'When?' Michael asked.
'Soon,' said Dr Hawoldar. 'You should be back at Torchwood by three. That'll be better, won't it? Back at Torchwood with all your friends?'
Dr Hawoldar left him alone on the ward again, alone that is apart from his fellow patients, and Michael began to panic. His breathing grew heavier, and he felt his pulse begin to quicken. Torchwood. He knew the name Torchwood. He heard the growl of the car's engine as it chased him along West Bute Street; he saw an underground room filled with what looked like televisions, and the chrome base of an enormous water tower. He saw a great glass tower, like an obelisk, and a shattered mirror.
Around him, the other patients were laughing, all of them pointing at him and laughing, as if they all understood something that he didn't. Then they stopped, quite abruptly, and, as if choreographed in some way, they turned to face the far end of the ward. There, in the aisle between the hospital beds, stood three identical men, each wearing sunglasses, bowler hats and black suits and carrying umbrellas. The three men looked at Michael and smiled, each revealing teeth like hundreds of needles.
'The Traveller…' they said in unison.
That was when Michael woke up.
'It's OK,' said Jack. 'It's OK. You were having a nightmare.'
They were alone in the Boardroom.
'You,' said Michael. 'You were in that room. When I came here. You knew my name. Who are you?'
'I'm Jack Harkness,' Jack said, looking away into the far corner of the room.
'It wasn't a nightmare,' said Michael. 'It was something else. I saw things… It was like I was seeing things that haven't happened yet.'
'It's OK,' said Jack again. 'You're here now. You're safe.'
Michael looked down and realised that Jack was holding his hand. He quickly pulled away, and looked Jack in the eye.
'I'm sorry,' said Jack. 'I didn't mean to…'
'Why do you look at me like that?' said Michael.
'Like what?'
'Like you know me. Like…' Michael trailed off and looked away from Jack, as if embarrassed. 'Like you've always known me.'
Jack stood and walked over to the far corner of the Boardroom. He could hardly bear to look at him any more. How much time did they have left? How much longer before Michael would be taken away?
'I'm sorry,' said Jack, 'I didn't mean to… I mean'
'No, it's OK,' said Michael. 'I
Jack returned to him, and held Michael's hand once more. This time Michael didn't pull away.
'This is real,' said Jack, squeezing his hand and smiling.
'Here, now. And while you're here, you're safe, with me.'
'What happens to me, Jack?' asked Michael, his eyes filling with tears. 'What happens?'
TEN
The drugs were still coursing through his veins when he came to his senses in the centre of a large loading bay, surrounded by crates and metal containers. Those senses were dulled, but he was still able to get to his feet. The feeling of disorientation passed, and slowly he began to reassemble everything that had just happened to him. There had been Japan, and the monster in the bowler hat, and then the Cardiff he didn't recognise, and the two police officers, and then the injection, and the hospital, and that name…
The Indian doctor had left him alone, and then… and then… What?
Michael looked around at the crates and the containers, and at the yellow and black striped markings on the floors.
The loading bay was empty. The Indian doctor had said the name Torchwood, and then he had seen them, the men in bowler hats. They were coming for him, he knew that much and, as they walked towards him, hissing and snarling, he had been sent reeling by a violent spasm of pain, and then everything had stopped, and he had felt himself surrounded by light, before waking here.
He thought of it as waking, but how could it be waking when he hadn't slept? And yet every time it had happened that's exactly how it felt, as if everything that had gone before, from his childhood to the arrival of the crate in Tiger Bay, had been a dream.
Michael had taken no more than four steps across the loading bay when the alarm sounded, and a voice said: 'Code 200, Loading Bay 5.'
The fluorescent strip lights in the loading bay powered down, leaving just flickering orange beacon lights to illuminate the vast space like a dozen fiery strobes. The voice spoke again: 'Code 200, Loading Bay 5.'
At either end of the loading bay, roll doors suddenly flew open, spilling white light in across the darkness, and soldiers in arctic camouflage and black berets swept in, brandishing sub-machine guns.
'Don't move!' a voice yelled angrily. 'Keep your hands above your head, and do not move!'
They were getting closer now, the men with their guns, and Michael followed their orders, putting his hands in the air like he'd seen so many thieves and gangsters do in black and white films.
The red spots of laser sights bunched together like angry suns on Michael's face and chest, and he was blinded by the lights before somebody, one of the soldiers, struck him across the back of the head with the butt of their rifle.
When he came to, everything was dark. There was cloth over his face, a hood perhaps, and he was sitting, strapped into a chair. He tried to free himself but couldn't. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing.
The hood was taken away suddenly, and the shock of light meant he could barely make out the soldier who was now leaving the room, closing the door behind him with a loud slam.
It was a small, windowless room with a high ceiling. Fixed into an adjacent wall there was a wide mirror, and in every upper corner what looked like small cameras of some sort, mounted on brackets. Michael was sat at a table, and multicoloured wires were stuck to his chest and scalp. He could see a single, featureless grey door in the opposite wall.
His head still throbbed with pain but he could remember what had happened. The hospital, and then the jump; finding himself in a loading bay, and the men with guns.
Michael looked up at one of the cameras, and he saw it move slightly to point straight at him. Within seconds, the door opened, and two soldiers walked in, followed by a bald man in a white lab coat. The soldiers stood in each corner of the room, their guns aimed squarely at Michael's head, as the bald man approached him.
'Good morning. My name is Dr Frayn. Could you tell us your name?' he asked.
'I'm not telling you anything,' said Michael. 'Not until you tell me why you're treating me like this. Who are you?'
'Mm,' said Dr Frayn. 'British accent. Twenty, maybe twenty-five years old. All readings say human.' He huffed, and began circling the table at which Michael sat. 'EEG and heart rate picking up a certain degree of discomfort. Aggression levels low, but rising. Fear levels high. Nothing to suggest abnormal strength.'
'Who are you?' Michael shouted, but the bald man ignored him.
'Some readings picking up a low-resonance electromagnetic pulse. Awaiting tech-team evaluation. X-rays picked up a fractured rib. No irregularities in organic or genetic make-up. Blood type B. A smoker. Minor traces of alcohol present in blood stream. Cholesterol levels low.'
'Please, just tell me where I am,' said Michael, sobbing now. 'I just want to know where I am.'
'Subject shows signs of disorientation, possibly concussion. Slight bruising on left side of face, confirmed as result of blow to the head. No other injuries resulting.'
