Penylan, 17th March 1906
Visited the site of last night's explosion, found residue of non-contemporaneous explosive material and signs of temporal flux. (Gaskell's Chronometer Device threw a fit, solely, it seems, by virtue of being in the same street as the bomb damage!) Bizarrely, the target seemed to be nothing more than a building site, nothing of imaginable value. Harkness proved little help — one had hoped his knowledge of futuristic methods might have helped to shine the light of clarity on some of the more outre elements of the incident, but he pleaded ignorance so well that one might be inclined to believe him, were it not for the fact that he lies with such ease. No matter; no civilians were hurt and, while the evident intrusion of foreign agents in our jurisdiction is alarming, there is some consolation to be found in that. Our investigation will, of course, continue.
AG
Ianto smiled and dropped the sheet back into its folder. Alice Guppy's writing about Jack always reminded him of a strict teacher's report on an errant student.
He glanced over at his workstation, where his screen was a blizzard of files and news reports, history rewriting itself both physically and digitally as things settled into their own neat time line. He would be a few hours yet, trying to cover Torchwood's traces in the matter of Penylan.
Still, his efforts were nothing compared to those of time itself, the ultimate cover-up as people vanished or reappeared, new histories establishing themselves seamlessly over the hundred years or so of Jackson Leaves's influence. Those of them that had been at 'point zero' still had a perfect memory of the night's events — though he, Gwen and Jack had been working hard since then to alter that fact.
Some things had still played out the same. Joan Bosher had still lived — and died — at Jackson Leaves before bequeathing it to her niece. Rupert Locke's face still stared from the grainy print of old newspapers on his desk as the police took him into custody for his crimes (though there was no mention of where he'd lived), and his statement had become a more honest — if sordid — admission of guilt due to 'his needs'. There were others, though, who had avoided their fates, Kerry Robinson for one. No longer a suicide victim, she had moved to America, and Ianto had tracked her a little as she had worked as a singer for a few years, before family and middle age had tamed her ambition.
At least a few had got away…
Alexander looked up at the cloudy sky and, for the first time since his arrival on the planet, found himself wishing for home. Not that he would be welcome there, of course, but then, the last twenty-four hours had seen him become distinctly unwelcome here, too.
'Mr Martin.' Nurse Sellers was walking across the lawn towards him. 'Perhaps you'd be good enough to tell me why you're getting all this extra attention?'
'What are you talking about, you silly woman?' He wasn't in the mood for her insinuations today.
She bristled at his tone. 'That doctor's here again,' she explained. 'You know, the one from the Council. Says he's got to follow up on a few things. I do hope you haven't got anything
'Ha!' Alexander laughed to see her drop all pretence of kindness. 'Don't you wish, my dear?' He watched Jack Harkness walking towards him. 'Now bugger off inside while we grown-ups talk business.'
She made an exasperated noise in her throat and stormed off towards the house.
'You do love to make friends,' Jack said as he drew up alongside Alexander.
'It's a skill. I take it this is you firing me from my temporary position?'
'It is.'
Alexander nodded. 'Thought as much. That girly didn't take a liking to me in the end. Can't think why. We got out safely, didn't we?'
'Not all of you.'
'That was always a risk,' Alexander sighed, 'and you know it. Your gallivanting about altering history was far more cavalier and life-threatening, but nobody questions
'You'd be surprised.' Jack began to push Alexander towards the oak tree.
'You'll go too far one day, my boy,' Alexander said. 'And when you do you'd better hope they're more forgiving of you than they were me.'
Jack didn't reply. They stayed in silence beneath the shadow of the tree for a few minutes, each thinking their own thoughts.
'How is that young boy, Joe?' Alexander asked.
'You care?'
'Not particularly,' Alexander admitted.
'He's fine. Had a bit of good fortune, actually. Won a car in a magazine competition.'
'One he doesn't remember entering, I assume?'
'Oh, he remembers it. That and more — doesn't mean any of it happened.'
'Ah… You continue to rewrite history, even now. What are you going to do to me?'
'I don't know,' Jack said softly.
'Yes you do. You just haven't got the balls to do it. You don't know if you can trust me any more, and if you were half the secret soldier you pretend to be you'd act on it. You'd identify me as a problem and take the appropriate action. Given that you can't make me forget — and rest assured you can't; Torchwood may be far more progressed scientifically than the rest of these monkeys, but you're a long way from having sufficient skill to get around my physiognomy — there really is only one way you can solve a problem like me. I'm just interested to know if you're strong enough to carry it out.'
'Maybe I'm not as pragmatic as you,' Jack said, walking away.
'Don't kid yourself,' Alexander called, stretching in his wheelchair and closing his eyes for a doze.
Jack cut across the lawn, avoiding Trudy Topham's waving arms as she pretended to be a butterfly amongst the sparse blooms. There were times when his inability to age or die was a blessing. At least dementia would never get him. Lunacy, perhaps, given his lifestyle, but never dementia.
'Is he ill?' asked a voice from the patio. He looked over to see an elderly man straining over his stout walking cane and glancing between Alexander and Jack.
'Nothing serious,' Jack said, walking over to him. There was something very familiar about the man, but nothing he could place.
'Shame!' the old man chuckled, and the ghosts of twenty Capstans a day rattled around the brittle cage of his chest.
'He doesn't seem to have many friends here,' Jack replied.
'Or anywhere,' the old man agreed. 'Nobody visits him either. Mind you, there's nothing unusual in that. They shove us in here to forget, don't they? Not like in my day. My mother, bless her, lived with us until the day God took her, and I would never have had it any other way…' The old man's voice wavered as he thought about his past. Jack recognised the look only too well, lost in memory…
'I'm sure she appreciated it.'
The old man nodded. 'She did, she did… Poor woman had been abandoned altogether too many times in her life. I certainly wasn't going to add to it.'
'You were a good son.'
Jack smiled, and kept wracking his brain to place the old man. There was definitely something recognisable there, something in his smile… He stuck out his hand. 'Doctor Harkness.'
The old man took it. 'Gordon Cottrell. Pleased to meet you.'
A cold feeling ran through Jack, his skin erupting in gooseflesh. He would have said someone had walked over his grave — he'd certainly had enough of them.
'Cottrell?' he asked. 'What was your mother's name?'
'Alison,' Gordon replied, rather befuddled by the question. 'Why? You're rather young to have known her, I suspect!' Jack nodded. 'Of course…' He fixed a big, false smile in place. 'Best be off! Patients to see.'
'Aye, well, good talking to you. Maybe see you around again.'
'Maybe.'
Jack had to fight the urge to run as he made his way back towards the car park. He took off his white coat, got back in the SUV and stared out of the windscreen, heart pounding and his breath coming in shallow bursts. After
