by Gary Russell
He was walking along St Mary Street, Cardiff’s 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 Cardiff’s central railway station. For visitors to Cardiff, it wasn’t 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 Jack’s favourites, mainly because – although it was a ‘classic’ 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 ‘dish’ 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?
‘Jack?’
‘Greg?’
The shape of Greg’s face, just an impression, seemed to swim in and out of existence, formed by the severe light from around the dish.
‘Not long now, Jack, and it’ll be over. The eternal battle for justice, for dominion. It’s in the diary, Jack, it’s all in the diary.’
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 he’d 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.
‘You can’t do it, Owen! For God’s sake, we’ve been here before. Light and Dark, two polar opposites.Try to stop one, you upset the balance of the Universe.’
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.
‘Jack, listen to me. And if not me, listen to Gwen. Look at what we’ve 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.’
Jack looked at the others. ‘Gwen?’
‘I don’t know, I can see the advantages, but I’m not convinced.’
‘Tosh?’
‘Jack, I have to say, I’m with Owen on this.’
‘Only because you two discovered the light creatures. You might be under their spell for all we know.’ Jack flicked the image off. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘No, Jack, listen to us. There are things out there that could do marvellous things for this planet. We could, literally, change the world.’
‘The mantra of the Torchwood Institute in London,’ snarled Jack. ‘Look where it got them.’
‘They were stupid,’ said Owen. ‘They didn’t have the foresight we have. Hell, they didn’t 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 planet’s problems. Now we can control it.’
‘Ianto?’
‘I’m with Jack,’ he said.
‘Course you are,’ said Owen. ‘I mean, heaven forbid you might have an opinion of your own once in a while.’
‘I do have opinions of my own. I just don’t bother telling you what they are because you wouldn’t like them.’
Gwen stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but this question has been… consuming us this past couple of weeks. God knows what we’re missing.’
Owen stabbed at the button again. ‘Weevil sightings: none. Alien incursions: none. Dangerous bombs ready to blow Cardiff up: none. Sightings of Bilis Manger: none.’
‘OK, Owen, you made your point.’ Gwen switched the screen off again. ‘But I’m still not letting this conversation continue.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have something to tell you. Something I hope won’t result in me being shoved into a mortuary slab and all my personal belongings being stored in that garage for eternity.’
Jack frowned. ‘You want to leave Torchwood?’
‘You’re being controlled by the Resurrection Boot and draining your life energy into Ianto?’That was Owen.
‘You’re proposing Andy Davidson, of Cardiff’s finest, as a member of Torchwood?’ asked Toshiko.
‘She and Rhys are having a baby.’ Ianto walked over and gave Gwen a hug.
‘She told you?’ said Jack, after a moment’s pause.
‘No,’ said Ianto. ‘I just keep my eyes open and my mouth closed.’ He looked at Owen. ‘You should try it.’
Gwen squeezed Ianto’s hand. ‘Thirteen weeks.’
Jack gave her a kiss, so did Toshiko.
Owen sat there, a smile on his face that he didn’t 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?
‘Good one, Gwen,’ he said. ‘And tell Rhys that, too. I need to check on some specimens.’
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 wasn�
��t Jack always saying he’d 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 they’d have a sample of Jack’s.
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 wasn’t 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.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Idris turned.
Behind him was a short old man, dressed immaculately, a huge welcoming smile on his face. ‘Are you looking for Mr Harkness?’
Idris thought about that – how likely was it that anyone around here knew Jack? Knew that this was the place to find him?
‘I’m just trying to get in, but it seems to be locked up.’
The old man shrugged. ‘Strange, isn’t 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 he’ll be long.’ He pointed at the padlocked bar. ‘Perhaps this is a new security measure. That Ianto Jones fellow can be such a stickler for detail.’
Idris shrugged. ‘Yeah, guess so. Sorry, did you say “Torchwood”? What’s that then? Is that the new name for the Tourist Board?’ Idris pointed at the stylised red dragon symbol on the small sign that read Croeso Cymru. ‘Never learned much Welsh at school. Wrong generation.’
The older Englishman just smiled. ‘So few people around here seem proud of their rich heritage, Mr…?’
‘Oh sorry.’ Idris offered his hand. ‘Hopper. Idris Hopper. I work for the Council. So, probably should know Welsh, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to get by with the odd shwmae, os gwelwch yn dda, diolch, hwyl or nos da!’
The old man nodded, understandingly. ‘I have never spoken a word of Welsh either.’
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 Idris’s 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.
‘In fact,’ the old man said as if nothing had happened, ‘I shall be seeing Mr Harkness tomorrow. We have an… appointment. May I give him a message?’
Idris thought for a second and then smiled. ‘God, you are a lifesaver.’ 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 Jack’s name on the front, added ‘By Hand Via Kindly Old Chum’ in the corner and handed it to the man.
The old man smiled at the envelope. ‘“Kindly Old Chum” is a phrase I shall treasure, Mr Hopper.’
Idris offered his hand, but the man didn’t take it. Instead he just bowed slightly.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Hopper. And good luck in Berlin.’
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 o’clock. 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 hadn’t noticed where they’d 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 he’d thought. Jack had been around for… well, centuries was not really an exaggeration. At around 150 years old, he’d seen a lot, remembered a lot (hell, he’d probably done a lot and what he hadn’t done wasn’t 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 he’d first seen Tretarri back in 1902. Each time he’d come, the nausea had got stronger, a fact that hadn’t 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. Someone’s carbon footprint wasn’t 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 li
ps.
God, no.
‘Owen?’
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?
‘Ianto,’ 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.
‘Ianto?’
‘Jack?’
Jack turned. It was Bilis. At the doorway to number 6 Coburg Street.
‘We should talk, I believe. And in here, we can.’
Jack frowned. ‘Walk into my parlour?’
Bilis shrugged. ‘Revenge for the Future?’
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.