wall with all the force he could find. It detonated. Whatever it had been was shattered beyond recognition. His foot lashed out and kicked over Marion Blake’s coffee table. He looked for something else to destroy and saw Marion’s pale frightened face.
He shook his head, suddenly impotent and weak. ‘I’m sorry.’
He fell heavily into a chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
Owen had told them he would get them to safety. He had promised himself that Alison wouldn’t go back into the darkness – not for years, if he could help it. Not until the darkness took her as naturally as it took anyone.
He looked at Wendy and Ewan. Their hearts were breaking. Not just because they had lost their little girl but because they knew to where she had gone. This time for good.
Thank God at least they didn’t know how her remains would look when Torchwood found them. If Torchwood survived.
‘What happened?’ he asked eventually.
It took a while before Wendy could find her voice through the sobs. ‘I took her to lie down. It looked like you were going to be a while, and I didn’t want her around while you were making explosives. We lay down on the bed together and – oh, God forgive me – I fell asleep. Only a few minutes – it could only have been a few minutes. But she’d gone!’
Owen got up and walked into the bedroom where they’d been sleeping. The bed was made, but he could see the impressions left by two bodies that had recently lain there. One was smaller than the other.
He stood in the doorway and ran his eyes over the room. Nothing had been disturbed. There were no signs of the thing that had come through the wall. But then, there never was any sign.
Alison Lloyd had been taken without trace.
And that made him think.
Mr Pickle, the pixie doll, had gone, too. He remembered that she’d had it when he’d seen her on the thirteenth floor. He remembered she was hanging on to it the same way that Wendy hung on to her, like she would never let her go.
If the wall-walker had taken Alison while she was sleeping, why would it also take a rag doll? Whatever the wall-walker was, it was clear that it needed human cellular matter – presumably as some sort of food. Non-human matter, like the estate agent’s clown cufflinks got left as waste. He supposed that Alison might have been hanging on to the doll in her sleep, but then why hadn’t the thing taken Wendy, as well?
He looked around the room again, then got down on his hands and knees and saw what he was looking for. Under the bed, the cover to the air duct had been removed. The duct was small, but not too small for a six-year-old child and her rag doll pixie.
Owen felt a thrill of excitement burst through his body and he shoved the bed away from the wall and pushed his head into the duct. He couldn’t see a thing in there – it was pitch black. Fleetingly he wondered what the hell Alison found so fascinating in a claustrophobic black hole like this after where she had been. But her mother had already told him that she used SkyPoint’s ducting like her own private travelator.
He called into the ducting: ‘Alison! Alison, are you there!’
His own voice came back at him. But nothing else.
He heard someone behind him and turned to see Wendy in the doorway. Her face was tear-stained, but he recognised renewed hope there, as well.
‘I think she and Mr Pickle just went for a look around the pixie tunnels again,’ he said, getting to his feet.
As he did so, Wendy lunged towards the ventilator and called her daughter’s name as he had. There was still no reply. She tried again, this time screaming, angry and desperate; ‘Alison! Alison, come back here, now!’
Owen took her by the shoulders and eased her away from the duct. ‘It’s OK, Wendy. We can find her. She’s still alive, that’s the main thing.’
She was crying again. He felt her body shaking against his and he put his arms around her.
‘Where do you think she’ll go? Back to your apartment? Her bedroom, maybe?’
Wendy shook her head, trying to calm herself down and think straight for the sake of her little girl.
‘Maybe. Maybe,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. Or there’s the SkyPark.’
The indoor garden area where she had been reading the story of Rapunzel to Mr Pickle.
‘OK,’ Owen said. ‘Stay here with Ewan and Marion. I’m going to go and find her. Don’t worry, she’ll be safe with me.’
But as he got up, Wendy caught his hand. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I have to come with you.’
Owen thought about telling her that she couldn’t; that there was something out there that came at you through walls and turned you into jelly shit. But she knew most of that already, and she was going to be no safer in the flat with Marion and Ewan than she was looking for her daughter.
‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘But do exactly as I say. And when I say it.’
She nodded and Owen took her into the lounge and let her tell Ewan and Marion what had happened, while he found a bag that he could sling over his shoulder. Into it he put the two charges, a gas kitchen lighter, and one of Marion’s big knives wrapped in a tea towel to save stabbing himself. He then slipped Ewan’s mobile into the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe a direct line to the madman on the top floor would come in useful. He also found a torch.
‘Come on,’ he told Wendy. ‘We ought to get going.’
She nodded and joined him at the door.
‘Owen.’
He saw that it was Ewan. His broken nose had stopped bleeding, but he hadn’t wiped away any of the mess.
‘Please find my daughter,’ he said.
‘Take the painkillers,’ Owen told him. ‘We’ll be back as soon as we can.’
And he led Wendy out of the apartment and towards the stairs. He tried the door first, in case it wasn’t locked. But it was. He took out the first of his charges, set it by the door and told Wendy to take cover further down the corridor before he lit the twine fuse with the kitchen lighter. The twine burned with a fast yellow flame and Owen ran.
He knew the chemistry of bomb building, but he had never had to employ it before – Torchwood tended to be a more professional and high-tech in its approach to blowing things up. Nor were a teaspoon and a set of kitchen scales any sensible replacement for the precision of lab equipment. He knew the bomb would work, he just wasn’t sure if it would take out the door – or the wall with it.
The explosion caught Owen halfway along the passageway and threw him off his feet. He rolled towards the wall at the far end. He managed to stop himself and lay there for a moment, not daring to raise his head in case his body lifted up without it.
Wendy had taken cover in a doorway, and the percussion of the blast had thrown him clear past her. He heard her crawling towards him through the dust and murk of the emergency lights.
‘Are you all right?’ she demanded, her eyes wide with fright.
‘Do I look all right?’ he asked her without moving, pleased that at least his vocal cords were working, which suggested his head was still attached to his neck. Beyond that, it was anybody’s guess.
‘Well, you’re still alive,’ she said, trying for a smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Owen, and sat up straight. He brought his hands up in front of him – one was still mangled, the other looked OK. At least they both remained attached. And he found that he could still stand. And his head was facing the right way.
‘Well, seeing as we’re still in business, let’s take a look, shall we?’
He picked up his bag of goodies and walked towards the stairway. The door was a smoking, shattered skeleton. The steps ran into darkness beyond them. Owen turned on the torch and led Wendy after him.
It didn’t take them long to reach the thirteenth floor, and Owen saw that Jack and Gwen had found their own way of getting through a locked door. It made him ache for his own gun. He doubted that 10mm shells would be much protection against the thing that he had seen come through the wall, but there was also a psychopath living on the top floor who probably had a bunch of knuckle-draggers doing his work for him. Owen had an uncomfortable feeling that they could be hanging around SkyPoint, too. If Lucca was treating Torchwood’s interest as a test of his defences then why wouldn’t he also despatch some tooled-up muscle into the arena? That was why he had taken
