drunk as I can, as fast as I can. And then I’m going to have sex with as many people as I can in as short a space of time as I can. I don’t know how many records I’m going to break, but alert the media anyway. Someone named Owen will come back later on, when he’s ready, but it won’t be me. I’ll be gone.’
He placed his mobile phone on the instrument tray and walked out without looking back.
Owen left the Hub via the lift that led up to the water tower in front of the Millennium Centre. He stood there, on the slab of stone that had been touched by something special in the past and from where nobody could see him, no matter how close they were, and he watched people walk by, individually, in couples and in groups.
The world went on. Life went on. Just because Marianne had died, it didn’t mean that anything else had changed.
After a while he stepped forward, off the slab and onto the wooden slats that paved the entire area in front of the Centre. Still, nobody noticed him. They walked around him, barely avoiding touching his arms, but nobody would look him in the eye. It was as if he had ceased to exist.
He headed for a bar on Bute Street where he could get absolutely wrecked in the sure knowledge that they would keep on serving him drinks. He started on beer with a whisky chaser, on the basis that it was fast and effective. While he was drinking, he tried to let all conscious thought drain away. Sensation washed over him and receded. The only things that mattered were the warm, smoky taste of the whisky and the coldness of the beer, sluicing his throat.
When he realised that he had lost count of how much he had drunk, he moved on to another bar, and then another. All around him people were picking each other up or picking fights with each other, but nobody tried to talk to him. There was a deadness in his eyes, or in his soul, that discouraged them. Life just washed around him.
Eventually, of course, he went back. Where else was there to go?
The Hub, unusually, was empty. Owen kept walking, towards the Autopsy Room.
Ianto was standing outside. He was peering nervously around the edge of the doorway.
‘Where is everyone?’ Owen asked.
‘Gwen has gone to be with her boyfriend,’ Ianto replied. ‘Jack has said that if she can persuade him to take the “Stop” pill then he’s happy to let it go. Jack and Tosh are out looking for Doctor Scotus, and I’ve been spending my time either here or the cells.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Watching the creature Jack calls Paul develop and looking after Lucy Sobel. The things you should have been doing.’
Owen felt like hitting Ianto square in the face. ‘What’s up?’ he asked instead. ‘Why are you skulking out here?’
‘Ah — we had a slight problem with Paul,’ Ianto said, edgily. ‘I think I may have had the nutrient solution pumping in too fast. It seems to have absorbed too much too fast.’
Owen pushed him out of the way and glanced into the room.
The Autopsy Room was much as he had left it, except that the glass jar that he had put Paul in was lying on its side, smashed into large fragments.
Paul was on the autopsy table. It wasn’t a worm any more. It was about the size of a rat, but consisted of a long black body, sharpening to a vicious point at both ends, striped with electric blue. Two gauzy, gossamer fans which had emerged from the central body were thrumming the air.
‘Fuck me,’ Owen said. ‘It’s Paul McCartney, with wings!’
SEVENTEEN
The SUV drifted like a polished black ghost through the streets of Cardiff, reflecting the cars and buildings that it passed. Every now and then, Jack would take it past the half-silvered glass of an office block, and Toshiko would look out of the window to see a corridor of multiplied images extending to infinity, mirrors reflecting mirrors.
What with that, Jack’s driving and the device she was holding, Toshiko was beginning to wish she hadn’t come up with her Big Idea.
‘How are you feeling?’ Jack yelled back.
‘Irritated,’ she called over the engine hum. ‘And tired. And exhilarated. And bored.’
‘But not hungry?’
‘No more than usual.’
She shifted the map from her lap and raised the alien device slightly to aim it more squarely out of the window. It was the one they had found in the nightclub. It seemed like weeks ago that she had turned over Craig Sutherland’s body to see it lying there, but it was actually only four or five days. Things had moved so fast.
A pang of suppressed sexual longing ran through her, making her feel as if her heart was about to burst, then it was gone, leaving her shuddering and empty. She moaned.
‘OK?’
‘It’s… difficult. So many emotions.’
‘I know. We have to keep going, Tosh.’
‘Yes. We do.’
Toshiko had set the device up as best she could to amplify distant traces of emotion and reflect them back to her. The problem was, driving round the city left her at the mercy of a thousand different feelings. Emotions were what differentiated humans from animals, that’s what they said, but Toshiko was finding herself swamped by an animalistic mass of basic drives and fears. For a person who valued logic and order above all things, it was terrifying. Or was she just picking up on someone else’s terror, somewhere close by?
The car drove past another anonymous office block, and she felt a wave of crashing tedium sweep over her. Why was she even doing this? It was as boring as chewing sand.
She was just about to throw the device out of the window and curl into a ball on her seat when Jack took a corner, and the boredom was replaced with edginess. She glanced at the back of Jack’s head, sure that he had turned to check her out while she wasn’t looking. He hated the fact that she was technologically cleverer than he was. He only kept his position as leader by destroying those who could replace him. He’d done it to Suzie, and he was going to do it to her if she didn’t kill him first.
Her hand curled around the butt of the automatic pistol that she kept beside her. One quick shot to the back of the neck and she could take control of Torchwood.
She raised the pistol and took aim at Jack.
Gwen looked across at Rhys. They were standing on the edge of Cardiff Bay, on a small beach of grey and black pebbles, looking out across the water. Gulls bobbed nearby, hoping for a crust of bread or a fragment from a burger bun. She knew she should be at Torchwood, helping to track Doctor Scotus down, but she needed to make sure that Rhys was safe.
What was the point in saving the world if you weren’t allowed to save the ones you loved?
There was almost no sign that Rhys’s cheek had been almost torn off, just days before. The skin was pinker, less weathered than the rest of his face, but it wasn’t like he was the kind of guy who spent his life halfway up the Amazon or halfway across the Gobi, and consequently had a face weathered to buggery. A couple of days of sun and wind and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between one side and the other.
‘Look, I’m having trouble grasping this,’ he said. ‘That tablet — you’re saying it was
‘I checked with the Department of Health,’ she said smoothly. ‘They’re worried that the tablets might be adulterated with something. It’s a bit like that scare a few years back about the Chinese herbal remedies, when they discovered that in high doses they could cause liver failure, but because they are classified as a herbal supplement rather than a drug people are still allowed to sell them. Same story here.’
‘Why is it,’ Rhys asked, ‘that we have a Department
‘Rhys — focus!’
