few clubs were still open, bass-heavy music blasting from their open doors, gaggles of smokers standing on the pavements puffing away like little steam trains, revellers with presumably no early start the next day.
It crossed Owen's mind that once upon a time he would have gone out. Maybe had a few drinks, to take the edge off and help him sleep. Maybe he'd have met someone. Anyone. Maybe he'd have met a girl, taken her home, and then put her in a taxi in the morning.
He stopped outside the entrance to one club, eyed the surly bouncers and the small queue of drunken teenagers, looked in through the doors at the flashing strobe lights, and then carried on walking.
The underside of Toshiko Sato's bed was a miniature cityscape of shoeboxes, each one covered in a fine layer of dust. It always shamed her a little to look at this untidy, cluttered corner of her life but, so long as it was hidden from plain view, she didn't mind so much.
She reached under the bed, sprawled across the mattress, leaning upside down over its edge, and dragged out one of the boxes. Lifting off the lid she took out one of the photograph albums that were stored inside and, sitting back on the bed, began to flip through its pages.
The photos inside had that certain, almost sepia quality that old photographs have — all faded and desaturated hues. There were photographs of her parents' wedding day, and of her mother cradling her in the hours after she had been born. There were images of their home in England, and of her first birthday party, with Toshiko sat in a highchair, staring bewildered at the single candle on a cake in the shape of the number 1. Then there were the pictures of their apartment in Osaka, and her grandmother, always sat in her favourite chair.
Eventually, she came to the image she had been looking for: her father, holding Toshiko in his arms, while behind them the fireworks exploded in the skies over Osaka and the decorated boats sailed down the Dojima River.
Toshiko touched the photograph, and smiled.
Gwen Cooper slid the key into the lock, pulled it back about a millimetre, pressed it to the left, and then turned it. That was the trick. The lock clicked, and she opened the door.
Rhys was on the sofa, watching television.
'You're home, then,' he said in a flat monotone.
'Yeah,' said Gwen, hanging up her coat before joining him. She sat next to him, and waited a moment before speaking again.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm sorry about the food, and I'm sorry about the sofa, and… I'm just sorry.'
'You're sorry about the sofa?' said Rhys, sounding genuinely surprised.
'Yeah,' said Gwen. 'I've been thinking about it, and it's not
'Not that bad?' asked Rhys. 'You said it was the sort of thing Jordan and Peter Andre would buy.'
'Yeah,' said Gwen. 'But it's just a sofa. D'you know what I mean?'
Rhys laughed. 'It's OK,' he said. 'I've been thinking about it, and you're right. I mean… If
Gwen laughed too. 'So…' she said. 'The spag bol?'
'I'll put it on now,' he said. 'Anyway… Spag bol always tastes better if you leave it for a bit.'
Gwen held Rhys's hand and squeezed it gently.
'I love you,' she said.
'I love you, too,' said Rhys.
The SUV drove out along the waterfront, past the old Norwegian church and the cluster of modern buildings. It pulled up in front of a row of enormous apartment buildings, each one with a balcony overlooking Cardiff Bay. Some of the lights inside the apartments were still on, some were lit up a flickering blue by unseen television screens.
Jack Harkness stepped out of the vehicle and opened the back doors. Inside, resting on the back seat, was the Orb. He lifted it out, groaning with the weight, and kicked the SUV's door shut before carrying the Orb to the water's edge.
Forty years ago, there had been no apartment buildings here. Forty years ago, this place had been home to a row of warehouses, the largest of which, Hamilton's Sugar, had stood right on the edge of the dock. The warehouses were gone now; even those which had survived that night had been bulldozed and replaced by apartment buildings and hotels.
Jack gazed down at the black surface of the sea. He felt an affinity with the ocean, as if it were a kindred spirit. The knowledge that every drop of water had always been a drop of water, practically since the stars were formed. Water was infinite and immortal. He lifted the Orb to his chest, and looked at it one last time — the unfathomable engravings on its surface, etched billions of years ago by unknown hands with unknown tools. It could have been a thing of beauty, in another life, perhaps, an object to sit behind glass in a museum. But not now.
Jack hurled the Orb into the sea and it hit the water with an enormous splash, sinking quickly out of sight. It was against the rules, of course. The Orb should have been returned to Basement D-4, another half-forgotten relic in the Torchwood Archive, but Jack didn't care. It was history, and he was thinking of the future. And the past and the future were different worlds.
Most of the time.
