‘It’ll be deserted,’ Owen said. ‘The blues and twos will have scared it off.’
Jack shook his head. ‘The cops have put men on all the sewer entrances within a half-mile radius. Big Guy’s in there, and he’s ours.’
Owen shifted in his seat so that he could reach the stun-gun in his jacket pocket.
‘Leave it,’ Jack advised. ‘This guy’s too big and he’s going to be mad as a bagful of rattlesnakes. We’ll never get close enough to be polite. This one’s going down.’
He speeded up again as they approached the warehouse, the SUV’s powerful halogens throwing up fat circles of light across a pair of wide doors. Owen saw some faded lettering over the entrance, but the SUV was now moving too fast for him to read it; Jack had floored the accelerator and the SUV was charging forward. The lights grew brighter as it approached the brick wall, and Owen flung up a hand to protect his face against the inevitable collision but, at the last second, Jack twisted the wheel again, slewed the car right around and hit the wooden doors broadside.
The SUV rocked under the impact but the doors gave, splintering as the old wood fell apart along seams of wet rot. The vehicle turned again, the heavy tyres losing their grip on the wet concrete floor of the warehouse, and the headlamps sent searchlight beams roving crazily around the darkened interior. They glimpsed metal pillars, stairs, balconies and a huge pile of bin bags in one corner.
Jack had his door open before the SUV had fully come to a halt, was out and running, gun in hand. His boots echoed across the hard floor, causing rats to flood out of the bin bags and into the shadows. Owen followed, drawing his own gun, hearing the triumphant shout as Jack saw something moving on the far side of the room.
‘Up there!’ Jack flicked on a powerful LED torch, its beam zigzagging up a metal staircase. ‘Stop it!’
Owen snapped off a couple of shots in the right direction, but the rounds drew nothing more than sparks off metal. The boom of the heavy automatic reverberated around the warehouse like trapped thunder looking for a way out.
Without breaking his stride, Owen sprinted for the stairs leading up the gantry. Jack was right behind him, and he must have seen the thing again, because next Owen heard the heavy crack of Jack’s old Webley revolver, and more sparks flew somewhere up in the darkness.
They split up, Owen taking the stairs on the left while Jack headed right. Owen took the metal steps three at a time, thighs straining, but he had to make the effort. They had been chasing this particular Weevil for long enough. It was big, tough and bastard cunning. Finally, they had it trapped.
Owen reached the landing and dropped to a crouch, arms extended, gun in both hands, trying not to breathe too hard. He didn’t want to compromise his aim, for one thing, and then there was the smell.
‘This place is bloody rank,’ Owen said. ‘What the hell’s making that stench?’
Jack’s reply came promptly from the shadows: ‘Shh! Thought I saw something …’
Owen concentrated. The shadows were deep up here, and huge, grimy cobwebs floated among the girders of the ceiling and balcony like ghosts.
But there was something, up ahead, moving slowly in the darkness. Owen levelled his gun quickly, feeling a familiar surge of adrenalin. Then he forced himself to slow down; to do it properly. He summoned the clarity of mind he used on the shooting range and sighted carefully along the automatic’s barrel, weapon held high, level with his eye.
He thought he could see it — just a silhouette, no more than one clot of darkness among all the others, but something was wrong. It didn’t have the right shape for a Weevil. It didn’t sound like one either — no harsh breathing or guttural noises.
The target spun, dropped, and Owen’s shot went wide. Something clanged at the far end of the landing and he heard Jack shout. For a horrible moment Owen thought he’d hit him, but then he saw Jack running back down the stairs, greatcoat flapping behind him like bat wings.
Bloody hell! The thing had jumped. Straight off the gantry, a forty-foot drop.
Suicide, normally, even for a Weevil. But Torchwood didn’t deal with normal.
Owen swore loudly and doubled back, hurrying down the steps.
He found Jack at the bottom, circling the area warily, gun held down in a two-handed grip. He didn’t look happy.
‘Don’t tell me we lost it,’ Owen said between breaths. ‘Not after all this.’
‘No way,’ Jack snapped. ‘It’s in here somewhere and it’s not leaving.’
For a second, all they could hear was their own heavy breathing. They stood still and listened carefully. The warehouse wasn’t huge, but it was full of echoes and dark places. It would be possible to hide in here — but not for ever.
A rat darted out of a side opening and disappeared into the shadows. Owen realised the significance immediately, exchanging a nod with Jack. Something had spooked that rat.
‘This way,’ said Jack quietly, moving forward, pistol raised. Owen followed him through the narrow doorway into a tiled passage. There was just enough light to see their way through to a large chamber on the far side. It was cold in here and there was a sound — unmistakably water, gently lapping at the edges of a large tank. It sounded to Owen like they had wandered into a swimming baths.
‘Phew! What is this place?’ hissed Owen, scouring the gloom. The terrible stench of putrefying waste was far worse here, hitting them like a wall of offal.
‘Fish farm. Used to be, anyway. Closed down and scheduled for demolition.’
‘Can’t come soon enough.’
‘Hold it.’ Jack stopped, held up a warning hand. He shone his torch down at his feet and found that he was standing in a large puddle of dark blood. Close by, a Weevil lay on its back, mouth open wide, stomach and chest opened even wider.
The rancid stench of Weevil blood hit Owen, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, gagging reflexively. ‘God almighty,’ he hissed a moment later, swallowing down the bile. ‘What the hell did that to him?’
‘It’s Big Guy,’ Jack said.
‘Was Big Guy.’ Owen, recovering, took a closer, more professional look. The bestial features were frozen in a surprised snarl. Fangs glinted in the torch light. Further down, torn muscle and intestines filled a gaping wound. ‘He’s been ripped open like a packet of crisps. Not many things could do that to a Weevil.’
They exchanged a look of mutual puzzlement, and then suddenly turned back to back, ignoring the corpse, covering each other.
‘Whatever it was, it may still be here,’ Jack whispered.
There was still water in the holding tanks. They were set in the floor, six feet deep, two rows of three. ‘This used to be a public baths,’ Jack said, confirming Owen’s initial assessment. ‘It was built early last century, converted into a fish farm in 1982. They split the swimming pool into six separate tanks to keep the fish in.’
Owen had his torch out now, the beam chasing across the calcified tiles and into the rectangles of black water.
‘Stagnant,’ he said. Green algae filmed the still surface of the nearest pool, crawling up the sides of the tanks and between the cracks in the tiles. ‘No wonder it stinks so much in here. Weevils are bad enough at the best of times, but this place is something else.’
Jack was circling around the far side of the room, peering deep into the shadows. Owen stabbed his torch beam into the darkest areas, trying to chase out whatever had to be hiding in here. So far there were only rats — big, greasy-looking specimens swimming through the thick soup of algae, climbing out onto the tiles and running away from the torch beams.
‘Come on out!’ Jack called, his voice echoing. ‘We’ve got you cornered.’
No response.
Owen slid the torch beam around again, but there was nothing. The room was empty. ‘Back door?’
‘We’d have heard it.’
Owen swept the torch around again. ‘I don’t believe it. Nothing. It’s gone. How can it have just gone like that?’
Jack slowly released the hammer on his revolver, lowering it gently with his thumb.
Owen lowered his own weapon and his stomach growled loudly. Jack gave him a look.
‘I can’t help it,’ Owen told him. ‘I’m hungry. Breakfast time.’
‘It’s just gone midnight, Owen.’
