-product of his nausea.

Four days later, he was back at

Torchwood Three.

His defences were up

immediately. Rhydian wasnʼt on

reception duty, but unconscious on

the floor, his breathing shallow but

regular. Jack sniffed his breath -

Rhydian had been drugged then.

He went down into the Hub.

Turingʼs Rift predictor was

wrecked, bits of it strewn about the

floor, and a dark, charred hole at its

heart.

Of Tilda Brennan, Llinos King

or Greg Bishop, no sign.

Tildaʼs office, far side, to the

right of the Torchwood train station

sign, was empty. Drawing his

Webley, gripping it in both hands,

Jack expertly explored the Hub,

checking the walkway that ringed

the walls, the Committee Room at

9 oʼclock to Tildaʼs office, on that

walkway, and then looked down

into the sterile Autopsy Room.

Nothing.

He crossed under the

Committee Room to the steps at

the back of the Hub, glancing into

the Interrogation Room. Llinos was

lying across the table.

He was in there in seconds,

checking Llinosʼ neck for a pulse.

Faint, but there.

Both Rhydian and Llinos, alive

but unconscious. Why?

He took the steps down into

the bowels of the Torchwood base,

leading to a series of interlinked

tunnels and passageways. To one

side, he passed the Vaults where

alien prisoners were kept. Nothing.

He went further, down a few

steps to the basement area, a vast

room of nothing but filing cabinets -

details of Torchwood incidents,

staff and records going back to its

inception in 1879.

Around the corner, the huge

Victorian morgue, rows of wooden

doors hiding... whatever. He was

never comfortable down there. As a

man who couldnʼt die, being in

close proximity to those that had,

made him... uncomfortable.

There was a noise, a whisper.

ʻJack.ʼ

It had come from the direction

of the Vaults, and Jack eased

himself along the tunnels back

there.

ʻGreg?ʼ

Revolver ready, he went into

the Vaults, aiming rapidly into each

cell. Empty until he reached the last

one. The alien heʼd got from the

railway station, dissected, its face

contorted in agony, spread-eagled

on the floor, entrails everywhere.

ʻJack...ʼ

He swung around.

Greg was in the doorway, his

face swollen and bloodied, his right

arm (his gun arm, Jack knew)

twisted at an angle, clearly broken

painfully in at least two places. His

beautiful blue eyes were staring at

Jack in silent apology.

But the most surprising thing

wasnʼt Greg. It was Tilda Brennan,

holding Greg in front of her as a

shield, a pistol jammed against his

forehead.

She was holding Greg in an

arm-lock around the throat, and

clutching a diary of some sort.

ʻYou couldnʼt just sod off and

leave us alone, could you Jack?ʼ

she spat. ʻThis is your fault.ʼ

Jack shrugged and threw a

look at ʻNeilʼ the alien. ʻWhat did

you learn from that?ʼ

Tilda snorted. ʻThat whatever

race that piece of crap is from,

theyʼre easily stopped.ʼ

ʻIs that what Torchwood One

wanted?ʼ

ʻIʼm not working for Torchwood

any more,ʼ she said quietly.

ʻKinda guessed that,ʼ Jack

replied, keeping the Webley aimed

straight at her, but with an eye on

her twitchy trigger finger.

He knew that, if he fired,

thereʼd still be that split second,

that moment when the noise of the

Webley could startle her enough

that sheʼd fire too, spreading

Gregʼs brain across the room just

as his bullet did the same to hers.

He wasnʼt going to take that

risk - he didnʼt owe Torchwood

enough for that.

But he owed Greg.

ʻSo, who?ʼ

By way of an answer, she

gasped - and her eyes suddenly

flared with a bright white light,

burning harshly.

He could almost hear the roar.

Or was it a... sigh of some

sort. A sigh of contentment, as if

something had been released.

But her gun was still pressed

into Gregʼs temple.

Damn.

ʻOne day, Jack,ʼ she said, but

the voice wasnʼt hers, it was...

distorted, hollow. ʻOne day, youʼll

understand all this. Iʼm the

messenger, Jack. Just the

messenger.ʼ

And the lights in her eyes went

as suddenly as theyʼd arrived - and

Tildaʼs concentration faltered for a

second.

As her arm relaxed a fraction,

she clearly realised her mistake.

Her finger began to pull the

trigger and Jack had no choice.

The Webley retorted, twice,

and Tildaʼs head exploded.

Her dead finger continued on

its trajectory and her pistol fired -

uselessly into the wall as Greg fell

backwards with Tildaʼs body as she

dropped.

Jack was at his side in a

second, and the young man

wrenched himself free of the

woman and fell into Jackʼs waiting

arms, huge sobs racking his body.

Jack held him tight, rocking

back and forth slightly, both of them

in shock. He wasnʼt sure how long

they stayed like that, but they only

parted when the flame-haired

Llinos put her head around the

corner of the Vaults, pistol drawn.

She looked at Jack and Greg,

and then took in Tilda Brennanʼs

body.

ʻCheck on Rhydian,ʼ Jack

commanded, and Llinos ran away

to find her comrade.

ʻThis,ʼ Jack whispered quietly

into Gregʼs ear, trying to lighten the

mood, ʻis why I will never work full-time for Torchwood.ʼ

Greg just looked up into Jackʼs

eyes and kissed him hard, their

tongues finding each otherʼs

mouths in passion, relief and

savage gratitude.

They parted after a few

moments, and Jack checked

Gregʼs arm.

ʻShe tricked me,ʼ Greg said

quietly. ʻI found the alien like that,

objected, and she said someone

must be in the Hub. As I went to

get a weapon, she jumped me. I

was surprised, sheʼd done my arm

in before I could react. Iʼm sorry.ʼ

Jack shook his head. ʻSorry,

my ass. Youʼve got nothing to

apologise for - but you need to let

Torchwood London know

something took her over,

possessed her.ʼ

ʻFrom the alien?ʼ asked Greg,

pointing with his good arm at the

dissected ʻNeilʼ.

Jack considered this, but

something about that explanation

didnʼt ring true.

Greg reached out for the diary

Tilda had dropped and drew it

towards him, as Jack propped him

up against the wall of the nearest

cell door.

Llinos and Rhydian came in,

both alert, ready for anything,

despite their recent

unconsciousness.

This was a good team, Jack

thought. They deserved better than

Tilda Brennanʼs betrayal,

possessed or not.

Heʼd always had doubts about

her.

Rhydian grabbed a blanket

from one of the cells, draping it

over Tildaʼs body as Llinos and

Greg flicked through the diary.

ʻRhydian, painkillers for Gregʼs

arm, now.ʼ

ʻYes sir,ʼ the young officer

replied and headed back out.

Greg was frowning, and not

with the pain or shock.

ʻWhatʼs up?ʼ Jack asked.

Greg held the diary up. The

double-page spread was blank.

ʻTheyʼre all like that,ʼ Llinos

said. ʻItʼs an empty book.ʼ She

stood up and looked at Jack. ʻWhat

do you think?ʼ

ʻHey, donʼt ask me,ʼ he said.

And they both turned as Greg

swore.

A white light, roughly Greg-

shaped, surrounded him.

Jack reached forward, but

suddenly his guts seemed to be on

fire - the same feeling heʼd felt at

Tretarri.

He hit the floor in a second,

hearing his own voice yelling in

fury, as Greg vanished with one

final scream of pain, and the bright

light flared and winked out.

ʻGreg!ʼ Llinos shouted

pointlessly.

Jack was staring, not where

Greg had been, but at the diary.

In flame-orange letters, scored

across the previously blank pages

were words:

REVENGE, JACK. REVENGE

FOR THE FUTURE.

And then the diary erupted into

flame and would have been ash in

seconds if Llinos hadnʼt stamped

on it and put the fire out.

ʻDid... did you see that?ʼ Llinos

asked, reaching down for the

charred book.

Jack nodded dumbly. Greg

had been taken. In revenge. For

something Jack hadnʼt done. Yet

THREE

ʻWhat about this one, Susi?ʼ

Susan Sharma took the flyer

from Jan Arwynʼs out-tray and

glanced down at it. ʻNo, donʼt think

so, thatʼs a single clown doing

kiddie parties.ʼ She looked across

at the girls in the office. It was a big

open-plan office; it had originally

had loads of walls, but theyʼd been

demolished a few years back to

create a ʻworkspace environmentʼ.

It housed about twelve of them,

here at City Hall, trying to keep the

Mayor and his staff happy and

administered.

But not financed. Oh no,

Finance were on another floor.

They had carpets. And walls. And a

kitchen to themselves.

They all hated Finance down

here in Admin.

ʻWe need to book a big group,

right?ʼ Susi said, remembering the

task at hand. ʻItʼs expensive if we

go for lots of solos and smaller

groups, and the Mayorʼs lot will

have heart attacks if we spend too

much. Itʼs just got to be enough to

fill the streets.ʼ She smiled at Jan.

ʻSorry, love, keep looking.ʼ

Jan pointed at the memo

pinned to the wall. ʻWe havenʼt got

long though, have we? I mean, the

Office want it sorted by tonight.ʼ

Susi sighed. ʻI know. How

difficult is it to find people? I canʼt

believe it.ʼ

ʻWhat exactly do you need?ʼ

asked Tom, the water-cooler guy,

as he wandered over with two

empty containers. ʻAnd can I just

say, you lot donʼt half get through

this stuff.ʼ

Jan smiled at Tom - Susi

thought she quite liked him. Awww.

ʻYou ever seen that Derren

Brown bloke? Or David Blaine,

when he was good? All that

misdirection, card-tricks, word-play? That sort of thing. But about

twenty of them. And some clowns,

and those awful statue people-ʼ

ʻAwful what?ʼ

ʻOh you know,ʼ Susi said.

ʻThose weirdoes that paint

themselves silver and pretend to be

angels or Charlie Chaplin. Then

they move suddenly, and sixty kids

wee themselves on the spot.ʼ

ʻOh,ʼ said Tom. ʻCanʼt help you

there. But my mateʼs a clown - on

so many levels, I say - and heʼd do

it. Free, I reckon, cos heʼs starting

out.ʼ

Jan looked up at Susi. ʻFree? I

like free. Free is good.ʼ

ʻSo if Tom can give us a

clown, and thereʼs that guy with the

dancing dog...ʼ

Even as she said it, she could

picture the Mayorʼs face. Well, the

Mayorʼs secretaryʼs face actually -

Susi couldnʼt remember the last

time sheʼd actually spoken to the

Mayor himself.

The secretary would look at

her in that waspish way he always

did and repeat slowly ʻthe dancing

dog...ʼ

And heʼd be right. This was

going to be a disaster.

ʻWhat we really need - no

disrespect to your friend, Tom - is

one company that can supply the

lot,ʼ she said. ʻStreet Parties R Us.ʼ

God, Susi thought, maybe she

should set that up herself. Itʼd get

her out of this dead-end job. Sheʼd

make a fortune, all those posh

families in Roath in the summer...

She was distracted suddenly

when a motorcycle courier walked

in, helmet on.

Before she had a chance to

ask him to remove it (why hadnʼt

reception done that? Indeed, why

was the courier up here anyway?),

he held out an envelope.

ʻSusan Sharma?ʼ he said,

muffled by the helmet.

ʻThatʼs me,ʼ Susi took the

envelope and started to open it.

She looked up to say thanks, but

the courier was gone.

ʻWonder what he looked like

under that leather,ʼ Jan giggled to

one of the other girls. ʻLooked good

with it on! How tight were those

leather trousers?ʼ

The other girl nodded. ʻYou

couldnʼt just see he was a big boy,

you could guess his religion!!ʼ

They burst into cackles of

laughter.

Tom, sensing he was no

longer the centre of Janʼs world,

coughed and wandered out,

managing to crash one of the

empty water containers into the

door, making his exit as undignified

as possible.

Susi shook her head and

looked at the contents of the

envelope.

STREET PARTY SOLUTIONS

Having a party, but donʼt know who

to hire? Come to us, the UKʼs

leading supplier every kind of

entertainer to keep children, adults

and those in-between happy for

hours.

Card tricksters

Mimes

Balloon shapers

Wurlitzer and accordion players

Clowns

Illusionists

Caricaturists

Trick cyclists

Living statues

And loads more!

You tell us what you need, where

and when.

One phone call, and weʼll do the

rest.

GREAT RATES

We are a new, young company, so

we want to impress.

SPECIAL INTRODUCTORY

OFFER

Call or email and quote this ref:

08/TT/45564478/BM

There was a phone number at

the bottom, a Cardiff number.

Susan smiled. Her pleas had been

answered. Call or email? Oh, let

Jan decide.

She passed the flyer over.

ʻJan, look at this. I think our Tretarri

problem has just been solved! How

cool is that?ʼ

FOUR

Ianto Jones breathed hard on the

glass and used a handkerchief -

burgundy, same as his shirt - to

clean the SUVʼs wing mirror.

Today, heʼd chosen to park it

in the space marked PRIVATE, on

the lowest level of the underground

car park, beneath the Wales

Millennium Centre in the Bay, right

next to the Hub.

Not that anyone in the WMC

knew that, any more than they

knew that the door marked private

with absolutely no handles, locks,

etc led into the winding corridors

threaded through the Torchwood

base.

Ianto looked up as a man in a

suit walked through the car park,

heading towards a nice BMW

parked in Bay 18.

Colin Rees: 38; wife Joan; two

children. Moved to Cardiff in June

2007 from Llanfoist, because heʼd

taken up a job in the new Welsh

Assembly building in the Bay. He

earned £59,000 plus bonuses, liked

Joan Armatrading, Macy Gray and

Mary J Blige, and had recently

bought his youngest, a girl called

Tarryn, a pony, and his son Sean

an X-Box 360. Theyʼd be enjoying

birthdays in September and

October respectively.

Ianto prided himself on

knowing things like that. It was his

job. He knew everything about

everyone who regularly came into

contact with the SUV in whichever

of the regular parking places he

used.

ʻMorning Mr Jones,ʼ Rees

called out. ʻHowʼre the tourists?ʼ

Ianto was known to everyone

in the Bay as the man who ran the

Cardiff Bay tourist information shop

in Mermaid Quay, just by the

jetties.

It was a good cover story.

ʻGreat, thank you. Howʼs

Joan?ʼ

ʻOh, so-so. Summer cold, hay

fever, the works. Moaning, as

always. Women, eh?ʼ

ʻOh yes, absolutely,ʼ Ianto

called back cheerfully.

Rees got into his car and

seconds later was heading out to

the streets above.

Ianto blew air out of his cheeks

and walked over to the CCTV

camera that pointed into the car

park, by the handleless door.

He stared straight into it and, a

second later, the optical recognition

software activated the time-delay

lock. With a dull click, the door

opened.

Ianto had eight seconds to get

in before it locked again. A

deadbolt seal inside would freeze

the CCTV camera systems, and it

would be six hours before the door

could be unfrozen.

Once past the door, he pushed

it gently shut, listening to make

sure it locked. He started up the

short stairway into the corridors,

walked down a couple until the

glow of light ahead told him he was

nearing the Weapons Room.

He activated another optical

system, and the door slid

soundlessly open, he walked past

the impressive array of weapons

(how many fingers did you need to

operate that one?) and into the

Hub.

It was empty - the rest of the

team were downstairs in the

Boardroom, nestled amongst the

endless winding corridors that had

been carved out of the rock

beneath Cardiff Bay a long, long

time ago.

Ianto was proud of the new

Boardroom - he and Toshiko had

renovated it (from a plan of Jackʼs,

of course) when the old Boardroom

in the Hub had simply got too

small. And heʼd been fed up with

always wiping handprints off the old

glass walls.

This new room was wood-lined, with steel struts to support it.

Once upon a time it had had

another use, he was sure, but he

had no idea what. It didnʼt feature

on any Hub blueprints. It just...

was.

Moments later, he was outside

the room. He straightened his

already perfectly straight tie and

strode purposefully through the

door.

Jack was giving a briefing.

Standing there, blue shirt, braces,

flannelled slacks, hair immaculate

(how did he do that?). But his face

- a scowl. Not a Happy Jack today

then.

ʻAnd another thing,ʼ he growled

as Ianto wandered in, ʻwhereʼs the

coffee? Is it too much to ask for

coffee at the start of a briefing?ʼ

Ianto never even broke his

stride, just turned left, pulled open

a side door, revealing a small area

replete with jugs, mugs and a mini

coffee-maker, a sort of dwarf

version of the ensemble upstairs in

the Hub.

Before Jack had even got his

next sentence out, a hot mug of his

favourite blend (and no, Ianto was

never going to tell anyone what that

was) was in front of him.

Owen Harper coughed slightly,

and looked meaningfully at Ianto.

With a sigh, Ianto glanced across

at Gwen Cooper and Toshiko Sato.

And yes, their eyes all said,

they wanted refreshments too.

Moments later, everyone was

drinking, and Jackʼs mood seemed

significantly lighter.

ʻOK guys, Iantoʼs done his bit

- all say thank you to Ianto.ʼ

They did. In very dull, deadpan

voices, like schoolchildren thanking

a policeman whoʼd given them road

safety tips at morning assembly.

But he nodded as if taking

applause. ʻI aim to serve.ʼ

Jack waved him to a seat.

ʻNow then, I have to go away for a

few days. And yes,ʼ he looked at

Gwen, anticipating her next

question, ʻI will have my mobile

with me at all times. And no, Iʼm not

disappearing to the far ends of the

Earth. I just need... some leave.ʼ

Owen shrugged. ʻCool. Take

Ianto with you.ʼ

ʻWhy?ʼ

ʻI want to take the SUV out for

a spin, off-road, really ramp up the

gears and speed and get it caked

in mud.ʼ

ʻWhy,ʼ Ianto repeated, ʻwould

you want to do that?ʼ

ʻBecause,ʼ Owen leaned in

conspiratorially, ʻitʼd piss you off

and I couldnʼt bear to do that if you

were around. Even Iʼm not that

cruel.ʼ

ʻOK guys,ʼ Jack said quickly.

ʻOverlooking Owenʼs testosterone-inspired madness - remember

what happened last time, Owen?ʼ

Ianto looked straight at Jack.

Then Owen. ʻLast time? Thereʼs

been a "last time"?ʼ

ʻCouple of last times,ʼ Owen

replied.

ʻI was glad you werenʼt

around,ʼ Toshiko added. ʻIt was

very... muddy.ʼ

ʻMuddy?ʼ

Gwen touched Iantoʼs arm

gently. ʻI think they told you it was

alien slime from a meteor crash.

But it wasnʼt.ʼ

ʻNo,ʼ Ianto said darkly. ʻIt was

just mud.ʼ

ʻAnd you scraped it off

beautifully, and gave it to me to

test,ʼ Toshiko added.

ʻAnd she did all those tests,

trying to find Cortellian nucleotides.ʼ

Owen grabbed Iantoʼs unmoving

arm. ʻSorry mate, but it was dead

funny at the time.ʼ

Toshiko fiddled with her

glasses, so as not to catch Iantoʼs

eye. ʻSorry Ianto. We didnʼt know

when to stop. But it was very...

well, yes, funny.ʼ

Ianto nodded, staring at his

team. His friends. And smiled -

inwardly.

Revenge would be so sweet...

Jack cleared his throat,

bringing them back to the matter at

hand. ʻNow, Iʼve checked my diary

- well, the half-dozen scraps of

paper on my desk I pretend

represents a diary - and thereʼs

nothing much going on. Tosh, keep

going with those upgrades to the

Hub defences - weʼve had too

many uninvited guests lately.

Owen, call me if the Tammarok

eggs hatch, I want to be here for

that. Ianto, we need more Weevil

spray. And Gwen... Gwen, say hi

to Rhys and go sort out a venue for

that wedding. You have four days.

Cos when Iʼm back, no more

wedding talk for, oh, at least a

week.ʼ

He grinned at her, and she

smiled back, saluting him.

Jack reached behind him to

grab his Air Force Blue greatcoat

from the back of the chair, winked

at Ianto and walked out of the

boardroom.

There was a brief pause, and

then Gwen broke the ice. ʻRight.

OK. Well. Things to do.ʼ

ʻOi.ʼ Owen pointed at Gwen,

but looked at Toshiko and Ianto.

ʻWho put her in charge?ʼ

Toshiko frowned. ʻUmm, when

Jackʼs not here, Gwen always-ʼ

ʻYeah,ʼ said Owen, ʻbut sheʼs

been told to go and arrange a

wedding. Canʼt do that in the Hub.ʼ

He smiled a rare genuine Owen

smile at Gwen. ʻGo on, get off. The

three of us will protect the world

from the aliens for a few more

hours.ʼ

Gwen didnʼt hesitate. ʻThanks,

guys. But call me if you need to.

Mobileʼs always on.ʼ

And she was gone.

Ianto looked at the other two.

ʻSo. The SUV. Mud. Not Cortellian

biomass?ʼ

Toshiko pointed at Owen. ʻIt

was his idea. All of it. His. Not

mine.ʼ

Owen gazed back at Ianto.

ʻMe? Come on, mate, what do I

know about alien DNA... I mean,

I... Nah, thatʼs never going to work,

is it?ʼ

Ianto shook his head slowly.

And then grinned. ʻNever mind.

Good joke.ʼ And he got up,

straightened his perfectly straight

tie again and wandered out of the

room, hovering outside the door

just long enough to hear Toshiko

ask Owen:

ʻWhat did he mean? "Never

mind"? Owen?ʼ

ʻDunno, Tosh,ʼ said Owen

quietly, ʻbut Iʼd watch the coffee for

a bit.ʼ

Ianto grinned as he walked

away. Coffee? Oh he had a better

imagination than that... And they

knew it. And would be thinking

about it all the time. Everything

they ate or drank. Every bit of

equipment he got for them.

Everything. Oh the next few days

were going to be fun.

Even without Jack.

FIVE

Jack was looking up Wharf Street.

Again. What was this, the

fourteenth time, the third this

century?

Not much had changed.

At times over the years, the

odd house had become squats for

students (especially popular during

the late 1970s and early 1980s),

but they never stayed long. A few

bums would sometimes try to find

shelter there, but they too would

disappear back to the cold streets

of Butetown or Grangetown rather

than stick in Tretarri.

Towards the end of the 1990s

(a period Jack remembered far too

clearly), much of Cardiff Bay began

to be done up, ready for the

Millennium - gentrified was the

usual term. The old buildings had

been torn down or converted into

luxury waterside apartments.

Businesses moved in, tourist

holiday spots shot up and, directly

above the Hub, a massive complex

of shops and restaurants was

created.

But half a mile away was

Tretarri, untouched, like a film set

or a living museum for the past.

Although nothing seemed to

live there for long.

Jack noticed a piece of yellow

paper tied to a lamp-post and went

to read it. Encased in rain-protecting plastic, it announced a

proposal by Cardiff Council to

redevelop Tretarri, make it full of

expensive homes with no car

parking, like the rest of Cardiff.

Good. It needed someone to

finally force the life back into it.

Maybe, after all these years,

whatever caused Jack to stay out

of the streets, whatever made him

feel ill, would go away. Maybe heʼd

buy a flat there, just to spite

whatever it was.

He dug into his pocket and

pulled out a Torchwood PDA,

calibrated by Toshiko to detect Rift

activity.

Heʼd assumed decades ago

that Tretarri had to be a real Rift

hotspot but, each time heʼd tried to

take readings, no luck. This was

Toshikoʼs work though - she was

damned good at this kind of thing.

He raised the PDA and

stepped forward, already feeling

the nausea rising in his stomach,

but determined to get as close as

possible to try and achieve some

kind of reading.

Of course, he couldʼve brought

Gwen or Ianto with him. But that

would have meant revealing this

little chink in his armour - admitting

that there was something

unsubstantiated, unreal,

untouchable that hurt Captain Jack

Harkness. Jack was cool about

such things normally but, after all

these years, heʼd come to think of

this collection of roads and houses

as his thing, his pet project.

Something he needed to do by

himself.

The PDA blinked at him. Yes,

Rift energy was present around

Tretarri, but no more so than, say,

up by the new shopping complex

behind The Hayes, or down by the

football ground at Ninian Park. In

other words, Tretarri offered

nothing extraordinary, no

explanations as to why he couldnʼt

get past whatever this invisible

barrier was.

ʻDamn.ʼ

He shoved the PDA back into

his voluminous coat pocket, took a

deep breath, closed his eyes and

walked forward. Each time he tried

this trick, wondering if it was a

barrier that would disappear if he

couldnʼt see his surroundings (heʼd

encountered artificial barriers like

that before).

Nope, two steps in, he was

ready to retch. Four, and the bile

was already in his throat.

He opened his eyes and

turned around, facing directly away

from Tretarri.

And found himself facing Ianto

and the SUV, a folder of paperwork

tucked under his folded arms.

ʻEvening Jack,ʼ he said simply,

lifting the folder. ʻ1912,ʼ he recited.

ʻAgent Harkness was observed in

Tretarri, touching the air. Has he

lost his mind? 1922: Jack Harkness

seen "entertaining" a young lady at

the edge of Wharf Street. When

she ran to one of the houses, he

became agitated until she returned.

They engaged in sexual deviancy

in the back of the Torchwood

Daimler he had previously

requisitioned. 1979: Jacko -

"Jacko", really? - anyway, Jacko

and a guy with a Mohican, throwing

things into Bute Terrace, breaking

windows. Is this the kind of

behaviour the Torchwood Institute

should tolerate?ʼ He tucked the file

back under his arm. ʻIrregular,

Jack, Iʼll give you that, but regularly

irregular enough to pique my

curiosity.ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻYou read too

many files, Ianto. Itʼs not good for

you. Youʼll strain your eyes.ʼ

ʻYou knew youʼd get found out

eventually. Better me than Owen or

someone else after weʼre all dead

and forgotten.ʼ

ʻOh, youʼre in a cheery mood

tonight. Werenʼt we going on a date

at some point? No offices, no roofs,

right?ʼ

Ianto ignored that. ʻAnd what

happens, Jack, when one day you

take the requisite four-day holiday

noted in these files but never come

back because whatever it is youʼre

doing here decides itʼs had enough

of you getting nowhere and takes

action?ʼ

ʻAre you challenging me?

You? Honestly? I think I preferred

the old "wouldnʼt say boo to a

goose, forever calling me sir"

version of Ianto Jones.ʼ

ʻYou disappeared on us once

before Jack.ʼ

ʻYeah, and you got a holiday in

Tibet out of it. Stop complaining.ʼ

ʻYou know what I mean. Four

days. Does it always take you that

time to recover, or do you come

here four days in a row?ʼ

ʻWhat do the files tell you?ʼ

Jack grinned at Ianto, that grin that

always worked.

Ianto just shrugged. ʻIʼd rather

you told me.ʼ

Jack stared at his friend.

Confidante. Team mate. Lover?

Well...

He sighed and pointed behind

him. ʻThis place. For nearly a

century now, Iʼve been trying to

walk around it, go down a street,

knock on a door. Something.

Anything. But no, I canʼt get past...

whatever is stopping me. One thing

that file wonʼt tell you is why I get

ill, because I donʼt know.ʼ

Ianto walked past Jack and

into Wharf Street, easily as

anything. He turned back to Jack

and threw his arms wide. ʻNothing

strange here, Jack.ʼ

Jack frowned. He was sure the

street lighting had grown

fractionally brighter while Ianto was

speaking. And there was a light in

one of the nearby windows. That

hadnʼt happened before.

ʻCome back to me, Ianto.

Slowly.ʼ

The Welshman did as he was

told, but Jack wasnʼt watching him.

Just as Ianto drew level with him,

the lighting noticeably faded. Jack

nodded to himself.

ʻDid you see that?ʼ

ʻWhat?ʼ

Clearly not. ʻNever mind. Iʼm

thinking this is all just in my head.

After all, thereʼs nothing dangerous

here. Call this Jackʼs Pet Project

and forget about it, yeah?ʼ

ʻAnd are you still taking your

time off?ʼ

Jack considered - maybe one

day it would be time to find some

answers, helped by the one thing

heʼd not had before. A team of

friends he could rely on. Who

would do as asked without a

stream (well, thereʼd be a trickle, of

course) of mad questions he

couldnʼt answer.

But not yet. He needed to get

to the bottom of this by himself,

Jack decided. Then grinned at

Ianto. ʻYeah. A few days. See you

round.ʼ

Extract from diaries left to the

Museum by Michael Cathcart in

2004

October 1954. Friday. Sad news,

they found that old tramp Tommy

and his dog dead in the street last

night. Just down off Coburg Street,

linking Wharf Street with Bute

Terrace. Shame, he was a goodʼun

at heart. Always telling tall stories

about the history of Cardiff. Never

got to the bottom of the thing with

the lights he was talking about a

few months back that I wrote about

in Journal 17. Nice dog, too. Only

been with Tommy a couple of

years.

Headstone in St Maryʼs Church,

Llantrisent

Here lies the body of Gideon ap

Tarri 1813-1881

Now in the arms of God

Reunited with Marjorie, taken 1876

Obituaries, Western Mail, 14 July

1986

Morgan, Silas: Beloved father and

husband. Accidentally taken from

us during the Tretarri fire.

Western Mail, 13 July 1975

RETURN OF THE TRETARRI

GHOSTS

Local police were out in force last

week to clear a group of "squatters"

from Wharf Street. The group of

mostly teenaged males claimed

that they were happy to leave as

the house they had "adopted" was

"haunted". "Thereʼs ghosts and

spooks in there, man," said 19-year-old student Bryan Mathews.

Rumours of ghosts and other

supernatural events have been

reported in the area for several

years. Local priest Reverend Allan

Smith of St Paulʼs, Grangetown,

whose parish the Tretarri area falls

under, was dismissive of the

reports. "While there are indeed

many things in this heaven and

Earth for which we have no

explanation, I donʼt believe that

spirits of the dead are living in

Tretarri."

Extract from Mid Glamorgan

Morning Star, 26 June 1986

Disaster struck as the Fire Crew

responded to the fire in Hanover

Street, Tretarri Estate at around 4

a.m. yesterday. A tree in the front

garden of the Victorian terraces

collapsed in flames in front of the

fire engine, killing the driver and

one of the firemen instantly. A third

foreman was pronounced dead on

arrival at St Helenʼs Hospital. None

of the victims have been named.

Extract from student newspaper

The Heath, 6 August 1978

... as mentioned in the reports a

couple of years back on the guys

kicked out by the "authorities" from

Tretarri. But itʼs important to

remember that what they said they

saw has never been followed up,

never been explained and now

Tretarri is derelict again, denying

us potential student

accommodation. We contacted the

Housing Officers at City Hall but, of

course, they wouldnʼt comment. As

that Pistols guy says, "Never trust a

hippy"...

Extract from diaries left to the

Museum by Michael Cathcart in

2004

May 1947. Tuesday. Went to

Tretarri, see what all the fuss was

about. But nothing. No ghosts, no

ghouls, no visitations of any kind.

Just a tramp, old Tommy, whoʼs

been living in and around

Grangetown for years.

Extract from memos between L

Morris, BBC H of RF (London) to

R de Houghton, BBC Ctrllr L P -

docs. 01.02.1961

Sir - as noted in our memo of

Monday last, we have checked and

rechecked the tapes. Everything

that was recorded in Cardiff is

blank. However, as my producer

explained to Asst Ctrllr L P - docs

and features on Thursday, we had

done some editing work, so I know

the damage to the tapes occurred

after we returned to BH, for we

listened to everything through

before making an editing script for

the Pas to work from.

Extract from Building

Commission, 3rd quarter 2005

... trees lining the street need to be

cut right back. Planning permission

refused for change of use from

house to three flats at 38

Gainsborough Gardens. Planning

permission pending for conversion

of attic space at 116 Riley Road,

Canton to bedroom and en suite

WC. Planning permission granted

for demolition of entirety of Tretarri

estate, work to begin by

September, construction of new

apartments and office space to be

put out to tender by 3 November.

Planning permission refused for 69

Prospect Avenue, Ely for

construction of two garage spaces

in rear garden...

Extract from Local History

pamphlet, on sale in Wales

Millennium Centre shop, 2007

The area referred to as Tretarri was

established as a small town in 1872

by Gideon ap Tarri, landowner of

West Grangetown and North

Penarth arable land.

Extract from diaries left to the

Museum by Michael Cathcart in

2004

January 1961. Saturday. Tretarri is

becoming a legend apparently. The

BBC were there, a Light

Programme about ghosts the man

said. I offered to show them my

journals, my diaries, but they

werenʼt interested. Bloody English,

so ******** superior.

Obituaries, Western Mail, 14 July

1986

Sheppard, Martin: Devoted

husband to Helen. Accidentally

taken from us during the Tretarri

fire.

Extract from Fire Examinerʼs

report (suppressed under Govt

Resolution 8A/dcl/1913)

My people could find no evidence

of fire damage to any of the

terraced houses in Hanover Street,

Coburg Street or Windsor Street.

Eyewitnesses, including the

surviving firemen, all reported

identical descriptions, within

reason, of the fire and the gutting of

at least two of the houses, on the

corner of Coburg Street and Bute

Terrace, formerly occupied by

illegal immigrants from Albania.

This inexplicable event is

exacerbated by the occupants all

receiving invitations to a restaurant

in Butetown that night for a family

birthday celebration. The Albanians

all reported, when interviewed

separately, in different police

stations within Cardiff, that the

restaurant did not exist.

Government inspectors

accessed the area but reported

feelings of paranoia, of trepidation

or general fear and mistrust when

they explored the neighbourhood.

Extract from Cardiff Bay and Its

History by Eleri Vaughan

(TaffTours Ltd, 1992)

The legends surrounding the area

known as Tretarri are as fanciful as

the area itself. Too small to be a

real town or village, Tretarri is little

more than a cluster of Victorian

streets built as a vanity project by

mine owner Gideon Tarry, who

adopted Cardiff as his hometown in

1852, after changing his surname

from his birth name, Haworth. His

claims to be a Welshman were

finally disproved ten years ago by

students at Cardiff Grammar,

researching biographies of famous

Welshmen for a modern Domesday

Book. Tarryʼs origins and

subsequent death remain clouded

in mystery but it is known that he

invested a great deal of money

building Tretarri, ostensibly for

workers. However, no workers ever

lived there after 1876 - the ʻtownʼ

itself is seen as an eccentric form

of the traditional Victorian Folly

beloved of so many rich

landowners during the late

nineteenth century.

Obituaries, Western Mail, 14 July

1986

Brennon, Bruce Peter: Widower.

Accidentally taken from us during

the Tretarri fire.

Extract from Fortean Times,

issue # 867

... amongst the weirdest

bodysnatching rumours is that of

Gideon Tarry in Wales, England.

This bizarre reclusive landowner

disappeared from the city of Cardiff

in or around 1881. Some years

later, a grave was located in a

North Cardiff churchyard he never

frequented as it was quite some

way from his adopted home in

Penarth. A frequent subject of

gossip during the twentieth century,

Tarryʼs body was exhumed twice -

the second time because of what

occurred the first time. Reports

state that the headstone was taken

down during the excavation to

discover if money, jewellery, etc

were secreted in the coffin with

Tarryʼs body. The headstone was

broken in two accidentally and put

inside the church vestry for

safekeeping. The coffin itself

revealed no treasures, or indeed

anything else - because there was

no coffin, no matter how far down

they dug. A day later, investigators

returned to find the ground

replaced and looking untouched,

and the headstone seamlessly

repaired and resituated. The

ground was consecrated once

more and after a lengthy legal

battle, the headstone was removed

and the grave freshly dug eight

years later, using more

sophisticated equipment to find

where the coffin was. No coffin was

found and once again, the ground

was re-laid, the stone reset by

persons unknown.

Obituaries, Glamorgan Voice, 21

May 1856

Haworth, Tarri: Master craftsman

and respected businessman, of

Penarth. A swift and shocking

sailboat accident took this beloved

husband and devoted father, aged

63. Funeral at St Teiloʼs Church,

Wednesday week. All welcome,

including working classes to whom

he holds a special place in their

hearts.

Extract from Building

Commission, 1st quarter 20??

Reversal of 2005 submission and

subsequent approval. Application

to restore Tretarri without any

substantial building work and no

demolition to occur. Uplighters to

be placed in the pavements, new

street lighting to be installed and

each forefront of the houses to be

cleaned and restored. Trees to be

trimmed back. The ground floors of

1 and 3 Coburg Street to be

redeveloped as a retail unit. No

other houses are to be entered, or

interfered with in any way.

Approved by Cardiff Council.

[NB: Date of issue and proposer

and seconder illegible]

SIX

With a sigh, a really quite loud, one

might almost say melodramatic

sigh, Ianto closed the last file on

the screen, and picked up the buff

folder containing pre-electronic age

sheets of paper. It had two

Torchwood logos on it, the modern

hexagonal one and a sketchier

version, which, experience told

him, meant this particular file was

started around the 1920s.

ʻProblem?ʼ

Owen was coming up the

small stairway from the Autopsy

Room. Ianto thought that Owen

was spending too long down there

in the cold, sterile atmosphere.

Since giving up his desk on the

upper level to Gwen, heʼd buried

himself down with the tables and

cold storage trays. It couldnʼt be

healthy.

That said, Owen smiled more

these days. Perhaps being away

from the watchful eye of Jack made

him more cheerful. Or perhaps he

was even weirder than Ianto had

previously thought.

Ianto held up the folder of real

paper items. ʻEverything is

incomplete, out of order and a

mess. The online files arenʼt much

better.ʼ

Owen didnʼt take his eye off

his PDA and whatever readings he

was inputting, but he did pause

before carrying on. ʻWell, you know

what, I blame whoever is in charge

of keeping everything up to date

and efficiently ordered. Now. Who

would that be?ʼ And he then looked

up and grinned that slightly

lopsided grin he had. ʻOh, wait.

Thatʼs you, isnʼt it?ʼ

He was heading towards the

back of the Weapons Room, to the

steps that took him up to the

walkway level and the Hothouse.

After clattering up the steps, he

paused before pulling open the

Hothouse door and entering the

world of bizarre alien botanics

inside.

ʻYou need to stop worrying,

mate. If Jackʼs not fussed about

Trewotsit, why are you?ʼ

Ianto opened his mouth to

reply, and realised he didnʼt have

an answer. Was it because it was

about Jack? Was it because he

didnʼt like mysteries? Perhaps it

was simply that, having started the

research and found it a bit of a

mess, his dedication to perfection -

or anal retentiveness, depending

on who you asked (oh, he was

aware of what the others said

about him) - was drawing him into

the strangeness that was Tretarri.

By the time he was ready to

admit that he didnʼt actually know,

Owen was shut away with the

plants, spraying a couple of them

with a small nozzled water-gun,

and occasionally reading off from

his PDA.

With a shrug to himself, Ianto

returned to the files. And was

immediately disturbed by the huge

cog-shaped doorway rolling aside

to reveal a giggling Gwen and

Toshiko as they scuttled in,

carrying a couple of pizza boxes

each.

ʻHiya,ʼ Gwen called sweetly.

ʻWhatʼs your poison tonight?ʼ

Ianto looked at the pizzas and

shook his head. ʻOh. No, thank

you. No. No pizza. For me. You

carry on. Enjoy.ʼ

Gwen looked strangely at him.

ʻYou OK?ʼ

Ianto nodded. ʻSorry, just

distracted. And not hungry.ʼ

She and Toshiko were out of

his eyeline now, obscured by the

base of the water tower sculpture

that housed the Rift Manipulator.

Heʼd worked with Gwen for a

year or more now, but something

about her still made him slightly

flustered, like he felt he was being

judged and so was always trying to

impress her. Which was daft, but

he couldnʼt stop it. Jack had

noticed it; heʼd made some joke

about Iantoʼs schooldays and

asked whether heʼd had a crush on

a teacher.

Stupidly, Ianto had started to

tell him about Miss Thomas - and

Jack hadnʼt let him forget it.

He needed to say something

normal to Gwen.

ʻSo, howʼs the wedding? Rhys

all right? Found a hotel yet for the

reception?ʼ

Gwenʼs frowning face popped

back into view. ʻFine. Great and,

umm, no not yet. Oh, know any

good DJs?ʼ

ʻMy mate Paul,ʼ Ianto said. ʻBut

you probably wouldnʼt want his kind

of music. A bit... cheesy...ʼ

Now it was Toshikoʼs turn to

pop her head round. ʻCheese pop?

Itʼs very in apparently.ʼ

ʻNo,ʼ Gwen said. ʻI think Rhysʼs

best man knows someone. So long

as he doesnʼt play "Agadoo", Iʼll be

happy.ʼ There was a pause, then

Gwen suddenly spoke seriously.

ʻIanto, have you spoken to Jack?

Whatʼs with these days off? Heʼs

not crashed out here, as far as I

can tell.ʼ

Ianto instinctively looked

towards Jackʼs office, where Jack

spent his nights down in a small

bunker. Where, frankly, there

wasnʼt room for two, whatever Jack

said.

ʻHasnʼt he? Oh. Well, I imagine

heʼs found a hotel or something.ʼ

ʻWe wondered,ʼ Toshiko threw

in, ʻif he was at your place?ʼ

ʻNo,ʼ said Ianto, a fraction too

quickly. ʻNo, why would he be at

mine? Whatʼs at mine that Jack

would want? I mean he could be

anywhere, why my place?ʼ

ʻBlimey,ʼ said Owen from

behind and above. ʻSomeoneʼs a

bit jumpy about jolly Jack Aitch

tonight.ʼ

Ianto looked up and saw

Owen, a plant in one hand, water-gun in the other. And hoped he

hadnʼt gone red. ʻAnyway,ʼ he

continued, trying to cover his

overreaction, ʻwe need to look into

all this stuff. Thereʼs something

about Tretarri that is... off.ʼ

ʻ"Off"?ʼ queried Owen.

ʻAs in "not good"?ʼ Gwen

asked, as Toshiko fired up her

screens.

Ianto joined them at their

workstations, as they both started

looking stuff up, Toshiko obviously

a bit faster at creating a database

to filter the words ʻTretarriʼ, ʻGideon

Tarryʼ and ʻGideon ap Tarriʼ.

Twenty minutes later, Ianto

had told them all he knew. The four

of them were down in the

Boardroom, staring at the big

screen, and Toshiko was giving

one of her lectures.

ʻAs Ianto realised, Tretarri has

been the focus of a lot of weird and

wonderful happenings. Mysterious

fires. People trying to live there but

unable to stay for reasons they

couldnʼt explain. Even animals go a

bit doo-lally if they enter the area.ʼ

ʻ"Doo-lally"?ʼ asked Owen

munching on chilling pizza. ʻNot

another new technical term?ʼ

ʻI quite like "Doo-lally",ʼ said

Ianto, which got a smile from

Toshiko.

ʻOh well, if suit-boy likes it,

weʼll adopt it as Torchwoodʼs new

motto. "Everythingʼs a bit Doo-lally".ʼ

ʻPeople,ʼ admonished Gwen.

ʻBack on the subject at hand,

yeah?ʼ

Owen smiled at Toshiko.

ʻSorry, Tosh. I gather weʼre back in

the sixth form.ʼ

Toshiko then outlined the

current plans the Council had to

refurbish Tretarri. ʻThis will result in

two things, at a guess. I stress

"guess" - we donʼt actually know.ʼ

ʻWe donʼt actually know why

weʼre doing this in the first place,ʼ

Owen said. ʻI mean, itʼs not as if we

even know this is Rift-related.ʼ

ʻItʼs Jack-related,ʼ Ianto said

quietly.

There was a pause, then

Owen looked at Toshiko. ʻGuess

Number One, nothing happens and

a crappy bit of Cardiff gets a

facelift. Guess Number Two, all hell

breaks loose as contractors etc go

doo-lally as they try and work there.

Right?ʼ

ʻSpot on.ʼ Toshiko smiled.

Gwen looked at the guys.

ʻIanto, can you research a bit more,

find out about this Gideon Tarry

person, see if thereʼs anything in

his past we need to be aware of.ʼ

ʻLike heʼs a Rift Alien in

disguise?ʼ

ʻThat kind of thing. Owen? I

want you to plough through the

medical records of people

connected with Tretarri with me,

find out if thereʼs anything we can

extrapolate today that they couldnʼt

ten, twenty or fifty years ago,

yeah?ʼ

ʻYes maʼam.ʼ Owen gave a

mock salute. ʻIʼm also keen to work

out what it is that knocks Jack for

six, but no one else.ʼ

ʻGood. Tosh? Can you take

your portable Rift Detector Thingy

-ʼ

ʻMore technobabble,ʼ laughed

Owen. ʻLove it.ʼ

Gwen silenced him with a look.

ʻAs I was saying before something

annoying buzzed in my ear, can

you see if you can get into Tretarri

and locate anything Rifty?ʼ

ʻI walked in easily enough,ʼ

Ianto stated. ʻBut not for long

enough to notice anything.

Although...ʼ

ʻYes?ʼ

ʻNothing I can put my finger

on. But Jack... I think Jack saw

something when I went in. But he

never said what.ʼ

Owen shrugged. ʻIs the plan to

get this wrapped up before Jack

comes back?ʼ

Gwen nodded. ʻSo, Ianto?ʼ

ʻFew days left I reckon, if I

understand the files. It seems to

take him never less than four days

in total to recover.ʼ

ʻHey kids,ʼ said a voice behind

them. ʻWhatʼs going on?ʼ

The others looked at Jack

framed in the doorway, grinning

and clearly full of fitness and

health. And, as one, they turned

and stared at Ianto. They were not

pleased.

An hour later, they were still in the

Boardroom, with the addition of

coffees all around.

ʻI have noticed,ʼ Owen said

quietly, ʻthat when itʼs just us, no

coffee.ʼ

ʻJack arrives,ʼ agreed Toshiko,

ʻand oh, look, the coffee gets

made.ʼ

ʻDelivered,ʼ Gwen added, ʻby

hand.ʼ

Ianto just shrugged. ʻI like

Jack. The rest of you? I can take

you or leave you.ʼ

And he grinned wolfishly at

them.

Toshiko suddenly remembered

the teasing a couple of days

before. She looked at her coffee in

alarm. ʻIanto, you didnʼt...?ʼ

ʻDidnʼt what?ʼ

ʻNothing.ʼ

Ianto smiled inwardly. Gotcha.

Paranoid about coffee.

With Jack now at the head of

the table, Gwen brought him up to

speed.

ʻReally guys,ʼ he said, ʻyou

donʼt have to do this.ʼ He placed his

PDA on the table and slid it over to

Toshiko. ʻAlthough, by all means

sift through this. Itʼs what I recorded

at the site.ʼ

Toshiko scooped the PDA up.

ʻJack, I think we all want to sort

this. Not just for you but weʼre all

scared Ianto will poison us if we

donʼt.ʼ

ʻSlowly,ʼ added Owen.

ʻIn the coffee,ʼ Gwen clarified

at Jackʼs quizzical frown.

ʻTeamwork,ʼ she finished.

Jack shot a look to Ianto, who

just smiled back, stretched his

arms, then rested his head on his

hands.

ʻOK,ʼ said Jack. ʻSometimes

the humour still passes me by.ʼ

ʻWhoʼs joking?ʼ muttered Ianto.

He smiled around the table, then

stood up and started clearing the

coffee mugs away. ʻCollecting

evidence,ʼ he whispered to Owen

as he passed behind him.

Jack looked at Gwen. ʻI want

Owen to run tests on me, get to the

bottom of my problem. Then Tosh

should go look at the site and-ʼ

Gwen held up a hand. ʻGot it

covered, Jack. All sorted. Teams

briefed and ready to go.ʼ

Owen and Toshiko wandered

out. Ianto made to follow them, but

hung back just long enough to hear

Jack and Gwen.

ʻYou enjoy taking charge, donʼt

you?ʼ said Jack, not unkindly.

Gwen just said what they all

thought. ʻYou left us once Jack.

God knows you could do it again.

Now this - someone has to be

ready to step up and get the job

done when youʼre somewhere else.

Still your team, Jack, but never

underestimate us. Let the bad guys

do that.ʼ

As she left the room, Jack

looked at Ianto. ʻI never

underestimate anyone on this

team. Do they really think that I

do?ʼ

Ianto gave a shrug. He hated

this conversation. Permutations of

it had arisen a few times recently.

ʻCouldnʼt say, Jack,ʼ he just said.

ʻBut I donʼt think itʼs a reflection on

you, just something youʼve instilled

in them. Not a bad thing.ʼ

Jack stared at him a moment

longer. ʻBeen a long time since I

wasnʼt the last voice on things

around here. Takes some getting

used to.ʼ

Ianto slammed the tray of

coffee cups down, making Jack

jump.

ʻDamn it, Jack - itʼs not like

that. Theyʼd follow you into fire if

you told them to. But youʼre not the

most predictable man in the world.

If they are going to die for you, for

Torchwood, give them enough

credit to make their own decisions

about where, when and why theyʼre

doing it.ʼ

Ianto took a deep breath,

picked the tray up again and looked

Jack straight in the eye. ʻIf you

donʼt mind my saying so.ʼ

SEVEN

Toshiko stood at the corner of Bute

Terrace, her PDA discreetly hidden

under a newspaper she had

bought.

She had no idea what the

paper was, or what any of the

headlines were. Whatever the

news was today, she had most

likely heard about it ten hours

previously, as the Torchwood

computers sifted every line of

communication across the globe,

flagging up anything interesting.

Exactly who decided what was

interesting, Toshiko had never

quite understood - although she

and Jack had modified the Hubʼs

computer systems together over

the years, neither of them was

entirely sure where it had come

from in the first place, whether it

was set up in Cardiff or had been

something imported from London or

somewhere else. Jack

remembered, he told her, that one

day when heʼd visited the place it

wasnʼt there, the next it was. But

this was at a point when he wasnʼt

regularly working for the Institute,

so it couldʼve been added at any

time between those points. As

systems went, it was probably the

best in the world.

Jack had told her once that

UNIT had enquired if they could

borrow her to upgrade their

systems, but heʼd fobbed them off.

She knew that Jack Harkness

wanted Toshiko Satoʼs expertise

for himself. And she was more than

content with that. She and UNIT

werenʼt exactly... mates.

So here she was, trying to take

better readings than the ones Jack

had got from the streets, since she

was able to venture inside. Which

was intriguing in itself.

She and Owen had spent most

of the previous night in the Hub,

thrashing Jackʼs problem through.

She enjoyed spending time with

Owen on problems. They worked

well together, nights in front of

computer screens, or alien

artefacts, munching on sandwiches

- they occasionally used to have

hot food until Toshiko one day

managed to... Well, now she just

referred to it as ʻthe toaster

incidentʼ. A phrase which always

seemed to amuse Owen far more

than it ought to.

Of course, there were times

when it was difficult. Times when

she wanted to just lean across the

desk, times she wanted to tell him

that she-

Anyway, that was irrelevant.

Not conducive to a good working

relationship. People at work

shouldnʼt-

Mind you, there was definitely

something between Jack and Ianto.

And that was a work situation. And

-

But no. No, not Owen. Heʼd

never understand. Theyʼd talked

once about how, in their line of

work, itʼd be really difficult to find

someone who could ever really

understand them, and Owen had

said that girls like that were so rare

they were extinct.

Toshiko had wanted to grab

him and scream and yell at him and

point out ʻIʼm right here, you stupid

-ʼ

Even if she had, Owen still

wouldnʼt have got it. Heʼd have

made a joke about it, deflected it

with his unique brand of humour.

Because God forbid that Dr Owen

Harper should ever realise that

what he was looking for was right

under his bloody nose if only he

wasnʼt so damn arrogant and

convinced he was right, and if heʼd

just kiss her and hold her and look

into her eyes and-

Jesus!

The horn was incredibly loud,

and Toshiko felt her heart actually

jump as it thundered in her ears.

Still surprised, she turned round

and realised she was in the path of

a huge Council truck that was

coming to begin the gentrification of

Tretarri.

A man in a hard hat and suit

walked over.

ʻCan I help you?ʼ he asked, his

name badge announcing him to be

Ifan Daffydd, Scheme Manager.

She knew all the details of the

redevelopment work, having

hacked into a number of public and

a few very private records about

the redevelopment. This meant that

she could now shove her hands

into her mackintosh pocket and

produce an extremely accurate

facsimile of a Council pass, giving

her full authority to observe,

enquire and generally stick her

nose into any and all aspects of

contracted work going on today

and over the next few weeks.

ʻToshiko Sato, from the

Senedd. Checking up on

architecture, historical importance,

blue plaques for famous Cardiff

comedians, actors or raconteurs.

That sort of thing.ʼ She showed her

pass.

He offered a hand and she

shook it. Firm, dry, casual. Good,

not hiding anything then.

She pointed at the truck. ʻTook

me by surprise, sorry. I was

daydreaming.ʼ

Daffydd shrugged. ʻNot a

problem. How can I help?ʼ

ʻTalk me through whatʼs going

on.ʼ

ʻWell,ʼ Daffydd said, leading

her to the pavement, ʻthe first thing

weʼre doing is putting in this

revolutionary new lighting. Itʼs

wireless, like one of those Internet

routers. We put a box on here, and

then embed in the pavement a

series of halogen bulbs, protected

by shock-proof glass. These will be

arranged to a specific pattern and

at a series of convex angles, and

apparently, on a winter night, the

beams should hit the underside of

clouds and create a series of

patterns. The lights have a series

of gels that can be activated,

creating different coloured patterns

too.ʼ

ʻColour me impressed,ʼ

Toshiko laughed.

Encouraged by her

enthusiasm (faked, but he didnʼt

know that), Daffydd took her to one

of the plasterersʼ trucks.

ʻThen these guys will go into

the houses, most of which weʼre

converting into luxury apartments,

and we will be putting in similar

wireless devices to control the

electricity supply. Canʼt do it with

the gas pipes, sadly, but hopefully

these places have a degree of safe

gas and water piping - weʼll be

checking all that. But basically our

intention is to disturb as little of the

structural integrity as possible.ʼ He

pulled a brochure from his inside

pocket. ʻThese are some of the

colour schemes and a 3D CG

illustration of the streets, lit and

with new trees planted. In twenty-four hours, this place will be a

beacon for Cardiffʼs redevelopment

schemes.ʼ

Toshiko was about to nod her

approval when something occurred

to her. ʻOne day? To do...

everything?ʼ

ʻYeah, itʼs great isnʼt it? These

guys came highly recommended by

the company who developed the

electrical routers. Part of their

service. Council buys a few

hundred, each router services ten

houses, we get ʼem delivered and

fitted for free along with the whole

refurbishment job.ʼ

Toshiko smiled, hoping that

her PDAʼs encoder was recording

the conversation. ʻMust cost a

packet,ʼ she said.

ʻDunno,ʼ Daffydd replied,

moving closer and leaning forward

conspiratorially. ʻBut you know, I

donʼt think so. City Hall seemed

very keen, so it canʼt cost more

than the traditional way, and itʼs

quicker and makes less carbon

footprints. Apparently.ʼ He paused

for a second. ʻNever been quite

sure how they work all that carbon

footprint stuff out myself. I reckon

none of them do, itʼs just PR

jargon.ʼ

Toshiko moved towards him to

reply. And to let the PDA do its

stuff and get a good reading of

Daffydd, in case he was an alien.

ʻYou know what, Ifan. I think youʼre

right. Itʼs all just hot air for the

electorate.ʼ

She shook his hand again,

gripping it tightly, hoping he didnʼt

think it was a come-on. ʻPleasure to

meet you. Iʼd best leave you alone

and get back to the Bay. Tell

everyone youʼre not knocking down

any local treasures. Thank you.ʼ

Daffydd smiled and turned

away.

ʻOh, Ifan,ʼ Toshiko called to

him. ʻDo you know who actually

designed all this refurbishment?

The architect, I mean. We have no

records at the Senedd, itʼs all still in

Crickhowell House or up at City

Hall, and I was just wondering...ʼ

Daffydd threw over the

pamphlet. ʻKeep it. Architect is on

the back.ʼ

Toshiko turned it over and

stared.

There were the architectʼs

details: phone number, email,

address and a long list of local

Welsh (and a couple of

Glaswegian) projects he had

overseen.

And a photo.

ʻOh my God...ʼ

ʻOh, I donʼt think so, Ms Sato,ʼ

said a smooth-as-silk voice behind

her. ʻI think youʼll find real gods are

few and far between these days in

Cardiff. You and your... associates

saw to that.ʼ

She swung round, knowing

who would be standing there.

Sure enough, mid-70s, in his

immaculate pinstripe suit and

cravat, slicked-back silver hair,

wide eyes bursting with intellect

and... malevolence.

Just as he had looked the last

time she saw him.

Just as he had in the

architectʼs photo in her hand. She

glanced down at that once more. ʻIt

canʼt be you,ʼ she murmured.

And so Toshiko never saw the

punch which knocked her out cold.

EIGHT

Rhys Williams was at a table in the

café at the end of the arcade,

looking over at the new shopping

development nearing completion

opposite.

Apparently, Cardiff needed

more shops.

He noticed that no one

seemed to have considered that

lorries would have a hard time

getting down the slim roadways.

Oh well, perhaps theyʼd sort that

out later.

Things you think about when

you run a fleet of delivery trucks.

He glanced at his watch and at

the cold coffee opposite him. Every

time they arranged to meet, heʼd

buy Gwen a coffee in the vain hope

that it would somehow magically

cause her to turn up at the agreed

time. It never worked.

But he didnʼt mind. They were

getting married soon. She had said

yes. YES! To marrying him! How

bloody brilliant was that!

ʻDaf, she said yes!ʼ heʼd said

triumphantly to one of his drinking

buddies the day after.

ʻHey, Banana, howʼs

Lanzarote? I got some news,

mate,ʼ heʼd said to another on the

phone.

ʻMam, itʼs Rhys. I got some

news for you. Great news. Well, I

think itʼs great news. Well, itʼs great

for me. No, I told you, I wonʼt know

about the job for a couple of weeks.

No... no, will you listen... Look, you

better sit down then... No, Iʼve not

had an accident, Jesus, will you let

me speak?ʼ That one had gone a

bit downhill, truth be told.

And today, he and Gwen were

going to agree on a venue. Well, he

suspected he was going to be told

what the venue was. And who was

coming. And what he was wearing.

And you know what, that was

fine. Because he was marrying the

most fantastic woman in the world

and, so long as she had the

wedding she wanted, that was

good enough for him!

So long as bloody Torchwood

didnʼt get in the way - oh God,

maybe thatʼs why she was late.

Maybe Jack bloody Harkness, aka

God, had told her she couldnʼt have

the day off.

Did Torchwood even do days

off?

He never asked her that.

Somehow the idea of Handsome

Jack signing leave forms appealed

to Rhys.

ʻExcuse me, itʼs Rhys Williams

isnʼt it?ʼ

Rhys looked up at the old guy

stood beside him. Smart dresser,

bit... you know, fey, his mam would

say. Maybe it was the voice.

ʻUmm, yeah?ʼ

ʻYou look well. Better than the

last time I saw you.ʼ

ʻHave we met?ʼ

ʻYou might say that. Once

upon a time, in a different life.ʼ The

old man produced a business card.

Rhys read the name and

shrugged. ʻSorry mate...ʼ

ʻThatʼs quite all right. Iʼm... a

friend of Gwenʼs. I gather

congratulations are in order.ʼ

Rhys grinned. ʻThanks very

much.ʼ

The old man grinned too. ʻI just

wanted to say how nice it is to meet

you properly, and I hope you have

a long, happy life.ʼ And the smile

was gone. ʻBecause the price paid

for you to have this one was terribly

high.ʼ

And Rhys felt a bit awkward.

Was this guy a loony? Did he really

know Gwen?

Oh, he could ask her, there

she was.

ʻGod Rhys, Iʼm really, really

sorry,ʼ she said, coming through

the door and heading to the seat.

Rhys turned to present the old

man, but he was gone.

ʻThatʼs odd,ʼ he muttered.

ʻThere was a scary man here,

wanted to say hi.ʼ

ʻWho was he?ʼ

ʻI dunno. Knew me though.

And you. Said he was a mate of

yours.ʼ

Gwen looked around the

crowd in the café, looking for

someone she knew.

ʻHe said some strange things,ʼ

Rhys finished. ʻOh, and he left you

his card.ʼ

Gwen took the card and Rhys

saw the colour drain from her face.

ʻYou OK, love?ʼ

For a moment, all Gwen could

see, all she could imagine, was

Rhysʼs bloodied corpse stretched

out in Torchwoodʼs Autopsy Room.

All she could remember was Bilis

Manger taking Rhys from her. It

would not happen again.

When she spoke, Gwenʼs

voice had lost all warmth, all

humour. Instead she was cold.

Colder than heʼd ever heard her.

ʻRhys. Go home. No, no stay here.

Stay out all day. Go to the pub. Call

Daf, have him get pissed with you,

but on no account go anywhere

alone. You need a piss, Daf goes

with you.ʼ

ʻNow hold on-ʼ

And Gwenʼs hand was on his,

squeezing so hard she was almost

crushing it. ʻPlease. Trust me.

Never be alone till I call you. Even

if that means you donʼt go home or

go to work or do anything for a

week.ʼ

ʻThis is-ʼ

ʻDonʼt say "bloody Torchwood",

Rhys. Seriously. This is big. I canʼt

explain, trust me.ʼ

And Gwen turned the card

over and read something Rhys

hadnʼt seen, written in neat, precise

handwriting on the back.

Next time, it said.

Next time thereʼll be nothing

you can do, ʻ Widowʼ Williams.

NINE

City Hall was an impressive array

of buildings and, no matter how

often Jack Harkness stood outside

them, he couldnʼt help but be

impressed.

Coat flapping in the breeze,

blue shirt, red braces, navy chinos,

Jack was an imposing and

strikingly attractive figure.

At least, thatʼs what he hoped

the man he had come to visit would

think. Still. Itʼd been a while. Theyʼd

not parted on the best of terms last

time. Little things: Torchwood

policy, words about trust and

betrayal, antiques and a cold

spaghetti bolognaise that had been

slaved over for a good fifteen

minutes led to bitter recriminations,

name-calling and a bloody good

bitch slap, of which Jack was the

recipient.

Thinking about it, Jack touched

his left cheek. It had been a good

slap, and not what heʼdʼve

expected from someone so...

unimposing.

Still, appearances could be

deceptive. Wasnʼt that what they

said on Earth in this era? Oh, if

they only knew the half of it.

He entered the building and,

avoiding the tourist routes to the

marble hall or the conference

rooms, he nudged open an

insignificant door to the right, which

led to a concrete stairwell, peeling

paint and dust on each step. No

one regularly used the stairway,

which is why Jack always liked it. A

fast in and out.

But then, that was Jack

through and through.

He kept going until he reached

the fourth floor and eased open the

doorway into a plushly carpeted

hallway, a series of doors on either

side, with a huge ornate one at the

far end. Outside it was a small

desk, and sat at that desk was a

small, thin blond man in a suit and

tie, probably half a size too big for

him.

He had stunning blue eyes,

and Jack briefly flirted with the idea

of sneaking up on him and

snogging him.

The man was reading a sheaf

of notes and tapping with one hand

on a PC keyboard.

Jack realised sneaking up

wasnʼt going to work. Not in the

corridor. Shame.

ʻI saw you come in, Jack,ʼ the

young Welshman said. ʻAnd no one

but you would use those stairs.ʼ He

still hadnʼt looked up.

ʻOh. Right. OK,ʼ said Jack.

ʻHow are you? Itʼs been a couple of

years.ʼ

ʻItʼs been twenty-two months,

eight days and about nine hours,

Jack. Lots of things couldʼve

happened to me in twenty-two

months, eight days and about nine

hours. Nice of you to ask now.ʼ

Jack stood still. He still wasnʼt

being looked at. Boy, some people

could hold a grudge.

ʻSlapped anyone recently?ʼ

The man dropped the notes

onto his desk and finally gazed

straight at Jack.

ʻOh, tried to feed anyone an

amnesia pill in cold pasta recently?ʼ

Ouch. Yup. Grudge time.

ʻOh come on, Idris. You gonna

let that little... incident come

between us?ʼ

Idris Hopper stood up. He

wasnʼt as tall as Jack, but the

Torchwood leader took a step back

anyway - Idris was not happy to

see Jack, that was clear.

ʻYou screwed with my head,

Jack. On so many levels. You lied,

you cheated. You betrayed me, my

trust in you. And then you tried to

poison me.ʼ

ʻIt wasnʼt poison. Donʼt be so

melodramatic. It was for your

safety.ʼ

Idris said nothing for a

moment, then he strode past Jack

and opened an office door.

ʻJan, I need to pop out for a

few minutes. Can you keep an eye

on the Mayorʼs desk for me? Ta

love. Iʼll get you a donut.ʼ

He then turned back, grabbed

Jackʼs arm and, with strength that

belied his slight stature, almost

dragged Jack back to the stairwell.

He slammed the door open

and shoved Jack into the vestibule.

Jack hit the wall with some force,

turned to yell at Idris, and

discovered the young secretary

snogging him. Hard and

ferociously.

After a few seconds, Idris

pulled back, his eyes full of

anything but love.

ʻThere, you got what you

wanted, Jack. Happy now? Will you

finally leave me alone and get the

hell out of my life?ʼ

Jack was speechless at first,

then ran a hand through Idrisʼs hair.

The younger guy pulled further

back.

ʻDonʼt touch me, Jack. You

donʼt have that right.ʼ

ʻIʼm sorry,ʼ Jack said. ʻI didnʼt

realise itʼd affect you that much.

How long did it take for the pill to

wear off?ʼ

ʻI thought the point was that it

wouldnʼt wear off. That people you

dosed up stayed amnesiac for

good, those memories scratched

out of their lives?ʼ

Jack nodded. ʻBut occasionally

a shock or just a strong personality

can overcome it. Depends on the

strength of the pill I used on you.ʼ

ʻAnd you donʼt remember, do

you? I bet you never remember any

of the lives you screw around with

at Torchwood, do you?ʼ

Idris went past Jack and down

the stairs. ʻI canʼt have this

conversation here. Outside. Now.ʼ

Jack paused. ʻYou know, Iʼm

not usually one for following orders,

Idris.ʼ He shrugged. ʻBut I do kinda

need your help.ʼ

Jack followed Idris down and

out of the building and across the

grass. They crossed the road at the

traffic lights and walked silently into

Cathays Park, just behind Cardiffʼs

famous castle.

For a few moments, neither of

them said anything. Then Idris

sighed. ʻWell?ʼ

ʻWell what?ʼ

ʻWell what do you actually

want today, Jack?ʼ Idris checked

his watch. ʻYou have five minutes.

Real minutes, not Torchwood

minutes.ʼ

ʻLike I said, I need your help. I

need records.ʼ

Idris laughed humourlessly.

ʻThat was what you said last time,

after Margaret Blaine disappeared.

Remember that? My boss, the

Mayor. One minute you and your

mates are chasing her, the next,

sheʼs gone. Death by Earthquake

was the official answer.ʼ

Jack looked hard at Idris and

remembered the confused young

man heʼd seen at the bus stop one

day, a bundle of books under his

arm.

The man whoʼd run over,

shouting ʻYou! It was you!ʼ

Jack had had no idea who he

was.

ʻI saw you, at the office!ʼ

Jack turned and headed back

down, past the Millennium Centre

and towards the water tower. He

hadnʼt banked on Idrisʼs

determination and, when he

stepped onto the special stone at

the foot of the tower, the stone that

was part perception filter, Jack

should have effectively vanished.

Not in a blink, but in a peripheral

vision way; Idris should have

believed heʼd just lost sight of him

for a second.

But as Jack stood there, using

his Vortex Manipulator to activate

the elevator at his feet, Idris was

still facing him, still shouting

straight at him.

ʻYes, you! The American!ʼ

And Jack realised Idris could

still see him. Which was

unfortunate as the elevator began

its descent.

Idris was open-mouthed. The

last thing Jack saw before he sank

below pavement level was Idris

screeching ʻBastard!ʼ

As the elevator reached the

Hub, Jack stepped off, yelling for

Toshiko.

ʻGuy by the tower, staring at

our so-called invisible elevator.ʼ

ʻGot him on CCTV,ʼ Toshiko

replied. ʻ What about him?ʼ

ʻI need to know who he is. He

knows me, I havenʼt set eyes on

him before. And Iʼm pretty sure Iʼd

remember a cute Welsh blond,

blue-eyed geek like that.ʼ

ʻGeek chic your thing, is it

now?ʼ asked Suzie Costello, Jackʼs

number two.

ʻJack has "things"?ʼ Owen

called out from his workstation,

next to Toshikoʼs. ʻI thought Jack

just shagged... anything.ʼ

Jack ignored them and headed

to his office. Something tingled in

his mind.

He began flicking through

Suzieʼs reports: sightings of a

Gladmaron Cruiser over Pontypool;

a Weevil cluster in a ruined church;

some aliens wanting to serve a writ

on Earth for transmitting offensive

radio waves at their star system

(Toshiko had worked out from the

time-distance ratio that they were

getting broadcasts of Hancockʼs

Half Hour from the late 1950s); no

sign of Torchwood Four still...

His door eased open and

Suzie came in, putting a printout in

front of him. A CCTV image of Idris,

and his ID pass from City Hall.

ʻPersonal Assistant to the

Mayor,ʼ Jack read. ʻNope, why

me?ʼ

ʻThe Mayor, Jack? She

disappeared a month ago - after

the earthquake.ʼ

And Jack remembered.

ʻYou insisted we all stayed

down here, all four of us. No one

was allowed to go outside the Hub

till it finished, cos you said you

knew itʼd be OK. Remember?ʼ

He nodded. ʻGood job, too.

The earthquake couldʼve damaged

this place more than the last couple

did.ʼ

Suzie shrugged. ʻYou keep too

many secrets from us, Jack.

Teamwork, yeah?ʼ

Jack smiled. ʻIʼll deal with Mr

Hopper,ʼ he said and waved a

bottle of amnesia pills at Suzie.

She shrugged and went back

out to talk to the other two.

Jack thought about how heʼd

had to stay down below a month

before. Because there was another

him up above, 150 years younger

but identical to look at. Thereʼd not

only been the risk of confronting

himself; if Toshiko, Suzie or Owen

had seen his earlier self, heʼd have

had to explain his past to them. He

adored them, yeah, but that was a

step too far.

He knew heʼd have to deal

with poor Idris now. He took a level

two pill out of the box - twenty-four

hours would be enough to have

Idris forget seeing him without

causing too many problems for him

at work.

Now, how to get it to him.

That new Italian restaurant, on

the corner of Mermaid Quay, by the

fish and chip place (heʼd never

understand twenty-first-century

humans and the allure of fish and

chips).

He left the office, grabbed his

greatcoat and went back to the

elevator.

ʻUsing the lift wise, Jack?ʼ

asked Suzie.

ʻNope,ʼ he replied. ʻBut itʼll get

his attention.ʼ

Which it did.

Jack stood there, facing Idris.

ʻIdris Hopper, no one else but you

can see me. Quite an achievement

on your part. Well done you. Fancy

a drink?ʼ

Idris said nothing, just looked

at the passers-by who were

ignoring Jack completely, although

one woman gave Idris a very

peculiar look.

Jack stepped off the stone and

a teenager instinctively swerved

round him, muttering a ʻsorryʼ as if

it were perfectly normal.

As they walked to the Italian,

they chatted about Idris (he was

single), his family (his mother was

dead, his father had moved to

Newport six years ago), the movies

he watched (he utterly hated the

movie version of Hi Fidelity and

had seen Finding Nemo a few

more times than might be

considered healthy) and his

hobbies (he loved rare and

antiquarian books, spending most

of his less-than-stellar salary on

them, and restoring some of them,

which heʼd then sell on at book

fairs and suchlike). Once theyʼd sat

down and ordered, Jack explained

Torchwood. And perception filters.

And aliens. And the missing Mayor.

And the aliens that came through

the Rift.

Three hours later, Idris was

agog, untouched spag bol on a

plate in front of him, utterly

convinced by Jack and his

explanations.

ʻYou know, Idris, Torchwood

could use a guy like you in a

position of authority. Keep an eye

out at City Hall for weird

happenings, let me know. Iʼd really

like you to be our point man, a sort

of affiliated agent.ʼ

ʻI canʼt, I work for the Council,ʼ

Idris said. ʻI mean, they take

precedence.ʼ

ʻOh sure, of course,ʼ Jack said.

ʻNo one would ask you to betray

the office. No, itʼs just more if we

get something, and we think we

could do with a gap filled in, maybe

I could call you and you help me.

And of course, if itʼd break

confidences from the new Mayor,

then I utterly understand, yeah?ʼ

Idris wanted to think about it

and excused himself. As a waiter

went by, Jack asked for Idrisʼs food

to be put in a microwave for thirty

seconds.

ʻ We donʼt use microwaves

here, sir,ʼ said the snooty guy.

So Jack put the pill in Idrisʼs

food, burying it in the sauce.

Making sure no one was looking,

he aimed his Manipulator at it and

gave it a tiny burst of energy. Not

enough to hurt Idris, but itʼd

certainly warm the food up.

When Idris returned, they

finally ate.

ʻYou live locally?ʼ Jack asked.

ʻCentury Wharf,ʼ Idris replied.

ʻNice. Gonna make me a

coffee?ʼ Jack smiled.

And now, here he was, smiling at

the memory in Cathays Park.

This time, Idris wasnʼt smiling.

ʻYouʼre thinking about that night,

arenʼt you? When you poisoned

me. Or whatever.ʼ Then Idris

gasped. ʻMy God, for the first time I

just realised. I couldʼve had sex

with you that night - thatʼs what

you wanted. And if your pill had

worked, Iʼd never have known.ʼ

ʻOh I think no pill is strong

enough to completely erase the

memory of me in bed,ʼ Jack

laughed. Then stopped.

Idris wasnʼt laughing.

ʻSo, add moral corruption to

the list of Jackisms, yeah?ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻNothing

happened. God, did nothing

happen. I wasnʼt used to being

turned down, you know.ʼ

ʻAnd just like your perception

filter not working on me, nor did the

pill.ʼ

ʻOne in 80,000, Tosh

reckoned. Completely immune.ʼ

ʻSo tell me, Jack. What

happens when aliens raid the

supermarket? And you drug

everyone, but someone like me

doesnʼt get the effect. And they

remember everything. Do they turn

up a week later, face down in the

Bay? Or wake up in hospital a

vegetable? Or get swallowed by an

earthquake?ʼ

Jack had no answer. Because,

yes, once that had been the

Torchwood way. That was a

Standing Order from Torchwood

One in London. But things had

changed, and Jack had broken

direct contact with London. And

thrown their rulebook away. Since

then, the problem hadnʼt arisen.

ʻIʼd like to think that, like you, I

could convince them to help us. For

the greater good. But the situation

hasnʼt arisen. And the amnesia pill

hads been revamped since then

anyway. Itʼs closer to one in

800,000 now. Better odds all

round.ʼ Jack grinned.

Idris stood up. ʻSo, what do

you want? And donʼt say "another

kiss" because no, not now, not

ever.ʼ

Jack threw his hands up in

protestation. ʻFurthest thing from

my mind,ʼ he lied, convincingly he

hoped. ʻI need information. And not

just PR-level stuff, but deep stuff.

The who, why, how and did I say

why?ʼ

ʻAbout?ʼ Idris checked his

watch. ʻThirty seconds, and Iʼm

gone.ʼ

ʻTretarri.ʼ

ʻThe redevelopment? Why?ʼ

ʻHow involved do you want to

be, Idris?ʼ

Idris looked at him. ʻYou got a

USB reader on you?ʼ

Jack produced his PDA.

ʻNice,ʼ said Idris. ʻIʼll be back in

ten. If Iʼm not, it means Iʼve

changed my mind and I never want

to see you or anyone else from

Torchwood ever again. Is that

clear?ʼ

ʻAs crystal.ʼ

And Idris headed back to City

Hall.

Jack wasnʼt sure if it was worth

waiting. But then, he was a pretty

good judge of character - and Idris

was, at heart, a good guy, with a

Jack-sized chip on his shoulder.

Jack stared at the people

milling around the park. And again,

that feeling of pride in humanity hit

him. So much wrong with the

planet, so much wrong with their

lives if only they realised, and yet

nothing would stop them. As a

people and as individuals, calamity

might hit, but they always found a

way to bounce back. Twenty-first-century humans were great.

And somewhere was an

ancestor of his. Walking around,

unaware that one of the

descendents from a colony world

3,000 years into the future was sat

in Cathays Park, Cardiff. At least

he hoped they were unaware.

Assuming he was descended

from humans. Hmm... A bit of

family tree research might be in

order. If he ever got the chance to

go home, which he was in no hurry

to do.

ʻExcuse me, Captain

Harkness?ʼ

Jack looked up. A young

brunette, early twenties, was

standing in front of him. She smiled

and passed him a USB flash drive.

ʻIdris asked me to give you

this. And something else, which he

said Iʼd have no trouble giving you.ʼ

She smiled. ʻAnd he was dead

right.ʼ

And she snogged him,

passionately. Hard, long and very

probingly.

After a good minute, she

slowly drew back, and ran a finger

across his lips.

ʻWow,ʼ she breathed, then

turned and walked away.

ʻWow indeed,ʼ Jack said

quietly. ʻGod I love these people.ʼ

He watched her retreating

figure, slim, tight ass, nice legs...

and blew air out of his cheeks, then

got his PDA out and inserted the

flash drive into it.

Info copied across and he read

it quickly. Details of the

redevelopment, plans, conveyancy

reports, recommendations for

construction crews, requisitions for

trucks, concrete, trees.

Details of a fast-tracked

licence for food, drink, music and

street performers for a week-long

party, stipulating no sale of alcohol

in case of minors.

And the architectural plans.

It all seemed innocuous

enough, but heʼd get Gwen and

Ianto to plough through it, check

dates and so on. There had to be

something.

Idly he opened a few reports.

Nothing on the surface. He was

about to give in for a bit, when he

clicked on the architectsʼ plans.

And saw the architect.

He considered going straight

back to Idris, but decided his time

would be better spent back at the

Hub. Instead he sent Idris an email

via his PDA.

Thanks for the information. So,

this guy doing the architectural

design. He intrigues me. Tell me

whatever you can about Mr Bilis

Manger x

Extract from the testimony of

student Owain Garrett, 1986. In

attendance, DI Laurence and

WDC Meredith. With Garrett was

his tutor, Professor Edward

Nicholls. Legal representation

was waived.

There was one house in Coburg

Street that no one went near. No

one really knew why, some put it

down to the general feeling about

Tretarri, but no one stayed long

enough to work out why.

It wasnʼt true, all the

newspaper reports, the ones that

said no one ever lived in Tretarri.

We did. Group of us on Bute

Terrace. Number 9. We were on

the corner of Coburg Street, and

number 6 was the weird house.

Michele and Janet had done

some research on the area. During

the war, people had tried hiding

here to escape the Cardiff Blitz, but

had ended up taking their chances

on the streets of Butetown. Martin

found out by going through the

local papers that as far back as the

thirties the place was rumoured to

be haunted. I mean, people would

turn up here, move in, settle,

whatever. Then inexplicable events

occurred, lights, phantasms they

often called them, noises. Dogs

and cats died, fresh food went off,

light bulbs would die then come

back to life, brighter than before

and objects would move around the

place.

Michele and I woke up one

morning to find our bed had moved

across the room in the night. We

assumed Janet or Marty had done

it while we were asleep, but Marty

hadnʼt come home that night, and

no way could Janet have done it by

herself.

There were a few other

student houses in Tretarri, but

people didnʼt stay long - and we

realised after a few weeks, one

house wasnʼt occupied at all. I

mean, never. We looked into the

windows, I swear it hadnʼt been

touched since it was built, no sign

of anything modern.

Marty talked to some old guy

whoʼd lived on the streets for years

in the area, and he was chatty -

especially if there was a few

pounds and some chocolate in it for

him. He said heʼd seen people

come and go from every home, but

not number 6.

Because it was haunted. He

said it was haunted by the lights.

We werenʼt sure what he meant

because he also said there was a

man in the house too. Who lived

there sometimes, but heʼd never

seen him. We didnʼt understand

that. He said no one ever saw him,

but they knew he was there.

So we all decided to break into

number 6 and spend the night

there, like... like a ghostwatch, I

think.

We took a camcorder and a

cassette deck too as back-up.

Marty suggested a ouija board, but

I thought that was a bit... stupid

(Interruption by DI Laurence,

asking if Mr Garrett considered a

ouija board to be dangerous.)

No, I mean, itʼs just a bit of crap

really, all that "mediums" and "Doris

Stokes" stuff. But Janet, she was

scared I think, so I put my foot

down. Said no.

So anyway, that night, we got

in. I donʼt know who actually got us

in, I was a bit late cos Iʼd had to

check the camera out of the

student union, so the other three

were there with sleeping bags and

beer and stuff by the time I arrived.

I set up the camcorder by the door,

so it took in the whole of the, well,

living room I sʼpose. It meant we

were on camera all the time.

I turned it on around eleven,

when Michele went out to get the

Chinese, and Iʼd stocked up on 90-minute tapes, so it meant one of us

had to wake up every so often to

change tapes. So we sorted out a

rota. I said Iʼd stay up first, till the

first tape ran out. Michele would do

the next and so on.

I sat up while they slept,

changed the first tape but was still

wide awake so let Michele sleep

on. I had a book for class to get

through, which was fine. I changed

the second tape about two and

thought Iʼd wake Michele up.

But I mustʼve dropped off cos

the next thing I knew, Marty and

Michele were giggling to each

other, and it was about four thirty.

And he had the bloody ouija

board and was moving the glass

around with his fingers. God knows

what Michele thought Marty was

doing, it was so obvious he was

spelling I AM A GHOST or

whatever but she thought it was

funny.

I watched them for a few

minutes and hoped Janet wouldnʼt

wake up or sheʼd freak.

Then I noticed the camera

wasnʼt recording, so I whispered to

them but they ignored me.

So I got up. And thatʼs when

they looked at me. Straight at me.

And that was... that was when

it mustʼve happened. God, it

mustʼve been then, and I didnʼt

understand.

I didnʼt notice their eyes at first,

I saw the smiles. I can see the

smiles now, I mean, not really

smiles, something so cruel, so

twisted... Then I saw the white

eyes. Not just white, but like, like

bright lights, Iʼm telling you, it was

freaky. I thought maybe something

was reflecting into their eyes, cos I

couldnʼt see pupils or anything, just

white... light I sʼpose. But there

was nothing else on, nothing to

reflect.

Janet woke up, I know that cos

I heard her swear and yell at them

about the Ouija board.

And thatʼs when I was really

scared. Yeah scared, cos they

ignored us both then and went

back to the board, and Iʼm telling

you, mate, that glass was moving

by itself.

And it spelt out two words, I

dunno what they meant. Torch and

Wood. I thought it meant they were

going to burn the building down.

And I can still hear Michele

now speaking but it wasnʼt... I

mean... it just wasnʼt her voice, you

know? Someone... something else

spoke, I dunno, through her? Hold

on, let me think about this. Can I

have something to drink please?

(Tape stops, then resumes, DI

Laurence reidentifies everyone on

the tape and states the time and

date. See separate report for exact

timings.)

OK, thanks. Yeah Iʼm OK. Right.

So, the voice. Janet is well freaked

now, and Iʼll be honest, mate, Iʼd

almost wet myself. That voice. So

cold, it felt like we were in a freezer

suddenly. An abattoir or something.

And Janet and I staring at

them, our mates... and Michele

spoke to us but it made no sense.

She just said about the darkness

and Phyllis and the lights. It made

no sense. And Janet and me, we

ran, I mean just got the hell out of

there. But we tried to get to the

front door and thatʼs when we saw

the ghost. I saw the ghost. Janet

says sheʼs not sure what she saw,

but Iʼm telling you, it was a bloody

ghost. A bloke, sort of there and

not there. Iʼm not talking the whole

white sheet, Scooby-Doo thing, but

a bloke stood there. I could see he

was speaking, shouting almost, but

couldnʼt hear anything he said.

And we were out of there.

But this is important because I

think, yeah, yeah, Iʼm sure sitting

here now, I think it was saying what

Michele had been saying - the

mouth, Iʼm picturing it, "darkness"

and "the lights", Iʼm sure thatʼs what

it was yelling.

And then you lot turned up the

next day at uni and arrested me.

But Iʼm telling you, thatʼs what

happened. We didnʼt hurt them or

anything. Why would I kill Michele

- we were together, if you know

what I mean. I wouldnʼt do that to

her.

Whereʼs Janet - she must be

able to tell you this... I mean, she

was at uni too, wasnʼt she? You

mustʼve got her when you got me,

sheʼll tell you they were... They

werenʼt dead when we ran... ran

away... from them...

TEN

Ianto closed the file and added it to

the pile on Jackʼs desk, just as

Owen sauntered in.

ʻJust us chickens, yeah?ʼ

Ianto nodded. ʻLooks like it.

We sit around at home while the

womenfolk go out and do all the

work.ʼ

Owen grinned wolfishly. ʻDonʼt

let Jack hear you call him a

woman!ʼ

Ianto managed a smile back.

Owen nodded at the files.

ʻHeavy going?ʼ

ʻYeah. And nothing concrete in

any of them. Just read about some

poor kid whose two mates, were

found immolated in number 6

Coburg Street. One of them was

his girlfriend. The police tried to pin

it on him and another girl, but there

wasnʼt enough evidence. Poor kid

said it was the ghost.ʼ

ʻOnce upon a time,ʼ Owen

said, sitting on the edge of Jackʼs

desk, ʻdunno ʼbout you, mate, but

Iʼdʼve laughed at that. But in our

world, ghosts and all that, whoʼs to

say what is and isnʼt real?ʼ

Ianto shrugged. ʻSʼposed to

find out, arenʼt we? But Iʼm not

seeing anything that links the

Tretarri area with Jackʼs weirdness.

You got anything?ʼ

ʻNah, same old test results you

always get from Jack - normal for

him, less normal for us, but at least

heʼs consistent.ʼ

Ianto pondered on this. ʻLook, I

found out heʼs been doing this for...

years. I mean with back-from-the-dead Jack, how many years is

open to interpretation, but well over

seventy-five. So itʼs not something

new. And we know heʼs not always

been based at Torchwood,

although heʼs been in and out of

here for a long time. So whatever it

is that stops him going in, itʼs

before Torchwood. Itʼs something

in him.ʼ

ʻAsk him,ʼ Owen suggested.

ʻSeriously. Say itʼs time for some

answers.ʼ

Ianto thought about this, too.

ʻIʼd like to offer him some options,

cos you know him - heʼll just clam

up, brush it aside. But if we can

piece some stuff together from

what we do know, we could

challenge him.ʼ

ʻYou can challenge him,ʼ Owen

corrected. ʻIʼll just get my head

bitten off.ʼ

ʻMaybe you will. So what do

we know?ʼ

ʻBugger all, frankly. I sit down

and try and put two and two

together where heʼs concerned and

always get five.ʼ

Ianto was enthusiastic now.

ʻExactly, and maybe thatʼs the way

to get answers from Jack. We draw

wrong conclusions, hopefully heʼll

correct us.ʼ

ʻOr let us believe ʼem, cos it

suits him that way.ʼ Owen pulled up

a chair and sat down. ʻRight. Heʼs

old. Dead old. Been here since

Queen Vic was on the throne, Tosh

reckons. And he canʼt die, which -

and I say this as the best doctor

studying alien biology in the world -

I can offer no grounds for. His cells

just go back to how they were. Iʼve

studied his blood, tried messing

around with it. It doesnʼt reform, it

doesnʼt mutate or even clone itself.

It just reverts back to how it was

before. Which, frankly, is bloody

weird and not a bit scary.ʼ

ʻTime Agent. When we met

Captain John, he said they were

Time Agents.ʼ

ʻNever told us what that meant

though. But hang on... What if,

assuming this isnʼt all bollocks and

theyʼre not conmen doing the most

protracted swindle in history, what

if they can travel in time. Thatʼs

gotta do something to you, Iʼdʼve

thought.ʼ

ʻHow do you mean?ʼ

Owen frowned. ʻThe human

body, itʼs designed for certain

stresses, certain events in your life.

But is it designed for time travel?

Iʼm not saying it isnʼt, but we donʼt

know it is. We do know that Jackʼs

the only person actually unable to

enter Tretarri, even if no one else

stays for long.ʼ

ʻAnd,ʼ Ianto worked it out

slowly but surely, ʻJack is the only

time traveller we have to hand.ʼ

ʻSo maybe thatʼs the

connection. Whatever makes him

able to stand time travel, makes

him unable to get into Tretarri.ʼ

ʻWhich would,ʼ said Jack from

the doorway, ʻmean that whatever

is in Tretarri, is related to chronon

energy of some sort.ʼ

Owen had his hand on his

chest. ʻOne day, Jack, one day,

youʼll give me a heart attack,

sneaking up on people like that.ʼ

Jack smiled, and put his hands

on Owenʼs shoulders, to keep him

in the chair. ʻNah, physician, heal

thyself.ʼ He looked at Ianto. ʻOK, I

like the theory, how about I give

you some interesting evidence.

Ianto, any names come up in your

files and records that should raise

our collective eyebrows?ʼ

Ianto frowned. ʻDunno what

you mean.ʼ

ʻTry this name for size-ʼ

ʻBilis Manger,ʼ shouted Gwen

as she crossed the Hub to join

them.

ʻHell, is everyone out to get me

into A&E today?ʼ Owen asked.

ʻPhyllis!ʼ

They all looked at Ianto.

ʻIt wasnʼt Phyllis, it was Bilis!ʼ

Ianto threw the file about Owain

Garrett to Jack. ʻRead that.ʼ

ʻWhereʼs Tosh?ʼ Gwen asked.

ʻWhat? Who the hell is

Phyllis?ʼ

ʻPhyllis isnʼt Phyllis, sheʼs

Bilis!ʼ

ʻHello? Tosh? Remember

her?ʼ

ʻHeart rate still really fast.ʼ

ʻBilis is a cross-dresser?ʼ

ʻNo, he thought the ghost said

"Phyllis" but I bet it said

"Bilis"!ʼ

ʻToshiko Sato?ʼ

ʻGhost?ʼ

ʻWe have a transvestite

ghost?ʼ

ʻItʼs in the report.ʼ

ʻIdris told me it was Bilis. Itʼs all

on this flash drive.ʼ

ʻWho the hell is Idris?ʼ

ʻOne of Jackʼs floozies, from,

oh, just before you joined, I seem

to remember.ʼ

ʻSmall? Japanese? Good with

alien tech?ʼ

ʻIs Idris a cross-dresser, too?ʼ

ʻWhat?ʼ

The Hub lights went out en

masse.

ʻEmergency procedures,ʼ

yelled Jack.

ʻLockdown? We have thirty

seconds or weʼre here for six hours

if itʼs a complete power cut!ʼ

ʻShit! My samples of Jackʼs

blood and DNA - I need to keep

the power to them going!ʼ

The lights came on again.

Gwen was standing at her

workstation. ʻNext time I turn them

off for good,ʼ she snapped.

ʻWhy did you do that, Gwen?ʼ

asked Owen as they all left

Jackʼs office.

ʻTo get you lot to shut the hell

up. Now then, Iʼll ask again. Where

is Tosh?ʼ

Dunno.ʼ

ʻAt Tretarri, I think.ʼ

ʻShe hasnʼt called in though.ʼ

Gwen was about to say

something to all this when a new

voice called out.

All four Torchwood heads

turned and looked past the base of

the water tower and up at the

raised Hothouse.

Tosh was there, unconscious

on the grating. Beside her, hands

behind his back, cool as a

cucumber, was Bilis Manger.

ʻGood evening,ʼ he smirked.

The click was almost

deafening as four guns - three

Torchwood pistols and Jackʼs

Webley - were drawn, aimed and

cocked in unison.

Bilis just smiled more. ʻOh

really, surely you know by now that

you donʼt get rid of me that easily.

You may all be very fine shots, but

Iʼm not sure youʼd actually open fire

and risk hitting Ms Sato when faced

by a harmless and desperately

unarmed old man.ʼ

ʻHarmless,ʼ sneered Owen.

ʻWe donʼt know youʼre

unarmed,ʼ Ianto pointed out.

ʻNot convinced youʼre as old

as you seem,ʼ Gwen added.

ʻBut Iʼll give you "desperate".ʼ

Jack smiled, lowering his gun. The

others followed suit.

ʻOh Jack, Jack, Jack. Poor,

sweet, time-lost Jack. How you

wound me with your cynicism.

Such ingratitude when Iʼve gone to

all this trouble. For you.ʼ Bilis

looked at Gwen. ʻHow nice to see

you again, Gwen. And Iʼm so glad

to see your Rhys is looking better

these days. And Owen Harper. No,

wait, Dr Owen Harper - one must

subscribe to the social niceties. I

really wanted to thank you. After

all, it was down to you that my Lord

was able to escape his shackles.

And Ianto Jones, without whom

nothing would ever really get done

at Torchwood these days.ʼ

ʻWhat do you want?ʼ spat

Jack. ʻKinda bored of you now.ʼ

ʻSimple Jack. You destroyed

Abaddon. You closed the Rift. It

reversed time, repaired all the so-called damage that was done. And

so I am left wondering: if all those

people out there came back to life,

like dear Rhys, what happened to

my Lord?ʼ

ʻIt was destroyed,ʼ Jack said

quietly. ʻI destroyed it. That was

what closed the Rift, sealed the

breach. Heʼs not coming back.ʼ

ʻAh,ʼ Bilis said, still smiling,

ʻyou would say that, wouldnʼt you?ʼ

He gestured to the Rift Manipulator

housed in the base of the water

tower. ʻThis marvellous device, this

wonderful creation affects the Rift

itself. Who is to say that someone

with experience of manipulating

time couldnʼt find a way to go back

a bit further? To take my Lord out

of harmʼs way?ʼ

ʻMe actually,ʼ said Jack. ʻI donʼt

know if you can do that, but I doubt

it. A lot. But even if I didnʼt doubt it

as much as I do, youʼre not going

to get the chance to try.ʼ

Bilis nodded. ʻI imagined that

that would be your response.

Hence my borrowing of your

technical genius here. Oh, you

donʼt mind if I hang on to her, just

for a little while longer?ʼ

ʻKnow what? I do,ʼ said Jack.

ʻFunny little thing, loyalty, but sheʼs

part of my team. And I rather like

her, too. So work needs plus

friendship needs equals me not

really willing to part with her.ʼ

ʻTrade?ʼ

ʻOffer?ʼ

ʻIʼll exchange Toshiko for a day

in your Hub, access all areas, and I

promise not to let the Weevils out.ʼ

Four stony faces greeted that

request.

ʻWell, it was worth a try,ʼ Bilis

said. ʻAu revoir.ʼ

Before anyone could react,

Bilis and Toshiko had vanished

again.

ʻDamn,ʼ said Owen.

ʻGwen,ʼ snapped Jack.

ʻRecords, now. I want any trace of

Bilis found. Start with this.ʼ He

threw the USB flash drive to her. ʻI

want to know everything there is to

know, and extrapolate the rest.ʼ

He looked at Owen. ʻIf your

hypothesis about me is correct, Iʼm

useless in Tretarri unless you can

find a way to overcome it.ʼ

ʻGotcha,ʼ said Owen

disappearing down into the

Autopsy Room.

ʻIanto. You, my office. I want to

know everything youʼve gleaned

about Tretarri from your research.

Iʼll be back in five.ʼ

ʻJack?ʼ

Captain Jack Harkness turned

back to Gwen and smiled. ʻIʼll get

her back safe and sound, Gwen. I

promise.ʼ

Gwen held his look for ten

seconds, and smiled.

ʻI know you will.ʼ

ELEVEN

The Vaults had been the

cornerstone of Torchwood for ever.

They represented the good and the

bad side of everything Torchwood

stood for, both modern Torchwood

and the Institute set up by Queen

Victoria nearly 130 years earlier.

Bilis Manger stood on the

sensible side of the glass that

formed the cell door.

Within, the Weevil stared up at

him from the floor, mewling slightly

in fear.

Bilis tapped on the

transparent, if somewhat stained,

strengthened plastic. ʻI wonder

what use I could make of you, my

friend.ʼ

ʻNot a lot, Iʼd guess,ʼ said Jack

from the main doorway. ʻI knew

youʼd be here. Revisiting the scene

of your last crime. The murder of

Rhys Williams.ʼ

ʻYou took longer getting down

here than I expected, Jack.ʼ Bilis

smiled, without looking away from

the Weevil. ʻI may call you Jack, I

assume. Itʼs just that they all do, so

it seems sensible.ʼ He paused for a

beat, then continued. ʻI was going

to ask if you ever used your own

name any longer. Or indeed, if you

even recalled it.ʼ

Jack said nothing, but his hand

edged closer to his holstered

Webley.

ʻOh, do stop relying on your

toys,ʼ Bilis said. ʻWe both know you

canʼt hurt me.ʼ He pointed at the

Weevil. ʻHow long have they been

on Earth, then?ʼ

ʻNo one really knows,ʼ Jack

replied. ʻThe Torchwood Archives

are... curiously vague.ʼ

ʻAlmost as if someone has

gone through them, I imagine,

erasing odd bits of information.ʼ He

smiled again. ʻArchivists are a

funny sort. So dedicated to their

work, their accuracy, yet not above

the odd bit of subterfuge when

necessary to protect... whatever

theyʼve individually chosen to

protect. Thatʼs the joy of life, Jack.

To protect what we love.

Remember love?ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻI remember

you did everything you could for a

demon from God knows where that

almost destroyed Earth. Was that

out of love?ʼ

ʻLove. Passion. Belief. Duty.

The lines blur sometimes. There

are over fifteen recognised major

religions on this planet. One

religion believes something

different from another, and yet so

often itʼs just the same thing with a

different name, or a different form

of worship, or a different

headdress. But they will fight to

protect what they believe in, no

matter the cost. Youʼve been here

a while Jack. How many wars, how

many lives squandered on religion?

On belief? On that blurred line

between love, duty and belief. Then

we get to science. Science versus

creationism for instance. Two

opposing stances on the same

subject, neither of which has any

real evidence to back it up. What a

bizarre time you washed up in.ʼ

Bilis finally looked at Jack. ʻHappy

here? You used to have so much

more... freedom.ʼ

ʻYou know so much about me.

I know so little about you.ʼ

Bilis turned back to the Weevil.

He placed his hand on the

transparent plastic and the Weevil

echoed the action from within the

cell. ʻWhat do you know about the

Weevils? Only what you research.

Youʼre exactly the same as that

Weevil to me, Jack Harkness. A

savage beast, worthy of

investigation, nothing more.ʼ

ʻWhat do you want?ʼ

ʻIʼm on a mission. Redemption.

Atonement perhaps. A way to show

those who matter that I can make

up for my errors, and the

tremendous pain you cost me.ʼ

ʻWhat do you need from me? If

itʼs about me-ʼ

ʻOh yes, itʼs certainly about

you.ʼ

ʻThen why involve Tosh?ʼ

ʻMs Sato is personally...

immaterial. Sheʼs just the clichéd

hostage. It might have been Gwen,

or young Ianto. But Iʼll tell you one

thing, Jack, I wouldnʼt have wasted

my time with Owen.ʼ

ʻHeʼd have fought back, you

mean.ʼ

Bilis shook his head sadly,

looking down at his feet now.

And Jack saw, lying there, a

gun. A pistol. Not a Torchwood-issue one, just an average revolver.

It was smoking from the barrel, as if

it had recently been fired.

ʻNo, he just isnʼt worth it.ʼ

Jack looked back down, but

the gun had gone.

Bilis looked at him, and Jack

realised the vision of the gun

seemed to have surprised Bilis as

much as it had him. ʻSome things

are beyond our control. Yes, even

yours and mine, Jack.ʼ

ʻSo, whereʼs Tosh?ʼ

ʻSafe in Tretarri for now.

Number 6 Coburg Street.ʼ He ran

his finger around the cravat he

wore, loosening it fractionally. ʻAsk

Ianto. Heʼll get the reference if heʼs

as good in the Archives as he

should be by now. By the way, heʼs

picked up Torchwoodʼs history very

quickly. Iʼm impressed. You should

be, too.ʼ

Jack said nothing, just kept

watching.

ʻSo, what is all this about? You

still need an answer, donʼt you?

Even though I have told you.ʼ

ʻOK, so youʼre pissed at me

over Abaddon. Big deal. You set a

ninety-foot demonic "great

devourer" on the streets of Cardiff,

Torchwood take it down. Thatʼs life.

Deal with it.ʼ

Bilis swung round, and Jack

took an involuntary step back. For

the first time, Bilisʼs face was

twisted in anger, in hate. And

something else, something Jack

couldnʼt quite identify. Fear?

Panic? Anguish?

ʻRevenge, Jack. Revenge for

the future!ʼ

Before Jack could speak, a

hoarse voice behind him gasped

out.

ʻJack. Help me!ʼ

And crouched down by the

door was someone Jack hadnʼt

seen in over sixty-five years.

ʻGreg? Greg Bishop?ʼ

ʻSorry, Jack - not strong

enough... Canʼt fight the light. Canʼt

fight Bilis. Or the darkness. Canʼt

help you any more...ʼ

And Greg was gone.

Jack touched the bare Vault

wall where heʼd been, both a

second ago and in 1941.

ʻIʼm sorry, Greg,ʼ he said.

He straightened up and turned

back towards the cell, but he was

not surprised to see Bilis had gone.

Stuck to the Weevilʼs

transparent door with a piece of

sticky tape was a note in red ink.

No. Not ink. Blood.

REVENGE FOR THE

FUTURE

TWELVE

When Toshiko woke up, she found

herself lying on a cold, hard floor.

She gently sniffed the air - nothing

distinctive, but not airless. No

chemicals, so not anywhere

industrial. No damp, nothing stale.

She slowly opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was a

chair. A basic wooden seat, like at

a desk. Oh yeah, and that thing

there, that was a desk. OK. Not

immediately threatening.

ʻHello Ms Sato,ʼ said a voice.

There was someone sat in the

chair, she could see the legs. Male.

Suit.

Oh God, it was Bilis Manger,

wasnʼt it?

Hang on - heʼd hit her or

something.

ʻStop pretending, Ms Sato.

You have been fully conscious for

five minutes and... wait... thirty

seconds.ʼ

She rose slowly, keeping an

eye on Bilis, who had his back to

her.

He didnʼt seem particularly

threatening. But then, he was just

an old man who could travel in

time, walk through walls, disappear

into thin air and, oh yeah, tried to

destroy the world with his precious

devil-thing.

No threat there, then.

He held out an arm and clicked

his fingers. Almost instantly, as if

someone had switched on loud

music, Toshiko heard clocks

ticking.

As if previously theyʼd been on

pause...

ʻWhere am I, Bilis?ʼ

He turned and looked at her,

resting an arm on the back of the

chair, to all intents and purposes

regarding her as a schoolteacher

would a mildly intelligent pupil that

had passed a test.

Kind of patronising.

He smiled. ʻWelcome back. I

do apologise for needing to...

temporally disable you, but it was

important.ʼ

ʻI felt nothing,ʼ Toshiko said,

trying to be as emotionless at

possible. ʻSo you didnʼt even hurt

me.ʼ

Bilis shrugged. ʻI wouldnʼt

waste time hurting you, Toshiko. If

Iʼd wanted to do that, I could just as

easily have killed you. That would

have been neater.ʼ He turned back

to his desk. ʻI need you. For now. If

youʼll excuse the pun.ʼ

Toshiko couldnʼt see the pun,

so she ignored it. Instead, she tried

to get her bearings. Instinctively

she tapped her ear.

ʻYou are a little out of range,ʼ

Bilis said, again somehow knowing

what she was doing. ʻYouʼve done

it thirty times so far,ʼ he added. ʻIʼve

viewed every permutation of every

action. Such is my curse.ʼ

ʻCurse?ʼ

ʻI see time, Toshiko.ʼ He

sighed. ʻI made a deal once, and I

am still paying the price. I can

cross into history, and into possible

futures. Not far into the future

obviously, that would be

catastrophic, but I see enough.ʼ He

stood still, with his back to her, then

reached his arms out. ʻEverything.ʼ

Toshiko was in a shop, she

realised that now. A Stitch in Time,

she remembered Gwen saying it

was called. Timepieces repaired

and restored. Or stolen in the past

and brought to the present to be

sold as antiques.

ʻHow far back can you go?ʼ

ʻI donʼt know. I do know,

however, that it would be foolish to

go back too far. Every action has

an opposite reaction. I learned that

to my cost a long time ago.ʼ Arms

still outstretched, he finally turned

to face her.

His eyes were gone - in their

place were tiny orbs of burning

white light, tendrils flickering

around the lids and the bridge of

his nose.

ʻRight now,ʼ he continued,

ʻweʼre in that tiny splinter between

now and then, next and last, here

and here. And this is where I met

them. And they gave me a task,

something to do while I grieved for

my Lord, who you took from me.ʼ

Toshiko was getting lost. ʻWhy

did you knock me out? What did

you do when I was unconscious?ʼ

And Bilis smiled a horrible,

cruel smile. ʻAs I said, I needed to

disable you temporally. I fear you

misunderstood. I meant exactly

that. You are outside time as you

know it, Toshiko Sato, because I

have a task for you.ʼ

ʻWhich is?ʼ

He grabbed her hands so she

couldnʼt wriggle free. ʻLet me show

you your true potential.ʼ

And Toshiko was somewhere

else, watching someone else,

seeing through someone elseʼs

eyes.

It was a street in Cardiff. A

building she didnʼt recognise, brand

new. All concrete and blue-tinted

glass.

A car pulled up, a small sports

car - Toshiko wasnʼt an expert on

cars, but she could recognise

something smart, new and

expensive. The doors opened

automatically, upwards. The

passenger got out, briefcase, smart

jacket and skirt, hair swept back.

Power-dressed to the nines. On the

briefcase was stencilled a logo in

leather; she recognised it as a

slightly modified Torchwood logo.

Oh my God, somehow, she

knew, this was the new Hub, but

right at the heart of the city centre,

in full view of everybody.

Staff were gathering on the

steps, applauding lightly and

uniformly.

The woman from the car

looked up, adjusted her glasses,

smiled at the assembled staff and

then placed the case on the floor

and returned the applause.

It was Toshiko.

After a minute, the car driver

joined her. Sharp suit, similar

glasses. Owen Harper.

There was something wrong

though - it was his hand, his left

hand. It was metal and, as it flexed,

she could hear dozens of tiny

servos moving the fingers, and she

just knew this was some kind of

alien prosthetic, linked into his

nervous system, working perfectly

in unison with the rest of his body.

Owen took Toshikoʼs hand in

his, and she now noticed the

weddings bands.

Toshiko and Owen, married?

She and Owen!?!

Toshiko Harper spoke to quieten

the applause. ʻPeople, thank you.

Youʼve done us all proud. Today,

this building stands as a testament

to the work of Torchwood

throughout the Empire. Five years

ago, Torchwood was buried away,

ashamed of its roots, ashamed of

its past. But today, we stand proud,

we stand tall and, above all, we

stand united with all the other

Torchwoods across the globe,

throughout the entire Empire.

ʻI am honoured to be your

CEO. Mr Harper here, Owen, is, as

you know, going to head up our

science and medical divisions. Mr

Lawson there - good morning Eric

- will run logistics and Mrs

Williams, who sends her apologies,

but the baby just wouldnʼt wait and

she went into labour last night-ʼ

There was another round of

applause.

ʻ-and sheʼs using Torchwood

tech to ensure smooth delivery and

a healthy baby boy should be here

in about, oh, three hours. Anyway,

when she returns to work, Mrs

Williams will head up our

humanities division. Welcome,

ladies, gentlemen and others-ʼ

At this, a small grey alien

pushed through the crowd and

stood at the front, applauding

lightly.

ʻ-Everyone, welcome to

Torchwood Cardiff.The home, the

heart and the soul of the

Torchwood Empire. We run planet

Earth, ladies and gentlemen, letʼs

treat it and its peoples with the

love, care and dedication that they

deserve.ʼ

More applause.

Toshiko turned to Owen. ʻYou

think he would approve?ʼ

Owen laughed, squeezing his

wifeʼs hand. ʻNah, he wouldʼve

hated all this, but you know what,

deep down, I think heʼd be proud of

what youʼve achieved in his name.ʼ

ʻAnd letʼs face it, lover,ʼ

Toshiko replied, ʻwithout his unique

properties, none of this would have

been possible. You could say heʼs

still the heart and soul of the

Torchwood Empire.ʼ

They passed the crowd,

nodding at various staff, shaking

hands with a couple of divisional

leaders.Two great glass doors slid

open, and the flock of people

followed their leaders in.

The atrium of Torchwood

Cardiff revealed forty storeys of

offices, labs and R&D areas.

Below, an undisclosed number of

basements, sub-basements, vaults

and state-of-the-art cells,

containment areas and other

secrets.

In the centre of the atrium,

next to the reception desks, was

the old water tower, moved from its

original home in the Bay, now

stretching up towards the high

ceiling, the Rift Manipulator on

display to the world at large.

And at the foot of that was a

glass rectangle embedded in the

floor.

Inside was a figure, wired up to

something hidden beneath the rest

of the cream-coloured concrete

flooring, tendrils snaking away from

every joint, every inch almost of the

body, powering... powering

Torchwood itself.

No wonder they said he was

the heart and soul - the body was

Captain Jack Harkness, trapped in

a frozen moment of time, his

immortality being drained and, in

turn, running the entire Torchwood

Empire.

Toshiko looked down into the

glass container, Owen smiling that

thin, almost cruel smile of his, at

her shoulder, always one

reverential step behind his wife and

mistress.

ʻAnd as for you... what can I

say?ʼ Toshiko was asking. ʻYou

showed me the truth, you showed

me how anything could be

achieved if I just explored my

potential.ʼ

ʻNo greater responsibility than

potential,ʼ Owen added. ʻYou told

us that.ʼ

And Toshiko leaned in and

touched the glass. ʻI owe you

everything.ʼ

ʻOh and Jack?ʼ This was

Owen. ʻThanks again for this.ʼ

Owen flexed the artificial fingers on

his left hand. ʻBest birthday present

ever.ʼ

Suddenly, there was a

commotion at the door, two guards

went flying and a tramp ran in. No,

not a tramp, but a dishevelled

young man, screaming obscenities

in Welsh, shoving his way through

the crowd.

ʻHeʼs got a gun,ʼ screamed a

young woman, somewhere.

Sure enough, a pistol was in

his hand, and he waved it around,

as if focusing, looking for

something specific.

Or someone.

ʻYou!ʼ

He was looking for Toshiko

and Owen.

Twenty large, armed guards

surrounded the CEO and her

escorts instantly.

Owen eased himself through

the crowd. ʻIanto, mate,ʼ he started

to say, but the ranting Ianto cut

across him.

ʻI want him back! Now!ʼ

ʻNot possible, mate,ʼ smiled

Owen. And he pointed at the glass

slab beneath his feet.

Toshiko waved the guards

back as Ianto stepped forward and

saw Jackʼs contorted, agonised

body.

Then, faster than should have

been possible, Ianto raised his gun

and fired twice, the first bullet

straight through Owenʼs forehead.

As the corpse fell, the second bullet

hit Toshikoʼs shoulder.

Thirty guards opened fire, and

what remained of Ianto Jones

would have needed tweezers to

collect together.

Toshiko had a hand pressed

against her bleeding shoulder as

she knelt next to Owen.

She looked up at the guards.

ʻGet him to my suite - now.ʼ Then

she turned to the bloody mess that

was spread around where Ianto

had stood.

ʻWelcome to Torchwood,

Ianto,ʼ she muttered. ʻJack

wouldʼve been proud.ʼ

And the real Toshiko, the one

watching this awful, terrifying vision

of her future, shivered as her vision

swam, bright lights popping in her

vision until everything was blotted

out by a white haze.

Then she was back to herself,

standing in Bilis Mangerʼs strange

shop, holding his hands, and

staring into his face, his eyes still

gone, still replaced by that same

blazing white light. The lights bled

from his eyes and roared into hers.

Toshiko ceased struggling after

three seconds as her body filled

with the white light.

And Bilisʼs own eyes returned

to normal.

ʻAnd now you have a share of

a stronger, younger host,ʼ he

murmured.

Toshiko stood there. Why

couldnʼt she move? Why couldnʼt

she see properly? Why was

everything so bright...

And then she realised, as

consciousness began to fade

again, that the light was inside her.

Not in Bilis.

The last thing she was aware

of was the touch of his hands on

hers. ʻIʼm sorry,ʼ he said quietly. ʻIʼll

make sure nothing bad happens to

your body. Well, nothing too bad.

Thatʼs the best we can hope for.

When we make deals with the Light

and the Dark.ʼ

THIRTEEN

ʻJack,ʼ Gwen called as he emerged

from the basement, ʻthereʼs nothing

after 1941.ʼ She waved towards her

monitor. ʻSame newspaper reports

as last time about the dance hall,

then nothing. Bilis Manger simply

vanishes.ʼ

ʻWhat about that wretched

shop he had?ʼ

ʻGone,ʼ called Ianto, from

Toshikoʼs station. ʻNo records with

the Council, it was never there. Itʼs

been a clothes shop since 1998.

Paid up, account in the name of

Julia Martin, who seems to be a

model citizen of Wales, bar a few

speeding fines and a hefty

overdraft.ʼ

Jack frowned and passed a

sheet of clear plastic sheeting to

Gwen. ʻScan it, it has Bilisʼs

handprint on it. Silly idiot put his

hand on a cell door. I want every

system in the world checked,

Scotland Yard, Interpol, the FBI,

CIA, Mossad, the works. Someone

must have encountered him,

someone else must have some

info.ʼ

ʻUNIT?ʼ

ʻBeen there, tried that, called in

a favour from a friend. Nothing.ʼ

Gwen placed the sheet into a

scanner and it transferred an image

of a handprint to her monitor. Tiny

lines blinked to the fingertips and

palm, mapping the unique

signatures and a series of images

of other hand and fingerprints

flashed up in a pop-up box as the

Hub systems accessed similar

records around the world.

Jackʼs impatience was

palpable, and Gwen said after a

minute, ʻIt takes time. Go have

coffee. Ianto, make the man

coffee.ʼ

Ianto nodded and stood to go,

but Jack waved him back to his

seat. ʻNo coffee. No tea, no OJ, no

vodka till we have answers.ʼ

ʻI have a hit,ʼ said Ianto shortly.

ʻWhere?ʼ

ʻHang on...ʼ

ʻWhere!ʼ

ʻHere. Sort of.ʼ Ianto frowned.

ʻThis doesnʼt make sense.ʼ

ʻLet me judge that,ʼ Jack said.

ʻCome on, whatʼs up?ʼ

Ianto looked back at the

expectant Jack and Gwen. ʻHeʼs on

the Torchwood database.ʼ

ʻBut that would mean...ʼ

Ianto nodded at Gwen. ʻYeah,

heʼs staff. But,ʼ he added quickly, to

stifle their questions, ʻthatʼs

impossible. Heʼs not on any

records, no photos, no paper trail.

Even Jack has a paper trail. The

name doesnʼt show up anywhere,

but that handprint is given top

access here in Cardiff, at Canary

Wharf, in Glasgow and at

Torchwood Four. But no names, no

pictures, no records whatsoever.ʼ

Jack headed to his office. ʻIʼm

going to talk to Archie in Glasgow.

As a strange little old man himself,

maybe heʼs an expert on even

stranger little old men.ʼ He

slammed the office door behind

him.

ʻYou ever meet Archie?ʼ Gwen

asked Ianto.

Ianto shook his head.

ʻOwen?ʼ she called down to

the Autopsy Room.

ʻWhat now?ʼ

ʻEver met Archie?ʼ

ʻWho?ʼ

ʻGlasgow Archie,ʼ Ianto added.

ʻOh. Old Tartan Archie.ʼ He

appeared at the top of the stairs.

ʻNah. Exchanged a few bizarre

emails once.ʼ

ʻBizarre?ʼ

ʻYeah. Not sure he quite got

the hang of computers really. Some

of the words he used were...

interesting and not always used in

the right context. And he frequently

referred to himself in the third

person, so I thought he was a bit

eccentric. Either that or the whisky

was really good that morning.ʼ

ʻI think we need a Torchwood

day out to Glasgow. Take Archie

out for a drink.ʼ

ʻIʼll hire a minibus,ʼ Ianto said.

ʻProbably get it painted matt black

quite easily.ʼ

ʻCan we go without the blue

lights this time. Sometimes, in the

SUV, I feel like Iʼm in Santaʼs

Grotto.ʼ Owen headed back to

work.

ʻI like the blue lights, me,ʼ

Gwen said. ʻWhatʼs wrong with

blue lights?ʼ

Ianto shrugged. ʻI think they

look sophisticated. Perhaps

Owenʼs only happy if theyʼre red

lights.ʼ

Gwen laughed.

Jack came out of the office.

ʻBlue lights, Jack?ʼ Gwen

asked. ʻOr red?ʼ

Jack stared at the two of them.

ʻSometimes, Iʼm not sure that office

doesnʼt lead to a parallel dimension

and each Hub I go into is slightly

different from the one I left.ʼ

ʻI think Jackʼs a blue light guy,ʼ

said Ianto. ʻLook at the coat. And

those matching shirts.ʼ

ʻOh, the shirts, yeah, dead

giveaway,ʼ Gwen agreed.

ʻOwen?ʼ bellowed Jack. ʻHave

you been experimenting with

strange gasses again?ʼ

ʻNope,ʼ Owen yelled back.

ʻTheyʼre just weird, those two. I got

used to it, why havenʼt you? Oh

and Ianto, I prefer green lights, not

red.ʼ

Gwen gave Ianto an ʻooh,

caught outʼ look and laughed.

Ianto winked at her, then

called to Jack. ʻAnything from

Archie?ʼ

ʻNothing. Couldnʼt reach him.

Maybe he needs a Ianto to field his

calls.ʼ

Ianto pretended to think about

this. ʻCardiff or Glasgow? Oneʼs a

nice city, with a nice Torchwood

base near the waterside

redevelopment, good shops and an

enigmatic leading man whoʼs never

around when you want him. Or

Cardiff? What should I do, Gwen?ʼ

ʻBet Archie doesnʼt have an

SUV though.ʼ

ʻOh, good point. And Iʼm good

on coffee, but I canʼt tell the

difference between whisky and

whiskey.ʼ

ʻOh, word puns,ʼ said Jack at

his left ear. ʻVery good. Now, if you

can apply some of that smartness

to finding Tosh or Bilis, Iʼll take you

out tonight and show you a good

time.ʼ Ianto turned to say

something but Jack beat him to it.

ʻYeah, I know, no rooftops.ʼ

Ianto tried again. ʻPhoto?ʼ

Jack raised an eyebrow.

ʻWe could send a photo of Bilis

to Glasgow,ʼ said Ianto.

Jack snorted. ʻEver tried

emailing an image to Archie? Either

it bounces back, or he presses the

wrong button and it ends up on the

front page of the Glasgow Herald.ʼ

ʻOh, thatʼs where that Loch

Ness Monster story came from. I

thought they were a bit close to the

truth,ʼ Ianto said.

ʻLoch Ness Monster? Do I

want to know?ʼ Gwen asked.

ʻSome kind of dinosaur,

apparently,ʼ said Owen, walking

towards them with a PDA. ʻNever

believed that myself. Dinosaurs,

God, whatever next?ʼ

ʻWe have a pterodactyl!ʼ Gwen

said, pointing upwards.

ʻPteranodon, actually,ʼ

corrected Ianto. ʻBut Pterodactyl

does sound sexier.ʼ

Gwen sighed. ʻSometimes, I

think Iʼm going mad.ʼ

Jack clapped his hands.

ʻTension-breaking banter over,

guys. Serious jobs here. I want

Bilis Manger. More importantly, I

want Tosh safe and sound. And I

kinda know you do, too, so letʼs say

nothing more on the subject. Ianto,

thank you for the research, Iʼm

going to plough through more of it

now. You and Gwen get out to

Tretarri, see if sheʼs there.ʼ And

then he looked hard at them and

spoke softly. ʻAnd yeah, I read that

ghost-sighting report. And yeah, I

think itʼs got something to do with

this, so start your search at number

6, Coburg Street, OK? Owen,

whatʼve you got for me? I want to

be able to pay a house call to

Tretarri as soon as possible.ʼ

ʻDo you believe in ghosts?ʼ Ianto

asked Gwen as they approached

Tretarri in the SUV.

She shrugged. ʻWell, we kind

of know that most ghosts are time

echoes rather than the "Iʼm

haunting you, Ebenezer Scrooge"

types, so no, I donʼt believe in

ghosts per se.ʼ She thought about

that. ʻBetter to say, I donʼt believe

in malicious hauntings.ʼ

ʻMe neither. So why am I

terrified of going into Tretarri?ʼ

Gwen looked at him as he

drove. ʻMy God, you are.ʼ

Ianto was sweating profusely

and was looking decidedly green

around the gills. ʻI donʼt know why,ʼ

he moaned. ʻI know this is

completely irrational, I keep saying

to myself this is completely

irrational but Iʼm pretty much

bricking it.ʼ He looked at her

quickly. ʻSorry.ʼ

She held a hand up. ʻNot a

problem. You want me to drive?ʼ

ʻNo, nearly there.ʼ He pointed

ahead. ʻYears ago, there were

plans to bulldoze this place, create

a Cardiff Bay Retail Park rail

station.ʼ

ʻWhat happened?ʼ

ʻPlans got bulldozed instead.

How many Earth pennies dʼyou

want to bet that if we found the

sign-off form blocking it, itʼd have

Bilisʼs signature on the bottom?ʼ

ʻOh I think youʼd win that one

fair and square.ʼ

Ianto stopped the SUV near

the retail park and suggested they

walk the rest of the way. They went

past the gasometer, and Gwen

noticed the giant furniture store

where Rhys had wanted to buy that

hideous cream leather sofa.

Apparently, heʼd always liked the

Swedes - although she was

gratified to learn when they were at

uni that he wasnʼt a great fan of

Abba, since men at uni who were

Abba fans tended not to be

interested in Gwen. Or women

generally. ʻDo you like Abba?ʼ she

found herself asking Ianto. As non

sequiturs went, it was a good one.

He looked at her. ʻIs this going

to lead to a "Jack" conversation?ʼ

ʻNo.ʼ

ʻFine. Then I admire the

Andersson/Ulvaeus writing

partnership as craftsmen and

songsmiths. I believe "One Of Us"

may be the best song written about

relationship breakups ever, and I

have a soft spot for the fusion of

witty lyrical content and poptastic

danceability of "Voulez-Vous", but

let me make this absolutely clear: I

bloody loathe "Dancing Queen". All

right?ʼ

Gwen stopped walking and

just looked at him.

ʻWhat?ʼ he asked.

ʻYouʼve had this conversation

before, havenʼt you?ʼ

ʻMight have.ʼ

ʻJack?ʼ

ʻYou honestly think Jack

knows anything about music after

1948?ʼ

ʻWho then?ʼ

ʻDoesnʼt matter.ʼ

ʻWho?ʼ She starting walking

again. ʻCome on. I might die

tonight, never knowing.ʼ

ʻMe mam.ʼ

ʻAww. When she found out

about Jack?ʼ

ʻWhen I was fourteen.ʼ

Gwen stopped again. ʻI dunno

which scares me more - that your

mam worked you out ten years

before you did, or that the fourteen-

year-old Ianto Jones used the

phrase "poptastic danceability"

without getting beaten up.ʼ

Ianto stopped suddenly. ʻShe

didnʼt work me out, Gwen. No one

has. And if I ever do, Iʼll let you

know.ʼ

Gwen smiled, nudged his arm.

ʻOh come on, smile. Lisa, Jack...

being bisexual is hardly a crime.

Best of both worlds, isnʼt it?ʼ

And Ianto pushed her away.

ʻNo, Gwen. No, really itʼs bloody

not. Itʼs the worst of any world

because you donʼt really belong

anywhere, because you are never

sure of yourself or those around

you. You canʼt trust in anyone, their

motives or their intentions. And

because of that, you have, in a

world that likes its nice shiny

labels, no true identity. For

Torchwoodʼs "Little Miss Sensitive",

you donʼt half talk crap sometimes.

So do me a favour and shut up

about it, all right?ʼ

They didnʼt speak again till

they reached Tretarri.

Gwen had planned to make

straight for Coburg Street, but now

she was wondering if it would be

better to let Ianto take charge for

once. She had been stung by his

response, but she was also a bit

alarmed. Ianto, the least highly

strung of the team, seemed to be

really ready to fly off the handle.

She hoped that was something to

do with the Tretarri effect and not a

symptom of anything deeper.

ʻWhere shall we start?ʼ he said

suddenly.

Gwen pointed down Coburg

Street. ʻYou up for a bit of ghost-hunting?ʼ

ʻNo, but letʼs go anyway. I

want to find Tosh.ʼ

They made their way down the

darkened streets, wary and alert.

Ianto knelt down to the pavement.

ʻFreshly laid brickwork, and these

uplighters are new, too.ʼ

ʻGonna look nice when itʼs all

lit up, then,ʼ said Gwen.

ʻWhy here, though? I mean

there are areas in Cardiff that need

this treatment more than this old

place. Places where real people

live real lives.ʼ Ianto straightened

up, and tapped a notice taped to a

lamp-post. ʻBig street party,

tomorrow at midday.ʼ He stopped

and looked about them. ʻGwen, this

is weird.ʼ

ʻWhy?ʼ

ʻI was here yesterday. With

Jack. None of this was done, it was

still a wreck. How do you renovate

an entire block like this in one day?ʼ

ʻWith skill, expertise and a

degree of savoir faire.ʼ

They had their guns drawn and

aimed at Bilis Manger before heʼd

finished speaking.

ʻOh my,ʼ he said. ʻYou do

seem to always want to point guns

at me. And I donʼt really see the

need.ʼ

ʻWhereʼs Toshiko Sato?ʼ

demanded Gwen.

ʻSafe.ʼ

ʻYeah, cos Iʼm really gonna

believe that.ʼ

Bilis walked towards her and

Gwen found that she couldnʼt take

her eyes off him, couldnʼt fire her

gun, couldnʼt move.

Her eyes flicked sideways.

Ianto was the same, a statue,

looking ahead, even though Bilis

was parallel to him now, next to

her.

ʻLet me show you how safe

she is,ʼ he purred and clicked his

fingers.

Some way away, the door to

number 6 opened, and Gwen could

see a figure walking down the

steps, almost as if in a trance.

It was Toshiko, though. Gwen

knew that from her outline, the

slight sashay to her steps. And she

gasped as Toshiko turned towards

them.

Half her face, her right, was

painted white, and her eye had livid

red streaks, outlined in gold, three

going up, three down, like fire, or

blood. And her lips were whitened,

too. And there was something in

the way she stood...

Gwen wanted to call out to her,

but her mouth wouldnʼt work. And

now she couldnʼt even blink.

ʻItʼs a trap you see,ʼ Bilis

whispered in her ear. ʻA trap for the

man you call Captain Jack

Harkness, but known to me as...

Well, no, thatʼs between us. And

you, Gwen Elisabeth Cooper, you

are the bait.ʼ

He reached over and eased

the gun out of her hand and held it

aloft. It vanished, just as sheʼd

seen Bilis himself do before. Then

Bilis stepped right into her field of

vision, obscuring both Ianto and

Tosh.

His eyes were gone, replaced

by a blazing white light that

seemed so strong it was going to

burn its way out of his skull.

ʻThe war between the Dark

and the Light is never ending,

Gwen. And I can only apologise - if

there was any way I could avoid

doing this, I would strive to find it.

But I canʼt. Iʼm as much a victim in

this as you.ʼ

He took her hands in his. And

leaned right in to her face, his white

eyes roaring with the power

contained there.

ʻIʼm sorry. I am really very

sorry.ʼ

FOURTEEN

Ianto Jones was screaming inside.

And there was nothing he could do;

he couldnʼt move, couldnʼt seem to

blink.

He was aware Bilis was close

to Gwen, but couldnʼt turn to see

what he was doing.

Then he saw Toshiko, half her

face painted white. And red.

Bilis entered his field of vision.

ʻWhat have you done to

Gwen?ʼ Ianto shouted internally,

but his mouth, his vocal cords,

possibly even his lungs, werenʼt

moving.

What had Bilis done? How had

he done it?

Iantoʼs gun just vanished. One

second it was there, the next he

could feel it was gone.

Feel. So he could still feel,

which meant that his nerves

worked, which meant that muscles

worked on some basic level which

meant-

ʻOh, do stop fretting,ʼ Bilis

smiled. ʻSo much noise in your

head. And so many histories tell us

that, in your brief Torchwood

career, they always thought you

were the quiet one. The one who

wouldnʼt say "boo" to a goose. I

wonder if they ever knew you,

Ianto. I wonder if Jack Harkness

ever knew you.ʼ

Ianto felt Bilis take his hands.

ʻI donʼt want to do this, you

have to believe that. But there is a

good reason. A very good reason.

Good for me, anyway. You see,

one manʼs light is another manʼs

dark.ʼ He squeezed Iantoʼs hands.

ʻBut for what itʼs worth, Iʼm awfully

sorry.ʼ

As Bilis leaned in, Ianto got a

glimpse of Toshiko. The white

make-up seemed somehow alive,

stretching right across her face.

The last he saw of her, her whole

face had become white: white skin,

white lips; the only colour was the

livid red and gold tearing from

above and below her closed eyes.

Her hair was moving, bunching,

and, on either side of her head,

hanging from the front of her hair,

two cloth rollers. At the back were

two long pins, forming the top of an

X at the back of her head.

Then Bilisʼs head blotted out

Iantoʼs view, and all he could see

was the old manʼs face obscured

by a fierce light that raged across

his face, leaping from his eyes.

And Ianto was screaming

again.

Jack stood inside the great

Victorian morgue that dominated

the basement area many levels

beneath the Autopsy Room. He

was facing that special row of trays

that contained past Torchwood

members.

According to Iantoʼs notes,

Tray 18 was designated for

Gregory Phillip Bishop, who was

reported dead in late 1941. Of

course there was no body in the

tray, but Ianto wouldnʼt have known

that.

At least Jack hoped Ianto

didnʼt know that. If he did, it would

suggest a somewhat unhealthy

obsession with frozen bodies, and

that was an area even Jack didnʼt

venture into.

ʻGotta have some standards,ʼ

he thought wryly.

With a deep breath, Jack

looked at Tray 78 (most of the

Trays were deliberately non-sequential to prevent someone

grave-robbing an entire Torchwood

teamʼs past in one fell swoop).

ʻHello, Dr Brennan,ʼ he said

quietly to the tray marked up as

Matilda B Brennan. ʻItʼs been a

while. I wish I could speak with

you, find out why you made a deal

with the devil. Wonder if you knew

who or what Bilis Manger was back

then. And if you did, I sure as hell

wish you could tell me now.ʼ

He wrenched the tray out,

knowing what heʼd find in the black

body bag. After all, heʼd helped

Rhydian clear up after the event, so

heʼd actually placed Tildaʼs corpse

in there.

The alien cryo-tech that

Torchwood used to freeze the dead

was something Jack had never

truly understood. He doubted

anyone had, least of all Charlie

Gaskillʼs team that had first

discovered and utilised it in 1906.

Nevertheless, Jack knew it was an

important part of their arsenal - one

day, a way might be found to bring

back an operative who could help a

current case. It was something, like

an early death, all Torchwood staff

were prepared for.

Tilda Brennan wouldnʼt be

brought back - being minus the top

half of your head kind of ruled that

out - but it wasnʼt her body he

wanted. It was the scorched

remains of the diary heʼd secreted

there with her, knowing that one

day the ʻRevenge for the Futureʼ

schtick would come back and haunt

him.

And here it was. In the form of

the enigmatic Bilis Manger, time-hopping killer and bon vivant,

charm and danger all contained in

the apparently frail body of an old

man.

Theyʼd first met in 1941, and

again when Bilis had released

Abaddon, but Jack still had no idea

who the man actually was. He

seemed human enough, so he got

his abilities (Jack refused to think of

them as powers, that sounded like

something out of a comic book)

from somewhere else. Bilis

worshipped Abaddon, and Jack

had destroyed ʻthe Great

Devourerʼ, but there had to be more

to it than that. This was no two-bit

villain with one ambition in life - he

was simply too good for that.

A mercenary? A man from the

future, living in the past? A really,

really well-disguised alien?

The solution that nagged at

Jackʼs conscious mind more than

any other was the most disturbing.

What if Bilis was a Torchwood

officer, not from Cardiff (Ianto had

checked, double-checked and

checked forty times more) but from

Glasgow? From the Institute in

London? Or, God help them, from

Torchwood Four. That wasnʼt a

pretty thought.

Heʼd demonstrated the ability

to plant false images of the future

into peopleʼs heads. Poor Gwen

had fallen for it when Bilis told her

Rhys was going to die - and then

killed him, knowing that Gwen

would open the Rift to bring him

back (which it had - but bringing

Abaddon along for the ride). He

knew from conversations with the

others that theyʼd seen the people

that they most missed from their

pasts come back too, solid

projections that Bilis had controlled

and manipulated, suggesting a

deep-rooted knowledge of his

team. And also the ability to spy on

them as, in Owenʼs case, the

image heʼd seen had been of

someone heʼd lost so very recently.

So, he knew what Bilis could

do, just not why and how.

ʻGreat investigator, Jack,ʼ he

muttered. ʻI thought "Revenge for

the Future" referred to Abaddon.

But what if itʼs more?ʼ

He tapped his ear, activating

the almost invisible

communications device everyone

in Torchwood wore. ʻOwen?ʼ

ʻYeah?ʼ

ʻWatcha doing?ʼ

ʻTesting your blood for those

chronon particles you asked about.

Whatever they are. I mean, I know

what they are, theoretically, but

forgive me for being a doctor - and

a bloody good one at that - but I

like to work with realities rather

than fantasy.ʼ

ʻYou wound me, Owen,ʼ

laughed Jack. ʻWhat am I if not

your fantasy?ʼ

ʻA right pain in the arse, Jack,

thatʼs what you are. And I donʼt

mean that in a way youʼd find

charming, before you ask. What do

you want?ʼ

ʻIʼm heading out. Iʼve read

everything Ianto found for me and

have a few ideas zooming about

my head, but I need more. I need to

find me an expert on old books.

And I know just the guy.ʼ

ʻSee yas,ʼ said Owen and

broke comms.

Jack took one of the back

routes out of the base, bypassing

the Hub and walking up a long,

long (really quite long) flight of

stairs that brought him out behind

Iantoʼs tourist information office. He

went through the little room and out

into the night air.

People were milling around by

the big pub above the doorway,

whilst others were flocking to the

Turkish restaurant that stood over

the water. There was the faux

French restaurant (good chain,

Jack quite liked the flans and

quiches they did), a couple of

Italians on the upper level, and a

number of bars, coffee houses and,

down Bute Street, a series of

shops, galleries and even a

comedy club.

Fifty years ago, heʼd walked an

alien disguised as an evacuee child

along here, all mud flats and

dampness. The warehouse that the

Hub was accessed by in 1941 had

long since been demolished, and

roughly where it stood there was

now a pizza parlour. Whenever

Jack went in there, it always

seemed to be full of very tall

Welshmen with booming voices,

entertaining their diminutive Welsh

mothers, with their soft sing-song

voices. Jack loved Wales, the

Welsh, the whole spirit and pizzazz

of the place. If he had to spend 150

years somewhere on Earth, there

were worse places he couldʼve

gone.

Imagine if thereʼd been a

space-time rift in Swindon. Of

course Swindon was quite nice,

and certainly had an interesting

roundabout system that could fool

any passing aliens, but Torchwood

Swindon didnʼt have the right ring

to it.

Or the nice bay.

Jack passed the bars and

hotels of Bute Street, stopped off at

Jubilee Pizza (not as nice as the

restaurant in the Bay, obviously,

but faster for takeaway) and

towards one of the recent housing

developments, Century Wharf, a

strange riverside collection of

apartments that could never quite

make up its mind if it was in

Butetown or Grangetown - not that

it really mattered greatly.

He wandered into the gated

community, his wrist-strap controls

overriding the electronic ʻResidents

Onlyʼ security system, and headed

towards the block he wanted.

He buzzed the number,

knowing that it had a video

entryphone and heʼd get short shrift

once the occupant saw who he

was.

Charm offensive, Jack. Gets

ʼem every time.

ʻHey, itʼs me,ʼ he said when

the buzzer was answered.

There was a beat, followed by

a command to go away that

couldʼve been termed more politely.

ʻI brought dinner,ʼ Jack added,

and waved the pizza at the camera.

ʻHawaiian, with extra mushroom.ʼ

The door clicked and Jack was

in. He took the stairs, and was

soon on the fourth floor.

The door to the apartment was

open, and Jack went in, noting the

smell of freshly showered human

male. A couple of uplighter lamps

illuminated a large living room with

three glass doors overlooking the

River Taff and the city beyond, lit

up like it was Christmas.

Idris was in a dressing gown,

hair damp. He wasnʼt smiling.

ʻWhat do you want?ʼ

Jack offered the pizza box,

which Idris took and opened,

yanking off a sliver and eating it.

ʻYeah. Good food,ʼ Idris said.

ʻSo, what do you want?ʼ

ʻA slice of pizza?ʼ

ʻGet your own.ʼ Idris ate

another bit.

Jack pulled the book out of his

coat pocket.

ʻI have people in trouble. I

need answers about this book.ʼ

ʻItʼs a diary,ʼ Idris said without

touching it. ʻBroken lock, so

personal. I imagine itʼs not yours.ʼ

ʻIt is now.ʼ

Idris rinsed his hands in the

sink, dried them thoroughly and sat

down at the kitchen table, switching

the overhead lights on.

He flicked quickly through the

burnt diary, not bothering to

comment on the damage.

ʻWell?ʼ

Idris shrugged. ʻWell what?

You want first impressions? Iʼd

have thought you had the

technology at Torchwood to tell you

everything you needed to know.ʼ

ʻThose people in trouble? One

of themʼs Toshiko Sato. Sheʼd be

the one to tell me what Iʼm having

to ask you.ʼ

Idris frowned. ʻJapanese girl,

parents used to be something in

the military. She used to be at

some low-rated MoD place, yeah?ʼ

ʻYou know my staff?ʼ

ʻI know my job,ʼ Idris snapped.

ʻKeeping a step ahead of you is

impossible, but knowing who your

people are, thatʼs a work in

progress.ʼ He tapped the diary.

ʻOverlooking its charred state, itʼs a

diary. Probably Edwardian, the

coverʼs faux leather, the locking

mechanism, a bit later, 1920s

perhaps, replacing the original.ʼ

ʻThe paper?ʼ

ʻThatʼs why you need an

expert. It feels normal enough, but I

doubt youʼd have brought it to me if

it was.ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻI honestly

donʼt know. And I thought you

might be enough of an expert to tell

me.ʼ

Idris shut the book. ʻI collect

books, Jack. Sometimes I sell them

on eBay, or buy others. Iʼm not a

bloody humanoid Google. Yeah, itʼs

paper, itʼs thick enough to be early

1900s, and itʼs not treated like

modern paper, hence the

discolouration and brittleness. The

edges are gilt - not real gilt, so itʼs

probably not the most expensive

diary. The sort a maiden aunt might

have given to a young boy or girl in

an upper-middle-class family. You

want a value? In good nick, £100

thereabouts. Damaged like this, itʼs

recycling only.ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻShame it got

burned. With all those blank pages,

you could write in it. Keep a diary of

all your conquests, Idris. Then I

could read it.ʼ

Idris sighed at the implicit

entendre. He threw the book back

to Jack, and fished out another

slice of pizza, so Jack knew he

wasnʼt planning to touch the diary

again.

ʻItʼs not blank,ʼ the Welshman

said after a few secondsʼ

munching. ʻWhyʼd you think that?

Iʼm surprised at you.ʼ

Jack flicked the crumbling

pages. ʻLooks empty to me.ʼ

Idris finally cracked a smile.

ʻYou might be good at aliens and

stuff, Jack, but youʼre a shite boy

scout.ʼ

He went back to the kitchen

and got a plastic lemon juice

dispenser from the fridge. He

squirted some onto kitchen roll and

gently tapped a page in the diary.

Faintly, some scrawled words

appeared. ʻOld trick, old book.

Lemon juice isnʼt great, but it

should do the trick. But I suggest

you copy down what it says quickly

cos, as it dries, the words will go

again, and itʼll make the pages

even more brittle. One good gust of

wind, and theyʼll shatter.ʼ

Jack smiled at him and put the

diary down again. Next to it he

placed the USB memory stick heʼd

been given in the park.

ʻHow long?ʼ

Idris snorted and repeated his

earlier suggestion that Jack should

go away, but Jack was insistent.

ʻIdris, Toshʼs life is in danger. Iʼve

heard nothing from Ianto or Gwen.

Youʼre my only hope.ʼ

Idris looked Jack straight in the

eyes, and then sighed. ʻIf this was

a movie, Harkness, Iʼd be sixty,

bald and looking over my shoulder

in case the Nazis burst in.ʼ

ʻYouʼll never go bald.ʼ

ʻDonald Pleasance. Or

Laurence Naismith.ʼ

Jack headed out the door.

ʻHow long?ʼ

ʻThree hours for a rough

estimate.ʼ

Jack looked back and smiled.

ʻEven those guys were beautiful

when they were your age.

Probably. And Idris?ʼ

ʻWhat?ʼ

ʻThank you.ʼ

Jack pulled the door shut and

headed back out into the night air.

He crossed down towards the river,

deciding to take the scenic route

back to the Hub. It was a busy

night and, for the sake of ten more

minutes, strolling through

Hamadryad Park would clear his

mind, let him focus.

FIFTEEN

Owen Harper was on the verge of

throwing the blood samples against

the walls of the Autopsy Room.

Somehow, flecking the white

brickwork with red splatter seemed

more worthwhile than what he was

doing right now.

ʻI canʼt do it, Jack,ʼ he yelled,

knowing no one could hear him,

cos the Hub was empty. ʻWhatever

youʼve got in your body, I canʼt

isolate it!ʼ

He kicked the autopsy table

instead.

It was just as melodramatic,

but less destructive. Although his

left toes might not agree for the

next minute or so.

ʻStupid, stupid...ʼ

He turned back to the screen

projected on the white wall behind

him. Jackʼs blood. Jackʼs DNA.

Jackʼs tissue samples. If heʼd had

any, frankly, heʼd have happily

tested Jackʼs faeces, sperm,

anything that might help find out

what made Jack Harkness unique

amongst mankind.

ʻAre you trying to find out what

stops him going into Tretarri?ʼ

asked a silky voice from above him.

ʻOr to isolate what actually makes

him come back to life?ʼ

Owen didnʼt look up into the

Hub. He knew it was Bilis. The idea

that the little old man could come

and go no longer alarmed Owen.

He took a deep breath and carried

on working. ʻIf youʼve anything

useful to add, tell me. Otherwise,

piss off out of the Hub, Iʼm busy.ʼ

And Bilis was in front of him,

hands behind his back, smiling,

head slightly cocked as if listening

to something.

ʻThereʼs a cry in your head,

Owen,ʼ he said. ʻA sound. A

connection. To our chum in the

cells, and all the others out there.ʼ

ʻDunno what youʼre talking

about, mate.ʼ

ʻYes you do,ʼ Bilis said simply.

ʻYouʼve known for a long time. But

you donʼt tell anyone else, do you?

Because it frightens you. You know

thereʼs something of the Weevil

about you. On one level, itʼs just a

post-traumatic thing. You identify

with their bestiality, because you

know that beneath the snarls,

beneath the aggression, are

intelligent, communal beings who

need one another. And, like the

Weevils, Owen Harper wants to

believe he can survive alone, when

what he really needs is a good

hug.ʼ

Owen just stared at Bilis, then

forced a smile on his face. ʻYou

should go into counselling, mate,ʼ

he said.

And he turned back to his

blood samples, so Bilis wouldnʼt

see the frown. A frown because

Bilis, damn him, had a point.

Not so much the loneliness -

Owen had got accustomed to that,

but no, the Weevils thing. He did

find he had some weird connection

to them. And that scared him

because he couldnʼt work out why

he was drawn to them.

He felt Bilisʼs hand on his

shoulder. ʻIʼm sorry Owen. It will

make sense in the future. And for

that, I am truly sorry.ʼ

Owen shook the hand off. ʻYou

are ten seconds away from being

shot,ʼ he said.

Bilis laughed a soft

humourless laugh. ʻOh we know

thatʼs not going to happen. But

other things are that will be life-changing for you. And I canʼt help

you. No one can. Remember how

fragile life is, Owen Harper. As a

doctor, you know that. Learn to

cherish it.ʼ

And Owen saw something on

the floor. A revolver, just lying

there, a curl of smoke petering out

above the barrel.

Then it was gone. And so was

Bilis.

Owen searched the Hub, the

lower levels, the upper levels and

even the Boardroom, but no sign.

Exactly how he wound up in

the Vaults, staring at the Weevil in

its cell, he couldnʼt remember.

But now he was there,

unaware that, as Bilis had earlier,

he had pressed his hand against

the plastic door. On the other side,

the imprisoned Weevil pressed its

own hand to the door.

ʻWhy are you here?ʼ Owen

asked it. ʻHow do you cope in this

alien environment?ʼ

The Weevil said nothing.

Owen pulled back. Jesus, he

was talking to Weevils. What was

going on with him these days?

ʻPoor bloody thing,ʼ he thought.

ʻShoved into an alien environment,

a cage with so many security doors

to stop you getting out to where

you think you belong. Waiting for

something to go wrong, waiting for

the security systems to go down

like before. Giving you access to

the forbidden Hub and beyond that

the wastelands of Cardiff, the

sewers, the landfills, the-ʼ

Of course! That was it, theyʼd

been looking at this all the wrong

way round.

Owen belted from the Vaults

back to the Boardroom.

And that was his mistake - he

was so determined to contact Jack,

to warn him, because heʼd figured it

out.

Because he was Owen.

Because he was always the fool

who rushed in.

And because he never saw the

bigger picture.

Never saw what was behind

him.

ʻJack,ʼ he slammed his fist on

the comms system, knowing that,

wherever Jack had gone, heʼd have

his cochlear Bluetooth activated.

ʻJack, listen to me!ʼ

Nothing.

ʻDamn it, Jack, I hope youʼre

just being bloody-minded and can

hear me anyway. Listen, itʼs not

that you canʼt get in, you can.

Thereʼs nothing in you stopping

you, itʼs deliberate. Not your body

or anything. Tretarri itself is locked

to you. You need a key... No, thatʼs

not it. Itʼs... itʼs like a lockdown

here - at some point, you are going

to be let in, but on the townʼs terms!

Shit, Jack, itʼs a trap waiting to be

sprung. Itʼs a trap and thatʼs why

itʼs got Tosh. Sheʼs bait, Jack.

Youʼve got to get back here - now!ʼ

Nothing.

ʻJack! For Godʼs sake!ʼ

ʻI knew it would be you,ʼ said

Bilis, standing behind him. ʻYouʼre

so methodical, leaving nothing to

chance. If at first he doesnʼt

succeed, Owen Harper tries and

tries again.ʼ

Owen was round, ready to

fight, but Bilis was so much faster.

ʻI blocked the comms system,

sorry,ʼ said Bilis, as he grabbed

Owenʼs hands. ʻIf Jack tries to call

in, heʼll get Craig Armstrongʼs

Bolero. I thought it suited his...

taste for the debauched.ʼ

Owen was expecting an easy

fight - Bilis was what, seventy-five,

eighty? Weedy, stick-like, bit

theatrical?

But Owen was wrong, and

Owen was on his knees, then

prone in seconds as Bilis crushed

his hands as if he were a

pneumatic vice.

Owen heard a shriek of

unendurable agony and realised it

was his own voice, and then the

darkness took him.

Jack liked the waterside. He

walked along, watching the lights of

the modern apartments opposite

contrasting with the Victorian

terraces behind him.

A couple of late-night ducks

splashed in the water, and Jack

leaned over to look at them. By

now, the moon was up, a three-quarter orb in the sky, bright white,

and it reflected on the largely

unbroken waters, only the odd

duckedformed ripple fragmenting

the image.

Jack thought of space. Of

being up there. Out amongst the

stars. He could have gone back,

not long ago. Heʼd had the chance,

but opted not to take it. Cardiff,

specifically the team at Torchwood,

needed him. Earth needed him.

Every single one of these bizarre

little people needed him. And damn

it, he needed them, too. They made

him feel alive, gave him a purpose,

gave him a reason to live.

ʻJack.ʼ

He felt the word whispered in

his ear, so softly it could almost

have been the breeze. Except

there wasnʼt one.

He shivered anyway.

And realised that there was

someone beside him. He could see

the reflection in the water.

ʻNo,ʼ said the voice. ʻDonʼt turn

around. Just listen. Iʼm trying, trying

so hard to do everything you taught

me, but itʼs difficult to maintain

myself. Itʼs got all four of them,

Jack. Thereʼs just you now.ʼ

The figure loomed forward and

Jack saw a face. A young man, tall,

dark-haired, blue-eyed (oh God,

those beautiful eyes he hadnʼt seen

for so long), the cheekbones he

wanted to rest a coffee mug on. No

toothy smile though. Just a pained

expression.

Jackʼs heart literally jumped,

and he breathed in sharply and

deeply. ʻGreg,ʼ he breathed out.

ʻIʼm sorry, Jack, itʼs so

powerful. Iʼm really trying though...

Please believe me.ʼ

Jack stared at the reflection.

Heʼd seen enough movies to know

that, if he turned round, Greg would

not be there.

ʻIs it Bilis Manger?ʼ

Greg frowned. ʻItʼs so bright.

And so dark. And I donʼt know

where I am, Jack. But itʼs got them.

Itʼs hurting them, Jack.ʼ

ʻIs it Bilis Manger?ʼ Jack spat,

spinning round.

But Greg had gone.

Now it really had got cold.

Damn the river, damn the park,

damn the bloody ducks. Heʼd got

distracted.

He ran, as fast as he could,

across the park, up the steps onto

the link road, across the

roundabout and into Mermaid

Quay.

By the time he reached Iantoʼs

shop front, he knew he was too

late.

Standing further back, by the

ice-cream parlour over the water,

was Bilis.

The shop had a huge iron bar

across the doorway, held in place

by a massive, almost comically

huge, iron padlock.

Instinctively, Jack tapped his

ear. ʻOwen?ʼ he barked.

Nothing. No, not nothing -

music. That was a new one.

He looked over at Bilis. ʻWhat

have you done to Owen? Let me

into the Hub!ʼ

But Bilis was holding the

padlock key in the air. He smiled,

turned and threw it into the middle

of the inner harbour. It vanished

with a damp plop, and Bilis

vanished as instantly.

Jack tried wrenching the bar

off the door, but he knew it was

futile.

He dashed up through Roald

Dahl Plass to the water tower,

activating the perception-filtered

step/elevator via his wrist-strap as

he ran, but when he got there,

nothing happened.

People were staring at him as

he jumped onto the step, ignoring

water splashing around.

Damn, how could they see

him?

Why wasnʼt he moving down?

Four or five bemused people

were watching him now. Among

them, he realised, was Bilis

Manger. Bilis waved, turned his

back and walked into the foyer of

the Millennium Centre.

Jack hurled himself past the

crowds and into the venue.

Everywhere there were people

- it was fifteen minutes to curtain

up, and there were crowds moving

up the steps on the left to the

massive auditorium of the Donald

Gordon Theatre, and more people

were sweeping through from the

bars and cafés from the right,

heading past the desks and to the

same steps.

Jack tried to focus, but he

knew that Bilis would already have

gone.

ʻMr Harkness?ʼ

It was a maroon-waistcoated

staffer, a collection of programmes

for the show in his hand.

ʻYeah?ʼ

ʻThe gentleman said youʼd be

here. He asked me to make sure

you got your ticket. Heʼs already

gone in.ʼ

Jack took the ticket, but didnʼt

read it, instead looking towards the

throng moving up the steps.

He was never going to able to

confront Bilis in a theatre full of

people.

ʻNo, sir,ʼ said the staffer, noting

the direction Jack was gazing. ʻThe

gallery exhibitions are up the right

steps, Level 2, sir.ʼ He pointed

through the crowd in the direction

of the bars.

Jack thanked him and eased

himself slowly through the crowd,

getting one or two hissed

complaints as he stepped on a toe

or knocked a handbag out of a

manicured hand.

Eventually, he reached the

wooden steps leading to the

smaller galleries and conference

rooms and took them three at a

time.

He glanced at the ticket and

read:

RECEPTION FOR THE TIME

AGENCY.

UPPER BAR. GLANFA.

He threw himself into the bar,

hand on his holster, expecting

trouble.

Instead, he found a quiet,

brightly lit bar, one barman and

Bilis Manager, looking as cool and

dapper as ever, sipping sherry from

a glass, a waiter stood beside him,

holding a tray of sherry glasses.

ʻJack,ʼ Bilis said expansively,

as if welcoming an old friend to a

party. ʻDelighted you could make it.ʼ

Jack still kept his hand on his

gun, but slowed to a casual walk as

he headed to where Bilis stood.

The old man toasted him and

then nodded to the windows, which

showed the reverse of the words

cut into the front of the building.

Jack looked out towards the water

tower below.

ʻ"In these stones, horizons

sing." They are inspiring words,

donʼt you think, Jack?ʼ

Jack shrugged. ʻWhat do you

want?ʼ

ʻCreating truth like glass from

the furnace of inspiration - written

by Walesʼs first-ever national poet.

Truth is a strange thing - one

manʼs truth is another manʼs pack

of lies.ʼ

Jack turned away from Bilis. ʻIf

youʼve nothing relevant to say,

Bilis, I have a team to find.ʼ

ʻOh, you wonʼt be able to do

that, Iʼm afraid. They wonʼt let you.

Not yet. Tomorrow maybe, at the

launch party.ʼ

Jack turned back, walked to

Bilis, ignoring the waiter, who

staggered back as Jack cannoned

into him. He grabbed Bilis by his

red cravat, swallowing his surprise

that the old man didnʼt just vanish.

But then, maybe he hadnʼt

been expecting Jack to do that - so

he could be surprised, caught

unawares. Good.

ʻTalking of furnaces of

inspiration, Iʼm damn well inspired

to chuck you through the glass and

see if you can vanish in mid-air. But

you know, I donʼt think that would

achieve anything. Where are they?ʼ

ʻI honestly canʼt answer that,

Iʼm awfully sorry.ʼ Bilis freed

himself and straightened his

clothing. ʻBut Iʼm sure they are

safe. I donʼt think they want to hurt

them.ʼ

ʻThey?ʼ

ʻThe Light, Jack. The Light and

the Dark - forever at war, battling

across the dimensions for

centuries, coming here through

your blessed Rift. My Lord

understood them, but you

destroyed him. And when you did

that, they were free to do as they

wanted. Capricious elements, you

might say.ʼ

ʻWhatʼs your role in this?ʼ

ʻIʼm bound to them as I was

bound to my Lord. I am but a

humble servant - I see time, all

time, past, present and so many

potential futures. I can give you a

glimpse of any number of futures, if

you like, Jack. Itʼd keep you safely

away. And give you so many

clues.ʼ

ʻTo what?ʼ

ʻTo everything.ʼ

Jack looked around the room.

The waiter and barman were

chatting at the bar, oblivious to the

scene by the windows.

ʻWhat are you, Bilis?ʼ

Bilis opened his mouth as if to

answer, then stopped.

For the first time, Jack

sensed... panic? Weakness?

ʻLosing the war, Jack,ʼ Bilis

said. ʻMaybe not the battle, but the

war. This is the century, Jack,

remember?ʼ

He put his hand into his pocket

and produced a locket on a chain.

Jack frowned - he was sure

heʼd seen that before. Where?

Bilis pocketed it again.

ʻAnyway, Captain Jack Harkness, I

do hope you can join me tomorrow

at the grand opening of Tretarri. Itʼs

been a party in the making for so

long.ʼ

Jack shook his head. ʻSeems

to me you turned everything around

real quick.ʼ

Bilis grinned. ʻOh my dear

Captain, how little you understand.

But you will. You will.ʼ

And Bilis was gone.

So were the staff. Jack stood

in the semi-darkness. The bar was

shuttered, and there was no sign

anyone had been in the room for

hours.

My story starts with the earthquake

of 1876, four years past. It was only

a minor inconvenience to most, few

realised what it was or that it

seemed centred on my beloved

Tretarri.

But I knew. I knew the truth, for

there were no natural fires that

night. No, instead, the great gods

of the underworld tore their way

through to the surface of our small

planet, their eternal fights and

battles spilling over into our reality.

And only I was there to pay

witness to these events, to

commune with the demons therein

and their pitiful servants.

But I get ahead of myself. It

was a normal eve, as I recall - as

normal as any had been since my

beloved Marjorie had been taken

from me. The families of Tretarri

were at St Paulʼs Church, in

Grangetown, but I had foresworn

Our Lord and his ministries since

losing Marjorie.

I stood at the heart of the

village as the ground began to

shake, and smoke belched from

the ground.

I believed my time had come,

that I would not survive the next

few moments, and I began to think

of Marjorie. I find it interesting that,

even in those seconds of terror, not

once did I offer prayer or give

thought to the Lord God above.

And the streets were split

asunder by a huge fire and crimson

smoke, while bizarre

phantasmagorias of lights and

other energies could be seen

amidst the smoke.

The sounds were deafening

but, as I later learned, no one

outside the village heard or saw

anything, although the fires that

night drew the attention of the

constabulary and other authorities

who believed it to be a

straightforward fire in number 6

Coburg Street. And, in fear of my

sanity and my standing, I am

ashamed to say I never gave them

cause to think otherwise.

I am just eternally grateful that

no innocent souls were lost that

night.

ʻSoulsʼ. How easily I write such

words, and yet believe in them not.

I hid in the doorway of a home

on Bute Terrace, lost in mute fear

of that which I was seeing, as a

massive hand, the size of a horse

and carriage, erupted from within

the vast crack that had split the

road asunder. Grey, taloned - I

remember every detail right down

to the ridges on the knuckles, so

terrified was I that it is burned upon

my memory for, I fear, the rest of

my days. The fearsome claws

raked across the road, getting a

grip to enable the rest of its foul

body to haul itself upwards, the

reddish smoke still crackling and

dancing around above, rivulets of

lights darting across its path, as if

each sparkle were a life of its own.

An arm, a shoulder and then a

mastiff-like head reared up,

ignoring me but belching fire,

snarling and retching its foulness

into our air.

At the far end of the street, a

second identical creature

appeared, this one a royal blue in

colour, in the same stage of

emergence.

And that was when I observed

two men, both in their later years,

just standing at either end of Bute

Terrace, as if standing Second for

the two inhuman duellists.

I am taken with the fancy that

they not only stood and dressed

with the bearing of men alike but,

facially, they may have been twins.

I confess my attention was not on

them for very long, but my instinct

is to say they were identical twins. I

cannot offer any evidence to back

this up other than my memories of

brief observation.

The Seconders for these

Beasts raised their hands in

unison, and the crimson energy

about our heads became a

whirlpool of incredible power, I

could feel the air being drawn from

my body and feared I would die

there in the street, but the Beasts,

only their heads and shoulders

above ground, now turned to face

one another, sending rocks and

earth into the air as they did so.

The tiny lights within the

crimson storm darted about, some

with the Grey Beast, some

garnered with the Blue Beast, and I

understood that what I witnessed

was beyond the ken of mortal man.

Truly, I was seeing a battle of the

darkest order.

Energies flew about the

Beastsʼ heads, although they

moved little, other than to twist their

heads and roar inhuman words at

one another. The main warring

seemed to be between the lights in

the storm, the ones nearest the

Blue Beast had now become solid

blackness rather than the

brightness of the Grey Beastʼs

allies. Light versus Dark.

ʻIndeed,ʼ said a voice beside

me.

I realised the Seconder for the

Grey Beast was beside me. He

explained he was known as Bilis

Manger; he believed he embodied

the Pain of the Devourer, whatever

that meant. He referred to his

opposite as Cafard Manger,

perhaps confirming my view they

were related, or twins even. I never

had the opportunity to enquire, for

this Bilis entrusted me with a task.

He explained that the fair City

of Cardiff was home to these

Beasts, and had been since the

dawn of creation. Something called

a Rift splintered through the land, I

gathered this to be the crimson

smoke about our heads, and that

the two Beasts were fighting for

control of it.

Or to escape it.

He passed me this book and a

special pen of a kind I had never

seen before. He said it would write

words but I would not be able to

read them back.

He said it was essential that I

wrote todayʼs events down in this

diary - and nothing else.

And that when the day was

won or lost by one of the Beasts

and its Seconder, I was to seal this

diary up and ensure it was buried

here in Cardiff with me.

I pointed out that it was likely I

would be leaving Cardiff soon, that,

without Marjorie, I had no reason to

stay in my adopted hometown, but

Bilis was insistent. It mattered not

where I travelled, provided that I

was buried here in Cardiff. In St

Maryʼs churchyard, which was in a

remote part of north Cardiff.

But I should tell you of the

battle - except that I am, to be

honest, ignorant of what exactly

occurred. A lot of growling by the

Beasts and a lot of back and forth

by the black and white lights.

Bilis Manger and the other

Seconder did nothing until, after

about five minutes, the crimson

storm flared very brightly, the white

lights winked away and the Blue

Beast rose up higher and the Grey

one vanished beneath the ground.

With a final roar, the Blue

Beast beat his chest like some

giant ape from the dark continents,

and it too vanished through the

gaping crack from whence it came

and the hole sealed up, and the

crimson storm was gone.

The two Seconders remained

- the one I know to be Cafard

walked towards Bilis. They shook

hands, and, in the strangest piece

of hokum ever, Cafard seemed to

press against Bilis and vanish,

almost as if, somehow, he were

inside the man I had spoken to.

Bilis said one last thing to me.

He said Tretarri was no longer

mine, nor was it for the workers. He

said they should all be out of their

homes within seven days, or he

would not be responsible for the

consequences. But I did not take

this as a threat, more of an

apology. I got the impression this

rather dear man was concerned for

their wellbeing.

Having witnessed the battle of

the Beasts, I could only agree.

I asked Bilis what he would do

now - the Beast he worked for was

seemingly defeated.

He told me, and I remember

his words so clearly: ʻI walk through

the eternity of past, present and

possible futures, until such time as

my Lord Abaddon is reborn. Until

then, you, Gideon ap Tarri, must

remember two things. Firstly, the

word "Torchwood", for it will destroy

the future. And secondly, that I,

Bilis Manger, shall seek the

ultimate revenge for the future.

Because it must not come to pass

- and yet without my Lord

Abaddon, it will.ʼ

I never saw him again.

Over the next week, I re-

housed my loyal workers in newer

accommodations in the Windsor

and Bute Esplanades.

Only once more did I try to visit

Tretarri but something there kept

me out. Not physically, but I was

afeared when I entered it, my heart

palpitated, and my throat was

parched in a second. I could not

rationalise this, but I know and

respect fear and swore never to

return.

As bidden by Bilis Manger,

who disappeared from my life that

day and has never returned, I have

written this down four years hence.

I have made it a stipulation of

my Last Will and Testament that

this diary shall be buried with me. I

am placing it within a wooden box

in my attic. Today will be the last

time I ever see it.

Gideon ap Tarri

12 June 1880

I have recourse to retrieve this

diary and, for the sake of Bilis

Manger if ever he finds it, make

note of the events of this afternoon.

A man approached me, a

Scots man I believe. He claimed he

represented Her Majesty Queen

Victoria. He gave me no name, but

he had a military bearing along with

the uniform, so I had no reason no

doubt his claim.

He asked, nay, demanded the

diary.

When I feigned ignorance, he

explained he was from the

Torchwood Institute in London.

Bilis, my friend, I cannot say

for sure if this diary will now be

buried with me, for I feel I must

flee, if only to draw this Torchwood

away from the diary. If we remain in

one anotherʼs company, they shall I

am sure locate it.

I hope, desperately hope, that

my panic is for nought and I shall

return to Cardiff shortly.

But today, I am headed away

from here. I shall not say where.

This may be my last entry.

God be with you

Gideon Tarry, formerly Gideon

Haworth Esq

18 September 1881

SIXTEEN

Rhys Williams glanced at the clock

on the wall: 11.46am. He adjusted

his tie in the mirror, and brushed a

bit of dust off the collar of his Savile

Row suit. Neatness mattered.

Alone in the room, he slipped

the jacket off and took a sideon

look at himself. ʻThirty-two-inch

waist for the first time since you

were eighteen, Rhys Alun

Williams,ʼ he said proudly. ʻNot bad

for a man getting closer to the

wrong side of thirty-five.ʼ

ʻToo true, Mister Sexy Pants,ʼ

Gwen said, emerging from the en

suite.

Rhys took her, all of her, in his

arms, and they kissed.

Passionately. Longingly. Slowly, he

led her towards the bed.

She broke off, laughing. ʻCalm

down, lover,ʼ she said, patting her

extended belly. ʻNot till junior is out

and running about.ʼ

ʻRunning about?ʼ Rhys put on

a mock stressed expression. ʻHe

wonʼt be playing for the Torchwood

IX Under-10s for another few

years. I have to wait till then?ʼ

They laughed. ʻAbout another

three hours,ʼ Gwen said, ʻand Iʼm

all yours again.ʼ

Rhys was serious. ʻGwen, God

knows Iʼve hated Torchwood and

Iʼve loved Torchwood, but right now

Iʼm scared of Torchwood.ʼ

ʻOh, not again...ʼ

ʻIʼm serious. OK, so this alien

technology you lot found, yeah, it

guarantees safe delivery, yeah, it

negates caesareans and breeches

or whatever, but...ʼ

ʻBut itʼs still alien tech, and you

donʼt like it.ʼ

Rhys looked down at his feet.

ʻJack didnʼt like it,ʼ he said quietly.

Gwen just stood there, all

passion and love drained in a

second. She sat in the chair at the

dresser, refusing to look directly at

Rhys, instead directing her voice at

his reflection. ʻJack isnʼt here any

more.ʼ

Rhys wouldnʼt catch her eye.

ʻHe didnʼt trust the dependency on

alien tech, Gwen, and, for all his

faults, I trusted Jackʼs integrity, if

not his morality. If something goes

wrong-ʼ

ʻNothing will go wrong, Rhys,

for crying out loud. Owen tested it!

Owen, the man you were happy

enough to let save my life once

before.ʼ

ʻI saved you!ʼ

ʻUsing his alien tech! If it was

good enough then-ʼ

Rhys leapt up. ʻThat was an

emergency, Gwen. That was life

and death. That was the most

terrifying day of my bloody life, and

I had no choice but to trust Owen

Bloody Harper. Now, now I have a

choice!ʼ

Gwen spun round on him. ʻNo!

No, Rhys, you donʼt. Iʼm doing this

because Iʼm the one facing hours

of labour, Iʼm the one facing

depression and illness and pain.

Iʼm the one facing the possibility

that, after nine months carrying this

baby, something could go wrong

and it dies. Or I die.ʼ

ʻOur baby,ʼ Rhys muttered, not

caring whether Gwen heard him or

not.

ʻSo, yeah, Iʼm happy to use

technology that guarantees one

hundred per cent a healthy boy and

a healthy mum. Iʼd have thought

my darling husband would be

happy at that thought.ʼ

Rhys knew heʼd lost. ʻI do,

love, believe me. I just think that

what my mam said about natural

birth-ʼ

And Gwen was up and

heading out of the bedroom.

ʻBrenda Bloody Williams and

her pre-natal care. If thereʼs

anything that almost stopped me

getting pregnant, it was knowing

that at the back of every decision

we made your mother would be

saying, "Oh, Iʼm not sure thatʼs the

way to hold a baby," or "Are you

really dressing him in that," or "Are

you sure thatʼs the right food for a

baby," or "In my day, children were

seen and not heard." Screw you,

Rhys and screw your mam too!ʼ

With a loud slam of the door,

she was out, clattering down the

stairs.

No, not stopping at the next

level, going all the way down to the

front door.

SLAM.

Gone.

Rhys sighed to himself,

checked his tie again, slipped the

jacket on and followed her

downstairs, through the front door

and out to the car.

She was sitting in the

passenger seat. He slid into the

driving seat.

ʻAlien tech, eh?ʼ he said. ʻCan

save all those pains, canʼt do a

bloody thing about your hormones,

can it?ʼ

Gwen stared at him. ʻShut up.ʼ

ʻI mean, cos thatʼd be really

useful wouldnʼt it. "Hi, Iʼm Owen

Harper, I can give something really

useful to the world. Hormonal

balance." Now that would be an

improvement.ʼ

ʻShut up.ʼ

ʻI mean, look at the time. In

thirty minutes, weʼll have a baby

boy, happy, healthy and perfect in

an Orwell-would-have-hatedit way.

But after all that, I bet youʼll still be

grumpy, unpredictable, eating raw

pickles by the cartload and phoning

me at the office and accusing me of

shagging Ruth.ʼ

ʻShut up.ʼ A beat. ʻWhich oneʼs

Ruth?ʼ

Rhys used his hands to

suggest a somewhat large lady.

ʻOh, that Ruth, from

Harwoods? Ruth, now your staff

liaison officer?ʼ

ʻThatʼs the one.ʼ

ʻWell, if I thought you were

humping Ruth, my hormones would

be the least of your problems. Now,

can you get me to St Helenʼs

maternity wing in the next thirty

minutes or shall I have the natural

birth you so desperately want all

over the insides of your Porsche?ʼ

Rhys pressed the ignition

switch. The car roared into life, and

he eased it away from the front

door and down the long drive.

He flicked a button on the

dash, and the security gates

started to open.Two armed

Torchwood guards in the

gatehouse waved politely as he

steered out into the midday sun

and on their journey towards

Cardiff and the birth of their baby.

ʻI sometimes think,ʼ Rhys said,

checking no one was following

them, ʻthat those guards Tosh gave

you are as much to keep us in as to

guard us.ʼ

ʻYou worry too much.ʼ

ʻI worry that if the Torchwood

Empire is so beneficial to mankind,

then why do we need protecting

and who from?ʼ

ʻFrom whom,ʼ Gwen corrected.

ʻOoh, get the girl from

Swansea and her posh English.ʼ

Rhys adjusted the rear-view mirror

as they trundled through the outer

areas of the city.

ʻNot sure I like this area,

Rhys,ʼ Gwen said. ʻIsnʼt there a

better route? Through Whitchurch?ʼ

Rhys gritted his teeth, knowing

that he was going to get shouted at

again.

ʻDunno, Gwen. I think it does

us all good to take the odd trip

through the less fortunate ends of

the Empire, see how the other half

live. I mean, I know mothers arenʼt

your preferred choice of subject,

but if yours was still here Iʼm not

sure sheʼd approve of what weʼve

become.ʼ

Gwen put a hand on Rhysʼs.

ʻItʼs not like that, love. I didnʼt plan

this.You didnʼt plan to run the

Council, we never planned for

Torchwood to create an empire, but

history tells us that to create a

Utopia, a bit of darkness has to be

present, to make the light glow

stronger.ʼ

Rhys said nothing and they

drove in silence, until the sat-nav

spoke, telling them they were

thirteen minutes away from St

Helenʼs Hospital.

ʻWhen Tosh and Owen finish

the project, Rhys, I promise you,

the world that baby Gareth inherits

will be one that has made all this

worthwhile.ʼ

Rhys put his foot down and,

before long, they were approaching

the hospital, a group of Torchwood

guards and nursing staff greeting

them.

As they pulled up, Rhys looked

at his wife, and then nodded to the

group outside. ʻWhen I married

you, I imagined an NHS hospital,

me pacing the corridors for eight

hours drinking weak-as-piss tea,

and Jack stood there, winding me

up saying it was an alien. Or his. Or

both. But I love you so much, and I

trust that you know what youʼre

doing. Even without Jack Bloody

Harkness to guide us all.ʼ

Gwen kissed him on the

cheek. ʻIʼll text you when heʼs been

born.ʼ

ʻOne last thing, love,ʼ Rhys

said as the car door opened. ʻI

never agreed to Gareth. I reckon

Geraint. After your dad. Good

name, good thing for our boy to live

up to.ʼ

And Gwen grabbed him and

kissed him savagely and

powerfully.

Rhys eased her away,

embarrassed. The assembled staff

outside were applauding them in

that way that Torchwood staff

always applauded.

Nauseatingly, and slightly

insincerely.

Jack Harkness would have

hated this new Torchwood.

And then Gwen was out of

sight, inside the building.

Rhys eased the car out of the

car park then drove towards the

city. He needed to get to work for a

late-night session about what to do

with the irradiated Bay. Ever since

the Hub had exploded, the whole

area had been in desperate need of

reclamation.

As he drove, Rhys pulled a

Bluetooth earpiece from his pocket,

slipped it on and spoke to the sat-nav.

ʻOverride Torchwood comms.

Clearance five stroke nine.ʼ

ʻConfirmed. Signal scrambled.ʼ

ʻConnect me with Friend 16.ʼ

ʻConfirmed.ʼ

There was a buzz and then a

click.

A Welsh voice spoke, curtly,

passionless. ʻWhat do you want,

Williams?ʼ

ʻGwen is safe. If youʼre going

to do it, please do it now.ʼ

The line went dead.

SEVENTEEN

Jack was at a loss - not a feeling

he was particularly familiar with.

With no way to access the Hub,

unless he could get an acetylene

torch at nearly midnight, and with

no team to support him, he really

didnʼt have a clue what to do next.

Or where to go.

Iantoʼs? Nope, key in the

drawer in his office. Gwenʼs? Yeah,

Rhys would love that - heʼd

probably been phoning and texting

Gwen all evening and be worried

enough as it was that heʼd had no

response.

Both Toshiko and Owen had

moved recently to new apartments,

and neither of them had offered him

a key, so that was out.

Idris? Nope, heʼd probably

worn out what passed for a

welcome there.

He was standing by the water

tower, looking across at the parade

of restaurants and bars in Mermaid

Quay and Bute Street. He wasnʼt

much of a drinker, but perhaps

there was a late-night bar.

The Sidings, of course. Bit of a

trek, but thereʼd be a welcome

there. Of sorts. Mind you, the last

time heʼd gone there, heʼd been

stalked by a Hoix. It had got

through the Sidingsʼ defences

and... Well, perhaps the welcome

wouldnʼt be that welcoming after

all.

Bottom line was, Jack was

furious with himself. Heʼd been

hoodwinked by someone -

someone really quite disarming and

elegant, yet powerful. His team had

been trapped (he was assuming

Owen wasnʼt locked inside the

Hub; somehow that didnʼt seem

Bilisʼs style), and he had no idea

why or how to find and free them.

Suddenly, Jack was angry.

And that usually meant that the last

thing he needed right now was

people, bars, noise or sexy people.

Jack needed to find what Jack

always needed to find in moments

of crisis. He began marching

towards the city.

As he made his way towards

the heart of Cardiff, he was passed

by a number of locals. They

laughed, they argued, they kissed

or they listened to mp3 players.

Some drove cars, others were on

bicycles. Once in a blue moon, a

motorcyclist roared past (Cardiff

seemed to have fewer motorbikes

per capita than anywhere else heʼd

visited). Normal people doing

normal things with their normal

lives.

These were the people that

Jack and Torchwood protected, the

vast majority of them never even

realising they were being protected,

let alone that there were Weevils,

Rifts, giant space whales, alien

guns, pendants, bombs or

anything. It was a mark of how well

Torchwood did their job that so few

people died in inexplicable

circumstances and asked

questions. Even if they did, there

was Toshiko, ready to create

falsehoods and lies - not to

mislead them, but again to protect

them. Sometimes the truth was

simply too awful and the concept of

ʻneed to knowʼ took on a whole new

meaning.

Jack never stopped feeling

responsible for his team - every

one of them was there because he

had found them, or theyʼd needed

to find him. Now they were lost

somewhere because of a battle

that wasnʼt theirs.

Revenge for the future.

This was his little war, his and

Bilisʼs, and whatever else was

involved behind the scenes. Ianto,

Gwen, Toshiko and Owen were, to

Bilis, collateral damage,

incidentals. To Jack they were his

reason for being.

He would get them back. He

would get them back safe and

sound.

Because that was what good

leaders did.

Because that was what Jack

Harkness did.

He was walking along St Mary

Street, Cardiffʼs old main street,

before its famous shops had been

usurped by the paved Queen

Street during the 1970s. St Mary

Street was now more famous for its

clubs and bars and the network of

alleys and arcades that branched

off it.

To avoid a group of drunken

youngsters, Jack took a sharp left

into the tawdriness that was Wood

Street. However beautiful Cardiff

was - and he really did love his

adopted city - this was the one blot

on the landscape, a horrible,

foreboding area of cheap shops,

the grotty bus station and the main

entrance to the Victorian façade of

Cardiffʼs central railway station. For

visitors to Cardiff, it wasnʼt an

attractive greeting, and Jack had

often wondered if he could

fabricate some reason for

Torchwood to blow it up so the

council would have to rebuild it.

One to ask Idris Hopper one

day, perhaps?

He was in Park Street now,

adjoining the new Millennium

Stadium that had swallowed up the

old Cardiff Arms Park pitch,

creating one huge super-venue,

with its riverside views, cinema and

sports shops.

One of his favourite parts of

Cardiff, the street played host to

the massive Ty Stadiwm tower,

with its horizontal BT dish and mast

on the very top.

As modern buildings went, in a

city that juxtaposed the old and the

new with pleasurable ease,

Stadium House was one of Jackʼs

favourites, mainly because -

although it was a ʻclassicʼ 1970s

structure - it had been beautifully

refurbished (including the addition

of the forty-two-foot mast) in the

early part of the twenty-first

century.

He entered the lobby, winking

at Gerry, the security guard, and

throwing some Swiss chocolate

over to him. Each guard at each

building had a weakness for

something and Jack was friendly

with them all. Chocolate was

always the most popular bribe.

He took the service elevator

and, moments later, he was nearly

255 feet above sea level, standing

beside the ʻdishʼ and looking down

into the Millennium Stadium below.

Thousands of empty seats

surrounding a lush green pitch. If

he closed his eyes, Jack could

imagine the roar of the Saturday

afternoon crowd, smell the people,

breathe in the beer, sweat and

passion of the fans and players

alike.

He looked up at the brightly lit

antenna, thrusting upwards from

the centre of the dish, illuminated to

make it visible from miles away,

casting numerous shadows of Jack

across the rooftop.

The light. Something about the

light...

Was it moving, was the light

actual coalescing into something?

ʻJack?ʼ

ʻGreg?ʼ

The shape of Gregʼs face, just

an impression, seemed to swim in

and out of existence, formed by the

severe light from around the dish.

ʻNot long now, Jack, and itʼll be

over. The eternal battle for justice,

for dominion. Itʼs in the diary, Jack,

itʼs all in the diary.ʼ

And then, just for a few

seconds, the lights went out. All

over the city.

And the only illumination was

provided by a crimson ribbon of Rift

energy, stretching from the mast

above him right across the city, and

down to Cardiff Bay, where he

could see it hovering just above

where he knew the water tower

sculpture was situated.

Within the Rift were thousands

of dancing lights, and black blobs.

Jack had witnessed Rift energy

more times than anyone else on

Earth, but heʼd never seen so many

pinpricks of light and dark inside it.

Revenge for the Future? Jack

began to understand.

Then the Rift energy was

gone, and Cardiff came back to life.

ʻYou canʼt do it, Owen! For Godʼs

sake, weʼve been here before.

Light and Dark, two polar

opposites.Try to stop one, you

upset the balance of the Universe.ʼ

Owen Harper just sighed at

Jack, then reached out with his

good hand and tapped the button

on the control systems in the

Boardroom. An image on the

screen popped into life. It showed

the Rift Manipulator as a cut-away

diagram.

ʻJack, listen to me. And if not

me, listen to Gwen. Look at what

weʼve achieved with the Rift. We

can control it now, we could use it

as a sort of gateway, pop in and

out of places, get that alien tech we

need to stop the bad guys.ʼ

Jack looked at the others.

ʻGwen?ʼ

ʻI donʼt know, I can see the

advantages, but Iʼm not convinced.ʼ

ʻTosh?ʼ

ʻJack, I have to say, Iʼm with

Owen on this.ʼ

ʻOnly because you two

discovered the light creatures. You

might be under their spell for all we

know.ʼ Jack flicked the image off. ʻI

donʼt like it.ʼ

ʻNo, Jack, listen to us. There

are things out there that could do

marvellous things for this planet.

We could, literally, change the

world.ʼ

ʻThe mantra of the Torchwood

Institute in London,ʼ snarled Jack.

ʻLook where it got them.ʼ

ʻThey were stupid,ʼ said Owen.

ʻThey didnʼt have the foresight we

have. Hell, they didnʼt have you as

their moral compass. But we have

the chance here to do something

really good. Tosh is right. The Rift

could be our way to solving this

planetʼs problems. Now we can

control it.ʼ

ʻIanto?ʼ

ʻIʼm with Jack,ʼ he said.

ʻCourse you are,ʼ said Owen. ʻI

mean, heaven forbid you might

have an opinion of your own once

in a while.ʼ

ʻI do have opinions of my own.

I just donʼt bother telling you what

they are because you wouldnʼt like

them.ʼ

Gwen stood up. ʻIʼm sorry, but

this question has been...

consuming us this past couple of

weeks. God knows what weʼre

missing.ʼ

Owen stabbed at the button

again. ʻWeevil sightings: none.

Alien incursions: none. Dangerous

bombs ready to blow Cardiff up:

none. Sightings of Bilis Manger:

none.ʼ

ʻOK, Owen, you made your

point.ʼ Gwen switched the screen

off again. ʻBut Iʼm still not letting

this conversation continue.ʼ

ʻWhy not?ʼ

ʻBecause I have something to

tell you. Something I hope wonʼt

result in me being shoved into a

mortuary slab and all my personal

belongings being stored in that

garage for eternity.ʼ

Jack frowned. ʻYou want to

leave Torchwood?ʼ

ʻYouʼre being controlled by the

Resurrection Boot and draining

your life energy into Ianto?ʼThat

was Owen.

ʻYouʼre proposing Andy

Davidson, of Cardiffʼs finest, as a

member of Torchwood?ʼ asked

Toshiko.

ʻShe and Rhys are having a

baby.ʼ Ianto walked over and gave

Gwen a hug.

ʻShe told you?ʼ said Jack, after

a momentʼs pause.

ʻNo,ʼ said Ianto. ʻI just keep my

eyes open and my mouth closed.ʼ

He looked at Owen. ʻYou should try

it.ʼ

Gwen squeezed Iantoʼs hand.

ʻThirteen weeks.ʼ

Jack gave her a kiss, so did

Toshiko.

Owen sat there, a smile on his

face that he didnʼt feel.

And looked at Toshiko.

And instinctively thought of the

box at his flat, in the empty,

deactivated fridge that no one ever

opened.

A box with a ring in it.

He sighed. He could never

have kids. Not in his condition. And

Toshiko - look at her face.The idea

of a baby was thrilling her. How

could he ask her to marry him?

What was he thinking?

ʻGood one, Gwen,ʼ he said.

ʻAnd tell Rhys that, too. I need to

check on some specimens.ʼ

He touched her hand as he

walked out, and wondered if she

flinched at his touch or whether,

after all this time, it was still

something he saw people do in his

imagination.

He walked through the

corridors and up towards the Hub.

A minute later, he stood

looking at the base of the water

tower. All it needed was some kind

of energy boost, something that

would ramp it up and open it

permanently without destroying

Earth.

It was a tall order, but he and

Toshiko were so close to finding it.

So close to each other.

So close to marriage.To a

life.To...

Oh God - that was it! Last time

the Rift had opened, Abaddon had

come through. Jack destroyed the

Beast, time reversed as the Rift

was sealed for good. No one died

except Jack. And then he came

back to life. It was Jack, something

to do with him, with his unique

energies.

And wasnʼt Jack always saying

heʼd happily sacrifice his

immortality to be normal again?

What if they bled some of his

life energies into the Rift - not a

dangerous amount, but enough to

see if it worked, however briefly.

Then they could try and replicate

those energies, because theyʼd

have a sample of Jackʼs.

And Owen wondered what it

would need to get some of his life

energy.

And he suddenly thought of

the pistol in the Autopsy Room.

No. No, that wasnʼt going to

happen.

But an accident?

After all, accidents happened

when you worked at Torchwood -

he was the proof of that.

Was this him though? Or was

Jack right? Were the light creatures

in the Rift Energy affecting him? He

was a doctor, committed to bringing

life, not death.

And Tosh? What would she

say?

He looked around the Hub and

wondered where he was going

next. He remembered something

his mother had once said to him

about power and corruption. And

smiled.

This could be a whole new

Torchwood.

Idris Hopper stood outside the

tourist information entrance to

Torchwood and frowned.

Who on Earth had put a huge

metal strut across it and padlocked

it up? Jack? Closing Torchwood?

Unlikely. Even at this time of night.

But then, it was Jack. Anything was

actually possible.

He shifted the record bag

slung over his shoulder. The strap

was beginning to dig into his neck a

bit.

ʻCan I help you, sir?ʼ

Idris turned.

Behind him was a short old

man, dressed immaculately, a huge

welcoming smile on his face. ʻAre

you looking for Mr Harkness?ʼ

Idris thought about that - how

likely was it that anyone around

here knew Jack? Knew that this

was the place to find him?

ʻIʼm just trying to get in, but it

seems to be locked up.ʼ

The old man shrugged.

ʻStrange, isnʼt it? Torchwood is so

rarely closed for business, but I

saw Mr Harkness about half an

hour ago, heading into the City

Centre. I doubt heʼll be long.ʼ He

pointed at the padlocked bar.

ʻPerhaps this is a new security

measure. That Ianto Jones fellow

can be such a stickler for detail.ʼ

Idris shrugged. ʻYeah, guess

so. Sorry, did you say

"Torchwood"? Whatʼs that then? Is

that the new name for the Tourist

Board?ʼ Idris pointed at the stylised

red dragon symbol on the small

sign that read Croeso Cymru.

ʻNever learned much Welsh at

school. Wrong generation.ʼ

The older Englishman just

smiled. ʻSo few people around here

seem proud of their rich heritage,

Mr...?ʼ

ʻOh sorry.ʼ Idris offered his

hand. ʻHopper. Idris Hopper. I work

for the Council. So, probably

should know Welsh, but youʼd be

surprised how easy it is to get by

with the odd shwmae, os gwelwch

yn dda, diolch, hwyl or nos da!ʼ

The old man nodded,

understandingly. ʻI have never

spoken a word of Welsh either.ʼ

Suddenly, Mermaid Quay was

plunged into darkness, and there

were surprised cries and yells from

the people in the bars and

restaurants.

Idris looked around, where had

the old man gone?

Out of Idrisʼs eyeline,

something glowed a sort of purple

in the sky - perhaps the columns of

light that decorated the Oval Basin

by the water tower were run

independently.

Then life returned to the

Bayside, and everyone breathed a

sigh of relief.

As the bulb-lights around the

jetties and decking spluttered back

into life, Idris realised the old man

was suddenly back again,

uncomfortably close to his face.

Idris took a step back and was

now pressed against the locked

door.

ʻIn fact,ʼ the old man said as if

nothing had happened, ʻI shall be

seeing Mr Harkness tomorrow. We

have an... appointment. May I give

him a message?ʼ

Idris thought for a second and

then smiled. ʻGod, you are a

lifesaver.ʼ He unslung his record

bag and pulled out a sheaf of

handwritten notes and a huge

envelope. He then whipped out a

pen and a set of Post-Its notes and

scribbled a message down for

Jack, attached them to the papers

and shoved the pages into the

envelope. He sealed the envelope,

wrote Jackʼs name on the front,

added ʻBy Hand Via Kindly Old

Chumʼ in the corner and handed it

to the man.

The old man smiled at the

envelope. ʻ"Kindly Old Chum" is a

phrase I shall treasure, Mr Hopper.ʼ

Idris offered his hand, but the

man didnʼt take it. Instead he just

bowed slightly.

ʻA pleasure to make your

acquaintance, Mr Hopper. And

good luck in Berlin.ʼ

By the time Idris had

registered that last comment, the

man had vanished.

EIGHTEEN

It was a lovely morning. Simply

delightful. No one in the world

could have complained. The sun

was out, the sky was blue with

white fluffy clouds, and there was a

tiny breeze in the air, but not

enough to stop the general dress

being T-shirts or halter tops.

Mums with kids in pushchairs

and buggies, dads with older kids

on their shoulders, teenagers and

groups of pensioners all jostled on

the roads of Tretarri, excited by this

bizarre relaunch of a series of

streets. Many arrived carrying the

flyers that had been handed out

around the city over the past

twenty-four hours, detailing the

clowns, magicians and street

entertainers that would be present.

Each flyer had a coupon that

entitled the bearer to a can of drink

each for their family (no more than

four) at a discount rate. Light Lite it

was called, guaranteed good for

the kids.

The grand opening of the area

had been at midday that morning.

Jack had been there since 10

oʼclock. Waiting. Watching.

Wondering who, or what, would

make a move.

The Wurlitzer had been the

first thing to start up, sending out

that irritating hurdy-gurdy music.

Then the street performers had

arrived, although Jack hadnʼt

noticed where theyʼd come from.

The houses? No doors were open.

Light Lite. He had picked up a

discarded can earlier. The lights in

the Rift last night. Greg talking

about the Light and Dark. It all had

to be connected somehow, he was

sure of that, and all roads led to

Tretarri.

The other thing that had

occurred to him atop Stadium

House the night before was that

Tretarri might not be the casual

annoyance heʼd thought. Jack had

been around for... well, centuries

was not really an exaggeration. At

around 150 years old, heʼd seen a

lot, remembered a lot (hell, heʼd

probably done a lot and what he

hadnʼt done wasnʼt worth doing),

and he was cross with himself for

not recognising a trap when he saw

one.

This was an elaborate ruse -

had been ever since heʼd first seen

Tretarri back in 1902. Each time

heʼd come, the nausea had got

stronger, a fact that hadnʼt really

seemed important until now, but it

was all leading somewhere, leading

here. To now. Because Jack was

an expert and could recognise a

good party when he saw one. And

this was the granddaddy of them

all. All it needed was a host.

Where was Bilis Manger?

And where were his team? His

friends?

Revenge for the Future.

What the hell was going to

happen in the future?

Mind you, futures were fluid

things. Time always was - what

you knew the future to be one day

could be completely revoked when

you next visited it. Like a river,

ebbing back and forth, tiny ripples.

The general shape of the big pond

never changed but the detail of the

ripples, the direction and mass, all

that could be altered by the splash

of a hand. Or the addition of a fish.

So, if his inability to access

Tretarri was deliberate, and

something was growing more

powerful as time went by, there

would have to be a point when the

trap was sprung.

For that to happen, Jack would

have to be given access to the

streets.

He stared around him. The

pavement-embedded uplighters

were on, even though it was the

middle of the day. The street lamps

were on, too. Someoneʼs carbon

footprint wasnʼt making an

indentation on their conscience.

The lights in every house were on.

But still no one was going in or out,

the focus of the party atmosphere

was external.

A clown was looking at him.

Staring blankly, as if not quite

seeing him. That was odd.

There was something about

the way it was standing, head at a

slight angle, the mouth beneath the

big red painted lips.

God, no.

ʻOwen?ʼ

Jack was walking across the

road towards Tretarri, ignoring the

nausea rising in his gut, fighting it

down.

The clown he thought was

Owen was caught up in a throng of

children and, with a honk on a

horn, it vanished, swept away by a

sea of screaming, laughing kids.

Jack took a deep breath. Step

by step.

One foot forward.

Owen. He had to get to Owen.

Another foot forward.

Jeez, he felt rank, could taste

the bile.

If Owen was here, then maybe

Toshiko, Gwen and Ianto were, too.

Another step.

Ianto!

The young man was standing

outside 6 Coburg Street. Jack

could see him. Staring away, Jack

could only see one side of him.

Could he catch his eye?

ʻIanto,ʼ he yelled.

A group of people turned and

looked at Jack and then over at the

man he was clearly yelling at, who

gave no response. A little girl broke

away from her family and ran to

Ianto, pulling at his sleeve. Just

enough to ease Ianto round to face

Jack.

The right-hand side of his face

was half clown make-up.

Why only half, Jack wondered.

Owen was a complete clown (in so

many ways, he thought wryly).

Ianto was still in his suit. Why.

And Ianto in trouble, in

possible pain, was enough for

Jack. Enough to overcome the

nausea, the sickness, the bile. For

the first time in his life, he was

capable of marching into Tretarri,

past the crowds, the street

performers, everyone. Until he

reached Ianto.

He put a hand to his unpainted

cheek.

ʻIanto?ʼ

ʻJack?ʼ

Jack turned. It was Bilis. At the

doorway to number 6 Coburg

Street.

ʻWe should talk, I believe. And

in here, we can.ʼ

Jack frowned. ʻWalk into my

parlour?ʼ

Bilis shrugged. ʻRevenge for

the Future?ʼ

And Jack followed him in.

At the other end of the street party,

wholly unaware of Jack, Ianto,

Owen and Bilis, was Idris Hopper.

Why had he come? What had

Jack stirred up in him that he felt

the need to call in sick at work and

head down here, to see if Tretarri

really was worth the fuss Jack was

making.

No sign of Jack though.

ʻBloody Torchwood,ʼ he muttered. ʻI

should know better.ʼ

A man with a white face and

stripy shirt approached him. A

mime. He offered Idris a flower, but

the Welshman shook his head and

pushed past him with a weak smile.

A man in a suit was standing

in front of a group of teenaged girls,

who were giggling. He held up a

pack of cards. A girl tapped one.

The suited man shuffled the cards,

then pocketed them, clapped his

hands and pointed to a window in a

house.

The girls whooped to see the

card posted there.

The man, who never spoke,

held a finger up, produced the pack

again and offered them to a

different girl. She selected a

different card. The four of hearts.

He showed everyone.

He got out a black marker and

she wrote her name on it. Nikki,

Idris noted.

He then reshuffled and this

time gave her the pack, pointing at

her handbag. She put the pack in

the bag, and he gently took the bag

from her and gave it a comical

shake.

He then pretended to watch

something invisible rise from her

bag and everyone followed his

eyeline, until it settled on the bag of

the first girl to have picked a card.

He pointed at her bag, which

she opened and, sure enough,

found a card in there. The four of

hearts. With ʻNikkiʼ scrawled across

it in black marker.

The applause and screams

went up, and he bowed.

Idris carried on, past a stilt-walker and a female clown holding

a bucket, which a few people

dropped coins into. She never

moved, never blinked.

He dropped a fifty pence piece

in and walked on, not seeing the

clown woman turn her head to

watch him. Nor did he see her

lower the bucket to the floor, and

put a hand to the back of her

trousers, as if expecting to find

something tucked into the top.

Walking on down Wharf

Street, Idris noticed that there was

a statue in the middle of one of the

connecting streets. He didnʼt

remember that from the plans.

Bronze, showing a Kabuki dancer,

kimono, one leg tucked up, palms

erect, a fan in each, the head at a

slight angle, looking upwards. Only

the slightest tremble made Idris

realise this was in fact a painted

human. He always found human

statues a bit creepy. Not just

because the lack of movement

dehumanised them, but because it

took a very special kind of person

who could get satisfaction from

standing stock still for so long.

He stared at the Kabuki for a

moment. It didnʼt move again. He

shrugged and turned away.

And therefore didnʼt see tiny

spikes pop up at the top of each

crease in the fans. Or the tucked

leg return to the ground. Or the

unsmiling head turn and watch him

through jet black eyes, as it drew

back one of the lethal fans, ready

to throw it like a shuriken.

As Idris turned a corner and

moved out of the Kabukiʼs view,

she resumed her passive pose, the

spikes retracting from the fans.

And the hurdy-gurdy music

continued to sound, mixed with the

laughter of happy families.

NINETEEN

When did it go wrong?

It was the question that had

haunted Ianto Jones for about

eighteen months. Now he believed

he knew the answer - it was the

day heʼd spotted Gwen was

expecting.

They had all been in the Hub

Boardroom, and Jack was being an

arse - well, a particularly arsey

arse. And Owen had walked out.

Later that night, Owen had

talked to Ianto about Jack. About

the Hub. About Torchwood. And

about the Rift. Dreams, ideas,

plans.To use the Rift to help

mankind.

All of which had seemed a

good idea in principle, but not in

practice.

ʻLook what happened last time

we opened the Rift,ʼ heʼd said to

Owen. But Owen had had an

answer to that. Something about

Jack, something about Jackʼs

immortality being used to power the

Rift ad infinitum.

ʻAnd this afternoon, just for a

second, I did it. I accessed the Rift,

I looked into it and realised its

potential.ʼ

ʻYou did what?ʼ

ʻOh I closed it. God, it was

barely a second, even Toshʼs

equipment barely registered it. You

lot in the Boardroom certainly

didnʼt.ʼ

Ianto had been astonished. At

first, heʼd thought Owen was

having a laugh, being the joker.

But, as the evening had worn on,

heʼd realised Owen was serious.

Perhaps it was the accident,

that moment when Owenʼs life had

changed. Perhaps on that day, as

Torchwood had pulled together to

help him, perhaps thereʼd been

some split moment in time. Owen

had turned left with them. But what

if, in Owenʼs head, heʼd turned

right. And that was what had led

him to this. Telling Ianto that he

was going to play God with Jackʼs

help.

Except Ianto had known there

was no way Jack would ever say

yes.

Heʼd tried to persuade Owen,

pleaded with him. To see sense.To

talk to Jack.To let himself be talked

out of this.

But Owen would have none of

it and, during their increasingly

heated argument, Ianto had

realised what was causing it.

ʻItʼs OK for you.Youʼve got

Jack. Gwen has Rhys - God help

us all - but what do I have? A

knackered hand and no Tosh.ʼ

Ianto had laughed. ʻTosh? You

could have Tosh whenever you

want. Sheʼs crazy about you.ʼ

ʻWas.ʼ

ʻIs!ʼ

ʻWas. But now sheʼs looking

for more. And Iʼm not it.ʼ

And Toshiko had chosen that

moment to walk in.

Or, at least, to make her

presence felt. In fact, Ianto had

realised, she must have heard the

whole thing.

Sheʼd walked across the Hub

from the water tower and straight

up to Owen, pulling him to her and

kissing him, hard. ʻIs that proof

enough, Owen?ʼ sheʼd said as she

eased away from him. ʻIʼve always

said that itʼs you, your heart, your

soul I want.ʼ

Ianto had coughed. ʻIf youʼll

excuse me, I have some washing

up to do. Iʼll try not to clatter the

cups too much.ʼ

And heʼd put Owenʼs master

plan out of his mind and, instead,

was happy that Tosh and Owen

had finally found common ground

with one another.

So how come he hadnʼt seen

the changes over the next few

months? Was it because heʼd

trusted his co-workers? His

friends? Trusted them too much?

Like Jack had. Was it because heʼd

never have believed Gwen could

be corrupted? Owen, Toshiko

even, theyʼd always had that

potential, borrowing things from the

safes and cabinets for their own

ends, things that came through the

Rift that could be used for their own

hedonistic or selfish ends. But

those were things that didnʼt really

hurt anyone.

But then... then theyʼd taken it

to a new level, and Gwen had been

sucked into it. Alien tech that could

revolutionise maternity practices. A

quick call to the Prime Minister,

Tosh using tech to disguise Owenʼs

voice so it sounded like Jackʼs.

How far could they go without

seeing the moral implications?

Throughout time, mankind had

created empires built around one or

two people who believed what they

were doing was right for the

people, or fooled themselves into

thinking that was so. Locking away

their morality, their conscience, in a

box. Driven by the rush of being

able to do it rather than examining

what ʻitʼ was.

Owen and Tosh went down

that slope so rapidly it was scary.

Everyone had that chance to

turn left rather than right. Owen and

Tosh had gone round the

roundabout and traced a whole

new route of personal morality that

Ianto had never believed them

capable of.

The Prime Minister had

approved the exposure of

Torchwood, and was then

destroyed by his own policy of

disclosure and open government.

His administration fell in weeks,

and Torchwood acceded to power

in days.

Britain moved forward to a new

age of enlightenment and industrial

domination, aided by alien tech.

China, the USSR, even America,

they all wanted to get ahead of the

game, but it was Britain, or the

rapidly expanding Torchwood

Empire, that held the reins of

power.

Middle East peace in three

weeks. Famine in Africa ended.

Nuclear weapons dismantled. Star

Wars satellites decommissioned.

The world was made a safe,

peaceful haven in eight months,

with no loss of life.

Except one. One man.

They had betrayed him. They

had sedated him and wired him up

to the water tower, bleeding his

energies into the Rift to open it

safely, to monitor what came

through, to cherry-pick what could,

in their twisted minds, help the

world.

Owen had realised early on

that Jack Harkness could never be

free again, that it was his role to

serve with his limitless capacity for

rejuvenation, and be the source of

Torchwoodʼs true power.

With Toshikoʼs help, Owen

had trapped Jack, like an insect in

amber, unconscious but alive, in a

perpetual state of cryogenic

suspension, feeding the Rift.

If Gwen had ever had any

moral influence on Toshiko and

Owen (and Ianto doubted it), once

she had gone, they were free to do

whatever they chose. Ultimate

power - ultimate corruption. She

had left Torchwood to have her

baby. And that was when the

creatures came though, breaching

Toshikoʼs defences.

The Light and the Dark.

At first theyʼd thought they

were just that, light fragments. It

was Owen whoʼd hypothesised that

they might be alive.

Ianto had tried again. After

months away, heʼd returned to the

Hub. His own PDA, which heʼd

kept, just in case, monitoring Jackʼs

vitals, had flared as the light

creatures came through. Heʼd

pleaded with Tosh and Owen to

see how far theyʼd fallen. But they

were almost evangelical. For

Owen, this was a chance to

contribute. For Toshiko, this was

years of being downtrodden,

forgotten and bullied coming to the

surface in an explosion of

bitterness and arrogance. All those

years sheʼd been better, cleverer

and smarter than the rest. Now she

could prove it.

The Toshiko Sato and Owen

Harper that Ianto had once known

had gone for ever.

And when their eyes had

briefly glowed with light, heʼd

sussed the truth.This really wasnʼt

Toshiko and Owen.This was

whatever they had unleashed from

the Rift. It had been inside them,

ever since that day Owen had

looked into the Rift - passed into

Toshiko via their first snog.

And Gwen? Poor silly Gwen,

hormones in a mess with the

pregnancy, either the Light had got

into her in some way, or sheʼd just

said yes to whatever the others

wanted because it was easier for

her.

No, that wasnʼt Gwen.There

had to be more to it.

So Ianto had contacted Rhys

and explained the situation. Rhys

agreed. Heʼd never had much time

for Jack, but he respected him. And

he knew how strong the bond

between his Gwen and Jack was.

No way, Rhys thought, would

Gwen have just approved this

abuse of her friend.

So the Light had got into her,

too.

Ianto had returned then to the

Hub. One last chance. He had

talked about what theyʼd achieved

and what effect it was having on

the population of Britain. The gap

between wealth and poverty had

never been wider; their Empire was

founded on the oldest traditions in

the world, he said - them and us.

Toshiko had insisted that

would change. Gwen had tried to

reason with him, saying she was

his friend, but this was what the

world needed.

In one last desperate move,

Ianto had told them about the Light

and the Dark. That he believed

they were controlling his old

friends.

And Toshiko had destroyed

the future.

Sheʼd destroyed the Hub.

A new Torchwood Institute had

been constructed in the heart of

Cardiff, at the very heart of the Rift

- a massive office complex where

the Castle had once stood, history

demolished in days.

Then they moved the Rift

Manipulator there, the whole water

tower and Jack, encased in his

glass prison. Lock, stock and

barrel. The Hub was firestormed,

destroying everything else, so no

one else could ever access the

past.The basements, the Morgue,

the Vaults, over a century of

information was lost for ever.

Because this was a new

Torchwood, burning brightly on the

pyre of the old.

And Ianto had run, because he

knew there was no way heʼd

survive the madness.

The last thing heʼd seen as he

left the Hub was light. Flickering

lights in the air, dancing with one

another. Or fighting. Black Light

and White Light.

For weeks, Ianto had plotted

and planned. The only way to put

things right was to become

everything he hated. He had to

think like the enemy, act like the

enemy. Ianto Jones had to become

like Tosh and Owen. Like the light

creatures from the Rift that

possessed them.

He had to kill his old friends

and bring down the Torchwood

Empire.

It had taken them less than a

year to take over the world. It would

take less than two minutes to bring

it crashing down.

Rhys Williams had phoned

him. Gwen was in hospital. That

had been Rhysʼs one condition.

Heʼd made the plans Cardiff

Council had, puppet authority that it

now was, available to Ianto. Heʼd

revealed the police routines, what

was and wasnʼt protected. Heʼd

known how to get about the city

without being seen that day. And

Ianto had taken the information and

agreed that nothing would happen

to Gwen or their baby boy. Hoping

it was a promise he could keep.

Now he watched as Toshiko

finished her address to the crowds,

Owen at her side. He watched as

they turned and entered the new

Torchwood building.

Armed to the teeth, Ianto burst

in after them.

For Ianto, it all happened in

some kind of weird slow motion.

The moment he saw the water

tower there in the atrium, the glass

panel in the floor beneath it, he

dashed forward for one last look at

Jack.

His Jack.

Trapped in perpetual agony,

unwillingly destroying the world

heʼd spent so many years

protecting. Loving. And turning

down the chance to go home

again, just to come back and help

Earth.

He fired his pistol as soon as

he saw Jackʼs body, screaming in

anger, only dimly aware that heʼd

taken Owen out.

He didnʼt truly feel the pain as

dozens of bullets ripped him apart,

all his conscious mind was thinking

of was how to get to Jack.

That somehow, in dying, Ianto

could wake Jack up.

And Jack would stop the light

creatures.

The last thing Ianto saw was

his own blood obscuring the glass,

hiding Jackʼs beautiful face from

him.

And it was over.

In Bute Street, unnoticed by any of

the passers-by, the clown paint

seemed almost to move by itself on

Iantoʼs face, dissipating into

sparkles of light, which coalesced

into a small starburst and shot off

into the crowds.

And Ianto Jones staggered,

grasping a lamp-post for support,

and remembered the dream. He felt

his torso, still in one piece.

Jack.

His love for Jack had brought

him back, and now he had to find

him. He had to find Jack.

Because he understood what

was going on now, the struggle that

was taking place in Cardiff. In

Tretarri.

Revenge for the Future.

TWENTY

The room was dark, so dark. There

was a table with a red chintz

tablecloth on it. A teapot and two

cups with saucers. A plate, some

crustless sandwiches and two tiny

cakes, iced, with chocolate

sprinkles on top. The windows

were covered by a heavy olive

drape. In one corner was a leather

armchair, and a table next to that.

A box on the table.

On the wall, photographs of

Cardiff through the years.

ʻWhat do you want?ʼ

Bilis Manger smiled, and

pointed to the tea. ʻA companion?

To discuss life, the universe and

the imminent destruction of this

planet. Thanks to you.ʼ

Bilis threw Idris Hopperʼs

envelope across to him.

ʻOne of your lesser minions

delivered this to you last night. I

intercepted it, but itʼs all nonsense.ʼ

Jack tore open the envelope. It

was a sheaf of papers, marked,

ʻTRANSLATION OF JACKʼS (or

whoeverʼs) DIARYʼ. Typed beneath

that, Jack read, ʻDone extremely

under protest by Idris Hopper who,

God forbid he might actually have a

life of his own, is actually bored by

this. Oh, and Jack, you owe me

£12.62 for lemon juice.ʼ

Jack smiled and sifted through

the translation. But it was just a

series of notes about Victorian

Cardiff, circa 1871.

ʻThereʼs a note,ʼ Bilis waved

towards the envelope as he poured

tea. ʻNice boy, by the way. One of

your conquests? Looked the type.

Thin. Breakable. Desperate for love

and attention. Needing a father

figure.ʼ He passed the tea to Jack.

ʻBit like your Ianto Jones, really.ʼ

Jack ignored Bilis and shoved

his hand into the envelope, tugging

out the sticky Post-It that had got

caught on the inside: ʻJack, maeʼr

boiʼn siarad trwyʼi din ac mae

popeth fiʼn ysgrifennu ymaʼn rwtsh

llwyr. Maeʼr dyddiadur dal gen i.ʼ

Jack pulled a face. His Welsh

was rusty. ʻCan you translate this?

You know, being a man of the

world?ʼ

Bilis shrugged. ʻAs I told the

lovely Mr Hopper last night,

languages are not my speciality.ʼ

But he frowned. ʻI assumed youʼd

be able to understand it though.ʼ

Jack looked at the notes again,

and then at Bilis. ʻI get the gist.

Thank you. For, you know, passing

this on.ʼ

ʻI donʼt like you, Captain, and

Iʼm fairly sure you donʼt like me. But

we are drawn together and, strange

as it may seem, we are on the

same side.ʼ

ʻReally?ʼ

ʻOh yes, indeed.ʼ Bilis sipped

his tea. ʻWhat do you know about

consequences?ʼ

ʻLots. You?ʼ

Bilis smiled. ʻYes. Many years

ago, two demon beasts fought for

control of the Rift. Pwccm versus

Abaddon. You are, of course,

familiar with the latter.ʼ

Jack just sniffed at the tea.

Bilis laughed. ʻItʼs not

poisoned, Jack. Really, how dull do

you think I am?ʼ

ʻWhat have you done with my

team?ʼ

ʻHonestly? Nothing. I needed

to put them in a transient state, so

they could dream the future.ʼ

Jack stood up. ʻIʼm hearing

words, Bilis. Sounds and

nonsense. Iʼm not hearing

explanations.ʼ

Bilis sipped his tea again. ʻYou

have lived for a long time, Jack.

And by my reckoning, you will for a

long time yet. You may even outdo

me, who knows. I canʼt predict my

own future, none of us can. But

what I can do is see the

possibilities. Itʼs my gift. Or curse -

that depends on oneʼs point of

view.ʼ

ʻAnd you needed them why?ʼ

ʻBecause you are the future

Iʼm concerned about Jack - and I

canʼt read you. There, Iʼve said it.

You are a barrier to me, as Tretarri

was to you until I was ready to let

you in. Which today I did.ʼ

Jack pointed outside. ʻWhy the

party?ʼ

ʻThereʼs always a price to pay

for freedom. I need to know how far

youʼll go to protect these ridiculous

people and their corrupt world.ʼ

ʻWhat is going on?ʼ

ʻConsequences. Abaddon had

a task, a significant place in the

structure of things.ʼ

ʻHe destroyed lives.ʼ

ʻHe did that no more

consciously than you and I breathe

the air. Itʼs what he did. He is... he

was perfection. A purity so

immaculate, so delicate because

your evil was his good. He did what

he did to survive. And, to protect.ʼ

Bilis poured more tea. ʻWhat you

fail to grasp, Jack Harkness, is the

consequences of your actions. The

people of this era, this time, they

irradiate their crops with

insecticides, because the tiny

creatures they hate destroy their

crops. When they destroy the

insects, the things the insects feed

on then live, flourish and grow

stronger. With no natural predators,

they mutate.ʼ

Jack moved to pull the drapes

open, to let some light in.

Bilis clicked his fingers, and

suddenly Jack wasnʼt facing the

window, he was facing the opposite

wall. Angrily he turned around

again.

Bilis just smiled at him, a

teacher addressing a slightly dim

pupil. ʻYou have to understand,

everything in this house is mine to

control, even you. You will listen to

me because, out there, I canʼt

control anything, but in here we can

talk. We are... protected.ʼ

He pointed to the box on the

table.

ʻThe essence of what I am

here to protect. It was dying, spent

and exhausted, trying to fight a

battle it could no longer win

because someone had taken away

its insects. Or its demons, to use

your vernacular, gauche as it is.ʼ

Jack sat in the armchair and

tried to open the box.

ʻJack?ʼ

ʻGreg?ʼ

The apparition of Greg Bishop

was facing him and, in the room,

able to see it clearly, he realised

the outline of his old friend and

lover was constructed from tiny

lights.

ʻNatural halogens,ʼ Bilis said.

ʻBack in 1941, I needed a vessel to

keep them from dying, to give them

something to focus upon, to

construct a new existence around.

Mr Bishop had the diary in his

hands, he became their vessel.ʼ He

clapped his hands. ʻLemon juice!

Of course, Mr Hopper has the

diary, and you asked him to find out

what it said. I never managed that,

you see.ʼ

Bilis reached for the papers

Idris had given Jack, flicked

through them, and angrily tossed

them to the floor. He swung around

to Jack, suddenly angry, light

blazing literally in his eyes. ʻI need

that diary, Jack. It contains the

solution.ʼ

ʻIt contains words, Bilis. Thatʼs

all. You had it when you gave it to

Tilda Brennan.ʼ

ʻNo, you fool. I never had it.

The Torchwood Institute had it,

they defiled a grave to acquire it,

because they wanted to release

what was in it. Thatʼs why it took

Greg Bishop here. I didnʼt do that,

Abaddon didnʼt do that. Gregʼs

death is entirely on your

conscience because none of this

need have happened if you hadnʼt

destroyed Abaddon.ʼ

ʻI destroyed Abaddon this year.

What happened to Greg was in

1941.ʼ

ʻRevenge for the future! It was

a message. Contained in the ink

the diary was written in. It is not in

the words, itʼs in the ink. I gave the

diary to a trustworthy man who

owned the area where the Lords

fought for control of the Rift, where

my Lord Abaddon faked defeat so

he could prepare and gain strength.

This place, Tretarri.ʼ

Jack stood again. ʻSo let me

get this straight. A fight in the

nineteenth century between two

creatures for supremacy over the

Rift. Abaddon was one of those.

And he apparently lost. You gave

some guy the secret to releasing

Rift energies that foretold the future

and, when Torchwood got in the

way, you needed me to sort it out.

By lying, deceiving and killing my

friends, you got me here, today, in

the hope that somehow Iʼd do

what? Bring Abaddon back?ʼ

Bilis shook his head. ʻAbaddon

was the Devourer. His role in life, in

eternity, was to destroy the

Darkness. You stopped that.ʼ

ʻHe killed hundreds.ʼ

ʻThey were irrelevant!ʼ Bilis

was almost shouting now.

ʻInsignificant insects, food to keep

him sated so he could achieve the

apotheosis of his mission. To

protect the Rift from the Dark.ʼ

And Jack remembered the

lights heʼd seen in the Rift storm

the previous night. Blobs of light

and dark.

ʻThey live in the Rift, Jack.

Beings of pure halogen, elements

of intelligence, at war for millennia.

Abaddon was protecting the Light

from the invasion of the Dark. And

you stopped it.ʼ

Jack thought about this.

ʻWhere is the Light now, other than

here creating images of Greg

Bishop?ʼ

Gregʼs ghostly form turned to

Jack. ʻI saw the future, Jack. I saw

all those potential ifs, maybes and

buts. The Dark will be released by

your team in the future. Corrupting

your people until they build an

empire of Darkness over this world,

so they can feed. Iʼm sorry, Jack, I

couldnʼt intervene, the Light is so

weak. It needs hosts, otherwise it

will die. And the Dark will live.ʼ

ʻAnd this is in the future?ʼ

ʻThe near future.ʼ

Bilis stood between them.

ʻThat is why I took your team out of

the action, Jack. While I keep them

suppressed, the corruption cannot

occur.ʼ He pointed to the box on the

table. ʻItʼs a prison, Jack. The Light

and the Dark need to be drawn into

it, to continue their eternal battle in

a prison. The Light is willing to

make the sacrifice to save this