whatever.’ Then Idris gasped. ‘My God, for the first time I just realised. I could’ve had sex with you that night – that’s what you wanted. And if your pill had worked, I’d never have known.’
‘Oh I think no pill is strong enough to completely erase the memory of me in bed,’ Jack laughed. Then stopped.
Idris wasn’t laughing.
‘So, add moral corruption to the list of Jackisms, yeah?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Nothing happened. God, did nothing happen. I wasn’t used to being turned down, you know.’
‘And just like your perception filter not working on me, nor did the pill.’
‘One in 80,000, Tosh reckoned. Completely immune.’
‘So tell me, Jack. What happens when aliens raid the supermarket? And you drug everyone, but someone like me doesn’t get the effect. And they remember everything. Do they turn up a week later, face down in the Bay? Or wake up in hospital a vegetable? Or get swallowed by an earthquake?’
Jack had no answer. Because, yes, once that had been the Torchwood way. That was a Standing Order from Torchwood One in London. But things had changed, and Jack had broken direct contact with London. And thrown their rulebook away. Since then, the problem hadn’t arisen.
‘I’d like to think that, like you, I could convince them to help us. For the greater good. But the situation hasn’t arisen. And the amnesia pill hads been revamped since then anyway. It’s closer to one in 800,000 now. Better odds all round.’ Jack grinned.
Idris stood up. ‘So, what do you want? And don’t say “another kiss” because no, not now, not ever.’
Jack threw his hands up in protestation. ‘Furthest thing from my mind,’ he lied, convincingly he hoped. ‘I need information. And not just PR-level stuff, but deep stuff. The who, why, how and did I say why?’
‘About?’ Idris checked his watch. ‘Thirty seconds, and I’m gone.’
‘Tretarri.’
‘The redevelopment? Why?’
‘How involved do you want to be, Idris?’
Idris looked at him. ‘You got a USB reader on you?’
Jack produced his PDA.
‘Nice,’ said Idris. ‘I’ll be back in ten. If I’m not, it means I’ve changed my mind and I never want to see you or anyone else from Torchwood ever again. Is that clear?’
‘As crystal.’
And Idris headed back to City Hall.
Jack wasn’t sure if it was worth waiting. But then, he was a pretty good judge of character – and Idris was, at heart, a good guy, with a Jack-sized chip on his shoulder.
Jack stared at the people milling around the park. And again, that feeling of pride in humanity hit him. So much wrong with the planet, so much wrong with their lives if only they realised, and yet nothing would stop them. As a people and as individuals, calamity might hit, but they always found a way to bounce back. Twenty-first- century humans were great.
And somewhere was an ancestor of his. Walking around, unaware that one of the descendents from a colony world 3,000 years into the future was sat in Cathays Park, Cardiff. At least he hoped they were unaware.
Assuming he was descended from humans. Hmm… A bit of family tree research might be in order. If he ever got the chance to go home, which he was in no hurry to do.
‘Excuse me, Captain Harkness?’
Jack looked up. A young brunette, early twenties, was standing in front of him. She smiled and passed him a USB flash drive.
‘Idris asked me to give you this. And something else, which he said I’d have no trouble giving you.’ She smiled. ‘And he was dead right.’
And she snogged him, passionately. Hard, long and very probingly.
After a good minute, she slowly drew back, and ran a finger across his lips.
‘Wow,’ she breathed, then turned and walked away.
‘Wow indeed,’ Jack said quietly. ‘God I love these people.’
He watched her retreating figure, slim, tight ass, nice legs… and blew air out of his cheeks, then got his PDA out and inserted the flash drive into it.
Info copied across and he read it quickly. Details of the redevelopment, plans, conveyancy reports, recommendations for construction crews, requisitions for trucks, concrete, trees.
Details of a fast-tracked licence for food, drink, music and street performers for a week-long party, stipulating no sale of alcohol in case of minors.
And the architectural plans.
It all seemed innocuous enough, but he’d get Gwen and Ianto to plough through it, check dates and so on. There had to be something.
Idly he opened a few reports. Nothing on the surface. He was about to give in for a bit, when he clicked on the architects’ plans.
And saw the architect.
He considered going straight back to Idris, but decided his time would be better spent back at the Hub. Instead he sent Idris an email via his PDA.
There was one house in Coburg Street that no one went near. No one really knew why, some put it down to the general feeling about Tretarri, but no one stayed long enough to work out why.
It wasn’t true, all the newspaper reports, the ones that said no one ever lived in Tretarri. We did. Group of us on Bute Terrace. Number 9. We were on the corner of Coburg Street, and number 6 was the weird house.
Michele and Janet had done some research on the area. During the war, people had tried hiding here to escape the Cardiff Blitz, but had ended up taking their chances on the streets of Butetown. Martin found out by going through the local papers that as far back as the thirties the place was rumoured to be haunted. I mean, people would turn up here, move in, settle, whatever. Then inexplicable events occurred, lights, phantasms they often called them, noises. Dogs and cats died, fresh food went off, light bulbs would die then come back to life, brighter than before and objects would move around the place.
Michele and I woke up one morning to find our bed had moved across the room in the night. We assumed Janet or Marty had done it while we were asleep, but Marty hadn’t come home that night, and no way could Janet have done it by herself.
There were a few other student houses in Tretarri, but people didn’t stay long – and we realised after a few weeks, one house wasn’t occupied at all. I mean, never. We looked into the windows, I swear it hadn’t been touched since it was built, no sign of anything modern.
Marty talked to some old guy who’d lived on the streets for years in the area, and he was chatty – especially if there was a few pounds and some chocolate in it for him. He said he’d seen people come and go from every home, but not number 6.
Because it was haunted. He said it was haunted by the lights. We weren’t sure what he meant because he also said there was a man in the house too. Who lived there sometimes, but he’d never seen him. We didn’t understand that. He said no one ever saw him, but they knew he was there.
So we all decided to break into number 6 and spend the night there, like… like a ghostwatch, I think.
We took a camcorder and a cassette deck too as back-up. Marty suggested a ouija board, but I thought that was a bit… stupid
(Interruption by DI Laurence, asking if Mr Garrett considered a ouija board to be dangerous.)
No, I mean, it’s just a bit of crap really, all that “mediums” and “Doris Stokes” stuff. But Janet, she was scared I think, so I put my foot down. Said no.
So anyway, that night, we got in. I don’t know who actually got us in, I was a bit late cos I’d had to check the
