‘Great investigator, Jack,’ he muttered. ‘I thought “Revenge for the Future” referred to Abaddon. But what if it’s more?’

He tapped his ear, activating the almost invisible communications device everyone in Torchwood wore. ‘Owen?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Watcha doing?’

‘Testing your blood for those chronon particles you asked about. Whatever they are. I mean, I know what they are, theoretically, but forgive me for being a doctor – and a bloody good one at that – but I like to work with realities rather than fantasy.’

‘You wound me, Owen,’ laughed Jack. ‘What am I if not your fantasy?’

‘A right pain in the arse, Jack, that’s what you are. And I don’t mean that in a way you’d find charming, before you ask. What do you want?’

‘I’m heading out. I’ve read everything Ianto found for me and have a few ideas zooming about my head, but I need more. I need to find me an expert on old books. And I know just the guy.’

‘See yas,’ said Owen and broke comms.

Jack took one of the back routes out of the base, bypassing the Hub and walking up a long, long (really quite long) flight of stairs that brought him out behind Ianto’s tourist information office. He went through the little room and out into the night air.

People were milling around by the big pub above the doorway, whilst others were flocking to the Turkish restaurant that stood over the water. There was the faux French restaurant (good chain, Jack quite liked the flans and quiches they did), a couple of Italians on the upper level, and a number of bars, coffee houses and, down Bute Street, a series of shops, galleries and even a comedy club.

Fifty years ago, he’d walked an alien disguised as an evacuee child along here, all mud flats and dampness. The warehouse that the Hub was accessed by in 1941 had long since been demolished, and roughly where it stood there was now a pizza parlour. Whenever Jack went in there, it always seemed to be full of very tall Welshmen with booming voices, entertaining their diminutive Welsh mothers, with their soft sing-song voices. Jack loved Wales, the Welsh, the whole spirit and pizzazz of the place. If he had to spend 150 years somewhere on Earth, there were worse places he could’ve gone.

Imagine if there’d been a space-time rift in Swindon. Of course Swindon was quite nice, and certainly had an interesting roundabout system that could fool any passing aliens, but Torchwood Swindon didn’t have the right ring to it.

Or the nice bay.

Jack passed the bars and hotels of Bute Street, stopped off at Jubilee Pizza (not as nice as the restaurant in the Bay, obviously, but faster for takeaway) and towards one of the recent housing developments, Century Wharf, a strange riverside collection of apartments that could never quite make up its mind if it was in Butetown or Grangetown – not that it really mattered greatly.

He wandered into the gated community, his wrist-strap controls overriding the electronic ‘Residents Only’ security system, and headed towards the block he wanted.

He buzzed the number, knowing that it had a video entryphone and he’d get short shrift once the occupant saw who he was.

Charm offensive, Jack. Gets ’em every time.

‘Hey, it’s me,’ he said when the buzzer was answered.

There was a beat, followed by a command to go away that could’ve been termed more politely.

‘I brought dinner,’ Jack added, and waved the pizza at the camera. ‘Hawaiian, with extra mushroom.’

The door clicked and Jack was in. He took the stairs, and was soon on the fourth floor.

The door to the apartment was open, and Jack went in, noting the smell of freshly showered human male. A couple of uplighter lamps illuminated a large living room with three glass doors overlooking the River Taff and the city beyond, lit up like it was Christmas.

Idris was in a dressing gown, hair damp. He wasn’t smiling.

‘What do you want?’

Jack offered the pizza box, which Idris took and opened, yanking off a sliver and eating it.

‘Yeah. Good food,’ Idris said. ‘So, what do you want?’

‘A slice of pizza?’

‘Get your own.’ Idris ate another bit.

Jack pulled the book out of his coat pocket.

‘I have people in trouble. I need answers about this book.’

‘It’s a diary,’ Idris said without touching it. ‘Broken lock, so personal. I imagine it’s not yours.’

‘It is now.’

Idris rinsed his hands in the sink, dried them thoroughly and sat down at the kitchen table, switching the overhead lights on.

He flicked quickly through the burnt diary, not bothering to comment on the damage.

‘Well?’

Idris shrugged. ‘Well what? You want first impressions? I’d have thought you had the technology at Torchwood to tell you everything you needed to know.’

‘Those people in trouble? One of them’s Toshiko Sato. She’d be the one to tell me what I’m having to ask you.’

Idris frowned. ‘Japanese girl, parents used to be something in the military. She used to be at some low-rated MoD place, yeah?’

‘You know my staff?’

‘I know my job,’ Idris snapped. ‘Keeping a step ahead of you is impossible, but knowing who your people are, that’s a work in progress.’ He tapped the diary. ‘Overlooking its charred state, it’s a diary. Probably Edwardian, the cover’s faux leather, the locking mechanism, a bit later, 1920s perhaps, replacing the original.’

‘The paper?’

‘That’s why you need an expert. It feels normal enough, but I doubt you’d have brought it to me if it was.’

Jack shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know. And I thought you might be enough of an expert to tell me.’

Idris shut the book. ‘I collect books, Jack. Sometimes I sell them on eBay, or buy others. I’m not a bloody humanoid Google. Yeah, it’s paper, it’s thick enough to be early 1900s, and it’s not treated like modern paper, hence the discolouration and brittleness. The edges are gilt – not real gilt, so it’s probably not the most expensive diary. The sort a maiden aunt might have given to a young boy or girl in an upper-middle-class family. You want a value? In good nick, ?100 thereabouts. Damaged like this, it’s recycling only.’

Jack shrugged. ‘Shame it got burned. With all those blank pages, you could write in it. Keep a diary of all your conquests, Idris. Then I could read it.’

Idris sighed at the implicit entendre. He threw the book back to Jack, and fished out another slice of pizza, so Jack knew he wasn’t planning to touch the diary again.

‘It’s not blank,’ the Welshman said after a few seconds’ munching. ‘Why’d you think that? I’m surprised at you.’

Jack flicked the crumbling pages. ‘Looks empty to me.’

Idris finally cracked a smile. ‘You might be good at aliens and stuff, Jack, but you’re a shite boy scout.’

He went back to the kitchen and got a plastic lemon juice dispenser from the fridge. He squirted some onto kitchen roll and gently tapped a page in the diary.

Faintly, some scrawled words appeared. ‘Old trick, old book. Lemon juice isn’t great, but it should do the trick. But I suggest you copy down what it says quickly cos, as it dries, the words will go again, and it’ll make the pages even more brittle. One good gust of wind, and they’ll shatter.’

Jack smiled at him and put the diary down again. Next to it he placed the USB memory stick he’d been given in the park.

‘How long?’

Idris snorted and repeated his earlier suggestion that Jack should go away, but Jack was insistent. ‘Idris, Tosh’s life is in danger. I’ve heard nothing from Ianto or Gwen. You’re my only hope.’

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