by Gary Russell
No sign of Jack though. ‘Bloody Torchwood,’ he muttered. ‘I should know better.’
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 ‘Nikki’ 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 didn’t 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 didn’t move again. He shrugged and turned away.
And therefore didn’t 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 Kabuki’s 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 he’d 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.
‘Look what happened last time we opened the Rift,’ he’d said to Owen. But Owen had had an answer to that. Something about Jack, something about Jack’s immortality being used to power the Rift ad infinitum.
‘And this afternoon, just for a second, I did it. I accessed the Rift, I looked into it and realised its potential.’
‘You did what?’
‘Oh I closed it. God, it was barely a second, even Tosh’s equipment barely registered it. You lot in the Boardroom certainly didn’t.’
Ianto had been astonished. At first, he’d thought Owen was having a laugh, being the joker. But, as the evening had worn on, he’d realised Owen was serious.
Perhaps it was the accident, that moment when Owen’s life had changed. Perhaps on that day, as Torchwood had pulled together to help him, perhaps there’d been some split moment in time. Owen had turned left with them. But what if, in Owen’s head, he’d turned right. And that was what had led him to this. Telling Ianto that he was going to play God with Jack’s help.
Except Ianto had known there was no way Jack would ever say yes.
He’d 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.
‘It’s OK for you.You’ve got Jack. Gwen has Rhys – God help us all – but what do I have? A knackered hand and no Tosh.’
Ianto had laughed. ‘Tosh? You could have Tosh whenever you want. She’s crazy about you.’
‘Was.’
‘Is!’
‘Was. But now she’s looking for more. And I’m not it.’
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.
She’d walked across the Hub from the water tower and straight up to Owen, pulling him to her and kissing him, hard. ‘Is that proof enough, Owen?’ she’d said as she eased away from him. ‘I’ve always said that it’s you, your heart, your soul I want.’
Ianto had coughed. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have some washing up to do. I’ll try not to clatter the cups too much.’
And he’d put Owen’s 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 hadn’t seen the changes over the next few months? Was it because he’d trusted his co-workers? His friends? Trusted them too much? Like Jack had. Was it because he’d never have believed Gwen could be corrupted? Owen, Toshiko even, they’d 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 didn’t really hurt anyone.
But then… then they’d 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 Owen’s voice so it sounded like Jack’s. 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 ‘it’ 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 Torchwood’s true power.
With Toshiko’s 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 Toshiko’s defences.
The Light and the Dark.
At first they’d thought they were just that, light fragments. It was Owen who’d hypothesised that they might be alive.
Ianto had tried again. After months away, he’d returned to the Hub. His own PDA, which he’d kept, just in case, monitoring Jack’s vitals, had flared as the light creatures came through. He’d pleaded with Tosh and Owen to see how far they’d 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 she’d 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, he’d sussed the truth.This really wasn’t 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 she’d just said yes to whatever the others wanted because it was easier for her.
No, that wasn’t Gwen.There had to be more to it.
So Ianto had contacted Rhys and explained the situation. Rhys agreed. He’d 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 they’d 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.
She’d 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 he’d survive the madness.
The last thing he’d 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 Rhys’s one condition. He’d made the plans Cardiff Council had, puppet authority that it now was, available to Ianto. He’d revealed the police routines, what was and wasn’t protected. He’d 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 he’d 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 Jack’s body, screaming in anger, only dimly aware that he’d taken Owen out.
He didn’t 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 Jack’s 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 Ianto’s 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.
‘What do you want?’
Bilis Manger smiled, and pointed to the tea. ‘A companion? To discuss life, the universe and the imminent destruction of this planet. Thanks to you.’
Bilis threw Idris Hopper’s envelope across to him.
‘One of your lesser minions delivered this to you last night. I intercepted it, but it’s all nonsense.’
Jack tore open the envelope. It was a sheaf of papers, marked, ‘TRANSLATION OF JACK’S (or whoever’s) DIARY’. Typed beneath that, Jack read, ‘Done 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.’
Jack smiled and sifted through the translation. But it was just a series of notes about Victorian Cardiff, circa 1871.
‘There’s a note,’ Bilis waved towards the envelope as he poured tea. ‘Nice boy, by the way. One of your conquests? Looked the type. Thin. Breakable. Desperate for love and attention. Needing a father figure.’ He passed the tea to Jack. ‘Bit like your Ianto Jones, really.’
Jack ignored Bilis and shoved his hand into the envelope, tugging out the st
icky Post-It that had got caught on the inside: ‘Jack, mae’r boi’n siarad trwy’i din ac mae popeth fi’n ysgrifennu yma’n rwtsh llwyr. Mae’r dyddiadur dal gen i.’
Jack pulled a face. His Welsh was rusty. ‘Can you translate this? You know, being a man of the world?’
Bilis shrugged. ‘As I told the lovely Mr Hopper last night, languages are not my speciality.’ But he frowned. ‘I assumed you’d be able to understand it though.’
Jack looked at the notes again, and then at Bilis. ‘I get the gist. Thank you. For, you know, passing this on.’
‘I don’t like you, Captain, and I’m fairly sure you don’t like me. But we are drawn together and, strange as it may seem, we are on the same side.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, indeed.’ Bilis sipped his tea. ‘What do you know about consequences?’
‘Lots. You?’
Bilis smiled. ‘Yes. Many years ago, two demon beasts fought for control of the Rift. Pwccm versus Abaddon. You are, of course, familiar with the latter.’
Jack just sniffed at the tea.
Bilis laughed. ‘It’s not poisoned, Jack. Really, how dull do you think I am?’
‘What have you done with my team?’
‘Honestly? Nothing. I needed to put them in a transient state, so they could dream the future.’
Jack stood up. ‘I’m hearing words, Bilis. Sounds and nonsense. I’m not hearing explanations.’
Bilis sipped his tea again. ‘You 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 can’t predict my own future, none of us can. But what I can do is see the possibilities. It’s my gift. Or curse – that depends on one’s point of view.’
‘And you needed them why?’
‘Because you are the future I’m concerned about Jack – and I can’t read you. There, I’ve 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.’
Jack pointed outside. ‘Why the party?’
‘There’s always a price to pay for freedom. I need to know how far you’ll go to protect these ridiculous people and their corrupt world.’