by Gary Russell
A man in a hard hat and suit walked over.
‘Can I help you?’ 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.
‘Toshiko Sato, from the Senedd. Checking up on architecture, historical importance, blue plaques for famous Cardiff comedians, actors or raconteurs. That sort of thing.’ 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. ‘Took me by surprise, sorry. I was daydreaming.’
Daffydd shrugged. ‘Not a problem. How can I help?’
‘Talk me through what’s going on.’
‘Well,’ Daffydd said, leading her to the pavement, ‘the first thing we’re doing is putting in this revolutionary new lighting. It’s 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.’
‘Colour me impressed,’ Toshiko laughed.
Encouraged by her enthusiasm (faked, but he didn’t know that), Daffydd took her to one of the plasterers’ trucks.
‘Then these guys will go into the houses, most of which we’re converting into luxury apartments, and we will be putting in similar wireless devices to control the electricity supply. Can’t do it with the gas pipes, sadly, but hopefully these places have a degree of safe gas and water piping – we’ll be checking all that. But basically our intention is to disturb as little of the structural integrity as possible.’ He pulled a brochure from his inside pocket. ‘These 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 Cardiff’s redevelopment schemes.’
Toshiko was about to nod her approval when something occurred to her. ‘One day? To do… everything?’
‘Yeah, it’s great isn’t 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 ’em delivered and fitted for free along with the whole refurbishment job.’
Toshiko smiled, hoping that her PDA’s encoder was recording the conversation. ‘Must cost a packet,’ she said.
‘Dunno,’ Daffydd replied, moving closer and leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘But you know, I don’t think so. City Hall seemed very keen, so it can’t cost more than the traditional way, and it’s quicker and makes less carbon footprints. Apparently.’ He paused for a second. ‘Never been quite sure how they work all that carbon footprint stuff out myself. I reckon none of them do, it’s just PR jargon.’
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. ‘You know what, Ifan. I think you’re right. It’s all just hot air for the electorate.’
She shook his hand again, gripping it tightly, hoping he didn’t think it was a come-on. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I’d best leave you alone and get back to the Bay. Tell everyone you’re not knocking down any local treasures. Thank you.’
Daffydd smiled and turned away.
‘Oh, Ifan,’ Toshiko called to him. ‘Do you know who actually designed all this refurbishment? The architect, I mean. We have no records at the Senedd, it’s all still in Crickhowell House or up at City Hall, and I was just wondering…’
Daffydd threw over the pamphlet. ‘Keep it. Architect is on the back.’
Toshiko turned it over and stared.
There were the architect’s details: phone number, email, address and a long list of local Welsh (and a couple of Glaswegian) projects he had overseen.
And a photo.
‘Oh my God…’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Ms Sato,’ said a smooth-as-silk voice behind her. ‘I think you’ll find real gods are few and far between these days in Cardiff. You and your… associates saw to that.’
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 architect’s photo in her hand. She glanced down at that once more. ‘It can’t be you,’ 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 they’d 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, he’d 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 didn’t mind. They were getting married soon. She had said yes. YES! To marrying him! How bloody brilliant was that!
‘Daf, she said yes!’ he’d said triumphantly to one of his drinking buddies the day after.
‘Hey, Banana, how’s Lanzarote? I got some news, mate,’ he’d said to another on the phone.
‘Mam, it’s Rhys. I got some news for you. Great news. Well, I think it’s great news. Well, it’s great for me. No, I told you, I won’t know about the job for a couple of weeks. No… no, will you listen… Look, you better sit down then… No, I’ve not had an accident, Jesus, will you let me speak?’ 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 didn’t get in the way – oh God, maybe that’s why she was late. Maybe Jack bloody Harkness, aka God, had told her she couldn’t 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.
‘Excuse me, it’s Rhys Williams isn’t it?’
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.
‘Umm, yeah?’
‘You look well. Better than the last time I saw you.’
‘Have we met?’
‘You might say that. Once upon a time, in a different life.’ The old man produced a business card.
Rhys read the name and shrugged. ‘Sorry mate…’
‘That’s quite all right. I’m… a friend of Gwen’s. I gather congratulations are in order.’
Rhys grinned. ‘Thanks very much.’
The old man grinned too. ‘I just wanted to say how nice it is to meet you properly, and I hope you have a long, happy life.’ And the smile was gone. ‘Because the price paid for you to have this one was terribly high.’
And Rhys felt a bit awkward. Was this guy a loony? Did
he really know Gwen?
Oh, he could ask her, there she was.
‘God Rhys, I’m really, really sorry,’ she said, coming through the door and heading to the seat.
Rhys turned to present the old man, but he was gone.
‘That’s odd,’ he muttered. ‘There was a scary man here, wanted to say hi.’
‘Who was he?’
‘I dunno. Knew me though. And you. Said he was a mate of yours.’
Gwen looked around the crowd in the café, looking for someone she knew.
‘He said some strange things,’ Rhys finished. ‘Oh, and he left you his card.’
Gwen took the card and Rhys saw the colour drain from her face.
‘You OK, love?’
For a moment, all Gwen could see, all she could imagine, was Rhys’s bloodied corpse stretched out in Torchwood’s Autopsy Room. All she could remember was Bilis Manger taking Rhys from her. It would not happen again.
When she spoke, Gwen’s voice had lost all warmth, all humour. Instead she was cold. Colder than he’d ever heard her. ‘Rhys. 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.’
‘Now hold on-’
And Gwen’s hand was on his, squeezing so hard she was almost crushing it. ‘Please. Trust me. Never be alone till I call you. Even if that means you don’t go home or go to work or do anything for a week.’
‘This is-’
‘Don’t say “bloody Torchwood”, Rhys. Seriously. This is big. I can’t explain, trust me.’
And Gwen turned the card over and read something Rhys hadn’t seen, written in neat, precise handwriting on the back.
Next time, it said.
Next time there’ll be nothing you can do, ‘ Widow’ Williams.
NINE
City Hall was an impressive array of buildings and, no matter how often Jack Harkness stood outside them, he couldn’t 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, that’s what he hoped the man he had come to visit would think. Still. It’d been a while. They’d 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 he’d’ve expected from someone so… unimposing.
Still, appearances could be deceptive. Wasn’t 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 wasn’t going to work. Not in the corridor. Shame.
‘I saw you come in, Jack,’ the young Welshman said. ‘And no one but you would use those stairs.’ He still hadn’t looked up.
‘Oh. Right. OK,’ said Jack. ‘How are you? It’s been a couple of years.’
‘It’s been twenty-two months, eight days and about nine hours, Jack. Lots of things could’ve happened to me in twenty-two months, eight days and about nine hours. Nice of you to ask now.’
Jack stood still. He still wasn’t being looked at. Boy, some people could hold a grudge.
‘Slapped anyone recently?’
The man dropped the notes onto his desk and finally gazed straight at Jack.
‘Oh, tried to feed anyone an amnesia pill in cold pasta recently?’
Ouch. Yup. Grudge time.
‘Oh come on, Idris. You gonna let that little… incident come between us?’
Idris Hopper stood up. He wasn’t as tall as Jack, but the Torchwood leader took a step back anyway – Idris was not happy to see Jack, that was clear.
‘You 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.’
‘It wasn’t poison. Don’t be so melodramatic. It was for your safety.’
Idris said nothing for a moment, then he strode past Jack and opened an office door.
‘Jan, I need to pop out for a few minutes. Can you keep an eye on the Mayor’s desk for me? Ta love. I’ll get you a donut.’
He then turned back, grabbed Jack’s 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.
‘There, you got what you wanted, Jack. Happy now? Will you finally leave me alone and get the hell out of my life?’
Jack was speechless at first, then ran a hand through Idris’s hair. The younger guy pulled further back.
‘Don’t touch me, Jack. You don’t have that right.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t realise it’d affect you that much. How long did it take for the pill to wear off?’
‘I thought the point was that it wouldn’t wear off. That people you dosed up stayed amnesiac for good, those memories scratched out of their lives?’
Jack nodded. ‘But occasionally a shock or just a strong personality can overcome it. Depends on the strength of the pill I used on you.’
‘And you don’t remember, do you? I bet you never remember any of the lives you screw around with at Torchwood, do you?’
Idris went past Jack and down the stairs. ‘I can’t have this conversation here. Outside. Now.’
Jack paused. ‘You know, I’m not usually one for following orders, Idris.’ He shrugged. ‘But I do kinda need your help.’
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 Cardiff’s famous castle.
For a few moments, neither of them said anything. Then Idris sighed. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Well what do you actually want today, Jack?’ Idris checked his watch. ‘You have five minutes. Real minutes, not Torchwood minutes.’
‘Like I said, I need your help. I need records.’
Idris laughed humourlessly. ‘That 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, she’s gone. Death by Earthquake was the official answer.’
Jack looked hard at Idris and remembered the confused young man he’d seen at the bus stop one day, a bundle of books under his arm.
The man who’d run over, shouting ‘You! It was you!’
Jack had had no idea who he was.
‘I saw you, at the office!’
Jack turned and headed back down, past the Millennium Centre and towards the water tower. He hadn’t banked on Idris’s 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 he’d 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.
‘Yes, you! The American!’
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 ‘Bastard!’
As the elevator reached the Hub, Jack stepped off, yelling for Toshiko.
‘Guy by the tower, staring at our so-called invisible elevator.’
‘Got him on CCTV,’ Toshiko replied. ‘ What about him?’
‘I need to know who he is. He knows me, I haven’t set eyes on him before. And I’m pretty sure I’d remember a cute Welsh blond, blue-eyed geek like that.’
‘Geek chic your thing, is it now?’ asked Suzie Costello, Jack’s number two.
‘Jack has “things”?’ Owen called out from his workstation, next toToshiko’s. ‘I thought Jack just shagged… anything.’
Jack ignored them and headed to his office. Something tingled in his mind.
He began flicking through Suzie’s 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 Hancock’s 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.
‘Personal Assistant to the Mayor,’ Jack read. ‘Nope, why me?’
‘The Mayor, Jack? She disappeared a month ago – after the earthquake.’
And Jack remembered.
‘You 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 it’d be OK. Remember?’